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heechwe · 2 days ago

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not even sometimes | 𝐜𝐬

୨୧ pairing: choi san x fem!reader ୨୧ word count: 5k ୨୧ genre: fluff, sprinkles of angst, smut ୨୧ tags: neighbor to lovers au, healthy communication for the win, switch!san, dirty talk, pet names, heavy petting, fingering, nipple play, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, squirting, creampie ୨୧ synopsis: You've never been good at planning for the unexpected, much less a new neighbor. But the man in question may just love that about you, among other things you didn't see in yourself to begin with. ⟢ AUTHOR'S NOTE: This fic is a remaster of an old fic I wrote years ago for a member of NCT, the original title being "Where We Begin." Seeing as I am not following that group anymore and I thought it'd be fun to polish up some old work, what the hell. Thank you to my betas for reading this one, @prkhaven @lovetaroandtaemin @tinycatharsis @jjunbug @innocygnet, I love you lots. Title inspiration from "Sometimes" by Ariana Grande!

Some people know the instant something begins, the start of something new brimming with possibilities palpable within the surrounding air.

For you, it’s not that simple.

It seems some things come and go in your life without warning or realization. You’ve fought enough for things to stay or leave for so many years that now it’s almost a godsend to lack that kind of perception. Whether it be for a new job opportunity, an unexpected act of kindness, or a person, it’s all the same. Beginnings can be as subtle as a wisp of wind through your window, or as abrasive as thunderclaps that rattle an entire room. Regardless, you’ve not caught on.

Lucky for you, Choi San isn’t subtle. With a body like his, how could he be?

The first time San greets you, he’s carrying an ottoman on his shoulder and a football in his hand. The early Saturday morning permeates through the hallway window, emphasizing his stark black hair and encroaching size, but he’s so beautifully smiling you felt nothing but warmth for the man in front of you. Across from your apartment sits his door halfway open, giving you ample opportunity to notice the manila moving boxes crowding the space of his new home.

The place had been empty for almost a month before San, the pain of Jeongin saying goodbye fresh every time you came home. The kid was a hilarious neighbor and a great friend, and while he didn’t leave your life, watching him go after three years left a noticeable pang of sadness. Having a new neighbor so soon felt foreign, unwelcome. But once San drops the ottoman carefully onto the small span of tile between your apartments and extends a hand, you know you can get used to the change if the new neighbor in question is this open, welcoming, and drop-dead gorgeous.

You give San your name with a smile, a soft yet large hand enveloping your smaller one. “You’ll love it here. I’ve been here for almost five years, never a problem.”

“That’s perfect. I’ve been couch-surfing for two months, so anything is better than my friends’ smelly socks and booty calls.”

You giggle, the sound reverberating off the highway walls. It almost makes you forget your choice of clothing, the realization suddenly hitting you.

You love your duck-patterned pajama bottoms and tattered college sweatshirt, but the clothing isn’t exactly the best outfit to meet new people in. Then again, nobody dresses up to run downstairs and get their weekly mail anyway, even if there’s a chance of running into someone as handsome as your new neighbor. “Sorry I’m not that presentable. I didn’t know you’d be coming today.”

“It’s no problem. I should’ve moved in yesterday, but I had an emergency. Well, if you could call a friend needing a three-page recipe an emergency.” San grins and shrugs, twirling the ball between his hands.

You giggle, pointing a finger towards the football. “So, you play sports and cook?”

“Not really, just a parting gift from my friend Woo for the recipe I owed him. I guess it’s also a housewarming gift‌, considering.”

You nod slowly and begin your trek down the hallway and to the mailroom, remembering your initial goal when you were leaving ten minutes ago. “Well, San, if you need help unpacking, just give me a knock!”

“I definitely will!” San waves goodbye and offers you the widest smile you’ve seen yet, saccharine in a way you didn’t realize you needed so early in the morning. He enters his new apartment without another turn of his head, while you wonder if this is the moment of realization the guy across the hall will be more than a stranger. Perhaps even a welcome addition to your life.

You open up your door a day later to find San with an inquisitive pout, replacing the mesmerizing smile he left you with. His hands respectively hold a large takeout bag and a tray of two drinks, and you guess what he’s after before he says the words.

“Don’t tell me,” you say. “You need help unboxing.”

“Yes and no.”

“Oh?” You ask, partially shocked.

“So, I know you probably offered to help me unpack since I have the ‘new neighbor’ card. Which is great, since I actually do need help today. But, it would be rude to not offer food for your services, so it can be part moving part…treating a cute girl to lunch.” San tips the bag up with a grin, making you chuckle. “What do you say, neighbor?

As he waits for your answer, you discover Choi San is already too sweet to say no to. He asks so earnestly, and he’s feeding you, doing more than most of your exes ever did. The response easily slips off of your tongue. “That sounds great. Lemme just get my keys.” Following him into his apartment, you try to calm the staccato of your heart to a normal pace.

Your new neighbor truly has no shame as the two of you open all of his remaining boxes together, San confessing the origins of certain items you take out with a questioning, raised eyebrow. While he folds his clothes and sets them aside to move to his bedroom later, you tell him about your degree and how you can’t wait for the spring semester to end, your last step towards graduating in the summer.

You snap silly photos of him and take a few together to capture the moment; he ruffles your hair in a few and makes the resulting photos blurry, but you don’t mind. When you’re not unboxing and discussing your comprehensive histories, you eat pineapple fried rice and dumpling soup from the takeout containers and sip flat sodas you don’t bother replacing. The clear attachment you’ve already developed with San is worth drinking a watered-down soda.

“What do you do in your free time?” you ask before downing what’s left in your can.

“I work with my friends in a small studio downtown. It’s not much, but we love it and it helps pay for this.” He gestures to the apartment with dramatic grandeur, almost knocking over his drink. “That’s actually why I’ve been moving most of this by myself. Before you helped, I mean. There’s this production issue we glossed over, and my buddy Mingi wants it smoothed out before the song’s released.”

“Gotta love the music life.” You sigh. “The arts are tough.”

“Yeah, I do love it. I don’t know where I’d be without it, to tell you the truth.” San chuckles, the sound rumbling in his throat.

You pat his shoulder with your hand. “I’m sure you’re doing great. You seem like a person who can find fun in anything. With your work, I know your friends need that.”

“Thanks,” he replies. San dips a hand through his hair, hoping to conceal his red face alongside his aggressively beating heart. “I bet you’re someone who keeps a lot of people calm and…I don’t know, grounded? You just give off this vibe like you know what you’re doing.”

You laugh again, pressing your empty soda can to your chest. “You’re probably the first person that’s ever thought about me that way.” Your friends and family often sing their praises for you, but what would get San’s compliment laughed out of any room is the fact he thinks you have a consciously prepared bone in your body.

You can barely give your best friends proper preparation for outfit choices, much less prepare for bigger life events. It’s what your exes have harped on for ages, your impulsiveness and second-nature to lead with your heart rather than your head, your ultimate downfall. How did anyone, especially yourself, expect you to go against habit and commit to anything? If there was an option to have someone spell it out for you, you would choose that in a heartbeat. To this day, sometimes it feels like you stumble around for answers, only doing things halfway and never with full intention.

You know these things about yourself like the back of your hand.. Yet, you can’t contain the flutter in your heart from San being so sure of you already. It may just be the takeout, the fullness of his stomach making his brain fuzzy, but you don’t care. You appreciate it regardless.

“That’s a good thing, though,” you mumble, his stare tickling the edges of your skin.

“Well, I’m flattered.” He winks at you, the gesture only solidifying every positive thought you have about him. He opens another box and removes the bubble wrap inside, and in that moment, you believe a piece of your heart silently belongs between the creases of his smile.

By the time you finish, the sun is setting, and you’re sitting next to San with your backs drooping against his couch. You rub your belly in slow, tiny circles, full from the food and copious amount of snacks you munched on while moving the smaller trinkets and furniture.

“I’m sorry. I should’ve known the pretzels and gummy worms would make you sick.” He pouts, staring down at your slumped body.

“No, it’s okay. Just another minute and I’ll be out of your hair.”

“You’re not in my hair. It’s too fantastic to be disturbed like that..” His confidence can be seen from space, you think as the corners of your lips rise. Without warning, San sets his head in your lap as his eyelashes flutter to a close. He’s burly at first glance, but you realize as he snuggles into your body how you fit together perfectly in this way. “I mean it. I’ve had a lot of fun today.”

Instinctively, you swipe one hand through his bangs, and he takes your fingers between his own. “We just met, but it’s like you make things slow down. I’m not running around the place like an idiot or saying the wrong things for the first time. Does that make sense?”

You close your eyes too, letting the words rumble around in your head. Responding to them with the peace within your smile and a squeeze of your hand, you know he’s smiling too without having to look down at him. “It does.”

In an array of textbooks, highlighters, and article clippings, San swipes through the words with a blue pen to mark important information for later. While it’s adorable watching him as he works, he has little to no foresight on the weekly topic in your Greek literature course.

Chan and Jisung, your study partners, left hours ago, but you stayed stuck with a pile of additional reading your professor dumped on you, including the play you still had to read.

The night seemed to only be beginning for you, and you could only give your friends a sad smile as you walked them out of your apartment. With perfect timing, San popped his head out with a smirk, his concern giving way when he noticed the defeat in your posture.

“Can I help?” were the first words out of his mouth as you were on the verge of tears, your mountain of a neighbor suddenly becoming your shining light through the storm of academic writing and assignments.

He definitely isn’t helping in the way he imagined, but watching his eyebrows furrow in concentration and catching the delight on his face when he marks the “right” sentence makes the hours feel less tedious.

“I mean, why does Euripides have to be such a tragic writer? There’s nothing wrong with writing cheerful things now and then,” San says as he drops the pen onto the paper. Rolling closer to your spot on your bedroom floor, he pouts and puts his hands underneath his chin.

“Well, San, since he wrote tragic Greek plays, I think he was just creating what he knew. Like Sophocles, he just kept his daily life in mind when he was writing.” You smile to yourself, skimming the lines of the last act within your textbook.

“Excuse me, Smarty. I’ll just nap while you do your own notes, then.” He leans against your thigh, the back of his head mushed into the fabric of your shorts.

You scoff. “I just read the materials and introduction! You give me too much credit.”

One of his eyes pops open, followed by the crossing of his arms. “You still know things! Sometimes, you really don’t see that. And I’ve been your neighbor for what, a few weeks now? Give yourself more credit, angel.”

You refuse to acknowledge the pet name, knowing he’ll sense the change in your body if you do. Going for a lighthearted response, you stick your tongue out in his direction. “Trust me, you give enough credit to yourself for the both of us.”

San says your name and sits up, mirroring your crossed-legged position. “Maybe I do, but only because I know how it feels to not give yourself the self-assurance you deserve.”

You gape in mock surprise. “Choi San, not sure of himself? I never would have guessed.”

“Yes, I’m not flawless.” He laughs and knocks his fist softly into your shoulder. “When I was younger, sometimes people thought it was all an act, me being so ‘full’ of myself, all the time. In a way, it was just to pretend that there weren’t times when I didn’t feel confident in what I could do and if I could do it. It still happens, but not as much as before.”

“That’s hard to believe.” You drop your head, staring at your hands in your lap.

He taps his fingers under your chin. “It’s true. Some days, it can be so difficult to believe you’re capable. But you are, in so many ways. Anyone who loves you could see that tenfold. But in the end, the person who needs to see that first is you. Nobody else.”

You wipe away the tears that are prepared to stream down your face, knowing it is ridiculous to cry at the comforting advice San offers. But he says all the right things every time you need them and every time you come across all the hidden fears and self-critiques you harbor.

“Are you crying,” he asks, lips curling into a frown. He presses a hand to your cheek, prepared to catch any tears before they fall, but you shake your head softly.

“I’m not sad, I promise. I just—I meant it. You give me more credit than I ever give myself, and I know it’s a bad habit, but it feels good having someone else notice…how hard it can be, even if I’m still trying.”

His thumb rubs back and forth across the apple of your cheek, sentiment and patience etched into expression. “Someone has to, don’t they?”

Staring into his eyes, you notice how much they shine, even in the dim lighting of your desk lamp. You chastise yourself for never noticing how brown and bright they were before. With a tiny vow, you promise to admire them for as long as you can, whether out loud or in silence. As long as San feels admired in the way he always should be.

The twinkle in his irises reflects in his close-lipped smile. You don’t stop to think as you lean in to kiss the sharp line of his cheek, knowing you need him as much as you need his words. He parts his mouth in shock, the hand on your cheek still. “Thank you, Sannie.”

When you rest your head on your pillow to sleep hours later, you still feel the shape of him on your lips and the fondness of his stare on your skin.

A knock on your door one Sunday afternoon reveals San with one of his hands cut up, a few scrapes visibly bleeding.

“Shit,” you curse, inspecting the cuts with your hands. He winces when you touch a deeper one, a hiss whistling through his teeth. “I’m sorry. What happened?”

“I dropped some glass cups. I didn’t know what happened to my broom, so I thought picking it up would be fine if I was careful,” he mumbles, obviously embarrassed about the mishap.

You press a hand to his shoulder as a signal for him to step inside your apartment. He does, observing the living room as you run to get supplies from your bathroom. The fuzzy, polka dot blanket draped across your even fuzzier, gray couch and the rerun of some 90s comedy makes him smile to himself. How can someone be so kind and cute? San thinks to himself.

You’ve both hung out many times since you helped him unpack, especially in your bedroom, but he’s never noticed the smaller things in your place. Seeing the ins and outs of your life in the decor, the few dishes in your sink, family photos by the door, and pens left on the counter, he doesn’t feel like he’s intruding. Rather, he’s noticing the pieces of you and storing them away to remember later. That’s how the ache inside his chest would describe it. For now, at least.

“I have band-aids, ointment, and gauze,” you note the supplies in your hand as you make it back to him. You’re no stranger to mishaps like accidental bruises and bumps, so coming as prepared as possible for this one facet of everyday life is doable, even for you. “Sit down, Sannie.”

When you guide both of you to the couch, you drape the blanket across his lap and pause the show on your television. You hold up the first-aid kit, grabbing his attention and smiling behind the box. “Ready to be patched up?”

“Readier than ready.”

The minutes pass quietly as San watches the rest of the episode, and you treat his smaller cuts with small circular band-aids. You wrap the deeper gashes up with pale gauze, rubbing some cream on the wounds to start the healing process. As you grab more of the ointment from the tin, you realize San being hurt in any capacity is painful, unbearable even, for you as well as him. While you have more than an inkling of what that means, you push it out of your mind to focus on your table-side healing.

When he’s patched up, you flick his wrist. “You’re good to go, sir.”

He grins in response. “You’re the best. Thank you.”

“It’s nothing. That’s what neighbors are for right?” The word feels too simple to describe San and what he means to you.

“Definitely,” he murmurs. Your faces rest less than a foot apart from each other, knees slightly touching.

In any instance, you’d have backed away quickly and given your new friend and neighbor a proper send-off back to his apartment. However, he’s so warm, inviting, here. It has to be ridiculous to feel so safe in his presence this soon, but San is the least ridiculous person you know.

He can be vain, more confident in himself than the average person is, and satisfied with his own absurdity. Maybe those things turn some people off, but they’re only a few things that you adore about him, the exterior pieces to a beautiful interior. And adore you do, maybe too much and too fast in the month that you’ve known him. But if someone calls you senseless for that, then senseless is what you are.

When you kiss his lips, pressing your mouth firmly to his, you feel senseless. All of your feelings rotate around him, none of your own to pull from as you want nothing but him to spread inside of you. You keen when he groans into your mouth, press deeper into him as his hands clench your waist, and mewl as he pushes his song into your mouth.

“Your hand,” you call out as he tries pushing his injured fingers down your pants.

“Fuck my hand,” San says with a gasp, tugging at the material until your shorts come off. “Well, I want you to fuck it anyway.”

You whimper at his salacious words, grinding your hips down into his lap and awaiting hand. He lets out his own sounds of pleasure at the wetness pooling in your underwear, and he slips the material to the side to truly have your skin against his, the callous on his fingertips rubbing against your clit beautifully.

With your mouth falling open from the cascading waves of pleasure that have barely started, you feel you could float away if it weren’t for San’s index and middle finger suddenly buried inside of you. He whispers dirty things into your ear, your face fighting a blush despite the position you’re both in. “You’re gorgeous, you know that? So perfect for me when you’re fucked out like this.”

He adds a third finger, completely lost in your expression as you ride his hand with abandon. You continue to rut your body into him, and all he can focus on is both your pleasure and the growing erection in his pants. His body pulses with need, but he knows it’s not about him right now.

It’s about you, and he wants you to recognize how much your pleasure matters to him.

“San, I’m gonna—” You press both palms to either side of his neck, moving faster to chase the high that’s within your reach. The taste of it almost hits the center of your tongue, and you want to feel it after all this time you’ve been waiting. For him, for the two of you, for something good.

“It’s okay, don’t fight it.” He kisses your cheek, looking up at you with only adoration and patience in his eyes. “Let go, beautiful. Come with my fingers inside of you.”

Your back arches and your chest presses into San’s biceps when you finally feel your release in its full glory. Your body leaks your essence down his hand and onto your remaining clothes. You would feel like a mess in any other circumstance, but right now, you don’t care.

All you want to do is make San feel as good as he’s made you feel.

You kiss him twice more before pulling him into your bedroom. You push him onto your bed and make quick work of removing his clothes, unzipping his jeans until both that article of clothing and his underwear come off.

The head of his dick is red and leaking with pre-cum, and you fight the urge to take him into your mouth completely and finish the encounter off that way. You want to make it worth both of your whiles.

You stroke his cock a handful of times to moisten the surface, and he ruts into your hand with broken groans. “Please don’t tease me,” San begs, reaching his hands out to hold you by the hips.

“I’m not, Sannie, I promise. Just want to get you nice and ready first.” You may not be confident in a lot of arenas of your life, but you know you’re good at this, and you’re going to make a show of it.

You sink down onto San’s cock easily. Despite the stretch of his wide girth filling every space of you, you take it all with a slack jaw and a deep moan emulating from your chest. It’s been a minute since you’ve had someone of his size inside of you, but you adjust with a few minutes of doing nothing but sitting on top of him.

“Are you gonna—” You cut San’s words short by slamming down on him particularly hard, going from doing nothing to giving him everything in a matter of seconds. You press your nails into his chest as you ride him, your pace fast and unrelenting. He looks up at you through his lashes with lust-blown irises. His hands on your hips threaten to bruise your skin, and in truth, you wouldn’t mind if they did. You want him to mark you up, pin you down, make him yours. You’ve never been more sure of anything before.

Without warning, San switches positions, one large hand pinning you down as the other wraps your legs tighter around his waist. “No more playing. Hold on tight, doll.”

He sets a pace much harsher than yours, practically leaving you completely before slamming completely inside with every thrust. It’s deep in every sense of the word, and you bite into your fist to hold back how loud you’re becoming.

San takes that fist into his palm, splaying out your fingers to interlace with his. “Let me hear all of it. Don’t fight it, baby.” He takes one of your breasts into his mouth, lavishing your nipple in gentle nips and kitten licks.

You decide all of your resounding sounds matter little to you, your other neighbors and their peaceful Sunday be damned. If he wants you to be loud, you’ll be as loud as possible, especially when his hand finds your clit to rub in perfect little figure eights.

Your vocal chords are tattered and uneven by the time your second orgasm comes, your body slack and throat hoarse from the overload of pleasure. You squeeze him tighter despite your oversensitive nerves, ready for him to fall off the same precipice you lept past with no issue.

San buries his face into your neck as he comes, his breath and beautiful groans hitting your ear as his release fills you with warmth. He kisses one of your temples as he pulls out, letting small remnants of the mixture of your releases trickle out of you and onto your bed. It all carries the same weight of importance, anyway. All that matters to you is his warm arms lulling you into comfort you’ve been without for longer than you realized.

The afternoon sky bleeds into night, and you spend all those hours in San’s arms, saying nothing yet everything in that span of time. He only rubs your back and kisses your lips every so often, letting you slip in and out of sleep.

Once you’ve been awake for longer than ten minutes, San breaks the silence by saying, “So, I’m not the best cook, but you deserve some sort of meal after all of this.” He kisses your neck before focusing his gaze back on you. “And I may or may not be collecting my repayment after helping you with those articles right now so you say yes.” He grins again, charming and electrifying. “What do you say?”

“We just had sex and you think I’ll say no to that?” you ask with a giggle.

“I’m just making sure!”

You’ve never been observant. Some cues go past your head entirely, and you know this. But San’s skin, so comfortably close to yours, sends the gentlest calm across yours like the familiar prickles of gooseflesh. You can see him and read his obvious intentions, and you know now you’re ready to welcome the start of something new with open arms. There’s no right or wrong to fear, no choice to be any less certain about. It’s easy to feel that way when sure of him when he looks at you the way he does? “I’d love to have a meal with you, San.”

Two months pass, and as San’s hand draws circles into the divot of your hip, you remember that tender stillness you felt after you first met, the first time you hung out together in what San called “your first not-first date” which you lovingly shoved him for, the first night you spent together, and all the dates that followed. Most important, that stillness never disappeared or faded into the background. Not since the first time you saw him, not when he told you it was more than fine to leave most of your stuff at his place (especially your polka dot blanket), and not when he told you he loved you hours ago.

“What are you thinking about?” San pulls you from your thoughts with his question, his whisper raspy. He kisses your bare shoulder, the soft press of his lips warming you to the bone.

“You.”

“Oh? Only good things I hope.” He smirks, trailing his kisses up to your neck. “Or bad, I prefer both.” You giggle at the few swipes of his tongue on the hollow of your throat, but you tug on the ends of his hair to pull his attention back to your face.

“The best things. How I still get excited every time I see you, and how easy it is to make you smile. How you make me feel as though I can do anything, because I have all the power in the world to do it.” You stroke the corners of his mouth, pulling them up and down to make him laugh. “How much I love you.”

In his laughter, he wraps his hands around your waist, pulling you closer. Peppering his face with kisses, the two of you fall deeper inside the sheets, the only space in the world meant for the two of you. The smell of his cologne lingers on his body, your favorite smell. You breathe it in as he says, “I love you too.” He says the words in between more sets of kisses stamped into your face and neck.

The sunlight peeks in through San’s curtains when you retreat from underneath the comforter, the signal of a new day. Another set of beginnings and discoveries to look for, new realizations to be had. Only, this day is different. You no longer fear as you once did. If either you or San aren’t looking close enough, the other person will be there to help put the pieces together. Other days, you know you’re strong enough now to figure it all out on your own, just like San is. The two of you can be as slow or fast-paced as you want to, impulses or plans be damned. If that’s what love is supposed to be, you never want it to pass you by again.

@gyubakeries @loserlvrss @jjunberry@lovetaroandtaemin @xomakara @pars-ley @addictedtohobi @innocygnet @filmnings

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dreaminguponlilypads · 2 days ago

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SILENCE BETWEEN US

first awareness?? fic/blurb, starting with selective mutism

John was a patient man. He had to be. His job demanded it—calculating risks, waiting for the right moment, never letting emotions cloud his judgment.

But patience wasn’t the same as understanding. And when it came to you, sometimes he struggled.

He tried. He really did. When you got quiet in social situations, he didn’t push. When a cashier asked you a question and you just stood there, looking helpless, he smoothly stepped in. When your voice faltered around new people or stress crept into your shoulders, he squeezed your hand, letting you know he had you.

But arguments were different.

Price wasn’t the type to shout. He wasn’t cruel, never reckless with his words. But when things got tense, he expected communication. A back-and-forth. A fight that could be resolved.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

Because you couldn’t always fight back.

And now, here you were—silent, eyes wide, lips slightly parted like you wanted to say something but couldn’t.

And Price—despite everything he knew, despite how much he loved you—was losing his patience.

“Say something,” he snapped, pacing the living room. “Anything, for fuck’s sake!”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Tried again. Nothing.

His hands curled into fists at his sides. “Christ, you’re not even trying—”

The second the words left his mouth, regret hit him like a bullet to the chest.

Your face crumpled, eyes darting away, fingers twisting in your sleeves.

John felt the weight of his mistake settle in his gut.

He knew about your selective mutism. Knew stress locked your voice away, that it wasn’t something you could control. He knew—but in his frustration, he’d forgotten.

“Shit,” he muttered, scrubbing a hand down his face. “I didn’t mean that.”

No response. Just your hands, trembling slightly, your breaths uneven.

He forced himself to sit, exhaling sharply. “I really didn’t.”

You nodded. Just a tiny movement, but it was enough to twist the knife in his chest.

He swallowed. “Come here.” He didn’t demand—just asked, quiet and steady.

You hesitated, but after a long moment, you sat beside him. You didn’t look at him, but your fingers brushed his. Testing.

He turned his hand over, letting you take it. Holding on without pushing.

“I need to be better about this,” he admitted, voice rough. “About… remembering. I don’t ever want to make you feel like that again. But I promise I’m trying, just be a little patient.”

A small squeeze of your hand. Warm. Forgiving.

“You alright?” he asked softly.

Another nod.

“Take your time, love. I’ll wait.”

And he would. Because loving you meant learning.

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lightlycareless · 22 hours ago

Text

just had to get it out of my system 2.0

warnings: none too grave. naoya unintentionally makes you feel insecure about your weight.

Naoya, the I’ve never had an official girlfriend before so I gotta make the best of it, deciding to show off his muscles by carrying you.

Naoya, the doesn’t know how to shut up not even for his own good, unsurprisingly ends up saying insensitive things to you when realizing he can’t carry you as effortlessly as he wanted—and if that wasn’t enough, he also had to be quite dramatic about it.

“Oh, Y/N—! You really have to lay off the mochi!” He jests, finding no unwarranted cruelty behind his words nor the hurt in your eyes as he continued to tease you. “You’re quite heavy—"

Naoya, whom even after you manage to jump down from his grasp and storm away, doesn’t find anything wrong with his actions. His words hadn’t come from genuine malice, after all.

But it’s not until the love-deprived Naoya, the one that quickly had come to realize he couldn’t live without you after seeing you for the first time, suffering the greatest of tortures at your persistent silence, that he finally realizes his mistakes.

That, alongside the consistent threats from your siblings, who were just waiting the slightest mishap on his part to prove their accusations, pushed him to do so.

However, Naoya didn’t even give them chance to retaliate, swiftly showering you with gifts to showcase how regretful he was—and how it was ok for you to indulge in the mochi you’ve dejectedly avoided since then.

And, of course, making it his personal challenge to demonstrate you weren’t too heavy, but rather, he was too weak.

How he managed to do such feat in such little time only serves to refute the misconceptions your siblings and friends had of him (or more like no longer applied) and once more show how utterly devoted, he was to make you happy.

“I need you to help me with something.” Naoya suddenly says, his request, while bold, doesn’t startle you.

“Hm? What is it?” you ask. “Is it paperwork again?”

“No, nothing like that. Just… stay there and—” with one swift movement, Naoya lifts you up, making you squeal and instinctively hold onto his shoulders, a combination of fear and shame envelopes you soon enough where you’re begging him to put you down.

“Please, just—let me go!” but he remains, only to continue surprising you upon realizing he wasn’t carrying you with both his arms, but rather… just one.

It’s confusing to you, to say the least; you didn’t know whether to indulge in your shock and gush at his undeniable improvement— or wonder why he insisted, after all, didn’t he label this endeavor agonizing to perform…?

Naoya wins you to it, however. Concern was written all over your face, there was no way he couldn’t point it out.

“You should know by now that I never back up from a challenge.”

“I didn’t know carrying me was a challenge…” you pout. “Seemed like punishment.”

“Oh, princess, having you like this can only be a pleasure.”

“Alright, alright!” you fluster, urging him again to put you down before a crowd gathers. “If you wanted to show off there were a million other ways to do so… instead of calling me fat and then working out to prove yourself wrong.”

“Fat? I never called you fat.” Per usual Naoya fashion, he would attempt to gaslight you and act as if that sensible moment had been nothing but a figment of your imagination, or, in this case, a misunderstanding. “I meant to say that’s how I get whenever I see you.”

“What? What do you mean that’s how you get? How can you get fat—” the understanding of his subtly crude words suddenly hits you, making the redness in your face burn even brighter as you decisively fight against his hold, just to avoid the embarrassment. “Oh, my god… You’re gross!!”

“Well, you can get as angry as you want, still doesn’t lessen the truth.”

“…When are you ever going to stop being gross?”

For someone like Naoya, you might as well be requesting the impossible.

But who are you kidding? It wouldn’t exactly be your Naoya if you asked him to be literally anything else but his genuine self.

And you’re not that far off either when it comes to perversions, he’d come to learn delightfully so in due time—but that’s a story for another time 😊

he didn't see anything wrong with his words at first until he heard someone (like one of his friends or relatives) say the same thing towards you and THEN was he like UH NO.

