𝐋𝐚𝐳𝐲 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠

𝑰 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒕'𝒔 𝒌𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒆

John Wick x Reader

You step onto the terrace, the cool night air brushing your skin, and the city sprawls before you—its lights twinkling like stars, a reminder of all the times you used to dream with him. You don’t know why you came here tonight, not really. Maybe it’s the glass of champagne you’re holding in your hand, or maybe it’s the way the gala inside feels too constricting. You feel a sudden need to breathe, to escape the glitz and glamour for just a moment.

You slowly slip off your heels, a small sigh escaping your lips as you feel the pressure lift from your feet. You close your eyes for a second, grounding yourself in the sounds of the city below. The hum of traffic, the occasional distant laughter, the clink of glasses from inside the ballroom. It all blends into one low murmur, a noise you once thought you couldn’t escape.

Then you hear it.

The quiet, measured footsteps behind you.

You don't need to turn around to know who it is. You can feel it, in the way the air shifts around you, in the tension that suddenly tightens your chest. John Wick. That name. That face. That past. It's been years since you last saw him, years since you last spoke, yet here he is again, the same intensity in his presence, the same storm of contradictions wrapped up in one man.

He stands just a few feet away, not close enough to touch, but close enough that you can feel the pull of him. His eyes are on you, but you don’t look at him—not yet. You haven’t figured out how to face him yet, after all this time.

"You always did like the quiet," he says, his voice low, rough, like gravel being ground underfoot. His words stir something deep inside you, a forgotten ache, a soft memory of what was once so easy between you two.

You take a long breath and finally turn, meeting his gaze. There it is, that flicker in his eyes, the same dangerous fire that used to haunt you—still haunts you. But there’s something different now. Weariness. A kind of resignation.

"Why are you here?" You don’t recognize your own voice—it’s calm, steady, like you’re in control. But deep down, you can feel the storm brewing. It’s always been like this with him, hasn’t it? A push and pull you could never quite untangle.

"I could ask you the same thing." His gaze flickers to the city beyond you both, as if looking for something. Or maybe running from it.

You can’t help but let out a bitter laugh. "Always the man of few words, John. Always running."

"Not anymore," he replies quietly, almost to himself, but you catch it.

The distance between you both feels like an ocean now, yet your heartbeat betrays you, thumping louder than the city beneath your feet. It’s stupid, isn’t it? This unresolved tension, the way you’ve always gravitated toward each other, like magnets, pulling back together no matter how far apart you’ve drifted.

"Why did you leave?" The question escapes before you can stop it. It’s raw, unexpected—yet it’s been there all along, lingering under the surface. He owes you that answer. You owe yourself that answer.

He doesn’t answer at first, his gaze narrowing as he takes a step closer. You can smell him now, a blend of cologne and leather, something dark, familiar. But then he pauses, his voice dropping low, almost like a confession.

"I had things to do. People to protect." His jaw tightens, eyes flicking to the ground for a moment. "Things got... messy."

You nod, a cold chill creeping through you. You know exactly what he means. You knew him before the gunshots, before the chaos. You knew him when he was still yours—and you were his, in some broken, unspoken way.

"Did you ever think about me?" The words slip out before you can bite them back.

John’s eyes meet yours, the weight of your question hanging between you like smoke. His expression is unreadable, but something shifts in his gaze—a flicker of regret? Or maybe longing. He’s never been good at hiding what he feels.

"Every day," he admits, his voice barely above a whisper, but the sincerity is there, in the way he looks at you. "I tried to forget. But some things you can't walk away from."

Your heart skips a beat. He’s here. He’s saying all the right things, but you don’t know if you should believe him. After everything, after the pain, the betrayals... Can you even go back to that version of you both?

You step back, away from him, needing space. Your mind screams at you to run, but your body betrays you, frozen in place.

"You should go." It’s a command, but it feels weak, unsure, like a part of you is begging him to stay.

John doesn't move immediately, just watches you, his gaze lingering on your face as if trying to memorize it all over again. Then, finally, he gives a slow, almost imperceptible nod.

"Maybe next time," he says, his voice softer, gentler than before. Then, with a single step backward, he turns and walks away, disappearing into the shadows.

You’re left standing there, on the terrace, with nothing but the city lights, the cool night air, and the echo of a past you thought you'd buried.

Monaco

Charles Leclerc x Reader

You can feel the weight of the past as you stand in the shadows of Mónaco. The salty air brushes your skin, mixing with the distant hum of the city’s nightlife, but none of that matters. Your eyes are only on one thing: the memory of him.