#naoya zenin #naoya zen'in #naoya x reader #naoya zenin x reader #naoya zenin x you #jjk naoya #naoya zen'in x reader #jjk x reader #jjk fluff #jjk x you #prompt series: jujutsu kaisen

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aninipanin1 · 2 days ago

Text

GLASS SHOES

Pairing: Nagi Seishiro x Reader

"In the midst of the many beautiful guests and opulent decorations, the lazy prince can only see one person - you." (Cinderella AU)

Note: I def did not imagine Nagi wearing this outfit of him in the official art lmao lmao. But anyways, midway through editing I realized Nagi's eyes were GREY and NOT BROWN which pissed me off (mandela effect is wildin) so forgive me if there are some instances I called his eyes brown.

"That boy will never learn, will he?!"

A loud bang echoed throughout the large meeting room inside the gargantuan and lavish palace. The king, who frequently received reports from his men about his only son, the crown prince was once again more than angry about the news he received.

The duke, who was with the king, cowered as His Majesty threw a small tantrum about how his son will never listen, or about how he does not take his duties seriously.

"Your m-majesty, I believe we just have to be patient-"

"I AM PATIENT, AND I HAD ALWAYS BEEN, ESPECIALLY WITH HIM!"

The old king's face turned into a comical cherry red, which got the duke a little worried for his health, patting the smaller male's back with the intent to comfort the furious and weary king.

"Sleeping in his sword fighting lessons, escaping his philosophy and politics lectures just to play in the carnivals, and now letting the Princess of Marais await him just because he did not want to get married and slept in?! Ridiculous!! Oh, how will I face that dear girl's family."

The king finally fell to his chair in exhaustion. He hated to stress himself or be mad at his beloved son, but Seishiro always did bring out the childish, unreasonable anger in him, especially since the boy had been the way he was since he was born.

Seishiro had always been the lazy kid, a characteristic no one knew where it originated. Both his parents were responsible and dignified leaders of the kingdom, something their subjects praised them for for years. The only thing that kept him from making the kingdom fall on its roots was the fact that he was a genius.

Playing the piano beautifully at the young age of 10, beating his fencing master at the age of 12, and even outsmarting his tactics mentor at the age of 15. He seemed to just get anything that was taught to him in such a short time and without any struggle too.

How befitting of the nickname the Lazy Genius Prince that most of the people in the kingdom called him.

"I just want to see him happy. For him to settle down and find someone he loves just like how I did at his age. Not wasting his time in his dreams slumbering away or playing those mindless games. I'm not getting younger, after all..."

The king let out a deep sigh, a frown on his face. Ever since his beloved wife died, it was a little harder to get through and communicate with Seishiro, seeing that she was closer to their son than he was. She always did know what to say or do just to make their Seishiro interested.

A regret that the king placed upon his shoulder is that the prince mostly grew up alone since both he and the late queen had always been busy. Slaving themselves away to make sure the kingdom was prosperous, but what they did not know is they also slaved themselves away into being close to nothing in their son's life.

And due to this, he became like this. Completely dissociated from the world.

"Oh, it's all my fault... I should have been a better father. My poor Seishiro..."

He sobbed dramatically as the duke patted his back.

"It's fine, your majesty. Perhaps we should just leave him to decide for himself-"

"Leave him alone?! Oh no, no, you see, tonight is a special night!"

The king laughed, cheering as if he was not just sobbing his heart out a few seconds ago. He sat again on his chair, grinning like an evil mastermind.

"Tonight? You mean the ball in honor of the princess-"

"No, no, NO! Not just that! But I made sure that ALL the eligible maiden in my kingdom is to attend. I'm sure he won't be interested in most of them, but he is surely to like one them isn't he?"

"But sire-"

"Oh, lighten up! HE MOST DEFINITELY WILL!"

The king started to hop around in excitement, thinking about the prospect of his only son married to a beautiful and sweet girl, along with him finally having the grandchildren he had always wanted.

"Time out, Reo..."

"C'mon, Your Highness. We just started less than 3 minutes ago."

Still, the albino prince did not listen. Slumping on the grass face first, not even minding that the dirt was tainting his pristine white uniform. No, he just continued sprawling himself on the grass and dirt, his sword left clanging on the ground.

Seishiro and his right-hand man and the heir of the duke, Lord Reo were currently training their swordsmanship. Well, mostly it was Reo taking it seriously, and Seishiro always tries to find a way to escape the training or take a long break.

Seeing as to how the white-haired prince seldom moved, Reo let out a sigh of resignation before sitting beside him on the grass.

"Fine, only a few minutes before someone sees us not training."

Seishiro did not seem to hear his companion. His grey eyes just focused on looking at the beautiful blue sky. Behind his distracted eyes were many thoughts that ran through his head, thoughts he did not want to think about and found a hassle, but he could not get off his mind no matter how hard he tried.

"You alright?"

"Hmm...Reo, do I really have to find a wife in the ball tonight?"

His words came out lazily slurred. However, there is a hint of something beneath it, something that only those who knew Seishiro well can hear. Annoyance? Disappointment? Sadness? The purple-haired lord could not decipher it, but he gave the prince a smile and a pat on the shoulder.

"Unfortunately, yes. Our kingdom needs a future queen, and well, you know that it's part of our duties as noblemen. Especially you, being the crown prince."

He nodded, turning his attention to the sky once again, still sprawling out on the grass. He let out a curious hum.

"How will I even know who to choose? It's not like I know any girl at all. Hmm...what a hassle everything is. I don't want to get married nor do I wanna be king, anyways."

"Don't be like that! You have been training for this all your life. It will be such a waste to abandon it all. And, you can always interact with them and find someone you find common grounds with."

But the concept of marriage and love still felt a big thing to the prince. He had a good example of love, his father and late mother loved each other dearly, and his father was not the same after she sadly passed. However, did he wish for that same connection with someone? No.

It felt like a hassle. A hassle to care so much about someone that you have to change the way you live to respond to them. It is a hassle to feel something so heavy, to always be cautious, so your heart can not be broken. The same way his father did just to please his own mother and vice versa, only for his heart to be broken once his beloved died of a ruthless illness.

"I don't wanna do it, Reo. Too much of a bother."

He turned and fell face first on the soft grass, which only made the duke's son sigh as he thought out loud.

"I wonder how your future fiancée will handle you, your highness. I give her all my regards and respect. Now c'mon, let's start training again."

"Nooo..."

"There will be so many beautiful dresses and decorations. Oh, I can imagine hearing the beautiful orchestral music or even seeing people dance elegantly! I can imagine the ball would be something out of a fairytale."

You wistfully imagined, dancing about the cold and dusty storage room with a broom in one hand and a duster in another. You looked out the window of the room where from a far, you can make out the tall and majestic palace.

For years, you had always been stuck in this manor. Filled with responsibility over responsibility whilst mourning the once bright atmosphere of the place. This was once a house filled with laughter and love. Love between your father, mother and you.

But, it all changed when your mother died due to her illness, and your father remarried once again after a few years. At first, you were happy for your father. He met someone who made him happy and feel loved again, and additionally to that, you will be having two sisters your age. Oh, how exciting could that be!

However, when your father also passed away, everything in the house changed. You were banished from your once cozy room into the attic, forced to do the household chores due to the fact your stepmother was not good at handling the money of your father, and consequently, lost many workers that once worked under the family manor as a form of damage control.

You never gave up hope, though. Hope that you will be free and one day have your dreams of a happy and loving life like you did before come true. But, for now, daydreams are all that you have and so, you dream.

"Welp, no time dancing around. I have to finish all of these so stepmother can allow me to go to the prince's ball."

You went back to dusting, brooming, and overall arranging the dozens of boxes in the storage room that are mostly filled with old dresses, jewelry, or other knic knacks your stepsisters bought and seldom used again.

After that, you went downstairs to prepare lunch to which you bumped into your stepfamily.

"Oh, Y/n! Polish these shoes perfectly, you hear? It has to be perfect so the prince himself can only look at me tonight!" Ai said, putting a box of shoes in the already large pile of cleaning supplies and other dresses they asked you to fix.

"No! Iron this first! It needs to be perfrctly straight and crisp! I will have the prince's attention on ME, Ai!" Chie cut off as the two started to argue again. You just heaved a sigh and walk away from them to start doing everything they asked you to, knowing you can not afford to dilly dally as the hours ticked and you still have not finished some tasks, especially now that they added a few more on your already overflowing plate.

As expected, when the coach arrived, it was just then that you finished your chores and therefore did not have any time to fix the old dress your mother passed down to you. It was a beautiful dress. However, it was old and needed a few alterations, or else some part of it would probably rip the moment you even put it on.

"Why, child. Why are you not ready yet?" You hear the dreaded voice of your stepmother, hearing the hidden satisfaction in her tone, seeing as you will not be going.

"I'm not going." You said, trying not to let the unshed tears fall or the shake in your voice be heard.

"Not going? Oh, what a shame."

"It's nothing. Please, have a wonderful night."

You headed up to your room, or if you can even call the attic, that. You looked out your window to see the rest of the kingdom, and from afar, you can see the palace as it shined bright amidst the black tint of the night sky due to probably the many chandeliers and other reflective and illuminating materials around its opulent build.

"My only chance to have something fun at least for once...it's the only time I am even a part of the demographic of a ball. Yet... yet I can not even go."

A sigh of sadness and disappointment left you. You were not an idiot and you knew that all the stalling your stepfamily did was to prevent you from ever going. But, you still could not understand why they did not want you to go. It was not like you wanted to get in their way of marrying the prince. You just wanted one night. One night of respite and fun from the hellish life you currently lived in.

Resting your head on the frame of the window, you feel your heart break a little at the thought of missing this one night of supposed fun. Well, that was until you noticed your lamp lighting up. Turning around, you found all your animal friends, those that you have taken cared of over the years of loneliness in this place, gathered up as they showed you a beautiful dress, one that was familiar enough yet altered so perfectly that it became a bit unrecognizable at first.

"It's perfect! It's so beautiful, thank you so much all of you! I owe you all!"

The mice and birds all look proud of themselves as they tweet and squeak before pointing at the dressing room, urging you to change quickly before the coach or your stepfamily left.

"Remember, girls. No slouching, arguing, pitter-pattering, or mischievous chattering. Just poise and elegance. You must attract Prince Seishiro's attention and nothing more. Understood?"

"Yes, mother." Ai and Chie said at the same time to which the elder woman nodded approvingly as the two fixed their larger than life dresses.

"Wait, please, wait for me!"

A call got them to turn to the staircase where they found you in a simple yet beautiful dress and your hair simply done. You doned no jewellery, make-up, or beautiful shoes since you did not have any, just a beautiful smile and a genuine heart.

"Well, well, it seemed you found a rather...acceptable dress to the ball, child."

"Yes. Oh, I promise I won't bother you at all. I just really want to see the palace and go out even just for tonight."

"I see, I see..." Your stepmother walked closer and closer to you, her eyebrows raised, and her eyes held no good intent as they glared at the dress from top the bottom. Her smile spoiled and bitter, the same way the glint in her eyes shone.

"However, I don't presume you think me and my daughters will be going to the ball wearing these just to have someone beside us wear...this. It's preposterous and humiliating, after all." She said snarkily, the pretend smile still on her face as she touched the sleeves as if examining it at first, before pulling it with such a force that the fragile fabric ripped.

You gasped, trying to pull back. However, you were outnumbered as Ai grabbed the skirt and pulled it so harshly that it ripped too.

"And the fabric is absolutely filthy, mother! The prince and the other nobles will certainly get sick the moment she enters in this monstrosity!"

Chie, not wanting to be left out, grabbed your hair, making the hard work you put on to fix your hair vanish as it fell down from its updo.

"And her hair us absolutely hideous, mother. We will the laughingstock of the entire palace!"

It all happened too fast. In the blink of an eye, all the hard work of your friends and the memory of your mother that all centered around this one dress was ruined. The moment the door clicked as your stepfamily left the manor, you ran out to the nearby well in the backyard of the manor and finally, the long held back tears dropped from your eyes.

All the frustrations, abuse, sadness, and insecurities that piled up throughout the years of mistreatment and enslavement under your supposed family left through warm teardrops, falling into the deep well. No formed words were needed to translate to anyone that might be seeing (including your animal friends who peeked at you) you as your sobs and tears were enough to know that you were heartbroken and had had enough of everything. That your psyche was close, if not, already falling apart.

"Why are you crying, my child?"

You hear a voice ask from behind you. Turning around, you found an old lady, soot covering her face with nothing on but a thin and old dress, keeping her supposedly warm from the cold wind of the night. You wiped your tears and swallowed the sobs that racked your throat.

"It's nothing, ma'am. Umm, are you alright? It's too cold for you to out here, especially tonight."

"Oh, I don't have anywhere to stay at. I will be fine here."

But, you knew that it was impossible. You were already shivering, what more an old lady garbed in nothing but a thin, worn-out dress? So, you did what you do best, helping her up into the stables where it was definitely warmer, giving her a blanket and a fresh cup of water straight from the well.

"You did not have to do this for me, dear."

"It's nothing, ma'am. I can't just leave you out there in the cold tonight. Sorry if the stables are a little stinky, but it's safer and warmer here. I'll clean it up tonight for you, if you want."

Just as you were about to get a rake and a bucket, her hand immediately stopped you. Her hands were nimble and wrinkly. However, it was warm and soft to the touch. She gave you a warm and kind smile before shaking her head.

"Oh no, dear. We can't have you dirtying yourself before going to the ball now, can we?"

"Huh? The ball-"

You were cut off when small sparkly butterflies and flower petals surrounded her figure. Her once dirty and worn-out clothes turned into a beautiful and magical white and blue dress, her wrinkly and soot covered face turned into one of a beautiful middle-aged woman with beautiful bouncy locks of hair.

She heaved out a few coughs, flicking her wrist and shooing the sparkly dust that fell upon her from her previous transformation.

"This is why I hate using fairy dust. Anyways! Thank you for your kindness, my dear! I am so happy to see my cute goddaughter turn into such a beautiful and kind young woman."

"Goddaughter..? Then you must be-!"

"Your Fairy Godmother, of course! I know it must be a little shocking, but I heard your cries, love. So what's the matter, hm? You can tell your lil, ol' godmother."

She cupped your face, her hands warm and loving, the opposite of your stepmother's cold and callous hold earlier when she ripped your dress. Speaking of dress, you looked down at your dress before turning to your godmother.

"It's just...I want to go to the ball, however I can't because I don't have-"

"Oh, of course! You don't have a ride there! Then you must not worry, my dear. This is why your beloved fairy godmother is here!"

She looked around for her supposed 'wand' only for her to find it inside the well's bucket? Not wanting to complicate magic in your mind, you just smiled at her as she pointed her wand at a pumpkin before turning it into a beautiful gold and silver carriage. It was something fitting for a fairytale or someone of a royal bloodline, not something you thought you deserved. Though, you cannot help the gasp and smile that escaped your lips.

"Oh, it's beautiful! Thank you, godmother!"

She just chuckled and shrugged it off, turning her head to your mice friends who were on top of a well, turning them into horses that are attached to the front of the carriage with some being left out to become the driver and the footman.

"There! Now, hurry up, my dear. It's getting late, and the ball will not be waiting."

"Oh, um thank you, but my dress-"

"Yes, it is absolutely gorg- goodness me! You can't go to the ball in that."

You gave her a smile as she walked closer to you.

"We need a simple yet beautiful dress, fitting for the shade of your eyes and the colour of your hair."

Waving her wand, dozens of golden and silver fairy dust that materialized into butterflies and flower petals surrounded your figure as a glow appeared all over your teared-up dress.

The once destroyed fabric and structure of the dress turned into a beautiful (color) ballgown. Butterflies, sparkles, and flower petals surround the dress in a minute way, yet add to the magic of the dress. It was not overwhelming to the eyes, especially the soft tone of the fabric that contrasted the night sky. Your hair was in a beautiful hairstyle that framed and fitted your face perfectly with seldom decorations and pieces of jewelry, only a small earring, a pair of gloves, and a beautiful arrangement of flowers attached to your hair.

It was simple yet ethereally beautiful, just like you. The gasp that you let out was one of awe and gratefulness as you laughed and twirled around in the dress.

"This... this is breathtaking. Thank you! Thank you so much!"

"It's nothing. You deserve it, after all. However, my dear, you must understand that by the stroke of 12 in the clock, the spell will be broken, and everything would revert back to how it once was."

She explained seriously as she watched you marvel at the dress. You took into account her warning and just smiled, nodding your head. Even with the conditions, you still felt so grateful for the few hours given to you.

"I understand, but it's so much more than I have ever hoped for."

The fairy godmother smiled at this and took you to the carriage where the mouse-turned-footman was about to help you into the carriage when she noticed your shoe that stepped unto the ladder to enter inside the carriage.

"Oh dear! Your...shoes..." She said, biting her nails. You looked at her before looking at your worn-out shoe. Its once vibrant and soft colour turned it to something more akin to black due to the soot, dust, and other dirt particles that you had to always encounter as the endentured servant of the manor.

"Oh, it's fine, godmother. It's not like anyone would see it. Besides, you already helped me with so much." You said with a wide grin, just excited to go to the ball even in your old and disintegrating pair of shoes. After all, ever since your step family took over, you were not given the luxury to buy any new pair of shoes and clothes.

You had to always be creative. Sewing the same shoes back together, or putting random clothes to cover the holes of the few dresses that you have to make it work. However, your godmother begged to differ as she flicked her wand once again.

The old shoes disappeared and were instead replaced by a pair of shining glass slippers. It reflected different colours depending on the light hitting it, with even a small delicate butterfly on the front.

"Wow...they are beautiful. And surprisingly comfortable too."

You wondered, raising your feet up a bit to look at the shoes.

"Yes, of course! You need them to be comfortable so you can dance your heart away! Now go, go! Enjoy your night, my dear!"

"Thank you so much for everything!" You waved at her as the carriage started to move through the streets to head to the palace.

"Your Highness...please stand up."

Reo sighed for the umpteenth time that night as he watched the albino-haired prince lay down on the edge of the fountain in the palace gardens. They were currently waiting for all the guests to fill in, and as always, the lazy prince left the ballroom and headed to a place where he can take his nap.

Which is why both of them were there.

"Seishiro, how long are you planning to take your nap?"

"Hmm..? Until the ball...ends..." He started to snore away, well, until he was hit on the head with a chop by Reo, to which he flinched and looked up.

"Ow...why'd you do that, Reo?"

"Because you're being an idiot. This ball is literally for you, which means you have to be there! His Majesty was kind enough not to involve you in greeting the guest when you're supposed to be there. Now let's go, the introductions are about to start, and I don't want to face His Majesty's wrath when he finds out we both aren't in the ballroom."

The purple-haired heir started to drag the prince by the collar of his uniform, being mindful to not drag him on the ground while patting off any dust or leaves stuck on his pristine, white attire. Seishiro, on the other hand, was softly frowning as his hair and clothes were being fixed by Reo. Especially his tangled hair, which the male struggled to finger comb and try to at least make presentable.

"You know what? I don't care about your stupid hair anymore. Let's go."

The ballroom was as grand and lavish as it could be. The marble and gold colors of the walls and floor matched well with the larger-than-life red curtains. The chandelier was one of the main characters of the interior design, with thousands of candles lit up on it. However, it was not the only light source inside the palace, for there were dozens of mini chandeliers on the ceilings with torches and candelabras on the ground.

To celebrate the occasion, huge arrangements of flowers surrounded the areas of the palace along with other decorative pieces that shouted royalty. The guests were as opulent as their surroundings, wearing beautiful and expensive gowns and suits, with jewelry that cost more than a house in the city. They came from different backgrounds, from the kingdom's aristocracy, a foreign monarchy family, and even some foreign aristocrats.

It was as every bit as overwhelming as it was awe-inspiring. Seishiro looked at everything with boredom. It was all too familiar to him, so where even is the element of surprise for him to be in awe of?

He shrugged it all off, returning to where he was supposed to be (or else he would be dragged by Reo if he did not do it on his own). When the announcer saw him, he started to speak. First, with a welcoming speech to everyone before calling off each and every maiden's name that were invited and have arrived.

Through it all, Seishiro just did as protocol, bowing lazily, while sneaking in a few yawns here and there. This, in turn, angered his father, who watched in anticipation from afar, hoping that his son would at least show some spark of interest in his eyes towards one maiden.

"That boy is not cooperating." He said in annoyance, the duke beside him just nodded.

"It may appear so, Your Majesty. But, I believe we must not rush Prince Seishiro. After all, we know how he can be." The two watched as he just blinked his brown eyes, uninterested at the beautiful princess that was called upon him who introduced herself, and he in return.

"Agh, am I asking for too much when I told him to find a wife? It has been a few years since he came of age, and he needs a wife. There has to be someone who can be a suitable mother and wife!"

The duke blinked in a panic, seeing the king starting to get mad. After all, the king was old, and heart problems were a thing of the monarch's past. The duke cleared his throat and tried to calm him down.

The duke, secretly, is a bit against this forcing of the prince, not seeing it as logical. After all, who falls in love with someone at first glance? No one, certainly.

"He'll be fine, Your Majesty. We just need to give him time. I can not just imagine Prince Seishiro of all people, suddenly focusing his eyes on one girl with interest. Especially if he does not know her well, and do not even get me started with a dance? That is quite impossible, Your Majesty." The duke let our a chuckle to which the king rolled his eyes, focusing his on the prince, letting the duke yap on about logical thoughts and about love.

Seishiro, who was tired and drained from the introductions, ran off as the socialization portion of the ball started. He headed out of the ballroom to the main hall, finding a spot to sit down and hopefully snore away.

Down the hall was an empty velvet couch, that served as a waiting seat for the meeting room beside it where the king sometimes resided for political visits and matters. The albino-haired prince hopped on the couch and started to snore away, hoping that maybe by the time he woke up, the whole ball would be over.

The moment you entered the palace, you were immediately lost. How could you not be? It was so much larger inside compared to how it looked outside, and it was not like you ever went to the palace before, in your life.

When it came to balls, it was only your stepfamily who attended with you being left behind in the manor to do whatever piles of chores they would throw at you that certain day.

Walking around the marble and golden halls with nothing to guide you. You tried to look for clues that will hint you where the ballroom was. Holding your dress up to prevent you from tripping, your glass shoes clicked elegantly on the floor, disturbing the quiet sound of the halls.

"Oh no, I hoped I did not go deeper into the palace. Especially, on restricted places."

Just as you turned the corner, you were ecstatic to see a man in a white uniform that mirrored of his snowy hair, laying on a velvet sofa, probably sound asleep. He was probably a guard! He must know the way around this hopeless maze.

You felt rather rude to be disturbing him. It was not his fault anyway that you got lost in the palace, but instead, it was fully yours. However, you did not want to get into deeper trouble, so with a nervous heart and an embarrassed look in your eyes, you woke him up as politely as you could.

"Um, sir? Excuse me?"

Seishiro groaned a bit in his slumber at the feeling of someone's hand poking his shoulder gently. He did feel a little annoyed with being woken up from a good nap. However, he did stand up, thinking that if he was gone for too long, his father would probably get mad at him.

When he managed to get his conscious state together, he found himself looking at a young lady, probably around his age, shyly smiling at him. She wore a beautiful (colour) ballgown with a butterfly and flower motif, her hair in an elegant hairstyle with flowes attached to it.

She was beautiful, and he won't lie about that.

"Hmm? Who are you..? What time is it?" He rubbed his eyes, muttering his words like a whisper.

"Oh, um, it is currently 8 PM, and I am just a visitor for the ball. I was wondering if you know where the ballroom is?"

You gave him a smile, one polite and warm to a degree. He just nodded, a bit dazed from his sleep, not registering your last question.

"8 PM, huh? Then, the ball is still ongoing. Hmp, I don't want to go back." He said with a frown, a bit torn between going back to the ballroom or not and risking being scolded hard by his father. You, on the other hand, were a bit confused as to how someone not enjoying the prospect of a ball.

"Really? Why don't you want to go the ball? It's supposed to be one, if not the biggest, celebration of the kingdom. Especially, since it is about the prince finding his future bride." His frown deepened at the mention of him finding a wife, before sighing begrudgingly.

"It is. But, it gets a little boring, sometimes. It's the same thing, same atmosphere and same annoying people. If it's the same thing, then why repeat it again and again? I should be just sleeping away."

You blinked at that, finding the man quite peculiar. He was very much lazy, just from the way he seemed to hate even the notion of moving or socializing eas enough for you to know that. You wondered how he became a guard with such a personality?

"I guess. You're right. If it's repetitive, it does get annoying."

"Right? And it's not like it brings any sort of entertainment anyway. Everyone in there acts the same. Too polite it makes me feel suffocated. For example, if you don't follow the trend or rules, then suddenly you are worth it to throw shade at? Hm...If I'm gonna waste my time, then they better entertain me."

You chuckled at his mini and passionless rant, watching him bury his head on the velvet throw pillow he found on the couch. You have long stopped standing up, as the mysterious man gave you space to sit down beside him as you listened to him speak.

"Right! Right! I also heard that there had been a ball where one of the marquess' got so angry at her daughter for not standing good and not flapping her fan right that her daughter got banished to a convent because of it, with the marquess deeming her hopeless to become a wife of someone."

"Hmm, yeah. Heard of it." He confirmed, closing his eyes, yet it was very much obvious he was still listening to you.

"Oh, I also heard that once a foreign prince and king visited, and the prince was beaten in a sword duel by Prince Seishiro. So the moment they went home, the prince was scarred badly by his father, who urged him to train with him in the art of sword duelling. However, the prince loved his father too much to hurt him, so he got hurt instead of a sign of humiliation."

"I guess.." He nodded away, remembering that certain prince. He did feel a bit of pity towards him, but he was kind of cocky and insulted Reo and another one of his friends and a captain of the royal guards, Isagi. So, he did it to avenge both of his friends.

A bout of silence appeared for a few seconds as you both sat next to each other, his eyes closed and resting while your eyes were focused on the starry night outside of the large glass window in front of both of you.

Turning back to face him, you started to speak again, thinking of another subject to start talking about.

"Sir, may I ask?"

"Sure.."

"Why were you sleeping here? Surely you had something to do, especially since the ball is currently happening."

Seishiro had his mouth shut for a bit before he let out a hum.

"I do. But I don't wanna...it's too much of a hassle to move or do anything. Especially as something like a stupid ball."

"Yeah, like you said earlier. But is there another reason why?"

He paused for a second, deep in thought, mouth closing and opening like a fish desperate for water before he found the right words to say.

"Hmm, I guess. I just don't like how I'm forced to practically do everything wants me to do. I have a lot of people hoping for something big from me, but I know I can't or don't want to deliver. I'm not built for a life of so many responsibilities."

"That's not true! Every human in this world is built to be able to handle any responsibility or situation thrown at them!"

He raised an eyebrow at that, it was definitely the first time he heard of this saying before, but he nodded for you to elaborate.

"Well, being human means having struggles. Struggles we don't want to face or find it hard to face, but in the end, we have to. This is how we improve as human beings, all the hardships we go through, no matter how brutal, it's there for a reason. I don't really know you, but from your personality, I can get why you don't wanna go back to the ball, but if it's your challenge, then you just have to brave it out. After all, maybe a time will come where we end up regretting not facing our struggles."

"Heh, when will that ever happen? A life without hassle is good."

"I guess. But there is a saying that goes: "It's better to suffer early in life, than later." It means, that when we suffer early on in life, we can learn so many lessons and when that problem comes again in the future, then we can counter it better because we learned in the past."

"Hmm, I guess that makes logical sense." He stopped to think about everything you brought up in the conversation. He was utterly surprised that a conversation that started out with him asking the time, turned into something so philosophical and yet, relatable that not even his philosophy teacher, who is well versed in the meaning of life, ever mentioned nor went this deep before with him.

"But, mister. You know, I feel the opposite of you. I really want to go to the ball."

"Hmm? Why? Its a hassle." He said, opening one of his eye to look at you.

"Right, maybe it is! But, it's the only time I can ever enjoy the feeling of going through a hassle. That, I have the time and opportunity to do something useless. Because, every second of my life, I have doubles and doubles of responsibility, so to experience and do something not as an obligation but because, its my choice, feels like my first taste of freedom, you know? Not like, I'm planning on escaping or anything because I can't, but I'm still so thankful tonight, even if a few hours pales in comparison to the years of hardship."

As you went on your spiel, his eyes slowly opened. This time, he did not just listen but also looked at you. From what he can tell, your current life was not easy, but the smile on your face said otherwise. It did not feel like you enjoyed the struggle, no far from it, but instead, you loved the small taste of freedom you got to experience that night.

Is this what other people who are forced to either survive but work or else have nothing, go through? Sure, he was forced, but not to the extent that he would be thrown out by his father. Even if he was lazy like this, his father always loved him still.

He looked at the smile on your face, it was full of warmth and happiness. In fact, it was too genuine that even the corners of his mouth quirked up a bit. Maybe, just maybe he can find some sort of reason to not be as lazy as he always was, especially when it came to his responsibilities.

After all, like you, he had dozens of responsibilities. But, the way you handled them? Complete opposite of him, you seemed like a hard worker and a dreamer, the opposite of him. So, he was definitely curious how he would fare if he, at least once, tried to do his duty the way you do yours? With optimism for a better future.

His future was blank in his eyes, unlike how his father and the kingdom sees it. He's the future king, he has a legacy waiting for him to be built. Yet, he had no plans on how he'll do it. How he will leave his mark into the kingdom, but now, he thinks he may have a few ideas.

This time, he would not run away. There is a time for that, a time of respite and rest. But for tonight, he will try not to run away and face the music instead. Who knows? Maybe, just maybe, your way is the missing entertainment, the missing spark in his life.

"Oh my goodness, I forgot about the ball!"

You exclaimed, which startled Seishiro a bit. He watched as you picked your dress up, before turning to him once again.

"Uh, right! I wanted to ask if you know the way to the ballroom, sir?"

He blinked before standing up from the velvet couch, before extending his hand to you in a very gentle and chivalrous way, courtesy of all the training he had to go through when it came to etiquette.

"I'll lead you there, if you'll let me."

Your cheeks warmed up a bit at the rather sweet move before nodding your head and accepting his hand and his offer as well.

"Oh, where is he! I swear if he went back to his chambers or hid somewhere in the palace just to escape his duties, I will make sure he-"

The king was stressed out, face red the moment Reo reported to the king about how it had been more than half an hour since he had been looking for the missing albino prince, to no avail. Even if the duke and his son tried, the king was searching for the young prince. The first dance had started a few minutes ago after all, and Seishiro needed to be there to find a maiden to be his first dance. But he was not even there, and if he did not come in an instant, a lot of people would start talking.

Humiliation is awaiting the monarch of the kingdom if the prince does not arrive in the next second.

However, the king's outburst stopped when the door to the ballroom opened once again, to reveal Prince Seishiro.

"That boy! I swear-"

The king stopped whatever spiel he was about to go on once more the moment his eyes stopped at the beautiful young maiden beside his son, her delicate and gloved hand on top of his as he led her to the ballroom.

"A...a girl. Oh, he's with a girl!"

The king let out an excited and hearty laugh. He turned to the orchestra and raised his hand with such fervor, signaling for them to start the waltz. The conductor raised his baton and started to conduct the orchestra who followed his lead, as the sound of the instruments harmonized into a melodic yet colorful waltz.

Seishiro sighed, before turning to face you, hand still holding yours before bowing.

"May I have this dance?"

You blinked, in a bit of a panic, knowing that you are not the best dancer there is, especially since it has been so long since you danced a waltz.

"B-but, I'm not that good-"

"You'll be fine, I got you."

He said it in a rather serious tone, his gray eyes turning a warmer shade like how a dark cloud shines brighter when the sun hides behind it. With a curtsey of your own as a sign of acceptance, you let him hold your waist, as well as tighten his hold on your hand.

You both swayed across the dance floor, almost like it was ice and you both weighed nothing. In the small instances that you would almost lose your balance or move in the opposite direction of where he was going, Seishiro would move ahead of time to catch you or guide you to the right way, as if he could predict each and every one of your movements.

In his eyes, no one in the world was left other than you and him. The background blurred, with you being the only thing clear in his eyes. The music barely registered in his mind even, his body was being pulled by an invisible force to you, like he was always destined to be near you.

He never felt this way before, never felt so distracted yet so focused at the same time. Why you of all people? Was it because he found you attractive? No, he found many people attractive, yet he would ignore them the same way he did everybody else. Or was it because he felt some sort of connection with you in the short time you two talked in the halls? Because you touched his heart even if you did unintentionally and unconsciously?

The dance continued, his eyes stuck only on you. He even noticed the nervous look in your own eyes, face moving away to avoid his stare, face warm. Not liking that you were witholding your beautiful irises from him, he let go of your waist for a second and cupped your cheeks, guiding it back to face him.

"Don't look away. Only look at me, okay?" Nodding your head, you tried your best to calm the wild beating of the heart inside your ribcage.

As the time passed, you found your feet moving on rhythmically now. The previous clumsy movement of your feet or the lack of balance in your core slowly going away, as you trusted him enough to catch you if you lose your balance.

From afar, the king pat the duke's back, laughing heartily as they watched the dance commencing between the prince and the mysterious girl. It had been a while since the king had looked genuinely happy. Meanwhile, Reo also looked down from the balcony with a nostalgic and warm smile, watching the spark in the prince's eyes. It was a look he was a bit familiar with as there were some instances where the royalty would find it in himself to enjoy something, but most of the time it would only last a few minutes before vanishing. However, now, the spark in his grey eyes was burning bright, so bright that it looked like it would never ever die.

'I'm glad you finally found something worth the hassle for, Your Highness.'

Everything was perfect, well it was perfect until the bell started to ring, the clock's hands striking twelve.

You gasped the moment you realized it was only a few minutes before it turned midnight. Your steps stopped, eyes boring on the clock.

"I-it's midnight."

At first, Seishiro was a bit taken aback when you suddenly stopped, he also turned to the clock, a little confused.

"Yeah, it is. What's wrong-"

"I have to go." You said out of nowhere, ready to bolt out the door, but the prince's hands were still connected with yours, his grip holding unto your wrist.

"Why? The ball is not done yet."

"Oh, I-I just...really need to go. Goodbye!"

You gave one last smile before taking off the ballroom door, hand clutching your skirt tight and lifting it so you can run even faster out of the palace before the magic vanished.

The rest of the crowd, as well as the duke and the king, were all wondering, a bit panicked as to why the mystery girl the prince seemed so taken with was suddenly running away.

Reo, moved fast the moment he saw the lazy Prince Seishiro bolt out of the door as well to follow you. It was something he had never seen before, especially since he had grown up with the prince ever since they were infants.

Wasting no time, the duke's heir also chased after you, even shouting for you to stop or wait.

Meanwhile, you were battling against Father Time himself, trying to outrun his hands fast enough for you to get inside the carriage. Just as you were only a few steps away from reaching the bottom of the stairs, you heard a 'clang' hit the ceramic stairs of the palace as well as the cold and rough feeling of the floor.

Looking back, you saw one of your glass slippers lying a few steps up. You stopped, thinking if you had the time to even pick it up. But, hearing the distressing sound of the bell and the figure of the mysterious man catching up, you immediately abandon it and just head straight to the carriage where all your friends are waiting for you.

The moment you hopped inside the magical carriage and it started moving, you sighed in relief. The smile on your face, however, did not vanish as you remembered everything that happened that night.

The deep conversation that established a connection between you and him, the romantic dance that made you feel like you were on the clouds, the mysterious man who was cold and uncaring at first, but had a caring and sweet personality underneath it all.

In fact, you were too dazed, eyes dreamy even after the magic vanished. The once beautiful carriage turned back into a pumpkin, your animal friends turned back into their original forms and your once beautiful gown turned into your mother's ripped dress.

To your surprise, the glass slipper was still there. It was the only thing that grounded you that everything you experienced was not a dream, but instead, reality.

"No...I won't marry anyone else, but her, Reo."

The glare definitely took the purple-haired heir aback. The pacifist prince showing emotions other than pure boredom? That was a new repertoire in the royalty's very limited facial expressions.

Raising his arms up in surrender, Reo just nodded away to his want, not wanting to know what a pissed off Prince Seishiro would say or do.

"Sorry, Your Highness. It came from His Majesty, but I suppose he would not really be against to you finding that mystery girl from last night. All he ask is for you to find a bride."

He nodded, large hands still holding tight onto the only thing that you left behind as proof that you were real and not just a figment of his dreams: the glass shoe.

It was beautiful, definitely fitted to your feet only, especially since it was glass.

That had to mean that the slipper was customized to your foot only, to the bumps, curves and size of it, meaning that this can become a lead to you.

He stood up from his position on top of the castle staircase, walking to where the horse stables are.

"Tell some of the guards that I need a few of them to come with me to search for her, Reo."

Having no say in the matter due to his lower position, Reo nodded his head almost immediately.

It was not like he had any reasons to hold the prince back anyway, especially since this was the first time he had ever been serious about something and that made the heir of the duke quite proud, to see that the prince, his best friend was slowly turning into the strong man that he and anyone can see has the potential to be.

It was so early in the morning, yet you could hear your stepmother already yelling. To your relief, it was not you who was the victim this time as she entered each of her daughters' rooms, shaking each of them up from their dreamful slumber.

Bringing up a tray of breakfast to their room, you found a rather comedic scene where your two stepsisters were lying on one bed, still dozing off while your stepmother pulled both their sleeping bonnets off, letting the sunlight hit their faces causing their eyes to open wide.

"You two, I told you! Prepare immediately, we have no time to waste! The prince along with the duke's heir will be visiting each house around the kingdom to find that girl from last night!"

Chie just yawned at her, while Ai sleepily raised an eyebrow at that, covering herself with the blankets again without a care.

"Well...it's not like we're the girl, mother. Why should we care?"

"Now, you two listen! No one knows who the girl is, not even the prince who is absolutely in love with her. The only thing left of her existence is a glass slipper, and so by royal command, every maiden in the kingdom is to try on the slipper. And, whoever the shoe fits will be the prince's bride and the future queen."

Your eyes widened at that, feeling your legs weaken a bit at the revelation. Putting the tray on the nearby bedside table, your thoughts ran back to the previous night. A glass slipper? Surely...that was not yours, right? It's not like you were the only one wearing a very rare glass slipper that was probably hard to make without magic, right? And that mysterious man who you just took into consideration had a rather opulent outfit fitting that of a prince than a guard, was not really the prince, right?

You were probably just being delusional.

Well, you were not the best at manipulating anyone, much less yourself. Heaving a deep breath, you wanted to scream out a mixture of surprise and embarrassment at the fact that you talked and danced with Prince Seishiro all night, and by God did not even recognize him even though he was famed for his snow-white hair and skin, grey eyes and tall figure.

However, your stepmother's statement made you come back to reality. He was looking for you? And, he will arrive later today. Panic and excitement rushed through your veins. If he did find you, that meant you would get to see him again. Adding to that, you will also be free from your stepfamily.

It was the best of both worlds.

You were too busy thinking and daydreaming that you did not even notice that your stepsisters were feeling the same way as you, picking up their best dresses and shoes to wear, insisting you make sure all of it was perfect and worthy that of a future princess as if they were sure they will be able to fit into the glass slipper mentioned.

Walking to your room with a dazed look still, ready to start the chores they assigned to you. However, this vulnerability made you overlook a pair of eyes filled with suspicion. Following you to the attic, your stepmother watched as you glided across your room, humming the tune of the waltz from the ball last night while combing your hair.

With her suspicions proven correct, your stepmother took the key from outside her pocket and immediately closed the door on you, locking it. The sound of the door slamming alerted you, however you were too late as by the time your hand arrived on the doorknob, you were already locked inside the cold attic.

"No! You can't do this! You can't..."

As if breaking your heart and hope last night was not enough, she did it again. Taking it from you with a cold and heartless countenance. You wept behind the door, wondering why every time freedom dangled its hand to you, fate would always be there to let it get taken away again and again.

The moment the clock rang, signaling that it was 9 AM, the family was greeted by a knock on the door. Ai and Chie ran to the windows, jumping up and down excitedly the moment their eyes landed on a few guards sitting on their horses just outside of their door, in the midst of them was Lord Reo, and most importantly of all, the Crown Prince himself, Seishiro.

"Mother! They're here! He's here!!" They squealed, to which their mother just smiled, opening the door to see it was one of the captains of the royal guards, Sir Isagi Yoichi.

"Good Morning, Mi'lady! I apologize for the intrusion, but we are here in the name of the King and of course, His Highness, Crown Prince Seishiro to do the fitting by royal decree!"

After the speech, the ravenette stepped back to make way for the albino prince to enter. Everyone bowed to him in respect, and that included your stepmother and stepsisters.

"Welcome, Your Highness. I am Lady Kana, and these are my daughters, Ai and Chio."

The two maidens bowed, giving their best impression of a genuine yet charming smile which Seishiro just fully ignored. He just turned his head to Reo and the guard who had the glass slipper in possession.

Just from looking at either of the sisters, the prince can already tell that it was neither of them. However, it was written in the decree that every maiden in the kingdom must try it on. So he had to follow it even if he was sure it was neither of them. He can never forget your face, after all, not when it was the only thing in his mind the whole time they searched for you.

He just needed a reason for his father to push through with the search, instead of abandoning it all just for his father to arrange for him to another woman. That is why he is even doing this stupid glass slipper thing, and also so that he can visit each house to look for you, and he cannot really do that without a reason, can he?

While the guard called unto Ai to try on the slipper first, Seishiro could not help but notice the matriarch of the family, her face contorted in a nervous expression as if she were a deer caught in headlights. Sweat dripped down her forehead as she put her hands in each of her pockets as if she were checking for something that was not there anymore.

It may seem like it was just something trivial, but he can feel his gut telling him something else. Something much more complex than losing something random.

"Your Highness?"

He heard Reo call out to him. Seishiro sighed and whispered to his right-hand man.

"It's not them, but continue the fitting."

As everything was happening downstairs, you were busy looking through the keyhole to see your mice friends doing everything their little bodies could to get the key which fortunately for them was captured by their leader as your stepmother was heading down the attic stairs.

"No, no! Don't grab there, grab onto the left part of the board! There's a hole there. Just one more step!"

You guided them as finally, they sneaked under the door and gave you the key. The key to your freedom, this is it. Opening the door, you hurriedly ran down the stairs to the halls, your heart pounding in your chest. Was it out of nervousness? Excitement? Even a mix of both, you did not know, and you will not be waiting around to find out.

Peeking your head through the corner, you can see that almost all of the visitors from the palace you can assume, were out of the door except for one. That familiar messy yet soft-looking albino hair, the familiar white uniform, his tall build, and soft, hazy grey eyes.

No doubt, it was him. It was the mysterious man you talked to and danced with the whole night. For a moment, you felt your voice vanish due to shock and awe that you saw him again after thinking that the feelings you felt would just remain as those, feelings. With no way to ever let it out to the person it belonged to. That you will never see him again.

But now, here you were, a few meters from him, and it seemed like he felt you too because at that moment he turned his eyes to face you.

It felt like time itself stopped for a moment. It was only a few seconds but to the both of you, it felt like forever. And then, a small rare smile appeared on his face. Climbing up a few steps, he did not even hear out the complaints and explanations of your stepfamily about how you were just a maid and nothing more.

In response, you also walked down the stairs, where you two met at the middle of it. Gently taking your hands in his, he laid his lips on top of your fingers delicately. No words were needed, the air and the beating of both your hearts were the only thing that mattered.

Until finally, you cracked a bit of a laugh when he did not drop your hand from his.

"You know, I am a maid. My hands are pretty dirty, your highness."

You jokingly said to which he just smiled at, before shaking his head.

"Hmm, I think your hand is cleaner than mine, seeing as to how I am too lazy to wash my hands sometimes, you know?"

"Really? Not very princely of you, Your Highness. I am a little bit confused as to why you did not even tell me you were the prince. I thought you were just a high-ranking guard or something."

He raised an eyebrow at that, shaking his head while a small chuckle escaped his lips.

"My fault, it's not like you told me your name either. Isn't it a little unfair, dear princess? That you now know my name, but I don't?"

Your face flushed at that, recognizing that you in fact, never gave him your name last night at all, as well. But, what got you blushing even more was the nickname he gave you. With one last breathy chuckle, he finally led you down the stairs, hand still holding yours while guiding you to sit on a chair.

As Reo signaled the guard to try the shoe on your feet, everyone gasped when the prince himself took the shoe, kneeled in front of you, and put it on your foot. It was definitely a sight to see the crown prince kneeling before a maiden dressed as a scullery maid.

It was royal protocol that other than his father or any other king, Seishiro bowed to no one. It was the opposite, everyone should bow to him due to his position and bloodline, however, to him, you are the only exception to that rule. He was ready to stay on his knees for as long as he had to, just for you.

You taught him many things in a single night, that no one before had ever done. You changed his life and answered his questions on it, the way no one ever did. You connected with his soul and heart, two places of himself that no one ever managed to.

But most importantly, you taught him love. Love for what he had, love for those around him, love for himself, and of course, love for you.

It was no surprise of course, when the shoe perfectly fits you. The moment he saw your eyes up in the stairs hiding behind the corner, he immediately knew it was you.

His chest rumbled in a small and quiet laugh, one that only you heard. Finding his laugh infectious, you burst into small fits of chuckles as well, raising your eyebrow at the sudden outburst.

"What's with the sudden laugh?"

"All my life, I never believed nor even bothered with love. Yet, here I am. And besides, don't you find it entertaining and interesting too? That I found the love of my life because of a glass shoe?"

AND THEY LIVED HAPPILY EVER AFTER, THE END.

Blue Lock is WRITTEN by Kaneshiro Muneyuki and ILLUSTRATED by Nomura Yusuke. All credits to the both of them.

#aninipanin1 #blue lock #bllk #bllk x reader #blue lock x reader #bluelockxreader #nagi x reader #nagi seishiro x reader #nagi #nagi seishiro #nagi seishiro fic #fairytale au #Cinderella Au #FAIRYTALE FEBRUARY #FAIRYTALEFEBRUARY #fem!reader

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cloudcountry · 3 days ago

Text

third quarter — a daydream, a fantasy, that will hopefully come true.

with jin kamurai. (for @cherievivi because holy shit you need fluff. i Love you.)

Jin pictures you at his side more often than someone like him should.

He sees you reading, chin resting in your palm, fingers tracing the edge of the pages. He watches you flip to the next one and his eyes snag on your wrist. It looks so pretty, just like the rest of you, and if he could allow himself a moment of honesty he would profess that he does care about you. You’re the only person besides his mother that has been easy to care about.

And so, he observes you.

The sun catches your eyes and they sparkle. He wants to lock that sight up in his brain and pull it out when he feels drained. He wants to keep you to himself, as selfish and ugly as that desire is. He would never voice it out loud, anyway.

So instead, he calls you stupid and tries to hide a smile when you call him a moron, he offers to spar with you and pins you to the mat with a smirk on his face, and he orders Tohma to bring you your favorite foods because he had a craving.

(Obviously. Tohma didn’t need to know any different, even if he did suspect something.)

Part of Jin wishes you would come to him if he patted his thigh without any snarky words. He wished you would straddle him and lean down and press a kiss to his lips. Jin wishes you would just steal the breath for his lungs so he didn’t have to think for a while. You’re the one of the few who notices when he’s nervous, and who stands up for him when the Frostheim members are spreading heinous rumors again.

He wishes he could tear the best parts of his hellhole of a world out and place them into your hands. His heart will have to do, instead.

“Jin,” you call, leaning against his dorm frame, “You’re zoning out on me.”

He grunts noncommittally and turns away.

“Jin,” you say, this time firmer, and he hears your footsteps approaching, “Tohma said you ordered him to send up breakfast.”

“I did. You told me your favorites, didn’t you?” he snorts.

“You have such an attitude,” you huff, sitting next to him on the couch.

He can tell you mean it playfully. Jin can’t look at your face. He’s certain that if he did, he’d want to make those fantasies a reality, to have you curled up in his arms while he kisses you again and again, like nothing bad has ever happened to either of you.

The most he can promise is nothing more. He’d do anything for you, he knows that for sure.

“Hey, are you alright? Seriously,” you ask, nudging him with your knee, “You keep getting all glassy eyed. It’s not like you.”

Right. It’s not like Jin Kamurai to get all soft like this.

It’s not like him to be in love with you.

But it is like him. It is. And that’s the problem.

“It’s nothing.” Jin murmurs, and in a moment of bravery he turns to look at you.

He sees your face, the face of the person he loves more than anyone, and it takes his breath away.

He swears sunlight has never looked so good on someone until now.

#moonlight soiree <3 #auburn's fics <3 #auburn talks tokyo debunker <3 #jin kamurai #tokyo debunker #tokyo debunker x reader #tokyo debunker x mc #tokyo debunker jin #tokyo debunker jin x reader #jin kamurai x mc #jin kamurai x reader

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helvegen-s · 3 days ago

Text

ten millimeters

an Oscar Piastri one-shot

Summary: for ten years, they were rivals—pushing, challenging, never backing down. But one night, after a race that changed everything, the line between them finally shatters. Now, with nothing left to hide behind, they’re forced to face the truth. Because this was never just about racing—it was always about them.

Word count: 12k (patience, my friends, patience)

TW: car crash, strong language, sexual content

A/N: enjoy this because I’ve pulled out all my hair trying to write something, and this is what came out. I wanted to be consistent with my updates, but my peanut brain doesn’t seem to agree… I LOVE OSCAR WITH ALL MY HEART

other drivers content will be coming soon...

have in mind that English is not my first nor my second language, excuse any mistakes that you might find

masterlist

Lena Bauer had learned to navigate a world that had always seemed determined to challenge her. For as long as she could remember, her life had revolved around a single purpose: winning. Not for recognition, not for glory, but because victory was the only language she understood. She grew up on the circuits, under the scorching sun of karting tracks, with grease-covered hands and her heart pounding in her throat every time she put on her helmet. She never knew how to be anything other than a racer. And she never wanted to be.

Oscar Piastri, on the other hand, was the kind of driver who made speed look effortless, who turned precision into an art form. Always methodical, always analytical. His talent wasn’t explosive but constant, like a sharpened blade that, over time, became a lethal sword. While Lena raced with fire in her eyes and fury in every maneuver, Oscar was all calculation and patience. He was the cold storm that swept through without ever raising its voice.

They met as children, on a karting podium where Lena, holding her trophy high with a fierce smile of satisfaction, turned to find him watching her. The second-place finish didn’t seem to bother him. There was no anger, no envy in his expression—only a silent acknowledgment: she had been better this time. Only this time.

From that moment on, their paths became intertwined with the inevitability of a storm and the certainty of an impending collision. They grew up together, chased each other through every category, overtook one another in championships that carried them across continents. And when they finally reached Formula 2, their rivalry became something heavier, sharper. There was no room for two drivers like them. Not when both were willing to risk everything to win.

That season, the incident happened. Silverstone. Final laps. They were fighting for victory in a battle anyone else would have called suicidal. But neither Lena nor Oscar were the kind to back down. She forced him to the limit, leaving barely ten millimeters between his car and the barrier. Ten millimeters that decided a race, a championship… and a wound that never quite healed.

Oscar was out. She won.

And when she stepped out of the car, she didn’t look for him. Not because she didn’t want to, but because she knew what she would find: the icy fury of someone who never forgets.

Now, in Formula 1, the world celebrated her arrival. The first woman in decades on the grid. Red Bull’s great promise. The one person Oscar Piastri couldn’t simply ignore. And when they faced each other again at the pre-season press conference, he knew nothing had changed.

Lena smiled, tilting her head slightly, radiating that overwhelming confidence that challenged him without the need for words. Oscar held her gaze, impassive, but Lena saw what others couldn’t: the spark of defiance in his eyes, the shadow of Silverstone still lingering in his expression.

They weren’t done. Not even close.

The calendar marked the beginning of a new season. And with it, the restart of a war that had never truly ended.

Oscar had been through enough qualifying sessions to know that the real battle was never against the stopwatch, but against one’s own limits. But that Saturday, as he adjusted his gloves inside the cockpit and his engineer’s voice crackled through the radio, he knew his fight went beyond that.

His fight had a name. Lena Bauer.

The engines roared with the restrained aggression of caged predators as the cars rolled out onto the track. Bahrain was always treacherous in qualifying—the temperature dropped at night, the wind carried sand onto the asphalt, and finding the perfect balance between speed and control was a game of absolute precision. But Oscar wasn’t worried about that. His focus was on the Red Bull number 95.

From the first flying lap, he knew. She was there.

He didn’t need to check the times to understand it. He felt it in every corner, in every fraction of a second flashing on his lap delta. The way his McLaren glided over the asphalt with surgical precision, chasing a shadow that always seemed just out of reach.

Lena.

She had always been like this. Infuriating in her brilliance. Relentless in her determination. She never raced to be among the best, never to collect points or secure a decent result. She raced to win. And that, though he would never admit it out loud, was what drove him insane.

In Q2, as the sun fully set and the track reached its peak, the battle became a silent duel. Red Bull versus McLaren. Lena versus Oscar. Just like so many times before.

On his final attempt, he gave it everything. Every apex traced with a surgeon’s precision, every gear shift perfectly timed. The car danced on the asphalt, the engine roared in his ears, and for a few fleeting seconds, he thought it was enough. That this time, finally, he had been faster.

Until he saw the screen.

Lena Bauer – P1 – 1:29.771Oscar Piastri – P2 – 1:29.784

Thirteen milliseconds.

He let out a bitter laugh inside his helmet—a mix of disbelief and resignation. Lena wasn’t just fast. She was ruthless.

When he stepped out of the car and walked toward the media pen, he saw her.

Lena removed her helmet with that effortless ease that always got under his skin, golden strands of hair falling onto her forehead, a lopsided grin that spoke of victory without a single word. Their eyes met for the briefest of moments, and Oscar felt a rush of frustration and adrenaline pulse through his chest.

"Almost, Piastri."

Her voice carried that teasing lilt that had haunted him since karting—provocation wrapped in feigned lightness.

Oscar shook his head, running a hand over the back of his neck, suppressing the smirk threatening to surface.

"Keep an eye on your mirrors tomorrow, Bauer."

Lena arched an amused brow.

"For you? Doubt it."

She turned before he could reply, leaving him with the retort stuck in his throat and a certainty seared into his skin.

The race hadn’t even begun. The season had only just started.

But his war with Lena Bauer had been going on for years.

Sunday morning.

The Bahrain paddock had been awake since early, humming with the charged energy of the season’s first race day. The desert breeze carried the distant roar of engines in warm-up, the ceaseless chatter of engineers fine-tuning strategies, and the omnipresent presence of cameras, ready to capture every moment.

Lena Bauer walked with the natural confidence of someone who belonged in this world. Dressed in her Red Bull race suit, the sleeves tied around her waist, the team’s logo gleaming under the sun, she looked exactly like what she was—the pole sitter for the first race of the year.

Everyone greeted her as she passed. Mechanics, engineers, members of other teams. The other drivers, gathered near the interview area, welcomed her with grins and playful remarks. Charles Leclerc said something to her in French that made her laugh, Lando Norris held up a hand for a high-five that she returned without hesitation, and even Fernando Alonso gave her an approving glance.

But not everyone seemed thrilled about her presence.

Oscar Piastri watched her from across the group, arms crossed over his chest, jaw set tight. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t greet her.

And she, as always, noticed.

Lena loved it. The way he was the only one who didn’t smile, the only one who didn’t treat her with that easy camaraderie she shared with the others. The way he seemed incapable of ignoring her, no matter how hard he tried.

Before she could tempt him any further, someone approached with a microphone.

"Lena, no one expected you to take pole in your first-ever F1 qualifying. Did you?"

She smiled, tilting her head with an almost insolent ease.

"Yes."

The journalist hesitated, as if expecting a more modest answer—something more typical of a rookie in the category. But Lena saw no need to fake false humility. Why should she?

"So, did you have a perfect lap last night?"

"No," she replied naturally. "It was a good lap, but not perfect. I can find more pace."

The journalist's eyes widened in disbelief, and out of the corner of her eye, Lena caught Piastri's movement. He had heard her. And even though she couldn't see his expression, she could imagine the tension in his jaw, the irritated disbelief in his eyes.

She didn’t turn to look at him. Not yet.

"And how are you approaching today's race? You'll be starting from pole, but Red Bull and McLaren have been pretty evenly matched all weekend."

Lena tilted her head, letting the question hang in the air just a second longer than necessary. Then, she smiled with the same unwavering confidence.

"The good thing about starting from pole is that I don’t have to worry about what’s happening behind me. I just have to be the fastest. And I already am."

She felt Oscar's gaze on her profile like a sharp knife.

Oh, how she loved this.

The starting grid was a perfectly orchestrated chaos. Engineers and mechanics moved around the cars in their final preparations, photographers captured every expression on the drivers' faces, and the air buzzed with the anticipation of the first race of the season.

Lena was at the center of it all.

Standing next to her Red Bull, her helmet still tucked under her arm and sunglasses covering her eyes, she radiated absolute calm. While everyone around her talked, gave instructions, or checked data on screens, she remained still, unaffected by the noise. Only when Helmut Marko approached to say something in a low voice did she nod slightly—but even then, her expression barely changed.

A few meters away, Oscar Piastri watched her.

Unlike her, he wasn’t still. He rolled his gloves between his hands, rolled his shoulders, took a deep breath. Not because he was nervous, but because his body had felt ready for battle from the moment he stepped out of the car after qualifying.

He knew he shouldn’t be looking at her. He knew he should be focusing on his own race. But he couldn’t help it.

He saw her shake Christian Horner’s hand, smile at someone from the FIA, wave Lando off as he passed by. All of it with that infuriating ease, as if this wasn’t the first race of her life in Formula 1, but just another Sunday.

The contrast to his own energy was suffocating.

Oscar was tense, alert, his pulse already racing before even getting in the car. Lena, on the other hand, seemed immune to everything. As if the pressure didn’t affect her. As if starting from pole on her debut meant absolutely nothing.