It’s been months maybe even years and yet the streets of this city hold him like an echo. You know that your plan was never meant to be forever. You were never meant to stay. It was always supposed to be fleeting, the way the summer nights come and go. You, Charles, and the promise of something more... something that could have been, but was never destined to last.

You remember how he used to take your hand as the sun set over the harbor, his face a mask of calm beneath the weight of the world. There were moments when you thought he could escape the fame, the pressure, and just be yours. But reality was always waiting, hovering like the darkness over the circuit at night, just as unpredictable as the next race. The promise of forever slipped through your fingers like sand, and suddenly, there was nothing but the silence between you.

You know it’s too late to go back. To reimagine what could have been. But part of you still holds on to the idea of him of the way his smile could light up even the darkest corners of your mind. The way he kissed you under the lights of the casino, telling you that everything would be okay, even if you both knew better.

You never spoke of a second chance. You didn’t need to. It was clear that the world around you his world was too big, too overwhelming for the two of you. The distance between you grew, just like the races that he kept winning, while you stayed on the sidelines. But there’s a part of you, the part that still lingers in the back of your mind, wondering what if.

What if there was another chance? What if this city, with its grand, timeless streets, could bring you both back together? You laugh softly at the thought. The answer is clear, even if it hurts. You were never meant to stay in each other's lives. But the memories of what happened here under the shadow of the circuit, in the quiet moments when you were alone together will never leave you.

I love him

Timothée Chalamet x Reader

You’re standing at the edge of a quiet park, watching the golden light of dusk stretch across the horizon. The world feels both too big and too small at the same time, but as you turn your head, you see him—Timothée. He’s sitting on the bench, looking at you with that quiet smile, the kind that reaches his eyes and makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world who matters.

You feel a familiar knot tighten in your chest. There’s something about him, something pure in the way he makes you feel. But it also scares you. You’ve been here before, haven’t you? In places where love felt too heavy, too much to bear. Past relationships have left scars, and sometimes, you’re not sure if you can let anyone in again.

But Timothée doesn’t rush you. He never does. He watches you, his gaze soft and understanding, as though he sees the parts of you that even you don’t want to face. You can tell he knows. He knows you’re unstable, that your past weighs on you in ways you haven’t even shared. And yet, he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he stays.

You take a step toward him, your heart racing. When you sit beside him, you can feel the warmth of his presence, steady and reassuring. He doesn’t try to fix you. He doesn’t need to. His love is quiet, like a whisper that says, I’m here, and I’ll wait.

“You’re not the only one who’s been hurt,” he says, his voice low, just above a whisper. There’s no judgment in his words, only understanding. “But I’m not going anywhere.”

And you feel it. That truth. The certainty that for once, someone is here for you, just as you are. Your heart trembles, caught in the weight of it all. The fear, the doubt, the belief that no one could ever love you in the way you need. Yet Timothée, with his gentle hands and his even gentler heart, shows you a love that is real, a love that’s not built on perfection but on understanding.

He doesn’t say much, but it doesn’t matter. In this quiet moment, you know that his love is exactly what you’ve needed, even when you didn’t believe it was possible. His love is the best thing that’s ever happened to you—steady, patient, and never too much, never too fast.

You feel like you can breathe.

“Do you know how much I love you?” he asks, his voice soft and vulnerable.

You don’t have to answer. You don’t need to. Because in his arms, in his eyes, you already understand. And somehow, that feels like enough.

Are we allies or enemies?

Paul Atreides x Reader

You stand across the grand, austere chamber of the Arrakis Palace, the heavy silence broken only by the faint sound of desert winds. You feel the weight of your Bene Gesserit training pressing against your every thought, a constant reminder that this union was never meant to be one of choice, but of necessity. Politics, power, survival—they had all converged into this moment, binding you to Paul Atreides.

His eyes, the piercing blue of spice saturation, meet yours. He is inscrutable, as always. You can sense the storms within him, as vast and unknowable as the sands of Arrakis. The Kwisatz Haderach. A man destined to transcend, to lead, to destroy. And you—trained for obedience, manipulation, and control—now stand as his equal in name, though neither of you believes it.

“Are we allies or enemies? ” His voice cuts through the stillness like the cry of a crysknife drawn from its sheath.

The question startles you. You’d expected another day of brittle silence, the uneasy truce that defines your every interaction. But Paul is not one to avoid confrontation.