And the worst part was that he knew it wasn’t empty arrogance. He knew she meant it.

By the time he realized he had been staring at her for too long, he quickly shifted his focus back to his McLaren, trying to regain his composure. But just then, Lena turned around.

She found him instantly.

With a lazy movement, she pulled off her sunglasses—just enough for him to catch the playful spark in her eyes.

"Nice view, isn’t it?" she said casually, tilting her head toward her own car. With her sunglasses in hand, she pointed to the number 95 engraved on the Red Bull’s carbon fiber. "I hope you dream about it tonight."

Oscar clenched his jaw.

"And I hope you enjoy the scenery while it lasts. In a few laps, the 81 is all you’ll be seeing."

Lena smiled, and it was worse than any verbal provocation.

"Oh, I will enjoy it."

And with that, she turned away, handed her sunglasses to an engineer, and put on her helmet with the ease of someone who had no doubt she would still be there when it was all over.

Oscar, for his part, couldn’t remember ever wanting the starting lights to go out this badly in his entire life.

The lights went out.

The force of his McLaren propelled him forward, reacting on instinct, every fiber of his body focused on the first corner. He knew that if he wanted to win, if he wanted to snatch victory from Lena Bauer, he had to do it now.

He saw her move quickly, shutting the inside line with relentless determination. But Oscar wasn’t a rookie. He knew she expected him to back off, to take the corner from the outside and settle for second place.

He didn’t.

He planted his foot on the throttle, keeping his car glued to hers until the very last millimeter before braking. He downshifted at the exact right moment, slid his car to the absolute limit, and emerged from the corner with his front wing just inches ahead of hers.

For a second, he thought Lena would squeeze him out, that she’d return the favor at the next turn. But she didn’t.

His engineer was shouting something over the radio, but Oscar barely heard it. All he saw in his mirrors was the Red Bull clinging to him, Lena refusing to give up even a fraction more than necessary.

The race was a war of attrition.

Lena was never too far. She kept the pressure on at all times, making him fight for every tenth of a second, every corner, every lap. When McLaren told him to manage his tires, he barely held back a disbelieving laugh.

Managing tires with Lena Bauer breathing down his diffuser was like asking a lion to share its prey.

But he did it.

Against all odds, against everything he feared, against the constant threat of her presence in his mirrors—he crossed the finish line first.

He won.

The victory cry he let out over the radio was pure relief.

When he returned to the pit lane, when he jumped out of the car and let himself be swept away by the adrenaline of the moment, he felt that all the effort, all the anger, all the desperate need to beat her had been worth it.

Until he saw her.

Lena was already out of her car, pulling off her gloves with an expression that was…

Happy.

No frustration. No anger. No trace of the bitter sting of defeat he knew so well.

She was smiling, radiant, as if finishing second had been exactly what she wanted. As if the fact that he had beaten her didn’t bother her in the slightest.

And that, more than anything else, infuriated him.

Because if it had been the other way around—if he had finished second—the poison of defeat would have eaten him alive. He would have replayed every tenth he lost, every mistake, every moment where the race slipped through his fingers. He would have obsessed over it until he could fix it.

But Lena Bauer didn’t.

Lena Bauer was celebrating.

Lena Bauer was laughing with her team, joking with Verstappen, flashing a dazzling smile at the cameras.

When she stepped onto the podium, when she shook his hand with exasperating ease, when she offered him a casual "Good job" with not a hint of resentment, Oscar felt victory crumble in his hands.

Because if she didn’t care about losing…

Then how the hell was he supposed to defeat her?

Melbourne, on a thursday night.

Oscar hated these kinds of events.

It wasn’t just the formality, the uncomfortable suits, or the forced smiles. It was the feeling of being trapped in a place where performance didn’t matter, where it didn’t matter how fast you were on track if you didn’t know how to play the other game—the one of image, politics, public relations.

And Lena Bauer knew exactly how to play it.

Since she had arrived, he had watched her move through the guests with an irritating ease. She greeted journalists by name, laughed with other drivers, answered questions with that mix of boldness and charisma that made her impossible to ignore. Meanwhile, Oscar stuck to the bare minimum—interviews, sponsor photos, the occasional neutral comment. But he couldn't help feeling like a shadow in comparison.

Of course, the press wasn’t going to miss the opportunity to put them together.

“Oscar! Lena!” A journalist called out. “Can we ask you a few questions together?”

It was inevitable. Ever since Lena had joined F1, their rivalry had been exploited to exhaustion. It wasn’t just that they had both been rookies at the time—it was the fact that they had competed against each other since they were kids, that they had clashed in every category they had raced in. The narrative wrote itself: two exceptionally talented drivers, destined to fight side by side for their entire careers.

People loved it. Oscar… not so much.

“Of course,” Lena replied without hesitation, smiling with exasperating ease.

Oscar had no choice. He stepped up beside her, adopting the neutral expression he usually wore in these situations.

“It’s been a few races since Lena made her F1 debut, and it seems like the story remains the same between you two—always fighting each other. What’s it like to meet again in the top category after so many years of competing together?”

“Fun,” Lena said with a grin.

Oscar let out a short, humorless laugh.

“Oh, absolutely thrilling.”

Lena shot him a quick glance before continuing.

“Actually, it is,” she insisted, turning back to the journalist. “We’ve always pushed each other to the limit. I expected nothing less from Oscar in F1.”

“Would you say your rivalry is the most intense on the grid right now?”

Oscar was about to give a diplomatic answer, but Lena beat him to it.

“Oh, without a doubt. Don’t you think so, Piastri?”

Oscar looked at her. She was still smiling, but there was a glint in her eyes he couldn’t quite decipher. Was she enjoying the moment, the attention, the story the media kept feeding? Or was she enjoying how much it annoyed him?

“If by intense you mean the most annoying, then yes,” he muttered, earning laughter from the journalists.

Lena placed a hand over her chest, feigning offense.

“How cruel. And here I thought we were almost friends.”

Oscar clenched his jaw.

The interview continued with the same dynamic—Lena allowing herself bold answers, comments that bordered on provocation, while Oscar remained more reserved, letting her take the spotlight. It wasn’t that it bothered him exactly. It was more that he found it frustrating how effortlessly she navigated this world, as if she had been born to be in the spotlight.

“And what about this weekend’s race?” another journalist asked. “Will it be another wheel-to-wheel battle between you two?”

“If Piastri can keep up, maybe,” Lena replied with absolute ease.

Oscar exhaled slowly through his nose, keeping his eyes on her.

“I’d be more worried about myself if I were you.”

“Oh, I do,” she said, her smile feigning innocence. “That’s why I enjoy it so much.”

Before Oscar could respond, he felt something on his arm.

Lena had linked her arm through his with the utmost ease, as if she had been doing it her whole life. Her hand rested lightly on his forearm, but the sensation of her touch hit Oscar like an unexpected blow.

It unsettled him how easily she invaded his personal space without warning. But what truly caught him off guard was his own reaction—because instead of pulling away, instead of tensing up like he usually did in these situations, Oscar felt his body lean, almost imperceptibly, toward her.

It wasn’t intentional. He wasn’t even aware of it until it happened. But when he realized, his first instinct was to tense, to regain his composure.

However, before he could, Lena shifted slightly toward him, and Oscar felt the light tug of her grip, the way her thumb brushed against the fabric of his sleeve. There was no ulterior motive in her gesture—at least, not one Oscar could identify with certainty. Just a bold confidence, a way of reminding him—with the simplest action—that she had no problem getting close, erasing the lines between them whenever she felt like it.

And the worst part was that it worked.

The journalists, of course, didn’t let the gesture go unnoticed.

“Well, it seems like your relationship isn’t just about rivalry,” one of them commented lightly. “Clearly, you’ve known each other for years.”

Lena shrugged, as if the question was unnecessary.

“Of course. Piastri and I have been fighting on track since we were kids.”

“And we still are,” Oscar added, dismissively.

The journalists nodded, satisfied with the response. From the outside, their relationship looked exactly as it was supposed to: two rivals with years of history, who understood the dynamic between them perfectly. Friends, perhaps. Or at least, competitors who respected each other and enjoyed the challenge.

That was what everyone saw.

But Oscar… Oscar felt something else.

The light weight of Lena’s hand on his arm. The brush of her thumb against the fabric of his sleeve. The way she leaned slightly toward him when she spoke, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

There was nothing strange about the gesture. It wasn’t flirting. It didn’t have some hidden intention.

And yet, something inside Oscar clicked.

It was sudden and unsettling, a strange sensation slipping into his chest before he could block it out. It wasn’t attraction—not exactly. It was more like recognition, a realization that Lena could cross certain boundaries with him without his body reacting with the automatic rejection he usually had toward anyone who got too close.

She did it without thinking, with exasperating ease. And the worst part was that he didn’t think about pulling away either.

There was no logical reason for it.

The cameras were still rolling, the journalists were still asking questions, the fans who would watch the interview later would interpret it as just another amusing moment between two lifelong rivals. No one would notice anything unusual.

No one except Oscar.

And that was what irritated him the most.

The atmosphere in Melbourne was different.

Oscar felt it in every corner of the paddock, in every fan chanting his name, in every Australian flag waving in the grandstands. He had imagined this moment countless times, but living it surpassed all expectations.

P3 in qualifying. It wasn’t pole, but it was a solid position. He was ready. He knew exactly what he had to do.

As he walked through the paddock corridors, his mind was focused on strategy, on the start, on every detail that could make the difference. And then, as he turned a corner, he saw her.

Lena was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, gaze distant. It looked like she was waiting for him, though with her, one could never be sure.

"Ready for the big day, huh, Piastri?" she said in her usual tone, one that hovered between provocation and amusement.

"Always," he replied without hesitation.

She nodded, sizing him up for a moment that felt longer than necessary. Then, unexpectedly, her expression shifted.

"You’re going to have a great race," she said, without a trace of irony. "This is your home. Make sure you take a good memory from here."

Oscar blinked, caught off guard.

It wasn’t the comment itself that surprised him, but the way she said it. Without that ever-present edge of defiance. Without the sharpness of their eternal rivalry.

She seemed… sincere.

Before he could find a response, Lena continued, her voice carrying a casualness that didn’t quite match what she had just said.

"And well, it’s a bit surreal, isn’t it?" she added. "We went from fighting in karts on forgotten tracks in the middle of nowhere to this. You, at your home race. P3. In front of thousands of people cheering for you."

She paused, as if unsure whether to continue. But then she gave the smallest of smiles, briefly lowering her gaze.

"I’m proud of you, Piastri."

The air grew heavier in Oscar’s lungs.

He wasn’t sure what unsettled him more—her sincerity, the fact that it was coming from her, or the way his chest tightened slightly at her words.

Because it wasn’t just anyone saying it.

It was Lena.

And for some reason, that affected him more than he was willing to admit.

Oscar felt his throat close up for a fraction of a second.

Lena was already straightening up, ready to leave as if she hadn’t just knocked him off balance with those words. As if she hadn’t just said something that would stay in his head for who knew how long.

He couldn’t let it end just like that.

"Lena."

She stopped, turning her head slightly, one eyebrow raised in question.

Oscar swallowed. He wasn’t good at these things, but he couldn’t let her be the only one to speak.

"You’re going to have a great race too."

His voice was steadier than he expected, though inside, he was still trying to regain balance from the whirlwind Lena had just left behind.

She blinked, surprised. For a moment, Oscar thought she would mock him, throw a sarcastic remark to break the tension. But she didn’t.

Instead, Lena smiled. Barely—a flicker of a smile, quick and almost imperceptible, but genuine.

"I know," she replied, with the certainty of someone who had never doubted herself.

And then, without another word, she turned and disappeared down the hallway.

Oscar remained there a moment longer, the echo of her voice still ringing in his ears, an unfamiliar sensation settling in his chest.

It wasn’t exactly confusion. It wasn’t just surprise.

It was something deeper. Something more unsettling. Something he wasn’t sure he liked.

And the worst part was that no matter how much he tried to analyze it, he knew he wouldn’t be able to shake it off when he pulled his visor down and lined up on the grid.

The lights went out, and Oscar reacted on instinct.

The McLaren catapulted toward the first corner, the roar of the engines around him creating a deafening symphony. He held firm in P3, protecting the inside as Verstappen and Leclerc fought ahead.

But there was no time to relax.

Lena was there.

Almost glued to his rear wing, waiting for the slightest mistake to strike.

Ten millimeters.

That was the space Oscar left her in every corner. Just enough not to crash—but no more than that. If she wanted the position, she was going to have to take it by force.

The pressure was relentless. Lap after lap, Lena attacked. She tested the outside at Turn 5, then the inside at Turn 9. She threw herself into every braking zone, making sure he felt her presence like an unyielding shadow.

On lap 23, McLaren called him into the pits. The stop was fast, flawless. He came out just ahead of Lena, who had stopped a lap earlier.

But she wasn’t done yet.

Turn 3.

Oscar saw the Red Bull in his mirrors before she even made the move.

Lena dived down the inside with surgical precision, with the confidence of someone who knew exactly how far they could push.

He reacted instantly.

Defended aggressively, leaving precisely ten millimeters between their wheels. Ten millimeters between keeping the position and losing it. Ten millimeters between personal victory and defeat.

The crowd was on their feet.

Side by side, they accelerated toward Turn 4.

Oscar held the line. Barely.

Ten millimeters more, and she would have been the one emerging ahead.

Ten millimeters more, and it could have ended in disaster.

But it didn’t.

Oscar kept the position.

When he crossed the finish line in second place, the radio exploded with his team’s cheers.

"Well done, Oscar! P2 at home, incredible race!"

He let out a shaky breath, a laugh escaping his lips. It wasn’t a win, but it was a solid podium—a result any driver would dream of achieving at their home race.

As he climbed out of the car, the roar of the Australian crowd engulfed him. People chanted his name, a wave of applause that sent chills down his spine as he raised his arms in gratitude.

But then, before he could fully process it, he felt an impact against his side.

Lena.

She had walked up with a grin stretching from ear to ear and, without warning, threw her arms around him. A spontaneous, unrestrained gesture, with no trace of their usual hostility.

Oscar froze completely for a second.

He could feel the fabric of her race suit against his, her arm firmly wrapped around his back.

The cameras caught everything.

Photographers fired away, the images already circulating online, ready to send fans into a frenzy.

And the worst—or maybe the best—part was that Oscar didn’t react with his usual stiffness.

He didn’t pull away. He didn’t try to escape.

Almost without realizing it, he returned the embrace.

Ten millimeters.

That was what separated them on track.

But here, there wasn’t a single one.

A couple of hours later, Oscar settled into his airplane seat, resting his head against the window and staring into the darkness of the night sky. The muffled roar of the engines and the dim cabin lighting gave everything an unreal feel, as if he were suspended in a limbo between two worlds.

He should be exhausted. He should be enjoying the moment. P2 at his home race, the crowd chanting his name, champagne spilling over the podium.

And yet, the only thing occupying his mind was the feeling of Lena’s embrace.

It was absurd.

He had raced past her so many times on track—always on the edge, always brushing against each other with surgical precision. Always breaking each other down, searching for every tiny advantage, pushing to the limit.

But he had never felt her like this.

Close. Present.

No helmet. No barriers.

A few minutes earlier, as he boarded the private jet with Lando, he had barely exchanged any words with him. He knew his teammate was probably waiting for him to comment on the race, the podium, something. But Oscar had said nothing.

And Lando, being Lando, wasn’t about to let it go.

"Alright, are you going to tell me what’s wrong, or do I have to figure it out myself?"

Oscar blinked and turned his head, meeting his teammate’s curious expression. Lando was watching him from the seat next to him, one eyebrow raised.

"Nothing."

"Yeah, sure," Lando scoffed, crossing his arms. "I know you well enough to tell when something’s eating you up. You haven’t said a word in two hours, and you just finished on the podium at home."

Oscar sighed. Lando wasn’t going to drop it easily.

"I’m tired," he tried to dismiss.

Lando clicked his tongue, clearly not buying it.

"So it’s Lena."

Oscar felt a jolt of discomfort run down his spine.

"What?"

"Come on, mate." Lando turned fully in his seat, resting an arm on the backrest. "I saw it. We all saw it. Since when do you and Lena Bauer hug like you’re best friends?"

Oscar clenched his jaw.

"It was just… the moment. You know how she is."

Lando studied him, as if trying to unravel something beyond his words.

"Yeah, I do. But you didn’t react the way you usually do."

Oscar looked away, uneasy.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about."

Lando smirked, a glint of amusement in his eyes.

"Oh, I think you do."

Oscar didn’t respond. He just stared at his reflection in the window, barely visible against the darkness of the sky.

Lando was right. He knew.

But admitting it out loud was another thing entirely.

Because if he acknowledged what he felt—if he put it into words—then he would have to face it.

And Oscar wasn’t sure he was ready for that.

The problem with Lena Bauer was that she had always been there. Always by his side, always in his way. From karting to Formula 2, and now at the pinnacle of motorsport. Always ten millimeters from him.

Always too close.

And yet, never as much as now.

Oscar ran a hand over his face, exhaling in frustration.

"It’s nothing," he muttered at last, more to himself than to Lando.

His teammate didn’t even look up from his phone.

"Whatever you say."

The cabin fell into silence again. The hum of the engine, the flickering overhead lights, the gentle sway of the plane cutting through the night.

Oscar closed his eyes.

But in his mind, he didn’t see the race. Or the podium. Or the crowd chanting his name.

He only saw Lena.

Her smile.

The warmth of her embrace.

The sound of her laughter, echoing in his chest like an unfamiliar vibration.

The way she looked at him, seconds before letting go, that mischievous glint in her eyes—like she knew exactly what she was doing.

Like she knew what she was doing to him.

And maybe she did.

Maybe Lena Bauer had always known.

Oscar arrived at his Monaco apartment with the deep relief of someone who, after weeks of traveling, noise, and adrenaline, finally had a couple of days to himself.

He dropped his suitcase by the door, kicked off his shoes without much care, and exhaled slowly as he scanned the space. His apartment was exactly as he had left it—neat, quiet, welcoming.

Peace.

That was what he needed.

He had planned these days with precision: sleep in without worrying about schedules, cook something decent instead of relying on paddock catering or airport food, and maybe, if he felt like it, go for a walk along the harbor. But most of all, rest.

He collapsed onto the couch with a satisfied sigh, pulled out his phone, and started scrolling mindlessly. Messages from his team, social media notifications exploding with podium photos from Australia, a couple of texts from Lando sending him ridiculous memes. Nothing urgent.

He was about to put his phone down when a new notification popped up on the screen.

Lena Bauer.

He frowned.

It wasn’t like they never talked outside of race weekends—well, actually, they didn’t much—but if Lena was texting him directly, it had to be something important.

He swiped to open the message, and what he found made him blink a couple of times.

Lena: "pastri pls i need help, im movin and the fookin couch dosnt fit in the elevator. i swer i tried with max, charls, even russel but aparntly evryone decidid to disapear at the same time. so now im stuk and if i try to do this alone ill eithr break my spine or end up trapd under it n die. u dont want that on ur consiense do u?? pls be a decnt human bein n help me, ill buy u a bier or idk a whole pizza if thats wht it takes 😭🙏 also if u say no i will haunt u 4ever just so u kno."

He blinked again, trying to process the grammatical crime he had just read.

For a second, he considered ignoring it. After all, he had spent weeks traveling, racing, training. All he wanted was to sleep in his own bed, eat something decent, and not move a single muscle for the next forty-eight hours.

But then he pictured Lena, somehow attempting to haul a couch up the stairs, probably cursing in three different languages, and with a ninety percent chance of actually managing it out of sheer stubbornness.

He sighed.

Oscar: "Give me 15 minutes."

His phone vibrated almost instantly.

Lena: "thankiu ily"

Oscar let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head. But as he put his shoes back on and grabbed his keys, he couldn’t ignore the strange warmth that settled in his chest at those three little letters.

No.

Lena Bauer definitely had no idea what she was doing to him.

Oscar arrived at Lena’s building with the address she had sent him in a message. He didn’t need to call her or let her know he was there; the commotion in the stairwell was already guiding him straight to his target.

There she was, locked in battle with a couch.

The piece of furniture was stuck on the first landing, wedged at an angle that defied all logic. Lena, sweating and with the sleeves of her T-shirt rolled up to her shoulders, was pushing with all her strength, muttering German curses under her breath. Every time she tried to turn it, the couch got even more stuck.

Oscar stood at the entrance, arms crossed, watching in silence for a few seconds.

"Are you winning?" he finally asked, the calm tone of someone arriving at a crime scene after the disaster had already happened.

Lena let out a frustrated huff and rested a hand on her hip, momentarily conceding defeat.

"Too late. It’s already knocked me out."

Oscar stepped closer, analyzing the situation with a critical eye. He crouched down, measuring the space, and within seconds, he was already formulating a plan to get the couch out without demolishing the building in the process.

"You tried lifting it sideways, didn’t you?"

"Of course I did," Lena shot back, rolling her eyes. "Do you think I’m an idiot?"

Oscar didn’t respond to that. In his mind, the scene spoke for itself.

"Alright," he said simply. "Then we’re doing this another way."

He took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, getting ready for the task.

"What’s the plan, genius?" Lena asked, leaning against the railing with her arms crossed.

"First, we’re going to rotate it. But instead of pushing, we tilt it upward and slide it at an angle."

Lena eyed him skeptically.

"That sounds exactly like what I already tried."

"Yeah, but I’m not going to let the couch win."

Just before getting to work, Oscar couldn’t resist.

He pulled out his phone, and with the ease of someone who already knew exactly what they were going to do, opened the camera and pointed it at Lena.

She, standing there with her arms crossed, brows furrowed, and the couch hopelessly wedged in the stairs, looked like a live-action meme.

"What are you doing?" she asked, somewhere between suspicion and exasperation, hearing the shutter click.

"Documenting the moment," Oscar replied with a smirk, not even glancing up from his phone as he typed a caption.

Lena immediately straightened, trying to snatch the phone from him.

"Don’t you dare."

But it was already too late.

Oscar turned the screen toward her with a triumphant look before posting the photo to his Instagram story. In the image, she was in all her glory—sweat on her forehead, absolute frustration on her face, and the couch putting up a fight.

The caption read:

"The pole position never resists her, but feng shui is a different story."

Lena let out an outraged groan.

"Delete that. Right now."

"It already has likes."

"How long has it even been!?"

"Twenty seconds."

Lena shot him a deadly glare, but Oscar, unfazed, slid his phone back into his pocket, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

"Alright. Now, let’s deal with the couch."

Lena muttered something in German that probably wasn’t a compliment but gave in.

They worked together, though "worked together" was a generous way to put it. Oscar directed the operation with methodical patience, while Lena tried to brute-force her way through at every opportunity.

"Stop, stop, stop," Oscar said, halting when she attempted to push with her shoulder. "If you do that, you’ll just jam it even more."

"Or I’ll shove it through once and for all," Lena countered, trying again.

Oscar let out an exasperated sigh.

"Lena, please."

She huffed but eventually relented and followed his instructions. With a bit of coordination—and a lot of corrections from Oscar—they finally managed to get the couch past the first flight of stairs.

Once they set it down on the next landing, Lena collapsed onto one of the cushions with a dramatic sigh.

"I am never moving again," she declared, staring at the ceiling. "I’ll die in this apartment."

Oscar leaned against the wall, crossing his arms with a smirk.

"Could’ve been worse."

Lena turned her head to look at him in disbelief.

"Worse? How? With the couch tumbling down the stairs and taking someone out with it?"

"For example."

Lena let out a breathless laugh.

"Give me five minutes, and we’ll keep going."

Oscar nodded, though deep down, he knew this was going to take longer than expected.

When they finally managed to squeeze the sofa through the apartment door, Oscar collapsed onto it with a heavy sigh, feeling the exhaustion take over his arms.

“I thought lifting weights at the gym had prepared me for anything,” he muttered, massaging his forearm.

Lena, leaning against the wall as she tried to catch her breath, let out a breathy laugh.

“Yeah, well, two-meter sofas have their own agenda.”

For a few moments, only their labored breathing filled the space, along with the distant hum of the city drifting in through the open balcony. Now that the sofa was in place, the frantic energy of the moment faded, leaving behind something else entirely.

Oscar ran a hand through his hair, feeling his shirt sticking to his skin.

“You said there was beer.”

Lena raised an eyebrow.

“Are you implying I don’t keep my promises, Piastri?”

Pushing off the doorframe, she disappeared into the kitchen. Oscar took the opportunity to glance around the apartment. It was practically empty, save for a few stacked boxes in the corner and the sofa they had just hauled up by sheer force.

There were no paintings on the walls, no decorations—just the space in its purest form. He didn’t know why, but it suited Lena. Practical. Functional. Nothing that wasn’t strictly necessary.

She returned with two beers in hand, tossing one at him without warning. Oscar caught it on reflex, shooting her a pointed look, but she only smirked before dropping onto the sofa beside him.

“Don’t look at me like that. If you’d dropped it, that would’ve been on you.”

Oscar shook his head, but he couldn’t suppress a small smile.

Silence settled between them again as their bottles popped open. They drank in sync, both gazing out at the balcony, where Monaco’s lights shimmered against the night sky.

It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it wasn’t exactly comfortable either.

It was that strange middle ground, where their usual dynamic wavered between familiarity and something Oscar hadn’t quite figured out yet.

“I didn’t think you’d move here,” he finally said, breaking the silence.

Lena turned the bottle in her hands.

“Neither did I, until I didn’t have much of a choice. Monaco is convenient. No taxes and all that.”

“Yeah, that’s why we all end up here.”

She shot him a lazy smile.

“Don’t look at me like that. I’m still not sold on it. I prefer places with more soul.”

Oscar took another sip, glancing at her from the corner of his eye.

“And where has more soul, in your opinion?”

Lena leaned her head back against the couch, eyes fixed on the ceiling as if the answer was written somewhere in the empty room.

“Berlin. Maybe London. Maybe somewhere where no one knows who I am, where I can disappear for a while.”

Oscar nodded slowly, though he wasn’t sure he entirely understood. He had never felt the need to disappear.

“So why didn’t you go to one of those places?”

Lena turned to look at him, studying him for a moment before shrugging.

“I guess, in the end, I like having a little bit of chaos nearby.”

The way she said it, without thinking, made Oscar pause for a second longer than necessary.

Because she said it while looking at him.

He held her gaze for a beat longer, sensing something in her words that unsettled him, though he couldn’t quite place what it was.

Lena was the first to look away, refocusing on her bottle, drumming her fingers lightly against the glass.

“Anyway, thanks for the help.” Her tone was back to its usual lightness, as if the last few minutes of conversation hadn’t happened at all. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t come. Probably left the sofa downstairs and used boxes as chairs.”

Oscar let out a quiet snort.

“That could’ve been a creative solution.”

“Nah. I want this place to at least somewhat resemble a home.”

He frowned slightly, something about the way she said “home” not quite sitting right with him. Like the word felt foreign to her.

“Isn’t it?”

Lena turned to him again, eyes sharp, as if seeing more than she let on. Then she smiled, but it was one of those smiles that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Not yet.”

Silence returned between them, though it wasn’t uncomfortable. Oscar took another sip of his beer, feeling the cool liquid slide down his throat as he tried not to overthink everything they had just said.

Outside, Monaco continued to glow like a movie set. Inside, Lena shifted on the couch, tucking one leg under the other as she turned toward him.

“By the way, how long are you staying before you have to travel again?”

Oscar blinked at the abrupt change of topic but decided to play along.

“A couple of days. Why?”

“Because now that you’ve helped me with the sofa, it’d be a waste not to take advantage of your handyman skills.”

Oscar eyed her suspiciously.

“Lena…”

She held up her hands in mock innocence.

“Nothing complicated. Just a few more things. A table. A couple of chairs. Maybe a bookshelf.”

“You want me to do your entire move?”

“No, I want you to help. Not the same thing.”

Oscar sighed, but he couldn’t stop the corner of his lips from twitching slightly.

“I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?”

Lena tapped his arm with her bottle, as if sealing a deal.

“We’ll see.”

The following days tested Oscar’s patience.

What initially seemed like a simple favor—helping with a few pieces of furniture—quickly spiraled into something much more chaotic. Lena had absolutely nothing organized. Her boxes were stacked haphazardly in the living room, some half-open, others sealed with an absurd amount of tape.

“Why do you have so many boxes when you basically live in a paddock all year?” Oscar asked the day she dragged him back to her apartment under the pretense of “just helping me move one thing.”

“I don’t know, most of them are books.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow.

“You read?”

Lena shot him an offended look.

"Why do you say that like it’s some kind of miracle?"

"I don’t know. Do you see how you write in your phone? I just never pictured you sitting still long enough to read."

"I have my quiet moments, Piastri. Few, but they exist."

He wasn’t entirely convinced of that—until he saw the stacks of novels, biographies, and even a few technical essays in Lena’s moving boxes. It was a chaotic mix of genres, ranging from thrillers to books on applied F1 mechanics.

"You actually read all of this?" he asked, pulling out a book on aerodynamics with pages filled with handwritten notes in the margins.

"Most of them. Some were gifts I never got around to reading."

Oscar shook his head in disbelief before opening another box. That was how they spent the afternoon—drifting from one conversation to another, moving furniture back and forth, and pausing every now and then when Oscar, with infinite patience, had to explain the correct way to use a power screwdriver.

"Give me that. You’re making me nervous," he muttered at one point, taking the tool from her hands before she could drill straight through the table they were working on.

"You’re such a control freak," she shot back, crossing her arms.

"I’m efficient."

By the end of the day, Lena’s apartment was still far from organized, but at least she had a table, chairs, and a bookshelf that wouldn’t collapse at any second.

They both collapsed onto the couch with a tired sigh.

"Tell me that’s the last of it," Oscar mumbled, eyes closed.

Lena elbowed him.

"Almost."

He groaned.

"I knew you were lying to me."

"Oh, come on. It wasn’t that bad. Besides, I gave you beer and free food—what more do you want?"

Oscar cracked one eye open, amused.

"A written contract guaranteeing you won’t drag me into this again."

Lena stuck out her tongue.

And for some reason, Oscar realized he wouldn’t mind coming back.

The next few days in Monaco passed far too quickly. Before he could even process it, he was back to his usual routine—simulator sessions, meetings with engineers, workouts, flights to the next circuit.

But something had changed.

It was subtle, like background noise he couldn’t quite tune out. A recurring thought creeping in at the most unexpected moments—while reviewing telemetry data, while pulling on his gloves before heading out on track, while trying to fall asleep in yet another uncomfortable hotel bed.

Lena.

Not because he was analyzing her as a rival. Not because he was trying to figure out how to beat her on track.

Just because she was there.

Because every time he scrolled through Instagram, he stumbled upon clips of their interview together, the comments flooded with people loving their dynamic. Because every time he opened WhatsApp, their chat was never too far down the list. Because every time someone mentioned her name in a conversation, he felt something close to… anticipation.

And now, when he arrived at the paddock, he found himself looking for her without even realizing it.

The next Grand Prix was a brutal reminder of why he couldn’t afford distractions.

From the first practice sessions, it was clear that the margins were razor-thin. Red Bull had the edge, sure, but McLaren and Ferrari were right behind, waiting for any opportunity. And amid all the tension, there was Lena—with that infuriatingly relaxed attitude that somehow managed to get under his skin.

"Ready to lose again, Piastri?" she teased with a smirk when they crossed paths near the hospitality area before qualifying.

"I’m not losing today," he shot back, folding his arms.

"We’ll see about that."

And they did.

Qualifying was chaos. Session after session, the times tightened until there was barely any room for error. In the final moments of Q3, Lena put in a blistering lap, claiming provisional pole. Oscar was still on his flyer, pushing the limits of the track with every turn.

When he crossed the line and saw his time flash on the board, adrenaline surged through him.

P1.

On race day, the tension on the grid was almost tangible.

Oscar was on pole, Lena right beside him in P2. From inside his cockpit, he could see her through the visor of her helmet—leaning slightly forward, hands resting on the wheel, fingers barely perceptibly tightening around the grips.

He knew her too well. He could tell she was planning something.

He also knew she wouldn’t give him a single inch.

When the lights went out, the world shrank to the sound of his own heartbeat and the deafening roar of the engines.

His start was good. Hers was better.

They went wheel to wheel into the first corner, neither backing down, neither willing to be the first to yield.

The battle raged on for lap after lap. Every overtake was met with an immediate counterattack. Every attempt to pull away was thwarted by the other’s relentless defense.

And then—it happened.

It wasn’t a major mistake. It wasn’t a desperate move.

It was a matter of… ten millimeters.

Oscar tried to close the door in a high-speed corner, expecting Lena to back out. But Lena never backed out.

Their rear wheels touched.

And in the blink of an eye, both cars were out of control.

The world spun in a blur of radio static, gravel, and the sickening crunch of carbon fiber meeting the barriers.

The impact was brutal. Not in sheer force, but in the inevitability of it.

Their cars—now little more than shattered debris scattered across the runoff—were the culmination of something that had been brewing for years.

When Oscar tore off his steering wheel and sat up in his seat, the deafening roar of the crowd was muted by the blood pounding in his ears. His hands, still shaking with adrenaline, unfastened the harnesses with a sharp tug.

He jumped out of the car.

And there she was.

Lena had already climbed out of her Red Bull, brushing dust off her fireproof suit as if the crash hadn’t fazed her at all. But Oscar knew better. He saw the tension in her posture, the way her fingers curled into fists, the tight clench of her jaw as she swallowed down barely contained frustration.

They locked eyes in silence, their breathing still ragged, the echoes of the crash still hanging between them.

Around them, track marshals rushed in, ensuring they were both unharmed, stepping between them before either could do something they might regret.

There was no need for words.

What had just happened wasn’t a mistake.

It was the result of every on-track clash, every maneuver pushed to the limit, every time one had tried to prove they could beat the other.

It was the inevitable outcome of ten years of war.

When they were taken back to the paddock, the tension between them was so thick that even the FIA officials seemed to want to stay out of it. Their team principals were too busy analyzing replays of the crash, debating over the radio, searching for arguments to either defend or condemn what had happened.

So they were left in a room. Alone.

The silence was suffocating.

The only sound was their breathing—still ragged, still laced with fury.

Oscar ran his hands through his hair, exhaling sharply, trying to steady the storm of emotions tearing through him.

But when he looked up and saw her standing there, arms crossed, eyes burning, brows furrowed in pure defiance…

He knew.

This wasn’t about the race.

It had never been just about the track.

And then, the storm broke.

The door shut behind them with a sharp thud.

Silence.

Heavy, stifling, ready to shatter.

Lena ran a hand over her neck, clenching her jaw, her breath still unsteady. She didn’t know if it was from the crash, the anger, or the lethal combination of both.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" she snapped, her voice rough.

Oscar, who had been standing with his hands on his hips, turned his head toward her like he’d been waiting for the first shot to be fired.

"What’s wrong with me?" He let out a dry, incredulous laugh—a sharp, cutting sound. "Are you fucking kidding me? You shoved me into the wall, Lena."

"Oh, fuck off. You left me with no space first."

"There was no more space to give you."

"There’s always space, Piastri, but of course, if you're the one who has to yield, suddenly it becomes fucking nonexistent."

Oscar took a step toward her.

"Oh, I’m sorry—should I applaud you? Should I fucking bow for your sacrifice? If you want to win, maybe try not launching yourself like a goddamn kamikaze."

"And maybe you should try driving like you don’t have a stick up your ass!"

The air crackled between them.

The crash, the scrape of tires, the sound of shattered carbon fiber—it didn’t matter.

What mattered was everything behind it.

Years and years of pushing each other to the edge. Of locking eyes and knowing neither of them would ever back down. Of a rivalry so deeply poisoned that they no longer knew whether they wanted to beat each other or destroy each other.

Oscar took another step.

Lena didn’t move an inch.

"You always do this," he muttered, voice lower now but no less intense.

"Do what?"

"Put me in this fucking situation."

Lena tilted her head, a razor-sharp smile curling her lips.

"Don’t play the victim. It’s not just me."

"Oh, no?"

"You know it’s not."

Oscar clenched his jaw. Lena saw the tic in his temple, the way his fists tightened and relaxed, like he was holding something back—something he had no fucking idea how to deal with.

"Admit it pisses you off," she murmured.

"What pisses me off?"

"That I have you so figured out I know what you're feeling before you do."

Oscar let out a tense, fractured laugh.

"You have no idea what I’m feeling."

Lena stepped closer.

A single damn millimeter.

"Of course I do."

A flicker in his jaw.

"No. You don’t."

"I know it’s not about the race."

Oscar swallowed.

"Shut up."

"I know it’s not about the fucking crash."

"Lena."

"I know you want to kiss me."

Oscar felt something drop in his stomach—an unfamiliar, furious vertigo.

"Shut up."

Lena laughed, but there was no amusement in it. Only a blade, only the undeniable certainty that she was right.

"Why? Because it pisses you off to hear it out loud?"

Oscar gritted his teeth.

"Because it’s bullshit."

"No, it’s not."

"Yes, it is."

"Oh, really? Then why—"

She leaned in just a fraction more, pushing him without even touching him.

"Why do you look at me like that every time we’re on track?"

"I don’t look at you in any way."

"Why do you pick fights over stupid shit, but never over what actually gets to you?"

"Because you’re unbearable."

Lena clicked her tongue.

"Liar."

Oscar felt something in his chest pull impossibly tight.

"Drop it."

But she didn’t.

"Why can't you stand it when others congratulate me? When someone else says I did well?"

Oscar didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

Because the answer was there, lodged in his throat, so obvious it almost made him sick.

Because the truth was spilling through the cracks of his denial, seeping into the fractures of his damned mind until everything fell into place.

It wasn’t competitiveness.

It wasn’t anger.

It wasn’t that she won.

It was that she was there, always, messing up his existence since they were kids.

It was that every time he saw her passing him, he felt something that made no sense.

It was that when she laughed, with that smile that was so unmistakably hers, his chest tightened.

It was that he had spent years convincing himself that all he wanted was to beat her, when what he really wanted was to touch her.

And she knew it.

Lena saw the shift in his face, in his dark, glinting eyes, in the way his breathing turned just a little deeper.

"See?" she whispered.

Oscar ran his tongue over his lips, his fists clenched, his pulse pounding at his temples.

"No," he said.

But it sounded like what it was—a lie.

Lena smiled, but it wasn’t mocking. It was something heavier, more dangerous. Something that sent Oscar’s pulse racing.

"Yes," she whispered. "You see it."

Oscar didn’t move, but he didn’t step back when she leaned in closer. Ten millimeters less.

"Shut up."

His voice came out rough, ragged, completely useless.

"Make me."

Oscar swallowed hard.

The air between them was thick, suffocating. No space. No escape.

They had spent years fighting. Years pushing each other to the limit. Years forcing themselves to believe that all they felt was anger, rivalry, fury.

But fury didn’t burn like this.

Fury didn’t make his hands tingle with the urge to grab her.

Fury didn’t leave him like this, with his jaw clenched and his thoughts in complete chaos because Lena was so close, because he could feel her breath, because he knew—he knew—this was inevitable.

"Say you don’t want this."

Lena’s voice was a challenge, a provocation that curled down his spine.

Oscar closed his eyes for a second.

If he said it, maybe they could pretend this never happened.

That none of this existed.

That they could keep waging their damn war on the track without the truth tearing them apart.

But when he opened his eyes, when he saw the way Lena was looking at him, something inside him just… gave in.

The last barrier shattered.

The final ten millimeters disappeared.

And Oscar kissed her.

The impact was brutal.

No hesitation, no second-guessing, no restraint. Just pure momentum, an inevitable collision that trapped them in a fierce, definitive moment.

Lena gasped against his mouth, startled but not resisting, because her fingers clenched in the fabric of his race suit, pulling him in, seeking more, seeking everything. Oscar didn’t think. He couldn’t. His body reacted before his mind could process it, before he could remember that just minutes ago, he had been shouting at her.

That they had been arguing, that they had been furious, that they had spent years hating each other.

But had they really?

His back hit the wall, and he barely had time to catch his breath before Lena kissed him again—deeper, hungrier, as if they had just crossed a line they would never be able to step back from.

"Son of a bitch…" she murmured against his lips, but she didn’t sound angry. She sounded defeated.

Oscar squeezed his eyes shut, trying to hold on to something, to any rational thought that could pull him out of this whirlwind.

But everything was Lena.

Her breath, her scent mixed with the adrenaline of the race, the feel of her hands gripping his neck.

He wanted her with an intensity that terrified him.

His entire world narrowed down to this moment, to this kiss, to the small, shaky exhales slipping from her mouth when he deepened it.

Lena laughed, barely a whisper against his skin.

"I knew I was right."

Oscar clenched his jaw, his fingers tightening around her waist on instinct.

"Don’t ruin it," he growled.

But she did anyway.

"I always knew you’d break one day," she whispered, with a shameless confidence that should have infuriated him.

But there was no anger left in him.

Only this.

This vertigo, this need.

This something that had been pushing him for years—something that, now he understood, had never been hatred.

Lena pulled back just a fraction, her gaze locked on his. The last traces of defiance were still in her expression, but something else had seeped through the cracks.

"And now what, Piastri?" she asked, her voice lower than usual.

Oscar ran his tongue over his lips, still trapped in the spiral of what had just happened.

He looked into her eyes, at her swollen lips, at the shadow of a smile threatening to return.

And then he knew.

"I have no fucking idea."

Lena laughed, and Oscar kissed her again.

The door creaked open.

Oscar and Lena pulled apart at the last second, his pulse still hammering in his ears. Lena recovered faster—she lifted her chin, ran her fingers along the collar of her race suit, and slipped into her usual mask of arrogant indifference, as if they hadn’t just been pressed against the wall, devouring each other with the urgency of people who had waited too long.

The FIA steward entered, oblivious, an iPad in hand and the frown of someone who had spent too much time analyzing replays.

"Alright, both of you need to give your statements on the on-track incident. Bauer, you first. Piastri, wait here."

Lena cast a quick glance at Oscar before moving.

A fleeting look, barely a couple of seconds. But enough.

He held her gaze, trying to read what wasn’t being said.

No regret. No hesitation. Just something sharp, expectant.

When Lena turned and walked out of the room, her scent still lingered in the air.

Oscar ran a hand down his face, exhaling slowly, as if that could restore control over something he had lost a long time ago.

Ten millimeters.

They had crossed them.

And there was no turning back.

Oscar was still pulling off his gloves when Andrea intercepted him in the hallway.

"Doctor. Now."

"I'm fine."

"Doctor. Now."

Stella’s look left no room for argument, so Oscar let out a frustrated sigh and nodded, peeling off the top half of his race suit as he followed.

But his mind wasn’t on the medical check-up.

She had slipped away.

Lena was already gone when he finished his statement, and no matter how much he searched for her among the crowd of mechanics, team principals, and paddock staff, she was nowhere to be found.

And the scene in that room—the heat of her breath, her lips mere millimeters from his, the echo of her voice tearing apart every excuse he had tried to hide behind—kept replaying in his head like a damn broken record.

"Piastri."

Oscar blinked, realizing he was already in the medical room. A doctor stood in front of him, pointing at the examination table.

"Sit down."

"Is Lena here?"

The doctor raised an eyebrow.

"Bauer? No, she already came through. She’s fine."

Oscar pressed his tongue against his palate, frustrated.

Where the hell had she gone?

He climbed onto the table without complaint and let them check his blood pressure and reflexes, but he barely paid attention. His mind was still trapped in that room, in the way Lena had looked at him before walking out.

Because now he knew.

She had been right.

And that pissed him off. It pissed him off so much.

But what pissed him off the most was that, despite everything—he wanted to see her again.

The flight back to Monaco was a blur.

He didn’t remember packing, leaving the circuit, or walking through the airport with the team. His body moved on autopilot, repeating mechanical gestures, nodding at the right moments when someone spoke to him. But his mind was elsewhere.

The corner. The impact. The fire in his chest when he saw Lena’s helmet move inside the car, when he saw her climb out unscathed.

The room in the paddock.

Her sharp voice. The way she had stepped closer. The way she had disarmed him effortlessly, ripping a truth from him that even he hadn’t realized.

By the time he landed in Nice, his jaw was so tense it ached.

He got into the waiting car without bothering to say anything. The radio played in the background, a mix of music and news, but he didn’t listen. His own silence was louder.

He got out at his building and took the elevator up with the same inertia that had carried him through the last few hours. When the doors opened, he walked to his apartment, disabled the alarm, and stepped into the dimly lit space.

The room was silent except for the faint murmur of the sea in the distance.

Oscar dropped his suitcase by the door and stood still in the middle of the living room.

The weight of everything crashed into him all at once.

He exhaled, running a hand down his face.

He knew sleep would be impossible.

He didn’t even think. He just pulled out his phone, opened their chat, and sent his location.

He hit send before he could second-guess himself.

Seen.

Nothing else.

No message. No reaction.

Just the damn double blue check marks, glowing on the screen like a reminder of how much of an idiot he was.

Oscar clenched his jaw and tossed the phone onto the table. He sank onto the couch, head tipped back, staring at the ceiling.

It had been a bad idea.

No, it had been a fucking terrible idea.

What the hell was he thinking?

He shut his eyes. The crash. The fight. The kiss.

Everything they had held back for years had exploded in that room. But now, after the frenzy of the race, after the adrenaline and the rage, all that was left was the emptiness.

The hum in his chest wouldn’t quiet.

And then the doorbell ringed.

Oscar opened his eyes.

He froze.

Didn’t move at first, as if his brain needed a few extra seconds to process it.

Doorbell. Again.

This time, he got up. Walked to the door, feeling his own pulse in his fingertips.

He opened it.

Lena.

Standing in the doorway, that same unreadable glint in her eyes.

They didn’t speak.

They didn’t need to.

She stepped inside, and he shut the door behind her.

And then, everything unraveled.

The moment the door clicked shut, the silence between them became unbearable.

Lena didn’t wait. Didn’t hesitate. She reached for him first, hands gripping the front of his shirt, dragging him down into a kiss that was anything but soft. It was raw, demanding—filled with every word they hadn’t said, every feeling they had swallowed for years. Oscar barely had time to react before instinct took over. His hands found her waist, pulling her flush against him, as if the space between them was something offensive, something that needed to be erased.

She tasted like adrenaline and defiance, like the echoes of their fight still lingered between their teeth. He could feel her pulse hammering against his fingertips, mirroring his own. Every inch of his body was wound tight, coiled with tension that had nothing to do with the race and everything to do with her.

Lena backed him into the living room, their steps clumsy, uncoordinated in a way that betrayed just how frayed their control was. They hit the edge of the couch, and Oscar barely managed to turn them, pressing her back against the armrest as his weight settled over her. She didn’t protest. If anything, she arched into him, fingers threading through his hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp.

A shiver ran down his spine at the sensation, sharp and electric. It made him want more.

He pulled back just enough to look at her, his breathing ragged. Her lips were swollen, parted, her chest rising and falling in quick, uneven breaths. There was something wild in her eyes, something reckless and unguarded, and it hit him like a punch to the gut.

For a second, neither of them moved.

Then Lena smirked, tilting her head just slightly. “Are you going to overthink this, Piastri?”

Oscar exhaled sharply, something close to a laugh escaping him. “Shut up.”

She did. But only because his mouth was on hers again, deeper this time, his hands roaming over the familiar lines of her body with a newfound urgency. The couch wasn’t enough. The room wasn’t enough. He needed more. Needed all of her.

Without breaking contact, he lifted her, ignoring the way she gasped in surprise before her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. He carried her through the dimly lit apartment, only stopping when her back hit the bedroom door. The impact made it rattle, but neither of them cared.

He pressed his forehead to hers, breathing hard. “Tell me to stop.”

Lena’s fingers traced the edge of his jaw, her touch softer now, more deliberate. Her voice was quieter when she answered. “I won’t.”

That was all he needed.

The door gave way behind them, and they stumbled inside.

And then, everything really unraveled.

Clothes hit the floor in a messy, frantic rhythm. Hands moved with the kind of desperation that only years of restraint could create. Oscar traced the curve of her spine with his fingertips, committing every detail to memory. Lena’s breath hitched when his lips found the sensitive skin of her collarbone, her fingers tightening around his shoulders.

The night stretched on, filled with whispered names and stolen breaths. Every touch, every movement was a conversation in itself, a language they had long denied speaking. And when they finally collapsed together, bodies tangled in the sheets, neither of them spoke for a long time.

Because for once, there was nothing left to say.

The room was quiet now, save for the rhythmic sound of their breathing and the distant murmur of the sea drifting through the open window. A soft breeze ghosted over their damp skin, cooling the lingering heat between them.

Oscar lay on his side, his fingers tracing idle patterns along Lena’s bare waist. He watched as goosebumps rose in the wake of his touch, fascinated by the way her body reacted to him even now. She didn’t move, only observed him in silence, her dark eyes half-lidded, unreadable in the dim light.

He followed the curve of her ribs, the dip of her stomach, moving slowly, deliberately. There was something intoxicating about it—about this rare, quiet moment where neither of them had to fight or prove anything. Here, in the sanctuary of tangled sheets and shared breaths, they were just themselves.

Lena exhaled softly, shifting slightly under his touch. ““How long?” she finally asked, her voice quiet but firm.

Oscar knew exactly what she was asking. He exhaled slowly, his fingers stilling against her skin.

“Always.”

Lena’s lips parted slightly, but she said nothing. Oscar turned on his side to face her fully, his eyes scanning hers for any sign of hesitation.

“Since the first race. Since before I even knew what this was,” he admitted, voice rough. “I thought it was competition. I thought it was rivalry. I told myself that wanting to beat you was all there was. But it was more than that. It was always more.”

She held his gaze, unreadable for a moment, then let out a quiet breath. “I hated you for so long,” she murmured. “Or at least, I wanted to.”

His lips twitched slightly, but there was no humor in it. “You think I don’t know that?”

She huffed a short laugh, shaking her head. “I told myself it was just about winning. About proving I was better. But then, when you weren’t there, when you moved up first, it felt… wrong. Like something was missing.”

Oscar’s fingers curled around her wrist, thumb brushing against her pulse. “I felt it too.”

Lena swallowed, then shifted closer, their foreheads nearly touching. “I don’t know what to do with this,” she admitted. “I’ve spent so long pushing it down, convincing myself it didn’t matter.”

Oscar’s grip tightened slightly. “Then don’t push it down anymore.”

A beat of silence.

“And if it ruins everything?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Oscar inhaled sharply, then pressed his forehead to hers. “Then at least it was real.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, as if letting the words settle. When she opened them again, something in her expression had shifted. Resolved. Certain.

“No more running,” she said.

His fingers tangled with hers beneath the sheets. “No more running.”

And this time, when she kissed him, it was slow. Certain. Like something inevitable finally falling into place.

A few moments passed before Lena broke the silence again, a smirk playing at her lips. “I have to say, for all that tension, you weren’t half bad.”

Oscar scoffed, his fingers tightening slightly on her waist. “Not half bad? That’s all I get?”

She let out a soft laugh, tilting her head. “I don’t know… I might need another round of evidence before I make my final judgment.”

Oscar groaned, burying his face in her neck, his laugh muffled against her skin. “You’re impossible.”

“You like that about me,” she teased.

He lifted his head, meeting her gaze with something softer now, amusement and something deeper mixing together. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I do.”

She sighed, stretching out beneath him. “God, I can’t believe it took us this long.”

Oscar leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to her shoulder. “Guess we were too busy trying to destroy each other.”

“Healthy,” she deadpanned.

He chuckled. “Extremely.”

Another pause, comfortable now, before Lena turned her head to look at him again. “So… what now?”

Oscar traced a lazy circle on her hip. “I guess we figure it out.”

She snorted. “That sounds dangerously close to a plan.”

“I can be responsible sometimes.”

Lena raised an eyebrow. “You literally just sent me your location instead of saying actual words.”

Oscar sighed dramatically. “Fine. Not my best moment.”

She grinned. “But it worked.”

He smirked. “Yeah. It did.”

And as the night stretched on, tangled together in the quiet of the room, the weight of ten years finally felt lighter.

@smoooothoperator @freyathehuntress @gold66loveblog

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downbadf0rficppl · 9 months ago

Text

love in the dark

Natasha Romanoff x F!Reader

Summary: You're used to being Natasha's in the dark, where no one can see you, but what if all the hiding causes insecurities to rear their head and make you question if you are even good enough for this job?

Word Count: 12.5K (CRAZY IK)

AN: Maybe - definitely - OOC Natasha, but I wanted to get my annoyance out somewhere. It's been a long week *crying face*. Anyway, I can't write anything angsty (dk if I would classify this as angst angst but ya know) without a lil bit of fluff at the end so yh. Also sorry that the plot is a bit shit - I haven't reread this and it was a lil bit word-vomity?? Will reread and edit eventually haha. HEA, hurt/comfort vibes? :P

Take your eyes off of me so I can leave

I'm far too ashamed to do it with you watching me

The dim light of morning filters through the curtains as you quietly gather your things, your heart a tangled mess of emotions you’d rather not confront. Natasha’s apartment is always neat—pristine, even in its chaos—but today it feels colder than usual. The aftermath of the night lingers in the air: the weight of intimacy, of bodies pressed together, of shared moments that somehow don't leave a mark, yet always seem to hang over you.

You move with practiced ease, pulling on your clothes, the soft rustle of fabric breaking the stillness. Natasha’s absence from the bed doesn’t surprise you; she’s already up, probably training or doing some task to keep herself distracted, to keep from thinking about the mission, about what happened, about anything. You don’t blame her. You’ve seen the way she handles it—how she compartmentalizes her emotions, how sex is the one thing she doesn’t keep in a box.

The door to her bathroom creaks open as you finish zipping your jacket. She doesn’t look at you, her hair damp from a quick shower, her expression unreadable, almost distant. She grabs her black leather jacket from the chair, pulls it on, and heads to the kitchen, the clink of mugs the only sound in the otherwise quiet room.

You take a deep breath, gathering the courage to speak, but the words always seem to hang on the tip of your tongue, trapped behind something you don’t know how to say. You're younger—years younger—and Natasha... well, Natasha never gives anything away. Not in the way you want her to. Her walls are solid, built from years of training, of being a weapon. And you? You’re just a moment, a fleeting thing in her life.

You find her standing by the window now, her back to you, her figure outlined against the early light. She’s always like this after missions, like she’s trying to rid herself of the weight, trying to get back to being Natasha again, instead of... whatever else she’s forced to be.

“Thanks for last night,” you manage, your voice barely above a whisper.

She doesn’t turn to face you, doesn’t even acknowledge your words immediately. Then, as if the silence is too much to bear, she speaks. “You should go. Goodnight, baby.” Her voice is low, steady, but there's an edge to it—something you can’t quite place.

You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Yeah. I know.”

You turn to leave, but something inside you twists, a knot in your stomach that isn’t just from the awkwardness. It’s the realization that, for all the time you’ve spent together, nothing will ever change. This is just routine—an unspoken agreement between the two of you. She'll keep using you to forget, and you’ll keep pretending this isn’t affecting you.

But Natasha doesn’t ask you to stay, doesn’t even look at you as you make your way toward the door. When you reach the threshold, you steal one last glance at her. Her eyes are on the window again, her face set in that familiar, unreadable expression.

You leave without a word, the door clicking softly behind you, and the silence that follows is deafening.

This is never ending, we have been here before

But I can't stay this time, 'cause I don't love you anymore

The quiet hum of the helicarrier was almost calming, the steady vibrations of the engines beneath your feet grounding you after a chaotic mission. You’d never felt more alive than when you were out there—fighting, taking down the bad guys, doing what SHIELD trained you to do. But tonight, that adrenaline wasn’t enough to silence the nagging feeling inside of you. You kept replaying the moments from the mission—the moments with Natasha.

The mission had gone smoothly. You had worked well together, flowing seamlessly as a team, and Natasha had even given you a rare, approving glance when it was all over. It had been a high-stakes op, but everything had fallen into place. When the mission was debriefed, there had been laughter, light-hearted jokes exchanged between agents, but your thoughts kept drifting back to Natasha.

Her touch had lingered, just a moment longer than necessary, when she passed you your gear. Her eyes had met yours once, a flicker of something in them. It was fleeting, but it was enough to make you wonder. Maybe she feels it too, you thought. The way she looked at you, the way she spoke—there was an intimacy in it, a spark you couldn’t quite ignore.

The night had unfolded with a casual invitation to meet in her room. No big deal, she’d said. Just to grab a drink, just to relax. But when you entered her room, it felt different. You both shed the weight of the mission in the space between words, the tension between you growing as the night went on. Her touch had been slow, almost gentle, when it first brushed against your skin. You’d been hesitant, unsure of what was happening, but she seemed so confident, so sure.

It wasn’t until later—after you were tangled up in each other, breathless, skin flushed—that you felt that spark you had hoped for. Maybe she was just as interested, just as real about this as you were. It wasn’t just a mission anymore, not just two agents getting the job done. There was a connection. There was something between you.

But when you stepped out of her room the next morning, something shifted in the air. The way she had casually kissed you on the cheek before you left, the way she didn’t ask you to stay, didn’t look at you the way you hoped—none of it was what you imagined.

Later, you passed a group of agents gathered in a corner of the mess hall, talking in low voices. You’d barely paid them any mind, too focused on your own thoughts, but then you heard it.

“I wonder who Nat picked this time,” one of them had said, laughing.

“Probably one of the newbies who doesn’t know any better. Gets what she wants, and moves on. No strings attached.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut, your heart sinking lower with every syllable. Natasha. Natasha Romanoff. The woman you had admired from a distance, the one you had trusted and looked up to, had just used you. And maybe—maybe you had been just another mission for her.

You couldn’t help but feel the sting of that realization. You had wanted more. You had convinced yourself that there was something more to it—that the way she held you, the way she whispered your name had meant something. But no. This was who she was. A lone wolf. Cold. Detached.