You tilt your head slightly, a gesture of feigned curiosity masking the churn of your emotions. “That depends, doesn’t it? On whether you see me as a tool of the Sisterhood or as… something else.”

He steps closer, his expression unreadable. The weight of his presence is suffocating, a reminder of why he inspires both reverence and fear among his followers. “You were sent here to control me. To influence my choices. But here you are, bound to me. Tell me does that not make you my prisoner?”

His words strike a nerve, but you do not flinch. Your training does not allow it. Instead, you let your gaze harden. “A prisoner, perhaps. Or a key to your survival. The Bene Gesserit do not act without reason.”

“And what is your reason, now?” he presses.

You hesitate. You have spent so long guarding your thoughts, hiding your true self behind layers of calculated responses. But here, in this moment, with his intensity boring into you, the truth slips free.

“I don’t know.”

The admission feels like a crack in a dam, letting loose a torrent of emotions you’d sworn to suppress. You hate him for this—for unraveling you so easily. For making you feel.

Paul’s expression softens, just barely. “Neither do I,” he admits, his voice quieter now. “This… this was not my choice, either.”

The vulnerability in his words surprises you. For a moment, you see not the Emperor, not the god-like figure revered by the Fremen, but a man caught in the same web of fate as you.

“All is fair in love and war,” you murmur, the words bitter on your tongue.

Paul chuckles, a dry, mirthless sound. “And this is both, isn’t it?”

You nod, the truth of it hanging heavy between you. This marriage is a battlefield, each of you wielding words and glances as weapons. Yet, beneath the tension lies something else. A fragile, unspoken connection that neither of you dares to name.

“I can’t fight with you anymore,” you say, the words spilling out before you can stop them.

Paul studies you for a long moment, his gaze searching. Then, to your astonishment, he extends a hand. “Then don’t. Let us… find another way.”

You stare at his outstretched hand, your heart pounding in your chest. Trust does not come easily to a Bene Gesserit, and yet…

Slowly, you place your hand in his. His grip is firm, steady, and for the first time, you feel a glimmer of something that might one day grow into trust.

It will not be easy. The path ahead is fraught with danger, betrayal, and loss. But as you stand there, hand in hand with the man you once saw only as a rival, you dare to hope that perhaps, together, you can forge a different destiny.

One where love and war do not have to destroy you both...

Irresistible

James Potter x Reader

You never meant to get caught up in James Potter’s chaos. He was charming, yes, but entirely too reckless for your tastes. Still, there’s something about him—maybe the way he struts into every room as if he owns it, or how he always manages to make you laugh even when you’re scowling at him.

Take this morning, for example. You’d just settled into the library, determined to finish your essay on the practical applications of nonverbal spells, when he appeared out of nowhere, flopping into the chair across from you.

“What are you doing here, Potter?” you asked without looking up, already dreading the inevitable distraction.

“Spending time with my favorite person, obviously,” he said, propping his chin on his hand and grinning like he’d been caught doing something wicked.

You snorted. “Right. Because that’s exactly what I need while trying to concentrate.”

“What can I say?” he said, leaning closer. “I’m charming and irresponsible.” He paused dramatically, then corrected himself with a cocky smirk. “I mean, irresistible.”

You rolled your eyes so hard you thought they might stick. “Keep telling yourself that.”

But James wasn’t deterred. If anything, he took your sarcasm as a challenge. Over the next week, he made it his personal mission to win you over, employing every ridiculous tactic he could think of.

One day, you found a bouquet of enchanted daisies on your desk in Charms, each flower whispering, “Go out with James Potter!” in singsong voices. You pretended not to hear them, but you caught yourself smiling anyway.

Another time, he orchestrated a scene in the Great Hall, standing on a bench and loudly declaring, “There’s only one person in this entire castle who can make my heart race faster than a Quidditch match, and they’re sitting right over there!”

You nearly choked on your pumpkin juice. “Merlin’s beard, Potter, sit down!” you hissed, your face burning as the entire table turned to look at you.

Still, you couldn’t help but notice the way his hazel eyes sparkled with mischief when he caught your gaze—or the way your heart skipped a beat when he grinned at you like that.

It wasn’t all grand gestures, though. Sometimes, James surprised you with quiet moments that felt... different. Like the time he found you sitting by the lake, lost in thought, and simply plopped down beside you without saying a word. He didn’t try to make you laugh or tease you into a reaction; he just sat there, letting the silence stretch comfortably between you.