You didn’t say anything, of course. You just nodded, forcing yourself to accept what you had heard, forcing yourself to forget what had happened the night before. The optimism you had clung to began to die right then and there. This wasn’t a relationship. This wasn’t something that could grow or change.

You walked back to your quarters, the weight of the mission—and your heartache—settling in your chest. Maybe it was better this way. Maybe it was easier to be just one of the many in a string of forgettable faces. The night with Natasha had been a blip. No more, no less.

The next time you saw her, you kept your distance, smiled a little tighter, and allowed the walls to go up. There was no point in hoping for something more when you knew exactly how this worked. She was always a few steps ahead of you, always thinking of the next mission, the next fight, never lingering too long in one place.

And you? You learned to accept that. No strings attached. No expectations. Just the way things were.

Please, stay where you are

Don't come any closer

The clang of metal against metal echoed through the training room as you and Natasha sparred. The fight was almost second nature now—quick jabs, swift dodges, and the occasional, playful taunt thrown into the mix. You'd gotten better at handling the pressure, but still, when it came to Natasha, it was hard not to feel like you were always playing catch-up. She was faster, stronger, more experienced. Sometimes, it seemed like she was born to fight.

You threw a punch, aiming for her midsection, but she dodged it with effortless grace, countering with a sharp jab to your ribs. You grunted, stumbling back a step, but you didn’t let it throw you off. You pressed forward, more determined now.

“Not bad,” Natasha said with a smirk, her voice light. “But you’re still weak. You need me to save you again, huh?” She laughed, a glint of mischief in her eyes.

It was a joke, you knew that, or at least, you thought you did. But something about her words hit you differently today. You weren’t in the mood to laugh. You had been pushing yourself hard in training, trying to prove that you could handle it on your own, that you weren’t just some rookie who was always under Natasha’s shadow.

You took a deep breath, trying to shake off the growing frustration that bubbled in your chest. You swung again, but this time, you missed her entirely. She dodged it effortlessly and caught your wrist in a hold that felt too tight.

“Still not enough,” she teased, raising an eyebrow. “Maybe I should give you some more training lessons. You know, to make sure I don’t have to keep saving you.”

The joke, the lightness in her voice, it only made you more upset. “Maybe I don’t need saving,” you snapped, trying to pull your wrist free from her grip, your temper flaring. “Maybe I can handle things on my own for once.”

Natasha’s smirk faltered, but she kept her hold firm. “Maybe I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Deep down you knew it was a joke, but it wasn’t funny to you—not today. Not when you already felt the weight of everyone’s whispers hanging over you like a shadow. She’s only here because she’s sleeping with Natasha. She’s nothing without her. Every agent seemed to think the same thing. Even some of your own teammates seemed to treat you like you were just an afterthought, a placeholder who only got the mission because of who you knew, not because of your skill.

You had always tried to prove them wrong. But when Natasha said things like that, it felt like all your efforts were for nothing. Like all of it was just... a joke.

You yanked your arm out of her grip and stepped back, glaring at her. “I don’t need you to save me, Natasha. I don’t need anyone.”

Her expression shifted, the playful edge in her eyes dimming. She didn’t understand. Of course she didn’t. She didn’t hear the things you heard, didn’t feel the weight of the judgment you carried every day. To her, this was just another training session, another moment of playful teasing. But to you? It was like being backed into a corner, your confidence slowly slipping away with every word.

“You’re being ridiculous,” Natasha said, her voice sharp now. “You know I’m just messing with you. Stop getting so moody.”

It stung more than it should’ve. You clenched your fists at your sides, holding back the urge to walk out of the room, to leave her there without another word.

But you didn’t. You just stood there, feeling the walls close in around you.

“You don’t get it, do you?” you muttered, trying to keep your voice steady. “You think I’m just here for the fun of it. That I can’t do anything without you. You don’t even see it.”

Natasha’s brows furrowed, and she let out a frustrated sigh, dropping her stance. “You’re being overly sensitive.”

You felt the words cut deep, the sting of her dismissal more painful than you wanted to admit. The last thing you wanted was for her to see you as some emotional mess. But it was too late. You could feel the heat rising in your chest, the ache of being ignored, dismissed, and reduced to nothing more than a pawn in her world.

“Fine,” you snapped, unable to stop the words from spilling out. “Maybe I should just go. You don’t need to deal with my mood anymore.”

Natasha didn’t even flinch at your outburst. Instead, she looked at you with a cold indifference. “Then fuck off,” she said bluntly, as if you were just another irritation, another moment she couldn’t be bothered with.

The words hit you like a slap. You froze for a moment, trying to make sense of it. She didn’t get it. She didn’t understand why you were so angry, why you felt so small in that moment. And you realized, with a sinking feeling in your stomach, that maybe she never would.

You turned and walked away without another word, your chest tight, your emotions a storm inside of you. You didn’t even know where you were going, but you couldn’t stay there, not with her. Not now.

Don't try to change my mind

I'm being cruel to be kind

The words hit like a slap in the face.

You hadn’t meant to overhear it. You had only walked into the SHIELD briefing room to check on some mission updates when Agent Ryder’s voice cut through the air, low but unmistakable.

You could feel the sting of his dismissive tone reverberating in your bones. Nepotism. The word had echoed in your head long after he’d left, taunting you. You knew the truth—your guardian wasn’t some high-ranking official, wasn’t some big shot with connections—but still, how could they say that? How could they reduce your hard work to just that? To nothing but the connections you didn’t even ask for?

You had always tried to prove yourself. Every mission, every task, every step forward was to show you deserved to be here, that you weren’t just some token agent or a pawn in a bigger game. You had trained harder than anyone. You had put in the hours, learned everything you could, sacrificed the same as everyone else. But still, every time you turned around, someone else was whispering behind your back, casting doubt on your worth.

And then there was Natasha. Her teasing had been the last straw. You had tried to laugh it off, to pretend it didn’t bother you, but you knew deep down that the way she dismissed you—it was just another reminder that you were expendable. You weren’t one of them. You were just... a mistake in the system.

So when you walked into the training room the next morning and saw Natasha leaning against the wall, arms crossed, looking as relaxed and confident as ever, something inside you snapped.

You didn’t go to her like you usually did. You didn’t smile, didn’t offer the usual greeting. Instead, you simply nodded once, cold and distant.

“Something wrong?” Natasha asked, raising an eyebrow as she stepped forward.

You didn’t answer immediately. Instead, you turned away from her, grabbing your gear and adjusting it with deliberate care. The silence stretched between you both. You could feel her eyes on you, studying you, waiting for an explanation, but you didn’t owe her one. Not anymore. Not after everything.

“You’re still upset about yesterday, huh?” Natasha’s voice was softer now, but there was an edge to it. A warning, maybe. “You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

You ignored her, shoving your focus back into the task at hand, determined not to let her see the way your chest tightened. You didn’t want to feel weak. You didn’t want her to know how much her words hurt. You were done with this—done with pretending, done with leaning on her. You were going to prove yourself. You had to.

A few moments passed before Natasha stepped closer, frustration creeping into her tone. “If you don’t stop this, we’re going to have a problem.”

You turned to face her then, finally looking her in the eyes, the words spilling out before you could stop them. “No. We’re not going to have a problem. I’m done with this.” You swallowed the bitter taste in your mouth. “I’m done with you. I’m tired of being treated like I’m some kind of charity case. Like I don’t belong here unless I’m under your shadow.”

Natasha’s face shifted, confusion flashing in her eyes. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You don’t get it, do you?” You took a step back, your voice rising in frustration. “You think it’s funny, don’t you? All of it. The way you make fun of me. Like it’s just a joke. Well, it’s not. I’ve been busting my ass here, and all you do is remind me that everyone thinks I’m just some charity case. Nepotism. You think that’s a joke? You think I need you to save me?”

Natasha’s expression hardened, her gaze flickering to the side, and then back to you. She crossed her arms, clearly trying to hold her composure. But there was something in her eyes—something tight, something hurt.

“Is this about yesterday?” she asked, her tone sharper now, but there was a hint of concern buried underneath. “You’re overreacting.”

“I’m not overreacting!” You shot back, unable to hold it in anymore. “You don’t get to dismiss me and then act like nothing happened. I’m not some... some... tool for you to use whenever you want. I’m not some kid you get to play with and forget about when it’s convenient.”

The words hung in the air for a moment, thick with tension. Natasha’s jaw tightened, her lips pressing into a thin line. “You think this is about me using you? You think I’m using you? Is that what you really think?”

You nodded, your heart pounding in your chest. “Yeah. That’s what I think.”

Natasha’s eyes flickered with anger, her usual calm demeanor slipping for just a moment. She shook her head, disbelief and frustration written all over her face. “You’ve got it all wrong. But fine, if that’s how you feel, then go ahead. Go prove yourself, like you keep saying you will. But don’t come crawling back to me when you realize you can’t do it alone.”

The words stung, but it was the way she turned and walked away—cold, final—that hit you the hardest. You felt the knot in your chest tighten, but you didn’t call after her. You couldn’t.

You spent the rest of the day avoiding her, your mind racing with doubt and anger. It wasn’t about the mission, not really. It was about feeling like you were fighting a battle on your own, with no one in your corner. The more you tried to distance yourself, the more you realized how much you needed her, even if it hurt to admit it.

But you were stubborn. You had to prove to yourself that you weren’t just here because of someone else. You weren’t going to be Natasha’s shadow anymore.

You couldn’t.

You have given me something that I can't live without

You mustn't underestimate that when you are in doubt

The morning briefing had gone smoothly, the usual debriefing about mission parameters, objectives, and exit strategies. But there was an undercurrent of tension you couldn’t shake. It was just a solo mission—nothing too difficult, Natasha had said, and you knew the protocol well. But the moment she had pulled out, just hours before takeoff, something in your gut twisted.

"It doesn't need to be a two-person mission," Natasha had said with her usual casual smile, but it hadn’t reached her eyes. "It’s easy. You’ve got this." Her voice had sounded almost dismissive, as if she hadn’t been training with you for months, as if she didn’t know how much you relied on her presence during missions. You knew Natasha wasn’t one for emotional goodbyes, but the absence of that small gesture—her usual good luck kiss before every mission—felt like a sign. You had never gone on a mission without one, and now, as you stood alone in the SHIELD hangar, you realized just how much you had come to rely on it.

She hadn’t even given you a heads-up, hadn’t said goodbye with her usual teasing smirk or reassuring look. It’s an easy mission, you told yourself. You don’t need her this time. But the unease in your chest told you otherwise.

You tugged the straps of your gear tighter, glancing once more at the aircraft. The mission was supposed to be straightforward: infiltrate a small criminal syndicate operating out of a hidden base in the mountains, retrieve intel, and get out. You’d handled worse. But you couldn’t shake the gnawing feeling that something was off. Your instincts were screaming at you, and for once, you weren’t willing to ignore them.

You checked your wristwatch again. The flight would take a few hours, leaving you with time to prepare mentally, but all you could think about was Natasha. The way she had waved you off with barely a second glance, as if you didn’t matter enough for a goodbye. You tried not to dwell on it. After all, Natasha didn’t do sentiment. But the emptiness in your chest was hard to ignore.

Maybe she’s just busy. Maybe she’s just focused on something else. But none of that helped. You were used to her being there with you, a reassuring presence by your side. You needed her, especially when the missions were dangerous—especially when you felt the weight of the world bearing down on you. But now, you were alone, and that felt heavier than you expected.

As the helicopter’s engines roared to life, you settled back into your seat, trying to center yourself. This mission wasn’t supposed to be difficult. You could do this alone, you kept telling yourself. But something about it didn’t feel right. Maybe it was Natasha pulling out at the last minute. Maybe it was the fact that she hadn't given you her usual kiss for luck, the one that always helped you steady your nerves before a mission. But whatever it was, it gnawed at you. Your instincts were telling you to watch your back. Something wasn’t adding up.

By the time you arrived at the drop zone, the helicopter had been quiet for too long. The mountainside stretched ahead, vast and intimidating, and the cold wind carried the promise of danger. You could see the hidden compound from the air—well-guarded, heavily fortified, and far from any backup. A simple mission, Natasha had called it.

You didn’t believe that for a second.

The drop was smooth, and you quickly moved into position, your boots crunching against the frozen ground. The area around the compound was still and eerily quiet. Too quiet. No guards on patrol. No sign of life. It didn’t make sense, but you pushed the unease aside. You had a job to do.

You made your way toward the compound, slipping into the shadows, the cold air biting at your skin. Every step felt calculated, but the tension in your shoulders refused to loosen. You kept glancing over your shoulder, as if expecting Natasha to appear and tell you everything was fine, that this was just another mission to add to the books.

But she wasn’t there.

You reached the compound’s perimeter and found the first guard’s post abandoned, his gear left behind but no sign of a struggle. There was no time to waste. You slipped inside, working quickly to disable the security systems and hack into the mainframe. The room you’d accessed was silent, save for the whir of the computers. As you pulled the intel from the servers, the cold feeling in your gut only grew.

Something wasn’t right. Your instincts had been spot-on—this mission had been a setup.

The hairs on the back of your neck stood up as you heard the faint sound of footsteps approaching. You froze, turning off the monitor and moving swiftly toward the exit. You didn’t have time to think. You just had to get out. The sudden realization hit you like a punch in the stomach—Natasha wasn’t here for a reason. She’d known this mission wasn’t as easy as it seemed. And now you were paying the price for going in blind, without her by your side.

Your heart pounded as you sprinted for cover, your mind racing. Every corner you turned felt like a trap. The compound was alive with activity now. You could hear voices, shouts, the sounds of boots hitting the concrete floor.

I should’ve known better. I shouldn’t have trusted this mission without her.

You ducked into an alcove, pressing your back to the cold wall, your breath shallow. The door to the room you’d just vacated opened with a quiet click, and a group of armed men poured in, searching for you. The walls seemed to close in on you as the adrenaline kicked in. You had to move, had to get out, or you would be trapped.

Suddenly, your body started to droop, collapsing against the wall behind. The last thing you saw before everything went dark was long red hair tied into a bun.

But I don't want to carry on like everything is fine

The longer we ignore it, all the more that we will fight

You woke to the sting of cold water splashing across your face, the shock of it making your body jerk awake, muscles aching with the memory of the fight. The pain was sharp, gnawing at your ribs and shoulders, each breath a struggle. The world around you was blurred, and all you could focus on was the weight pressing down on your chest.

Your eyes opened, blurry at first, and then the details started to sharpen: concrete walls, dim lighting, and the cold, oppressive silence that clung to the room. There were metal chairs around you, all empty but one. The leader of the enemy force, a tall man with a face carved from stone, stood before you, a smug look on his face as he held the bucket that had been your rude awakening.

He tossed the remaining ice water in your direction, a small slosh hitting your face as he watched you with cold, calculating eyes. “You’re a tough one,” he said in a low, mocking voice. “I didn’t think you’d last this long. But everyone cracks eventually, don’t they?”

Your throat was dry, and your tongue felt like it was made of sandpaper. You could feel the blood caked on your face, the bruises that were already starting to swell. But despite the pain, despite the overwhelming urge to break, you held your ground. You glared up at him, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing fear in your eyes.

“You’ve got nothing to say?” the man sneered. “You SHIELD agents are all the same. So loyal. So stupid. You’re all just waiting for your little friends to come save you, aren’t you?”

Your lips pressed together tightly, and you refused to let a single word slip from them. You couldn’t afford to give him anything. Not a single piece of intel, not even a whimper. You knew that if you did, it would all be over.

He stepped closer, placing a booted foot against your thigh, forcing you back against the cold concrete. The pressure was almost unbearable, but you didn’t flinch. The silence between you both stretched, thick and heavy, until he finally gave a humorless laugh and straightened up. “I can wait. All of you are the same. Eventually, you’ll break.”

But you didn’t.

The next few days bled together in a haze of cold, pain, and isolation. The room was a blur of steel, concrete, and fluorescent lights. There were no windows, no sense of time. Your body was sore, covered in cuts and bruises, and the hunger gnawed at you. But you couldn’t give in. Not now. Not when you knew someone would come for you.

They’ll come. They have to.

Every time they came in, it was the same—questions, threats, taunts. And every time, you remained silent. You couldn’t let them know how desperate you were. You couldn’t let them see you break. Even if every part of you screamed for help, you stayed resolute, hoping that somehow, someone would find you, someone would come and end this.

But no one did.

It was only when the fourth day passed, when the darkness of the room had become your world, that you started to feel the weight of your own mind closing in. The silence, the isolation, the constant threat of pain—it started to take a toll on you. The hunger gnawed at your insides, and your thoughts drifted in and out. You could still hear his voice echoing in your head: They’ll come for you. They’ll come...

It was on the sixth day that it happened. A crack in the door. The low hum of voices. The sound of boots. You didn’t move at first, couldn’t. But then, just like that, the door swung open, and a small team of SHIELD agents burst in, guns drawn. They moved quickly, efficiently, sweeping the room and securing the area. You didn’t even have the energy to react as they cut through the restraints on your wrists and helped you to your feet.

"Hey, it’s okay, you’re safe now,” one of them murmured, gently pulling you into their arms.

But the words didn’t register. You could hear them, but it was like they were coming from another world. You felt light-headed, your body numb, the weight of everything that had happened pressing down on you. Your mouth was dry, but you didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

The next few days were a blur of recovery, of medical checks and debriefings that you couldn’t bring yourself to respond to. Every word felt like it was coming from a place far outside of you, and you couldn’t find the strength to answer.

In the quiet, isolated room they had put you in at the base, you sat in silence, staring blankly at the wall. Every noise around you felt too loud. Every touch too much. They gave you time to recover, but you couldn’t shake the heaviness in your chest. Your mind had shut down, your body running on autopilot.

There were no words. You couldn’t bring yourself to speak. The trauma, the isolation, everything that had happened—it left you feeling hollow. Broken.

You didn’t speak at all for days, your body recovering, but your mind still trapped in the darkness of that cold room. The cold man’s words echoed in your head. You’re all waiting for someone to come save you.

But even as the team tried to coax you into talking, even as they brought you your favorite food and gave you the space to recover, the silence remained.

Natasha didn’t come. She wasn’t there when you needed her, and the weight of that felt heavier than any physical wound. It wasn’t her fault. You knew that. But somehow, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were still alone.

Your recovery was slow. You weren’t the same person when you were finally cleared to leave the facility. There was a coldness in your eyes, a distance in your posture. The silence you had once embraced had become a shield, and now, it was all you had.

Natasha had visited you once during your recovery. She hadn’t said much, just sat in silence beside you. But even when she reached out to touch your hand, you couldn’t bring yourself to respond. The trauma had built walls too high, too thick to break. And no one, not even Natasha, could find their way through.

You were alive, yes. But the silence that followed felt like it would never end.

Please, don't fall apart

I can't face your breaking heart

The sterile scent of the hospital room, the constant hum of machines, and the bright, white lights overhead did little to make you feel at ease. You stared at the ceiling, your gaze unfocused, your mind a swirling mess of everything that had happened. You couldn’t bring yourself to do anything. You didn’t feel like you were living—just existing, going through the motions. Every movement felt like an effort, and the space around you felt too small, too suffocating.

You hadn’t spoken since the rescue. Not to anyone. The silence, once a comfort, had become a prison you couldn’t escape. Your throat was raw from the lack of words, and when you closed your eyes, you could still see the cold walls of that room, the mocking face of the enemy leader, and the weight of the isolation pressing down on you.

The door opened, and you didn’t look up. You knew who it was before the first words even registered.

“Are you seriously ignoring me?”

The voice was sharp, familiar, cutting through the fog that had settled around your brain. Natasha.

You didn't respond. You couldn’t. Your mind was screaming for you to stay quiet, to not let her in, because the moment you spoke, you knew it would shatter the wall you’d built to protect yourself. But Natasha didn’t wait for a response. She stormed into the room, her boots heavy on the floor, her expression tight with frustration.

“I’ve been trying to reach you for days,” Natasha continued, her voice rising with every word. “Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been? I can’t believe you’re acting like this. It’s been weeks. You’re acting like a damn child, and I’m done with it. I don’t have time for this immature bullshit, especially from you.”

Your chest tightened, a knot of anger and confusion building inside you, but you refused to show it. You couldn’t. You knew better than to let her see the storm inside you.

“I’m sorry I didn’t follow your schedule,” you said, your voice flat and devoid of emotion. You couldn’t bring yourself to add any more, any more than the words that barely scraped out. Sorry for being alive, sorry for failing.

Natasha’s eyes narrowed as she took a few steps closer, standing at the side of your bed. Her face was hard, her anger not hiding the concern that still flickered beneath. “You think this is easy for me, too? That I just get to pretend nothing happened? That I’m supposed to just let you wallow in here like—like this?” Her voice broke slightly, but she quickly regained her composure. “This is fucking ridiculous, and I’m not going to stand here and watch you ruin everything you’ve worked for. Do you understand me? You’re going to lose everything.”

The sting of her words cut deep, but it was the accusation in her tone that truly hit you. The one that had been festering in your chest ever since you’d been dragged out of that hellhole. You weren’t who you thought you were. You weren’t the person who deserved this life. The dream job, the recognition, the chance to be someone worth a damn—none of it was meant for you. Not after everything that had happened. You weren’t strong enough to keep it all, to be who they thought you were. And Natasha—Natasha, who had always been a silent pillar of strength for you, was now reminding you how easily it could all be taken away.

Her words stung. Immature... Ruin everything... You could feel the weight of her disappointment settle into your chest like a stone, heavier than anything you had ever felt.

And then, it clicked.

The final straw broke. Natasha didn’t understand. She didn’t understand the extent of what had happened to you—the isolation, the pain, the days spent waiting for someone to find you, and the crushing feeling that no one would. You were broken, and she was treating it like it was just a phase. That you just needed to snap out of it.

But you couldn’t.

You swung your legs over the side of the bed, the pain from your injuries flaring in protest, but you pushed through. You weren’t sure where you were going, but you couldn’t stay here any longer. You had to leave. You had to escape the judgment, the expectations. You couldn’t pretend to be strong anymore.

“Don’t walk away from me!” Natasha snapped, but you were already moving. You couldn’t be near her right now. The anger, the betrayal—it was all too much.

Ignoring her calls, you grabbed the nearest coat, not caring that it didn’t quite fit right, and you made your way out of the room. You could hear her following you, her footsteps echoing behind you, but you didn’t turn around. You didn’t owe her anything anymore.

You didn’t owe anyone anything.

It didn’t take long to get to the secure office where you had to sign a few papers before they cleared your discharge. You barely registered the words the agent at the desk was saying. You barely noticed the fact that your fingers were trembling. You only had one thing on your mind—the resignation letter you had been drafting in your head for days.

You placed it on the desk in front of the agent, your hands shaking slightly as you slid the paper over to them. The words were short and to the point, and they made everything feel so final. So irreversible.

“I’m resigning,” you said, voice hoarse. “Effective immediately.”

The agent didn’t ask questions. They just nodded, their face unreadable, and then went about processing the paperwork. You watched, numb, as the reality of it all settled over you like a weight that you could never lift. You had dreamed of this job for so long, had worked so hard to get here, only to throw it all away because you didn’t deserve it anymore.

And in that moment, you felt everything you’d been holding in for weeks. The grief. The betrayal. The isolation. It all came rushing back, but you didn’t cry. You couldn’t cry. The numbness, the emptiness, it was all you had now.

You stood up, turning away from the desk, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt a sense of finality wash over you. No turning back.

It wasn’t until you were almost out the door that you heard Natasha’s voice again, this time softer, more desperate. “Wait.”

But you didn’t stop. You couldn’t.

The door shut behind you with a soft click, and the world outside felt both too big and too small at the same time. You were alone now. Completely, irrevocably alone.

And somehow, that felt like the only truth you could rely on anymore.

I'm trying to be brave

Stop asking me to stay

Clint’s sharp eyes caught you before you could make it out of the door, his footsteps quick as he crossed the hallway. He was dressed in his usual casual gear, a quiver slung over his shoulder, his expression a mix of concern and frustration.

“Hey, wait,” Clint said, his voice softer than it usually was when he called someone out. You didn’t stop. Your feet kept moving, your heart hammering as you tried to escape. But Clint was relentless. He grabbed your arm gently but firmly, turning you around to face him.

"Where do you think you're going?" he asked, his voice laced with something like disappointment. “You can’t just walk out on everything. Nat’s worried sick.”

You looked up at him, eyes glassy, exhausted. “I don’t need anyone’s pity,” you muttered, your voice strained. “Not hers, not anyone's. Just... just leave me alone.”

Clint studied you for a moment, his eyes narrowing with understanding. Then, without warning, he pulled you into a quieter corner, away from the main corridors, where he knew you wouldn’t be overheard.

"Look," Clint said, his voice lower now, softer but still firm, "I don’t know what kind of crap Nat's been feeding you, but I can tell you're hurting. You think you can just walk away from everything, like it’ll make things better? You think that's gonna fix anything?"

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t bring yourself to. But Clint didn’t need an answer.

“I hear things,” Clint went on. “I’ve been around long enough to know when someone’s trying to hide something. And I’ve been in the rafters during most of those 'training' sessions with Nat. You think you’re the only one who feels small, huh?” His voice turned bitter, a subtle edge to it. “You think you’re the only one she’s pushed away?”

You stared at him, shocked, unable to respond. Clint saw right through you. He knew what was happening, and he wasn’t going to let it slide.

“She’s been messing with your head, hasn’t she?” Clint said. “Somehow, you think you’re not good enough, that you don’t belong here. You think everything you’ve done has been handed to you on a silver platter because of her. Well, let me tell you something—that’s not true.”

Your chest tightened at his words, but you still didn’t speak. It was like you couldn’t find the words. The guilt, the shame, the feeling of never measuring up to the expectations—they all churned in your stomach.

Clint let out a long, frustrated sigh, his eyes softening. “You’re good enough,” he said, his tone firm, but there was an understanding there that made your throat tighten. “You’ve earned every bit of your place here. And if she can't see that, then she's the one who’s in the wrong. It’s not about who you know or who you're sleeping with. You’re here because of you. Don’t you ever forget that.”

You felt the tears welling up, but you forced them back, swallowing the lump in your throat. Clint’s words had landed hard, and it was like a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding was finally being released. But before you could say anything, Clint stepped closer, lowering his voice even more.

“Natasha…” Clint trailed off, his jaw tightening. “She’s been a mess lately. She’s scared—scared of losing you, scared of messing things up. But she doesn’t know how to apologize for anything. She’s been pushing you away because she’s too afraid to admit what she’s done. So yeah, she's been selfish. But you can’t just run away from everything. You deserve better than that."

Your heart twisted at his words, and for a moment, you felt that familiar pang of wanting to believe everything he said. But the hurt was still there, the feeling of being abandoned in your most vulnerable moment. You didn’t trust yourself enough to believe that you were the one who mattered.

Clint left you with a small pat on your shoulder - he couldn’t blame you for wanting to leave, he just wanted you to know the truth that Nat definitely wasn’t going to tell you. Now to chew her out. It didn’t take long for Clint to find her. Natasha was pacing the hall just outside, her face etched with frustration. The second Clint approached her, she shot him a glare.

“Where the hell is she?” Natasha demanded, her voice tight with anxiety. “You didn’t—”

Clint held up a hand to stop her. “Sit down,” he ordered. “And listen. I’m done with you thinking you can just brush this off like it’s nothing.”

Natasha’s jaw clenched, but she stood still. Clint’s eyes were hard, and for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t holding back.

“You’ve been treating her like shit, Natasha,” Clint continued, his voice rising just enough to get her attention. “You think she’s the problem? That she’s just acting ‘immature’ or ‘childish’? Look around you for two seconds. You’ve been pushing her away, making her feel like she’s not good enough, like she doesn’t deserve anything she’s worked for. You’ve been feeding her insecurities—her real ones—with your own mess. And, she’s traumatised. Those guys out there, the ones that tortured her for six days because she went in without an extraction plan”

Natasha opened her mouth to argue, but Clint cut her off with a sharp motion.

“I hear things,” Clint said. “I’m up in the rafters sometimes. I hear the crap that other people say about her when they think no one’s listening. They question her place on the team because her dad was an officer in Fury’s good graces, or because they think you play favourites with her. They don’t realise that you’ve got something else going on, but all that shit compounded. You’ve made one of our best agents question everything about herself.”

Natasha’s face went pale, her expression shifting from anger to guilt in an instant. “Clint, I—”

“You’re lucky she didn’t quit sooner, Natasha. You’ve been so wrapped up in your own bullshit that you didn’t see how bad she was hurting.” Clint’s words hit like a slap. “Now go find her. And you better make this right, because if you don’t Fury is gonna be pissed.” The ‘and I’ went unspoken.

We're not the only ones, I don't regret a thing

Every word I've said, you know I'll always mean

Natasha stopped at the entrance of Tony’s stupid ‘serenity garden’. It was the last place she had left to look, and it looked like luck was on her side. You were sitting on one of the benches in the corner, your back to her as you stared into the depths of the Koi pond. It was like you were a part of the landscape now, blending into the tranquility of the place. Natasha felt her throat tighten at the sight. You looked so small, so vulnerable, so distant. She had never seen you like this—not once. It was always her who had the walls up, not you.

She took a cautious step forward, the grass underfoot crunching softly as she neared you.

Natasha called your name softly, her voice hesitant, like she was testing the waters. You didn’t respond immediately, and for a brief second, Natasha was unsure if you had even heard her. The silence between you felt thick, almost unbearable. She sat down beside you, not too close, but close enough that she hoped you could feel her presence.

It wasn’t the same as before—when she had always known what to say to you, when her words had always been sure, always laced with a confidence that kept her safe. But now? Now she had no idea how to begin. Her usual sharp tongue had failed her. There were no easy words to break the ice this time, no snarky jokes to hide behind. Only you—and the wreckage she had left in her wake.

You turned your head just slightly, enough to see her. The surprise in your eyes caught her off guard. You’re surprised to see me here, Natasha realized. You didn’t expect her to come. You didn’t expect her to care enough to seek you out.

And for the first time ever, Natasha didn’t know what to say.

Her mind was racing, every thought colliding into the next. She opened her mouth, then closed it again. She glanced at you, her expression filled with uncertainty. She could feel the weight of everything she had said, everything she had done, everything she had failed to do. The words that had always come so easily to her were nowhere to be found now. It was as if the depth of your hurt had trapped her, left her speechless, helpless.

You, on the other hand, hadn’t moved, hadn’t turned to face her entirely, but your gaze lingered on her for a moment longer than usual. You could sense her struggle—Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow, speechless for the first time in your memory.

“Nat?” you finally said, the question carrying more weight than it should. You almost didn’t recognize your own voice, hoarse and small, like the person you had been before all of this had come crashing down.

She looked at you, the smallest glimmer of relief flickering in her eyes, but it was quickly replaced with the same guilt she had been carrying for days now.

“I…” She stopped herself, shaking her head. “I don’t know what to say.”

You blinked at her, surprised. This was the first time you’d ever seen Natasha lost for words. You’d always been the one fumbling for the right thing to say, the one who couldn’t figure out how to get past the pain. But she—Natasha Romanoff, the one who always had control, always knew how to navigate even the most dangerous situations—she was the one who was struggling now.

It was like the world had shifted, and the unshakable woman you had always known had suddenly become... human.

It is the world to me that you are in my life

But I want to live and not just survive

Her voice was soft, as if the weight of everything she had been holding was finally catching up with her. “I messed up,” she said quietly. “I messed up, baby. And I... I don’t know how to make it right.”

Your chest ached as her words hit you. The vulnerability in her eyes was raw, and it took everything in you to keep the tears from falling.

“I’ve been a mess,” Natasha continued, her eyes looking straight ahead, not daring to meet yours. “I didn’t realize how badly I was hurting you... And I was so wrapped up in my own shit that I just—I pushed you away. I thought you’d be fine. I thought you’d understand. But I see now that I made everything worse.”

You swallowed, the words feeling like they weighed a ton in your chest. You couldn’t speak, not yet. But you turned your head slightly to face her, your gaze still unreadable.

“I never wanted to make you feel like you don’t belong here,” Natasha said, her voice breaking slightly. “I never wanted you to think that you were here because of me, or that you weren’t good enough.” Her lips tightened, frustration and regret flooding her features. “I just—I didn’t know how to deal with my own feelings. And I made you think I didn’t care. But I do. I care. I care about you more than you could ever know.”

The silence stretched out between you both, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Natasha felt small. Her pride, her strength—all the things that had always defined her—were gone, stripped away by the vulnerability of this moment.

You glanced at her, studying her face. It was like you were seeing her for the first time—broken, fragile, and unsure.

And for the first time, you allowed yourself to feel the smallest sliver of hope.

“I don’t know if you can fix this,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “But I need you to know something, Natasha. I needed you. And you—you—were the one who turned away.”

Her chest tightened at the weight of your words, but she didn’t flinch. She nodded slowly, accepting the truth, knowing it wasn’t something that could be undone in a moment. The air between you and Natasha felt heavy with words you couldn’t articulate. You had remained silent for so long, allowing her apology to linger in the air like a fragile thing—something too delicate to touch, to hold onto. But now, with the weight of her words pressing down on you, you couldn’t remain silent any longer.

“I’m leaving,” you said, the words steady, though they felt like they weighed a thousand pounds in your chest. You weren’t sure why you were telling her this now, but you had to. You had to make it real, to take control of something in your life again.

“I’m transferring,” you added, your voice quiet but firm. “I’m going to Quantico. I’ll be working with the FBI as a consultant. It’s not what I thought I’d be doing, but... I don’t deserve to be here anymore. I got the hint.”

The words felt like a confession, a goodbye you hadn’t yet found the courage to say. There had been so many dreams—so many things you’d imagined for yourself at SHIELD. You had fought for them, worked tirelessly, sacrificed for them. But now, they felt like they were slipping away.

Natasha didn’t say anything at first. She didn’t even look at you. Her eyes were fixed on the ground, like she was trying to find the words. You knew what she’d say. She’d tell you that you were making a mistake, that you had so much potential. But it wouldn’t matter. Nothing would fix what had been broken.

You could feel the emotions swirling inside of you, but you had already made your decision. It was easier to walk away, easier than confronting everything that had gone wrong.

But then, she spoke. And it was different from anything you’d expected.

“You’re the best SHIELD has to offer,” Natasha said, her voice steady, though there was an underlying urgency in it. “You’re the best agent we’ve got, baby. I... I don’t think you see it. You’ve done things that people can’t even dream of. You’ve proven yourself time and time again. You’ve earned your place here. And I know I haven’t made it easy for you, but you belong here.”

Her words hung in the air, and for a moment, you couldn’t quite comprehend what she was saying. Her voice was fierce now, insistent, and you could hear the raw sincerity in it. But none of it felt real. None of it felt true, not in the way you needed it to.

“I don’t believe you,” you said, your voice quiet, almost lost in the distance between you. “I don’t think I’ve ever truly belonged here. Not in the way you think. I’m not you, Nat. I’m not cut from the same cloth. I’m just—me. And I’ve been holding on to a dream that doesn’t fit. Not anymore.”

Natasha’s expression faltered. She opened her mouth to say something, but the words died on her tongue. She could feel your resolve, could see how broken you were, how done you seemed. It was like you had already left—mentally, emotionally, even before physically walking away.

Her chest tightened. “Baby, listen—"

But you shook your head, cutting her off. “Whatever you’re going to say, Nat, I’ve heard it all.” You inhaled sharply, the words rushing out. “And I’ve finally started hearing what’s been said. And now I’m seeing what’s been true all along. I’m not enough, no matter how hard I try. No matter how much I give. And you... you’ve made it clear that I’ll never be anything but a second choice. I was just a comfort to you, a distraction. You made me feel like I needed to prove myself—like I needed to earn my place, but I did. I did, and it never mattered.”

There was a pause. Natasha’s lips trembled, the harshness of your words sinking in. She knew she had been wrong, knew she had made everything worse. But hearing you speak this way—so broken, so defeated—it shattered something deep inside her.

"Please..." Natasha's voice faltered, her tough exterior cracking. She reached out toward you, but the gesture was hesitant, unsure. “I never meant for it to be like this. I never wanted to make you feel—”

You pulled away, standing up slowly, the decision final in your mind. “It doesn’t matter anymore. I’ve made my choice. I’m leaving. And I don’t think you’ll miss me that much anyway. It’s easier to pretend like you don’t need anyone than to admit you might be wrong about something.”

That's why I can't love you in the dark

It feels like we're oceans apart

Before you could take another step, you felt a hand grip yours. Warm, strong, and unyielding. Natasha had caught up with you, her fingers laced around yours, holding you in place. You didn’t turn around. You weren’t sure you wanted to face her again, not after everything that had been said, not after the rawness that she had exposed.

Natasha’s voice was softer now as she called your name, more vulnerable than you’d ever heard it. “Please, just—don’t walk away yet.”

You swallowed hard, trying to steady your racing pulse, but it was hard when every part of you wanted to run. You didn’t stop, but neither did she.

Her grip tightened, pulling you back just a little, her touch sending a mix of warmth and tension straight through you. When she spoke again, her voice wasn’t the confident agent you were used to, the one who had always kept her emotions under lock and key. There was something different now, something uncertain, almost as if she wasn’t sure of her place in your world anymore.

“I’ve messed up,” Natasha continued, her voice shaking with emotion. “I know I pushed you too hard. I know I made you feel like you weren’t enough, like you didn’t belong here, and... I did that because I wanted you to be the best. I wanted you to be safe. I was afraid that if anything happened to you—if I lost you on a mission, I—I don’t think I could survive it.”

You could feel her breath, the rise and fall of her chest close behind you, but you didn’t turn around. Not yet. Her words hit you like a wave crashing into the shore, raw and jagged, and for a moment, you didn’t know how to process them.

“I pushed you because I was scared. And in trying to protect you... I ended up pushing you away,” she whispered, the confession hanging in the air, the depth of it too much to ignore. “I was wrong. I’m sorry. I was so so wrong.”

The air between you both was thick with everything she had just said, and you stood there for a long moment, processing it all. But it wasn’t enough, not yet. You couldn’t bring yourself to face her—not yet.

“I don’t know how to forgive you for this, Natasha,” you said, your voice a mixture of anger and hurt. It wasn’t snark this time, no biting sarcasm, just raw emotion. "The only time something terrible happened to me, something that almost killed me, was when you abandoned me. You made the call. You didn’t show up. I was out there, all alone, and you weren’t there when I needed you most.”

Your chest tightened as you spoke, the hurt pouring out like it always had, but now it was different. Now, it wasn’t just anger. It was a deep, aching sadness that threatened to drown you. And despite yourself, you couldn’t stop the words from coming. “You made me feel like I wasn’t worth it. Like I wasn’t worth anything.”

You could feel Natasha’s breath hitch behind you, the weight of your words striking her deep. She didn’t say anything at first, and when you finally turned around, you saw the truth in her eyes—guilt, sorrow, and a pain you hadn’t expected. The sight of it, the way her face crumpled in on itself, broke something inside you.

Her hand fell away from yours, but it wasn’t because she wanted to let go. It was because she was shaking, trembling with emotion that she could no longer hold in. And then you saw it—tears. Two, maybe three, glistening on her cheeks. Natasha Romanoff, the unshakable Black Widow, was crying.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she whispered, her voice quivering. “I didn’t. I’m so sorry. I never wanted to make you feel abandoned. I... I couldn’t bear the thought of you in danger. But... I hurt you worse by pushing you away.”

For the first time in all the years you’d known her, you saw Natasha unraveling in front of you, breaking apart piece by piece. It felt almost cruel, to see her like this after everything you’d been through. But as much as your heart ached for her, you couldn’t bring yourself to forgive her. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

“You can’t just apologize and expect everything to be okay, Nat,” you said, the words coming out sharper than you intended. “You hurt me. You made me feel worthless, like I wasn’t enough. And when it mattered the most... when I was out there fighting to survive, you turned your back on me.”

Natasha flinched at the force of your words. They were like a punch to the gut, and you saw how much it hurt her to hear them. But the truth was, you couldn’t keep pretending that everything would just magically be okay.

“I know,” Natasha said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I know. And I can’t take that back. I can’t make up for it. But... I just need you to know, I care. I never meant to hurt you.”

“I know you care,” you said softly, but your voice still carried that edge of distance. “But that’s not enough anymore. I don’t know how to keep going back to the way things were. I can’t keep coming back to you only to be left in the dark again.”

There was a long silence, the kind that seemed to stretch on forever, and Natasha stood there, her shoulders slumped, her eyes filled with unshed tears. She was broken, but that didn’t change the fact that what she’d done had hurt you in ways you weren’t sure could ever heal.

“You’re right,” she said finally, voice cracked. “You deserve more than this. You deserve better. Someone who won’t make you feel like you have to earn their care, someone who won’t turn their back when things get hard.”

You stood there, feeling the weight of the finality in her words, and for a long time, you didn’t know what to say. You looked at her—the broken woman in front of you—and you realized that, despite everything, despite all the hurt, you didn’t want to stay. You needed to walk away. For yourself.

“I need to walk away, Natasha,” you said quietly, your voice steady but firm. “I don’t know what we were, what we are anymore. But I can’t do this anymore.”

You turned towards the exit, your steps unfaltering as you walked away. Natasha half expected - hoped - you’d turn around and run to her. But you didn’t. You walked away, slowly, your footsteps fading into the distance, away from SHIELD and away from her.

There is so much space between us

Baby, we're already defeated

A year later…

It was a quiet evening when you walked into the bar after a long day, your mind still buzzing with the details of your latest case. Quantico was different to SHIELD in almost every way. The people were different, the procedures were different, but you found that - after getting into the swing of things - it wasn’t worse. Just different.

The dim lighting of the bar, the hum of conversation, the clink of glasses—it was a familiar comfort now, one that made you feel grounded after the chaos of your job. You ordered a drink and leaned against the bar, letting your shoulders drop, the weight of the day lifting slowly.

That was when you saw her.

Natasha Romanoff, standing across the room, her back slightly to you as she talked to a stranger at the bar. But even from behind, something about her caught your attention. She looked different. Older, somehow. More... mature. The woman you had known was always poised, confident, and untouchable—but there was something in the way she held herself now that made her feel more human. Vulnerable, even.

Her hair was different too—shorter, sleek, straight, a stark contrast to the wavy red that had once framed her face. She had always been beautiful, but now she seemed to radiate something else—something quieter, more grounded.

You stared for a moment, unsure if you were seeing things right, but as she turned to glance around the bar, her eyes met yours. Recognition hit her almost immediately, and she froze for a second, her expression flickering with surprise. Then, just as quickly, it softened.

Her voice was a little hoarse as she whispered your name, almost like she hadn’t expected to see you here, or maybe she hadn’t heard your name in so long that saying it felt foreign.

You didn’t say anything at first. You just watched her—really looked at her—before taking a slow step forward. “Natasha.” Your voice was calm, composed. Different from the way you used to say her name with that sense of longing, of wanting something that wasn’t ever going to be.

She gave a small, tentative smile, the kind that spoke volumes about how much time had passed, about how many things had been left unsaid between you. "You look... good," she said, her eyes flickering over you.

It was an understatement. You felt good. You felt like you were finally living a life that wasn’t defined by the weight of the past, by the mistakes you’d made and the ones others had made for you.

“I could say the same about you,” you replied, with a small smile of your own. “You look different. I like it.”

“Yeah.” She ran a hand through her new, shorter hair, a nervous habit, before looking back at you. “A lot’s changed.”

“Clearly,” you said, glancing around. You couldn’t help but take in the way she stood—so different from the woman who had always been so self-assured, so used to being in control of every situation. But in a way, it made her more real, more approachable.

The two of you stood there for a moment, the air between you awkward but not uncomfortable, as if neither of you knew where to start. It was Natasha who broke the silence first.

“So, how’ve you been?” she asked, her voice softer than you remembered it. “Really?”

You raised an eyebrow at her, unsure if she even knew what really meant anymore, after everything. But it was a simple enough question. And you’d spent the last year being honest with yourself, so why not? “I’m doing alright. Different. Moving on. Got a new job at Quantico. Therapy’s been helping. I’m in a better place now.”

Natasha nodded, though you saw the flicker of something behind her eyes—a mix of regret, of longing, maybe. “I’m glad to hear that. I’ve... I’ve been trying to do the same. It’s been a long year. Things haven’t been easy, but I think I’m getting there.”

You studied her for a moment, your expression unreadable. The quiet honesty in her voice made you want to believe that she was trying. You could see it now. She had changed too.

“You’re still working for SHIELD?” you asked, trying to keep the conversation casual, as if the past didn’t hang over both of you like a thick, invisible cloud.

She nodded, but there was a hesitation in her movements. “Sort of. I’ve been taking a step back, working in a different capacity now. More... behind the scenes. I guess I’m trying to figure out who I am, outside of all the missions, the work.”

It hit you—she was no longer the same person either. The intensity in her eyes had softened, and there was a certain sadness to her that you hadn’t seen before. She seemed tired in a way that wasn’t physical—tired of running, of hiding behind the façade she had built. You hadn’t seen this version of her before, and in some ways, you almost didn’t know how to react.

“So... what now?” you asked, the question feeling lighter than it should. “Now that we’re both here, like this.”

Natasha’s eyes met yours, and there was a long pause, the weight of everything that had passed between you hanging heavily in the air. And then, almost as if on instinct, you spoke.

“Do you want to come back to my place?” You offered the invitation like it was just a reflex—like things could go back to the way they were, the comfort of those old habits, the way things had felt when it was just the two of you, before everything had gone sideways.

She looked at you for a long moment, and you saw the conflict in her eyes. She was torn, and you could see in her eyes, that something was playing on her mind.

“No.”

Everything changed me

And I don't think you can save me

The words hit you like a jolt, a shock of electricity shooting through your chest. Natasha’s eyes were steady on yours now, no longer hesitant, no longer uncertain. There was a firmness in her voice that you hadn’t heard in a long time—a quiet confidence that seemed to say she’d finally found something worth fighting for. And for the first time in a long time, you saw Natasha Romanoff not as the untouchable spy, not as the woman who had left you behind, but as someone real, someone who had learned from her mistakes.

“I’m not going to make the same mistake twice,” she said, her voice low but with an undeniable certainty. “If you want me, I’m going to do it properly this time. No more running, no more half-heartedness. I’ve hurt you, and I won’t do it again. But this time, it’s going to be on our terms. If that’s okay with you.”

You stared at her for a long moment, taking in the gravity of what she was saying, the weight of the promise she was offering. For so long, you’d wondered if this day would ever come. The idea of this—of her asking—had seemed impossible, a distant dream you never thought you’d reach.

And yet, here she was, standing before you, offering a chance to try again. A real chance.

“Dinner tomorrow?” she asked, her lips curving into a small, tentative smile. “If you're free?”

You didn’t have to think long. The question felt so simple, so natural, in a way that almost made you want to laugh at how easy it seemed compared to everything that had come before.

"Yeah," you said, the answer escaping your lips before your mind had fully processed it. "I’m free."

Natasha’s smile deepened, the corners of her eyes softening as she took in your response. It was a quiet victory for her—one that meant more than words could convey. She wasn’t expecting you to forgive her immediately, or to trust her completely. But she was willing to try, and that was more than she had ever given before.

“I’ll pick you up,” she said softly, her voice almost shy now. “I’ll make sure it’s a good night.”

You nodded, still processing the fact that she was here, still standing in front of you, willing to do what she hadn’t done before. And for the first time in a long while, you allowed yourself to believe that maybe, just maybe, there was something worth saving between the two of you.

“Sounds good,” you replied, a quiet confidence settling in your own chest. “Tomorrow then.”

With that, Natasha gave you one last look, a small, genuine smile gracing her face, before she turned and walked out of the bar. You stood there for a moment longer, feeling the weight of everything that had happened between you two, and then, for the first time in a while, you allowed yourself to feel something else—hope.

Tomorrow. You were willing to see where it could go. And maybe, just maybe, Natasha Romanoff was going to do it right this time.

You saved me.

The evening had been everything and nothing like you expected.

Dinner was at a beautiful, upscale restaurant with soft candlelight flickering across polished wood tables, glasses of wine that felt far too expensive, and Natasha—sitting across from you, more present than she had ever been. She wasn’t the untouchable agent, the mysterious woman who kept her emotions locked away. She was Natasha, just Natasha, in the soft glow of the candlelight, her laughter filling the space between the two of you, the lightness in her eyes almost enough to make you forget the weight of the years spent apart.

The night had been filled with easy conversation, the kind that flowed without effort, as though the years of silence hadn’t really existed. But it had. They had.

And yet, here you were, sitting across from her in a place that made your own paycheck look laughable, eating food that was far too rich for your taste, and all you could think about was how right this felt. You hadn’t expected it to be this natural, this easy to fall back into old rhythms, the way she looked at you like you were the only person in the room. And by the time you were back at your apartment, after a night of shared glances and a warmth between you that neither of you had ever truly experienced before, you couldn’t deny it anymore.

You wanted her. You needed her. And maybe, just maybe, you were ready to give her another chance, to let her love you, to let yourself love her again.

The moment your door clicked shut behind you both, Natasha pulled you into her, her lips capturing yours with an urgency that felt foreign, yet so familiar. There was no hesitation this time, no walls between you. Her hands roamed to your sides, pulling you closer, as though she couldn’t get enough. You met her halfway, losing yourself in the kiss, in the warmth of her touch, the way she made you feel like everything would be okay.

It wasn’t just the kiss though. It was what she said in between—her voice breaking the quiet with a rawness you hadn’t expected.

“I love you,” Natasha whispered against your lips, her hands tender as they traced over the curve of your jaw, as though she was afraid to let go. “I love you. And I never want to keep you hidden again. I’m done pretending I don’t need you. You’re everything.”

Her words hit you like a wave. They didn’t come with the weight of shame or regret this time. They were just the truth—simple, honest, and real. She loved you. After everything, after all the mistakes, she still loved you.

You breathed out a soft laugh, a tear slipping down your cheek at the raw vulnerability in her voice. She reached up, brushing it away with her thumb, as if she could erase the past for you, make everything better with that one gentle gesture.

“I’ve missed you,” you said quietly, your voice catching in your throat. “I’ve missed this.”

Natasha smiled, a single finger running down your cheek. "I don't want to hide you anymore. Let me love you in the light."

fin.

#natasha romanoff x fem!reader #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x female reader

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mcdonaldsnumberone · 2 days ago

Text

MR. CHU!

❤︎‬ sol wonders if you're interested in him after you ask about his piercings ❤︎‬ solivan brugmansia x gn reader ‪ ❤︎‬ wc: 2k ❤︎‬ content warning(s): yandere ❤︎‬ solivan brugmansia is from the kid at the back being developed by fantasia-kitt

Like everybody else in the school, you never used to pay much attention to the quiet kid in your art class. It really wasn’t until recently, when you had no choice but to shyly ask him if he’d like to be your partner for a class project, that you finally acknowledged Solivan Brugmansia’s existence.

You don’t think too much of him. Even now, as he tries his best to pose for you as naturally as he can, your mind is preoccupied with the far-more colorful personalities at Olympeius University while you absentmindedly sketch the details of his face. You wonder what Crowe might be up to right now, or if Jess has made any progress with her ginormous crush on Brittney…

Your eyes flicker up to where Sol is, and you try to pay close attention to the bottom half of his face. He’s a physically attractive young man, but aesthetics aside, you’re more worried about drawing Sol well so you can wring a good grade out of your insatiable art professor. You squint your eyes a bit, leering at Sol’s lips to try to make out all the details. It’s no biggie in your mind, since you need someone to model for you and you’re simply trying to make your drawing as accurate to life as possible, but Sol?

Sol thinks he’s going to asphyxiate from how fast and hard his heart is pounding.

He can’t believe his luck. It took him all the self control in his body not to start panicking and freaking out when you had approached him and asked him to be your partner, and now he got the honor of hogging all of your attention while you used him as a model. Would it be foolish of him to hope that you like what you see? He knows his fashion sense and style isn’t for everyone and tends to make him a target more than an object of admiration, but… you’re different. You’re understanding and compassionate, and maybe you’d find something worth loving in him.

“Hold still… I’m almost done here…,” you mutter, sticking your tongue out just a little bit as you scribble furiously onto your sketchpad. Sol’s heart skips a beat, and while he can feel a rush of dizziness immediately hit his brain at your cute tongue peeking out from between your lips, he doesn’t want to disappoint you ever.

After a few determined strokes, you nod at him. For the first time since class started, Sol finally lets himself relax. His tense muscles groan as he finally allows himself to shift positions into a more comfortable seated position, and he looks expectantly at you as if he wants to see your creation. You’re like a mind reader, and without him having to say anything, you gingerly hand him your sketchbook.

“I’m not an artist like you are, but… I tried my best,” you shyly admit. Sol’s breath hitches audibly when you scoot your seat a bit closer to him to explain to him your handiwork, but you don’t seem to notice. “I- uh- don’t know if I did your piercings justice since you have a lot, but I gave them a shot.”

You could have spat on the paper and handed it to him, and Sol would still treasure and revere it as if it were a masterpiece deserving to be displayed in the finest of art museums. Of course, he would never hand it over to anybody and keep it only for his personal viewing, but in his perspective, everything your hands could create was nothing if not holy.

“It’s beautiful. You should give yourself more credit. You’re not a bad artist at all.” He thinks he’s going to pass out after class from just how happy he is. A shudder creeps down his spine as he relishes the thought of your eyes all over his face and body, him being the only thing to take up the forefront of your mind. What he wouldn’t give to know what you thought of him as you sketched his face. Just knowing that you cared enough about him to draw him makes him feel as if he’s on top of the world, and he can feel a warm flush overtake his pale cheeks. “Don’t worry too much about my piercings. I know metal can be hard to draw.”

“Yeah, but… I just feel a little bad. They look so cool on you.” You flash him an innocent smile, completely unaware of the mental anguish you’re putting the poor lovestruck boy through. “I’ll keep practicing! That way I’ll be able to draw you perfectly by the end of this project.”

His piercings? Cool? Sol’s heart genuinely can’t take this barrage. What is it about you that has him acting this way? What is it about you that makes him want to drag you away from everybody else and keep you all to himself, to worship and to love? The others around you don’t know how to fully appreciate your generosity and light, how you’re kind to everyone, even misfits like him. He’s the only one who knows how to properly care and cherish you, and he can’t let anybody else steal that role away from him. He’s spent so many sleepless nights chasing after your warmth, eating away bit by bit at the safety of the boundaries you’ve put up.

Nothing can keep you safe from him.

You don’t know anything about how he feels though. You’re pure and oblivious to his mental turmoil, completely unaware of the sheer effect you have on him. You keep looking at him as if he was nothing more than an eccentric classmate rather than someone you were fated to, just without your knowledge. You peer closely at his face, before lifting a delicate finger to point at his lips.

“Say Sol…,” you ask him, clearly absentmindedly based on how casual your tone is, “How do you kiss if you have lip piercings?”

…

Why did you have to ask him something like that?

Sol thinks his brain might have ceased functioning the moment you threw him that question. Nothing—absolutely nothing—has been able to reach him as he plays that memory over and over again in his head. Even the jeers of the school bullies or Hyugo’s incessant chatter couldn’t yank him out of his lovestruck reverie. Sol was on cloud nine, replaying the melodic cadence of your voice over and over and over again within his memories. He could never get sick of you or your many details. Every little bit of information he could glean from you was so precious that he could spend the rest of his life in sheer ecstasy at how perfect you were.

Hyugo was used to it at this point and knew not to question it. But whenever Sol entered into these almost drunken stupors, it was hard for Hyugo to not worry about him a bit. Sol’s cheeks are dyed a ridiculous shade of bright red, and his hands tremble uncontrollably as he fidgets with his fingers. There’s a lopsided grin on his face, and if Hyugo really pays attention, he can make out a lovesick sigh escape the eccentric young man every now and then.

Sol just wishes he could actually peer into your mind and figure out what you thought of him! What made you ask him such a risque question? Were you interested in him? You had to be somewhat, if you initiated the partnership with him and even called his style cool… Nobody else talked about him that way. Nobody else, save for you, found him interesting. What if you had a crush on him too? Was that why you asked him about kissing? Was this your way of encouraging him to amp up his advances?

It meant that you had to be thinking about his lips. About kissing him specifically. Sol could feel his heart rate pick up dangerously again as he imagines your sweet face approaching his, closing the impossible distance between the two of you bit by bit. How many years, grueling moments, had he waited for this to take place? Maybe you’d be shy and only leave him with a quick peck to his mouth. Or maybe you’d be more gutsy and press your lips fully onto his, making out with him in a way that leaves both of you breathless and gasping for air. His heart squeezes almost painfully inside of his chest at the thought of you being so close, doing something so mundane yet so intimate, showing him a kind of romantic affection that nobody else could share with you…

He wants so badly to be the only one in your eyes. Each minute of class with you feels like torture. He wants nothing more than to close that gap. It doesn’t have to be anything big: placing his big hand on top of yours, poking your nose whenever you get distracted, all the small things that come so easily for normal couples. Kissing would just be the first step. What else could come after? There was a whole myriad of things he could dream of. He’d escort you dutifully to every single one of your classes so that everybody in this school would know that you were his.

You’d spend more and more time together, and surely, one day you’d invite him over to your apartment that he’s secretly grown so familiar with… Just thinking about it makes his skin bristle with excitement. If everything went as planned, as easily as his daydreams made it look, then he could finally have you in the way that he wanted most.

You had to reciprocate somewhat. You just had to be interested in him as much as he was interested in you. That was what that quick question meant to him, your words construed and twisted beyond belief inside of his delusional thoughts.

Hyugo puffs one of his cheeks out and peers at his daydreaming friend with a bit of concern. “Are you gonna eat your lunch, Sunny?”