“Why do you even bother?” you asked eventually, breaking the quiet.

“Bother with what?” he replied, tossing a pebble into the water.

“With me. You could have anyone you want, Potter. Why waste your time chasing someone who’s... not interested?”

James turned to you, his expression softer than you’d ever seen it. “Because you’re different. You don’t put up with my nonsense, and you make me want to be... better.”

For once, he didn’t seem like the cocky, overconfident boy you’d always pegged him as. Instead, he was just James—genuine and a little vulnerable.

And maybe that’s when it hit you: you didn’t dislike him as much as you pretended to.

The next day, when he approached you in the common room with that same incorrigible grin, you decided to throw him off.

“All right, Potter,” you said, crossing your arms. “One date. But if you embarrass me even once, it’ll be your last.”

His eyes widened in mock horror. “Me? Embarrass you? Never!”

“Don’t push your luck.”

He laughed, and the sound was warmer than the crackling fire behind you. “You won’t regret it,” he promised, offering you his hand.

And maybe, just maybe, you believed him.

are you still writing for harris dickinson? if yes could i request you do angst to fluff where reader is upset with him for something just to be petty and he reassures her?

𝓨𝓸𝓾 𝓶𝓪𝓭 𝓪𝓽 𝓶𝓮

Harris Dickinson x Reader

You sit on the edge of the hotel bed, arms crossed, mood simmering with the kind of quiet drama only you can conjure. The room smells like sea air and his cologne — all warm citrus and something woodsy that annoyingly makes your heart soften, even now. Harris stands by the window, completely unaware he’s made you mad… or maybe he knows. That makes it worse.

“You didn’t even notice,” you mutter, eyes fixed on the hotel notepad, where you’ve doodled angry little stars.

He turns slowly, one brow lifting. “Didn’t notice what?”

You don’t answer. You shouldn’t have to. It was your new dress. The one you picked just because you thought he’d look at you like he did that night in Venice — the whole world narrowing to just you in a crowded piazza. Tonight, you got a distracted peck on the cheek and a comment about the weather.

“You’re being quiet,” he says, walking toward you, hands sliding into the pockets of his linen trousers. He looks annoyingly good. Summer suits him. “Too quiet. You mad at me?”

You shrug.

He crouches in front of you, resting his forearms on your knees, forcing your gaze to meet his. His eyes are soft. The kind that always make your stomach flip, no matter how much you want to hold your ground.

“I know that face,” he says, voice low and teasing. “That’s the ‘you messed up, and I’m gonna make you work for it’ face.”

You look away, lips threatening a smile you refuse to let free. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

“Oh, now I have to worry,” he laughs gently, fingers tapping along your thigh. “C’mon, love. Tell me what I missed. I hate not knowing.”

You roll your eyes. “It’s stupid.”

“Probably,” he agrees, grinning, which earns him a light swat to the shoulder. “But I still want to know. You matter to me — even the silly stuff.”

You hesitate, then sigh. “You didn’t say anything about the dress.”

His expression changes — shifts from amused to sincere, instantly. “What?” His fingers tighten just a little. “You think I didn’t notice?”

You nod, cheeks hot now that the words are out.

“Babe,” he murmurs, standing up slowly, crowding your space just enough to make your breath catch. “You walked into that restaurant tonight and wrecked me. I’ve just been trying to act normal because I didn’t want to start something I couldn’t finish in public.”

You blink, thrown off by the heat in his voice. “That’s… dramatic.”

“I’m an actor,” he smirks, leaning down to kiss your cheek. “But I’m also just a man trying not to fall to his knees every time you look at me like that.”

He presses his forehead to yours, voice barely above a whisper. “You looked unreal, baby. You always do.”

You finally smile — just a little. He sees it and kisses it, soft and slow. And just like that, your petty storm dissolves in the warmth of him.

𝓭𝓮𝓪𝓻 𝓱𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓽, 𝔀𝓱𝔂 𝓱𝓲𝓶

Regulus Black x Reader

You’ve never given much thought to Regulus Black before. Sure, you’ve seen him in the hallways, always composed, with his sharp cheekbones and darker-than-night eyes. He’s the Slytherin prince everyone whispers about, the one who’s far too serious for his age, but he’s never been more than a fleeting thought in your mind.

Until now.

It starts in Potions class, of all places. You’ve always prided yourself on being decent enough, but today, Professor pairs you with him. Regulus Black. The boy who carries his family’s name like a burden but wears his ambition like armor.

“You’d best keep up” he says without even looking at you as he flips through his textbook. His voice is smooth, like honey drizzled over something bitter.

You clench your jaw, determined not to rise to the bait. “And you’d best stop assuming you’re the only one with a brain.”

The ghost of a smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. It’s not much, but you see it, and for some reason, your chest feels strange—tight and warm all at once.

You don’t know when it begins to shift. At first, it’s annoyance. His snide remarks get under your skin, but you find yourself countering them with your own sharp wit. He’s infuriatingly precise, and you hate how his quiet confidence seems to unsettle you.

But then there’s a moment. A single moment that plants the seed of something dangerous.

It’s late one evening in the library. You’re poring over a book for a Transfiguration essay when you notice him at the table across from you. His hair is slightly mussed, his tie loosened, and for once, he looks almost…human. Tired, even.

“You’re staring,” he mutters without looking up.

Your cheeks flush, and you quickly look back at your parchment. “I wasn’t staring. I was…thinking.”

His dark eyes finally meet yours, and for a second, you swear there’s something vulnerable in them. It vanishes as quickly as it came, replaced by his usual guarded expression. But that second lingers, and it worms its way into your mind, your chest, your soul.

After that, you notice things. The way he tucks a strand of hair behind his ear when he’s focused. The faint scar on his left hand, like a memory of something he won’t share. The way he always pauses before answering questions in class, as if weighing the worth of his words.

You tell yourself it’s just curiosity. You’re intrigued, nothing more.

But then he defends you. It’s during a confrontation in the corridor with some Slytherins who have taken the House rivalry a step too far. You’re outnumbered, your wand gripped tightly in your hand, when Regulus steps out of the shadows.

“Enough,” he says, his voice cold and sharp. The others freeze, their bravado crumbling under his gaze. They mutter apologies and disappear, leaving you standing there, stunned.

“Why did you do that?” you ask, heart hammering in your chest.

He doesn’t meet your eyes. “Because it was the right thing to do.”

You should walk away. You should let this be a fleeting interaction, but something in you snaps. “Who are you, Regulus Black? Really?”

He looks at you then, truly looks at you, and for the first time, you see the cracks in his armor. The weight of expectations, the quiet desperation of someone trapped by his own choices. He doesn’t answer, but his silence tells you more than words ever could.

And that’s when you realize the truth.

You’re falling for him.

It’s not dramatic, like a lightning strike. It’s slow, like the creeping warmth of sunlight after a storm. It terrifies you, because Regulus Black is everything you shouldn’t want. He’s a Slytherin. He’s guarded, secretive, and so achingly distant. But beneath it all, you see someone who is trying—fighting—to be more than what the world expects him to be.

And maybe, you think you can be the one to remind him he’s not alone. Even if it breaks your heart in the end.

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐈 𝐒𝐄𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔?

Charles Leclerc x Reader

The soft glow of streetlights bathed your quiet neighborhood in golden hues, the warmth of the evening air still lingering on your skin from the perfect date you had shared with him just hours ago. Charles had been nothing short of a dream—charming, kind, and effortlessly funny. Every moment spent with him felt like something out of a movie, yet you never expected the night to end like this.

As you stood by your bedroom window, lost in thought, your phone buzzed—a message from Charles.

"Look outside."

Heart racing, you pulled back the curtain, and there he was. Standing under the streetlamp, his signature tousled hair illuminated by the soft glow, Charles held a sign in his hands. Bold letters scrawled across it read:

"WHEN CAN I SEE YOU?"

A breathless laugh escaped your lips as warmth bloomed in your chest. His eyes met yours, hopeful, playful, and a little nervous. You could hardly believe it. He had just dropped you off, yet here he was again, standing outside your house like the hero of a romantic film.

You grabbed a notebook from your desk, scribbled down your response, and held it up against the window:

"RIGHT NOW?"

Charles' grin widened, dimples appearing as he nodded enthusiastically. He motioned for you to come down, and without a second thought, you slipped on your shoes, heart hammering with excitement.

The moment you stepped outside, he was there, hands in his pockets, looking at you like you were the most beautiful thing in the world. "I know I just saw you," he admitted, voice soft, "but I already missed you."

You laughed, shaking your head at his ridiculous yet undeniably sweet confession. "And now?" you teased.

He stepped closer, reaching for your hand, fingers grazing like electricity sparking between you. "Now, I never want to leave."

And just like that, the night that was supposed to end hours ago became a memory you’d cherish forever.