Sol doesn’t respond at all. Hyugo sighs and shakes his head before tapping the side of Sol’s arm.

“I asked you a question!” The shorter man points at the untouched food in Sol’s lap. Sol bristles to life, the hearts in his eyes melting away as they refocus and Hyugo enters his field of vision again. Hyugo points once again at the abandoned food and raises his eyebrows expectantly.

Sol deadpans. If Hyugo’s presence wasn’t so convenient, he would have sent Hyugo flying to his death from the rooftop for interrupting his precious time with daydream-you. He lets Hyugo take the food before letting his mind wander again, wind blowing through his air as he wonders what you might be up to right now. Were you thinking of him too? Would you be thinking of him even when he’s not within your immediate vicinity.

He wants to see you so badly right now. He wishes he was in class again, for the first time in his life, so that he could have you right next to him and monopolize your time as he pleases. But Sol knows he has to be patient. One wrong step would have his great expectations come toppling down, and he would rather die than live in a world where he can’t have you anymore.

So he makes up his mind there and then. There was no room for hesitation. You had finally noticed him after all of his time lurking in the shadows, and these passive moments weren’t enough to satisate the brutal appetite you had awoken inside of him. He needs more. He needs more of your time. He needs more of your love.

If you were so curious about him and his piercings, so curious about the way he kissed, then he’d make the answer as simple as it could get.

He’ll kiss you tomorrow and show you just how he does it.

#the kid at the back #tkatb #the kid at the back x reader #tkatb x reader #tkatb sol #the kid at the back sol #solivan brugmansia #x reader #my writing

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wchswift · 24 hours ago

Text

─── SO HIGH SCHOOL

pairing: dean winchester x fem!reader

summary: As teenagers, you and Dean had a whirlwind romance before everything fell apart. Years later, you reunite—and it’s like high school all over again.

contents! mutual pining, teenage love, soft, flirting and touching, stupid in love dean, mdni 𖤐 18+

word count: 2.8k

𝒟ean masterlist !

Dean was the first and only real love you had.

Well, not exactly real. And maybe not exactly love.

He was the good part of your day. That person you knew would be there. The person who made school possible and tolerable.

Dean was always known for his charm, for his way with girls. For always having them. But the moment Dean joined your group of friends and you two became even remotely close, it was as if something, a connection, that you didn't know could exist, finally made itself present within you.

It wasn't something verbalized, something explicit. But as soon as you had your first kiss, there was no one else. No other girl in school had a chance with him. He wouldn't let you go, and much less took his eyes off you.

Everything felt so real. Even if it was just between the lines.

He was the best "relationship" you ever had. The best moments and the best treatment you had from a boy were with Dean Winchester.

And then just as it all began, suddenly he wasn't there anymore.

One night you two were together in the back seat of the car and the next morning he was gone from town, without any explanation.

And when you were seventeen, that was the last time you saw Dean.

You and Dean were sure you would never see each other again. You were teenagers, it was normal. People come and go from school all the time, it was common to meet people at school and then never see them again, never find out how they are.

This is what you and Dean thought things would be like. Just a memory that would fade in time. Never having to worry about looking each other in the eye again.

But when was anything ever simple in Dean Winchester's life?

A case never ended up being just a case.

The small town didn’t exactly scream "monster hotspot," but something was definitely off. Three people had vanished without a trace in the past two months, all last seen at the same place—a cozy little diner on Main Street that doubled as a bookstore. The place was old-school charming, the kind of spot with checkered floors, the scent of fresh coffee in the air, and a tiny bell over the door that jingled whenever a customer walked in. Nothing about it screamed "supernatural danger," but Dean had learned long ago that the worst things often hid in the most ordinary places.

“Alright, so we got three missing persons, no bodies, and a common location,” Sam said, flipping through his notes. “No signs of struggle, no EMF spikes, no sulfur. If it’s something supernatural, it’s keeping a low profile.”

Dean tapped his fingers against the Impala’s steering wheel, squinting at the diner across the street. “Or it’s just smart. Maybe a witch, maybe something we haven’t seen before.”

Sam sighed. “So, the usual—talk to employees, check out security footage, dig through lore?”

Dean smirked. “Aw, you're so smart, Sammy.”

With that, they climbed out of the car and crossed the street, the bell over the door announcing their arrival. The place was warm and inviting, filled with the quiet hum of conversation and the soft crackle of pages turning. Dean barely had time to take it all in before his gaze landed on someone behind the counter.

He recognized you instantly. There wouldn't be a day that he wouldn't.

You were busy jotting something down, focused on a customer, completely unaware of him—at first. Dean’s stomach tightened, his pulse kicking up. It had been years, but damn if you wasn’t still the same girl he remembered—just sharper, more grown-up, but still you. The girl who had once snuck out of your house to meet him, who had laughed against his lips under the Friday night stadium lights, who had looked at him like he was worth something—until he left without saying goodbye.

When you lifted your head, ready to serve the new customers, that’s when you saw him.

For a second, just a second, your eyes met, and he saw it: the flicker of recognition, the moment your heart probably dropped into your stomach the same way his had.

To this day, Dean always remembers the way you used to look at him. The sparkle in your eyes, the way they seemed to smile, emanating happiness and trust.

Just seeing you made him feel as if he were in high school again.

And now? Now you were standing behind the counter, your apron tied around your waist, a pen tucked behind your ear, looking at him like you weren’t sure whether to punch him or pretend he didn’t exist.

Dean opened his mouth, but for once in his life, words failed him.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” you finally muttered, eyes narrowing.

Sam cleared his throat. "Uh, Dean—?"

“Yeah, yeah, I got it, Sammy.” Dean snapped out of it, forcing a grin. “Long time, no see, sweetheart.”

"Didn’t think I’d ever see you again, Winchester.” Your voice was calm, even, but there was an edge to it, a quiet challenge. "Guess life’s full of surprises."

Dean exhaled through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah… guess it is."

Sam, ever the unfortunate third wheel, glanced between them and shifted uncomfortably. "Uh, we’re actually here about the disappearances. We’re—"

"FBI?" you cut in, lifting a brow. "Do you want me to believe that you two are FBI?"

Dean had to bite back a smirk. Of course you weren’t buying their act. You had always been sharp. Always saw right through him.

Sam hesitated. "We just have a few questions."

You sighed, tapping your fingers against the counter before jerking your chin toward an empty booth in the corner. "Fine. Take a seat. I’ll be over in a minute."

Dean watched as you turned on your heel, disappearing into the back. Only when you were out of sight did he let out a slow breath, dragging a hand down his face.

“Well,” Sam muttered, “that wasn’t awkward at all.”

Dean ignored him, eyes still locked on the door you had just walked through.

Yeah. This case just got a hell of a lot more complicated.

Only to get better, when you return, you decided to act as if he didn't exist. There was no sign of recognition on your face. No lingering shock, no flicker of emotion. Just cool, effortless professionalism, like you didn’t just have the wind knocked out of you moments ago.

A notebook is in your hand now, the pen twirling between your fingers as you slide into the seat across from them. Your eyes flick briefly to Sam—acknowledging him first, like Dean isn’t even there.

“So,” you say, tone even. “What exactly do you want to know? If this is about the disappearances, let me say I don’t know much. Just that they all came in here before they went missing. We gave their names to the cops already”

Dean leaned in, arms folding as he tilted his head slightly. “You always this helpful, sweetheart?”

The nickname made your eye twitch—barely.

You finally, finally glanced at him, and for a second, all he could see was the fire behind your gaze.

“I try my best, agent.” Your lips curled in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Anything else?”

Sam cleared his throat, glancing between the two of you, clearly picking up on the weird energy but too polite, more like too damn confused, to say anything. “Uh—right. But anything else you might’ve noticed? Strange behavior? Anyone bothering them?”

You exhaled through your nose. “Not that I remember.”

Feeling that with all this tension he wasn't going to get anywhere, Sam decided to stop there. “Alright, I think that’s all we need for now, then. If you remember anything else, let us know.”

With a nod, you began to rise from your seat, your body moving almost instinctively as you embraced the end of the conversation. “Sure thing."

As Dean watched you walk back to the counter, he couldn't believe you acted as if he wasn’t even there. However, if you thought that was the end of it, you were mistaken. Now that Dean had found you again, he wasn’t planning to just walk away. Not this time.

“Dude,” Sam muttered, voice low, snapping Dean out of his reverie. “What the hell was that?”

Dean exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “It’s complicated.”

Sam frowned. “Yeah, no kidding. You gonna fill me in?”

Dean didn’t answer right away, just watched as you disappeared through the swinging door behind the counter.

He used to love watching you walk away. Now it just felt like he was losing you all over again.

After a beat, he pushed up from the booth. “I’ll be back.”

Sam sighed. “Dean—”

But Dean was already moving.

The back door of the diner led to a narrow hallway—one he knew you’d taken to get a breather. It was quieter back here, the hum of conversation fading into a dull murmur.

And sure enough, there you were.

Your hands braced on the edge of a small counter, eyes closed, breathing deep. He knew that look. Knew you were trying to steady yourself, get your walls up before he could knock them down.

Too late.

“Still not gonna look at me?”

Your shoulders tensed at his voice, but you didn’t turn. “What do you want, Dean?”

He leaned against the doorframe, arms folding. “Oh, I dunno. Maybe a little acknowledgment? A hey, Dean, long time no see. Thought you were dead or in jail—”

“Wouldn’t have been surprised.”

Dean let out a sharp breath, a humorless smirk twitching at his lips. “Yeah, well. Didn’t end up that way.”

Silence.

You reached up, rubbing your temple, like talking to him was physically painful.

And hell, maybe it was.

After a beat, you finally turned to face him, arms crossing. Your eyes were sharp, guarded. But there was something else beneath it. Something raw.

“Why are you here, Dean?”

His chest ached at the way you said his name. Not like you used to—soft, familiar, like it meant something. Now it just sounded… tired.

“Job brought us here,” he said, keeping it simple.

You studied him, unconvinced. “And what? You thought, hey, let’s stop by and ruin her day while we’re at it?”

Dean huffed a dry laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, because that’s what I wanted. To see you look at me like I’m a damn ghost.”

You flinched. It was quick—so quick he almost missed it. But he didn’t.

And suddenly, the fight drained out of you. Your gaze dropped for the first time since this whole thing started, fingers tightening against your sleeves.

Dean’s throat worked.

He could push. Could try to get you to really talk, break down that wall you were building brick by brick.

But the way you looked right now? Like you were holding yourself together with nothing but sheer will—

He couldn’t do it.

Not yet.

Instead, he exhaled, running a hand down his face. “Look. I don’t know how long we’ll be in town. But I think we’re gonna be crossing paths whether you like it or not.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t answer.

Dean nodded, stepping back. “Just… don’t pretend I was never here, alright?”

And with that, he walked away.

He didn’t see the way your jaw clenched, the way your fingers curled into fists like you were stopping yourself from reaching out—

Didn’t hear the breath you let out, shaky and uneven, as soon as he was gone.

You knew this wasn’t the end—couldn’t be. Deep down, you knew that your story with Dean Winchester was far from over. And you knew that the moment he decided to see you again, he would pull you close once more, weaving his way into your heart until you could never imagine leaving his side again.

Weeks passed.

Looking back, you weren’t sure when exactly everything shifted.

Maybe it was after Dean came back to the diner and made you listen while he told you the truth—even though at the time you were sure that the man you once loved was completely insane.

But maybe it was when you started helping with the case, and somewhat believing him—not because you wanted to be a hunter, but because you wanted to be with him.

Or maybe it was just inevitable. Like gravity pulling you back into his orbit, like you never really had a choice in the first place.

All you knew was that, suddenly, it felt like before—like sneaking out past curfew, like warm summer air and stolen kisses in the Impala, like every love song that made your chest ache.

Only now, you weren’t kids anymore.

And Dean Winchester had never been the kind of guy to love halfway.

Which was how you ended up here.

Sitting in a diner, trying to pretend like Dean’s hand wasn’t sliding up your thigh under the table.

Across from you, Sam exhaled sharply through his nose. His patience was wearing thin.

“Dude,” he gritted out, glaring at Dean. “Can you stop touching her for five seconds?”

Dean, the picture of innocence, took a sip of his coffee. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Sammy.”

Sam’s expression was pained.

You bit your lip to keep from laughing, but when Dean leaned in—his lips brushing your ear when he definitely didn’t need to be that close—you swatted at his chest.

“Dean.”

“What?” He smirked, not even pretending to be sorry. “Just admiring my girl.”

Sam muttered something under his breath that sounded a lot like I hate this.

But it only got worse from there.

Dean was relentless.

His hands were always on you—an arm wrapped around your waist, fingers playing with the hem of your shirt, palm resting low on your back. He kissed your temple absentmindedly, whispered things that made you flush, smirked when he caught you looking at him like you still had a teenage crush on Dean Winchester.

Because you did.

You always had.

Later, at Bobby’s, the three of you sprawled in the living room—Dean practically wrapped around you on the couch, arms snug around your waist, his breath warm against your neck.

Sam was across the room, doing some research on his laptop, eyes glued to the screen as if sheer focus could block out the absolute nonsense happening beside him.

Dean, completely unbothered, nosed at your temple. “You cold?”

You weren’t.

At all.

But you hummed innocently, just to see what he’d do.

Dean, ever the problem, tugged you closer, his hands sliding beneath the hem of your sweater, tracing slow, lazy circles against your skin.

You shivered.

He felt it.

And he smirked.

“You’re shameless,” you whispered, biting your bottom lip to repress a smile.

Dean nipped at your jaw. “Yeah?” His lips brushed your ear, and God, you felt it everywhere.

“Hey.” His voice was quiet, meant just for you. “Wanna know somethin’?”

You swallowed. “What?”

Dean shifted, his mouth so close his breath fanned warm against your skin. “First time I saw you? When we were stupid teenagers?” His hands traced higher, fingers barely grazing the edge of your bra. “Damn near forgot how to breathe.”

Your stomach plummeted.

“Dean.”

“Mm?”

Your heart hammered, but you fought to keep your voice steady. “Sam is right there.”

Dean pulled back just enough to glance at his brother—who was clearly tuning you out, laser-focused on not acknowledging this entire situation.

“If he has a problem, he can get up and leave.”

You swatted at his chest, biting back a laugh, but when you turned to face him, his expression shifted—no teasing, no smugness. Just him, looking at you like he was seeing you all over again.

His fingers brushed your jaw, tilting your chin up.

And just like that, you felt seventeen again.

God, what was it about him that made you feel like this?

That made you ache?

Dean’s lips parted, his gaze flickering down to your mouth.

Your breath caught.

He grinned—slow, lazy, devastating. “You gonna let me kiss you, sweetheart?”

You were sure your heartbeat was so loud.

Sam made a strangled noise in the background.

Dean groaned, dropping his head back against the couch. “Jesus Christ, Sammy, just leave the damn room.”

“I'm living here too,” Sam deadpanned, not directing his gaze towards you.

Dean huffed, shaking his head before turning back to you—his eyes darker now, filled with something deep and warm and completely unshakable.

You swallowed, fingers twisting in the fabric of his shirt.

This man knew what he wanted and, boy, he definitely got you.

But God, Dean Winchester was so much. And he had been from the start.

And you were so gone for him.

𖤐 reblogs and feedback are appreciated! requests are also welcome, ty!

lina's notes: I should have posted this a long time ago lol, but it didn't turn out exactly how I wanted and I was a little unsure but I hope you liked it <3

taglist: @lyarr24 @cowboysandcigarettes @blossomingorchids @bettystonewell @rositaslabyrinth @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @freeluigihesbae (if you want to be removed or added let me know <3)

#꣖ ີ ꣓ writes.#dean winchester 🪽#dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #supernatural #dean winchester x fem reader #dean supernatural #jensen ackles #dean winchester drabble #dean winchester fic #dean winchester smut #dean winchester fluff #jensen ackles x reader #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural dean #dean winchester fanfiction #supernatural drabble #taylor swift fanfiction #jensen ackles fic

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voidofsunlight · 3 days ago

Text

Title: Bad Day

Word Count: 708

Summary: You had a day—Choose your boy!

A/N: Hello! 💚 Trying out a new format—hope you like it! I won’t lie, I’m not super proud of this one, it’s my first attempt, but hopefully, you still enjoy the chaos. Sorry for not posting more tonight, it’s been a rough week. Enjoy!✨😊

Bad Day

It had been one of those days—the kind where nothing went right from the moment you woke up.

Your alarm hadn’t gone off, meaning you barely made it to breakfast before the food vanished. You spilled ink all over your notes in Transfiguration. Snape was in an even fouler mood than usual and took points from you for simply existing. And to top it off, you tripped while walking.

By the time class ended, you were drained, frustrated, and in desperate need of comfort.

Mattheo Riddle

You found Mattheo lounging in the courtyard, arms stretched behind his head as he stared up at the sky. Without a word, you dropped down beside him, resting your head on his chest. His heartbeat was steady beneath your ear—a grounding rhythm against the chaos of the day.

Mattheo let out a low chuckle. "Rough one?"

"The roughest," you mumbled, tracing idle patterns on his shirt.

He hummed. "Was it Peeves again? Because I can totally set a trap for him later. I have a plan. It involves a bucket, some enchanted slime, and an alarming amount of fireworks."

One of his hands remained behind his head, but the other absently settled in your hair, twirling a strand around his fingers. "Well, lucky for you, I have no pressing responsibilities today. Feel free to use me as a human pillow."

You sighed, shaking your head. "You’re impossible, Matty."

He smiled, pressing a quick kiss to the top of your head. "You love me."

Tom Riddle

You marched straight into Tom’s dorm, arms crossed. "I require cuddles."

He blinked at you, unamused. "You require what?"

"Cuddles. Hugs. Physical comfort. Take your pick."

Tom exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Four seconds."

"What? Four minutes? Okay, I can work with that—" You stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him.

"No, I said—"

"Four hours? Is this my lucky day?" you grinned against his chest.

He groaned but didn’t argue, just grabbed your wrist and tugged you onto the couch beside him. His arms settled around you, stiff but warm.

"Stop talking before I change my mind."

"You secretly love it," you teased.

"I tolerate it," he corrected.

"Thank you, Tommy," you murmured. He squeezed you a little tighter, humming in response.

Theodore Nott

Theodore was curled up on the common room couch when you all but collapsed beside him, burying your face into his shoulder.

"I give up. Today wins," you groaned.

He hummed in response, wrapping an arm around you. "That bad?"

"Disastrous."

"Hmm. Well, the good news is, you’ve reached the safe zone. No stress allowed here." He kisses your head gently.

You exhaled, shifting to get comfortable in his arms. "Thank you, Theo."

Lorenzo Berkshire

You didn’t even ask. You just walked up to Lorenzo, dramatically threw yourself across his lap, and sighed heavily.

He blinked down at you. "Uh. Hello?"

"I’m sad," you informed him. "Fix it."

Lorenzo laughed softly, shaking his head, but he didn’t push you off. Instead, he settled a hand on your back, fingers drumming idly.

"You are so needy," he muttered, though there was no bite to it. "Lucky for you, I’m in a generous mood today."

Blaise Zabini

You found Blaise outside, sitting under a tree, staring off into the distance. He glanced up as you approached but didn’t say anything when you sat beside him.

After a moment, he asked, "Want me to hex someone for you?"

You smiled a little. "Tempting, but no."

He nodded and, without hesitation, wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close. "Alright. Just let me know."

It was simple, but it helped.

"Thank you, Blaise," you replied softly.

Draco Malfoy

Draco was in the middle of a passionate rant about something completely unrelated when you flopped onto the couch beside him and sighed. Loudly.

His monologue came to an abrupt halt. "Okay, what was that?"

You groaned in response, throwing an arm over your eyes.

Draco frowned. "Who do I need to fight?"

You peeked at him. "You’d fight for me?"

"I mean—I’d supervise while Mattheo fights for you," he corrected, "but yes, obviously."

You huffed a laugh, and he rolled his eyes before pulling you into a hug.

"Thank you, Draco."

PLEASE DO NOT COPY / TRANSLATE OR REPOST AS YOUR OWN!

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cowboylu · 2 days ago

Text

I’ll Make You A Believer

Hey…👀 sorry I disappeared forever lmao but here’s this. Also apologies to the anon who had to wait for literally ten business years for this hope you’re doing well xx also if there’s any mistakes or typos pls don’t be afraid to tell me cause I’m so fuckin tired lmao

There’s loud music playing when you step into the cabin, the cabin you and abby share on an old couples ranch in exchange for a few hours of work each day. The sight of her hat on the coatrack, on the hook next to yours, makes you smile and you idly balance yourself by hanging onto her jacket so you can take your spurs off.

You don’t bother with your boots however, and Abby must not have either ‘cause her boots aren’t in their designated place.

It feels good to be back. To be home.

You love working on the ranch, looking after the horses while Abby handles the cattle, even if being a wrangler wasn’t exactly what you ever saw yourself doing. The sunsets and sunrises are the best you’ve ever seen out here and Eleanor and Abraham are sweethearts, always offering tea and cake on the rare occasion you make your way up to the big house. Still though, ain’t nothing like seeing Abby’s boots next to yours.

Ain’t nothing like hanging your jacket on her hook so she’ll put hers on yours.

Ain’t nothing like finding her waiting on the porch for you or vice versa.

Ain’t nothing like coming home to your girl.

ᨒ ོ ☼

When you get closer to the kitchen, you realise the song playing is by that Tyler guy you know she likes, something about following someone to Virginia or Virgie or whatever. Said Tyler guy also coincidentally happens to be the husband of one of your favourite singers.

You're ready to say hi when you round the corner, but the view you're blessed with demands you to take a moment to just look at her.

Her oxblood coloured T-shirt strains over her broad shoulders and it's a little damp from the sweat of the sun. Her blonde braid hangs down between her shoulder blades and the dark fabric of her T-shirt accentuates the stray hairs that have escaped from her braid, bleached lighter by the same sun. Your eyes travel down and back up, her boots, her jeans, the wrangler tag just under her belt and her ass just under that.

Lord...that ass.

If you ever needed proof that god existed, it was proven without argument when you met Abby.

After all, an angel can only be created by something capable of creating perfection...and it's either that or dumb luck.

Either way she's standing in front of you, letting you observe her without even knowing she's being observed. Without trying to be anything but herself.

You don't get to observe much longer though, 'cause her dog hears the creak of the old door jam when you lean against it and barks, startling Abby.

You greet Alice when she stands on her hind legs to put her front paws on your thighs, her way of asking for attention. You grant it, obviously, and smile at Abby when she comes towards you and kisses your cheek.

You stand to your full height and Alice gets the message, going back to where she was sitting on the armchair, giving you the chance to appreciate Abby closer. She's holding a spatula you realise, having completely not noticed what she was doing 'cause you were too focused on her.

"Good afternoon..." You say with a small smile, wrapping your arm around her neck to kiss her properly. "Been missin' you."

"Yeah?" She replies quietly against your lips and the hand not holding the spatula slips into your back pocket. "That's good."

You pull back to look at her and - Jesus Christ-the view is even better from the front. Which is saying something.

Those freckles...those eyes...those lips...that goddamned scar on her cheek that she got after a fight gone wrong in high school...the one that you cleaned footloose style while she lay in the bed of Manny's truck as Nora explained to you how to use paper stitches, god bless her.

The way the bottom of her eyebrows grow up and the tops grow down, the crease between them when she gets confused, the dip in her-

"What're you lookin' at?" She breaks your train of thought with a pretty laugh from her pretty lips.

"I'm so in love with you." You reply completely seriously, still gazing into her eyes like she's a statue that just came to life. In awe.

"Thank god."

Her lips meet yours again and your free hand runs up her arm, feeling her muscles and her warm skin.

She's always warm, even when she's cold.

"I love you too." She whispers against your lips, blindly tossing the spatula onto the counter so she can put both hands on you.

You back her up against the counter as you kiss, your hands on that ass that you love so much, squeezing and feeling and cursing the material of her jeans for being so thick. Even though they make her ass look so good. So good.

Abby pulls away, making you groan, but she rests her beautiful head on your shoulder and pulls you in for a hug, so you can't really complain.

From this angle, you can see the eggs she was frying over her shoulder and you smile when you notice they're burnt to hell.

"You're gonna have to make new eggs."

"Are they burnt?" She murmurs softly into your shoulder and you can hear the smile in her voice.

"Like shit."

"God..." she smiles as she pulls away and turns back to the pan, but you keep a hold of her around her waist, uncaring for the little voice in your head that calls you annoying for it because you like it too much.

You like Abby too much.

It's an hour or so later when you're done with dinner and relaxing in the two chairs on the porch. Alice lies in the dry grass a few feet away and Abby is staring out towards god knows what, but your eyes are on her.

You decide you want her to look at you, and so slowly rub the pointed toe of your boot against the inside of her right knee. She doesn't look, however, just pulls your leg up onto her lap.

You huff.

Her hand slips under your jeans to rub the slightly calloused skin of your own knee, but you want her to look at you. To react to you.

So you tilt your foot forwards and run the toe of your boot over the length of her inner thigh, following the seam of her jeans up and down...up and down, up... down...up, up, up...and down.

Abby's chest rises and stays there, but she still doesn't look at you.

Fuck it.

Your foot hooks around the leg of her chair and you turn her to face you yourself. Your beautiful girl.

"Pay 'tention t'me..." You murmur. "Let me look at you."

Abby sighs and you smile, because she lets it happen. You know she's not someone who does things she doesn't want to. Everyone knows it.

"You're beautiful." You say, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"Stop..." for all that she's brilliant at, she's never been good at loving herself.

"Never..."

your foot rests on her chair, right between

her legs, to keep her attention on you with the anticipation.

Abby's eyes dart down to your foot before back at your face and when her pretty lips press together, you know you've got her.

"I wanna look at you forever...touch you forever..."

And with that, you press your boot forward, pressing into the belt buckle that sits on her navel.

She takes a deep breath like before and her hips twitch. Her fingers twitch like she wants to move too, but she's not very sure where to put her hands. The anticipation stops her from moving anyway.

You tilt your toes back and straighten your leg a little so your heel cap catches on the seam of her jeans, right over her clit.

Abby looks at you for permission, a small raise of the start of her eyebrows, and when you nod she tilts her hips to grind on you.

You admire her for a while. The way her own heel digs into the wooden porch and the way her denim stretches over her thighs. Her hips and her stomach and her chest and her collarbones and the muscle in her neck-

Your thoughts are stopped before you can admire Abby's hands and arms and shoulders and the sweat stains that you can just see on the maroon fabric of her T-shirt under her arms when she makes a small noise.

"Fuck..."

Abby exhales and grabs onto your foot, making you pull it away.

"Ah, ah." You interrupt her before she can complain, waiting until she slumps back in the chair to put your foot back on her. Though this time you use the outsole of your boot, under the heel of your shoe.

"Behave."

And behave she does, because Abby stays still and lets you set the pace. Lets you rub her cunt with your foot through her jeans.

Seeing her like this always makes pride swell in your chest. Pride and a sense of protection.

She could fight you for it, but she doesn't. Abby lets you have the control. She wants this. Just as much as you do.

#Spotify #abby anderson #abby tlou #abby the last of us #abby x masc!reader #abby x reader #abby anderson x reader #abby x you #abby anderson x female reader #abby anderson x you #abby anderson smut #sub abby #sub!abby

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jeongsoob · 2 days ago

Text

not even sometimes ᯓ 𝚌𝚜

SFW version of my fic posted on @heechwe .ᐟ

୨୧ pairing: choi san x fem!reader ୨୧ word count: 3.2k ୨୧ genre: fluff, sprinkles of angst, suggestive (just in last scene) ୨୧ tags: neighbor to lovers au, healthy communication for the win ୨୧ synopsis: You've never been good at planning for the unexpected, much less a new neighbor. But the man in question may just love that about you, among other things you didn't see in yourself to begin with. ⟢ AUTHOR'S NOTE: This fic is a remaster of an old fic I wrote years ago for a member of NCT, the original title being "Where We Begin." Seeing as I am not following that group anymore and I thought it'd be fun to polish up some old work, what the hell. Thank you to my betas for reading this one, @prkhaven @lovetaroandtaemin @tinycatharsis @jjunbug @innocygnet, I love you lots. Title inspiration from "Sometimes" by Ariana Grande!

Some people know the instant something begins, the start of something new brimming with possibilities palpable within the surrounding air.

For you, it’s not that simple.

Lucky for you, Choi San isn’t subtle. With a body like his, how could he be?

You give San your name with a smile, a soft yet large hand enveloping your smaller one. “You’ll love it here. I’ve been here for almost five years, never a problem.”

“That’s perfect. I’ve been couch-surfing for two months, so anything is better than my friends’ smelly socks and booty calls.”

You giggle, the sound reverberating off the highway walls. It almost makes you forget your choice of clothing, the realization suddenly hitting you.

You giggle, pointing a finger towards the football. “So, you play sports and cook?”

“Not really, just a parting gift from my friend Woo for the recipe I owed him. I guess it’s also a housewarming gift‌, considering.”