𝓒𝓸𝓸𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓬𝓵𝓪𝓼𝓼

Carlos Sainz x Reader

You glance at Carlos from across the kitchen counter, a mischievous glint in your eyes. The two of you had decided to make pasta from scratch—something new, something fun—but so far, all you’ve managed to do is make a mess.

Carlos stands with his sleeves rolled up, his strong forearms dusted with flour. “Are you sure we’re doing this right?” he asks, tilting his head as he kneads the dough. His fingers press into it with practiced confidence, but you can’t help but focus on the way his lips curl into a playful smirk.

“Not at all,” you admit, laughing as you try to roll out your own dough. It sticks stubbornly to your hands, refusing to cooperate.

Carlos chuckles, stepping closer. “Let me help.” He moves behind you, guiding your hands with his own. His chest brushes against your back, warm and solid, and you can feel his breath against your neck. It’s almost unfair how easily he distracts you.

“Is this your plan all along?” you tease, tilting your head to meet his gaze. “To flirt your way out of actually making pasta?”

He grins, his fingers lacing over yours as he helps smooth out the dough. “Maybe,” he murmurs, his voice low and playful. “But I think it’s working.”

You try to roll your eyes, but it’s impossible when he’s looking at you like that—his brown eyes full of warmth, his lips just a breath away. Your heart stumbles over itself when he leans in, brushing his nose against your cheek.

“You’re still making a mess,” he murmurs against your skin.

You laugh, turning in his arms, pressing a bit of flour to the tip of his nose. He gasps in mock offense, but before he can retaliate, you catch his lips in a kiss—soft, slow, and utterly sweet.

For a moment, the pasta is forgotten, the flour-covered counter a distant concern. It’s just you and Carlos, the taste of laughter and love between you.

𝐀𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐥𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐟𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭?

Peter Parker x Reader

You lean against the rooftop, the city lights shimmering below like a thousand stars caught in the web of concrete. The wind ruffles your hair, but you're not bothered by it. Not when you're so focused on the one person who’s been messing with your mind lately—Spider-Man.

He's perched on the edge of the building, eyes scanning the streets below, looking for trouble. But the moment you step into his line of sight, everything shifts. He straightens up, his posture alert, but there's a flicker in his eyes, a challenge, maybe even a glint of something else. He knows who you are, and you know him. You've crossed paths more times than you'd care to admit—fighting, teasing, bickering.

And yet, there's always that tension. You can feel it in the air, like the charged buzz before a thunderstorm.

“So, what are we doing tonight, Webhead?” you call out, deliberately leaning closer as you speak, making sure he notices the sway of your voice. You see the way his jaw tightens, how his body stiffens, and it's almost enough to make you smirk. Almost.

“You know,” he says, voice low and steady, but you can catch the edge of something more, “I’m getting kind of tired of you showing up just to cause chaos.” He flips himself into a crouch, ready for anything.

“Cause chaos?” You raise an eyebrow, your lips curling into a playful smile. “I’m just here to have a little fun. You should try it sometime.” Your eyes meet his, and there's an almost teasing energy in your stare, the same electric current that always seems to pass between you two.

His eyes narrow. “Are you flirting with me or starting a fight?”

You let out a soft laugh, a laugh that dances between confidence and something far more dangerous. “Why not both?” You take a step closer, watching the way his breath catches. You know he’s trying to keep his cool, but the way his gaze flickers down to your lips gives him away. You’ve seen that look before. He’s not entirely immune.

There’s a beat of silence between you, the kind that teases at something deeper. Something almost… dangerous. You both know you're enemies. You've fought on opposite sides countless times. But there’s something about this game you play. It's like a constant tug-of-war between attraction and animosity.

Spider-Man lunges toward you with a speed you barely manage to sidestep. The playful tension slips into something more intense, more urgent. He spins around, keeping his distance, but you can feel his presence pressing in on you.

“Don’t pretend like you didn’t want that,” you tease, taking a slow step forward, daring him to make the next move.

His lips twitch, like he’s about to say something—maybe even flirt back—but then he stops himself. It’s almost as if he’s wrestling with his own reaction, weighing the consequences of letting this thing between you two slip into something more. Something… personal.

But then, in a flash of motion, he’s gone. No fight. No words. Just the whisper of his webbing as it disappears into the night.

You stand there for a moment, watching the empty space where he used to be. A soft laugh escapes your lips.

This isn’t over. You both know it.

And deep down, you both know it never will be.