#when i think like that maybe the memories that i remember should be enough you know?? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

d-z20 · 24 hours ago

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Where There's Anger, There's Still Love (NSFW)

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x Rio Vidal x Reader

Summary: Agathario+U 4eva... or maybe not. After Nicky was born, Agatha tried to outrun fate. When he died, she hid behind the Darkhold. It's been centuries, but finally you and Rio can sense her presence again and decide to go and confront the witch... and your lingering feelings for eachother

-OR-

You've missed her, Rio's missed her, and she's missed you both. What better way to welcome her back then with your fingers and mouths?

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, canon divergence, reader is a healer/white witch but it's not a major plot point, smut, top Rio, top reader, bottom Agatha, threesome, fingering, oral sex/cunnilingus, minor angst/hurt, comfort, maybe more idk I'm tired and can't think properly

Words: 3.5k

A/N: Two fics in two days? who am I?!?! Requested fic

Masterlist

The memories of your past come in honeyed fragments, softened by time but no less potent. Agatha’s sharp and wicked laughter, how it used to spill over Rio’s amused huffs, and curled around you like the low flicker of a candle’s flame. The three of you built something rare. A love that glowed from the inside out, that didn’t just exist but thrived. It was weighty, permanent—at least, you thought it was. A promise spoken between lips that knew the taste of each other’s magic. Sealed in touches that lingered long after the heat had faded.

You remember nights in their arms, bodies tangled beneath moonlight that filtered through worn curtains. Rio’s calloused fingers trailing idly over your stomach, Agatha’s lips pressing against the pulse at your throat, soft and absent-mindedly, as if she were memorising the rhythm of your life. You were the warmth between them, the gentle touch to their sharp edges. Where Agatha was wit and deception, and Rio was raw and unrelenting power, you were something softer, something whole. A balance. A balm.

But then came Nicholas. A love-born tragedy.

You remember the night he was born—the way Agatha screamed, not from the pain of labour but from the knowledge of what awaited him. You remember Rio, standing by the river, flower in hand, shadows pooling at her feet.

“He was never meant for this world,” Rio had said, voice low, heavy. Certain. “His soul is not his to keep.”

Agatha had turned to you then, eyes wet and frantic. “You can fix him. Please. You can heal him.” Her fingers had clutched your wrists, her magic sparking against your skin. Desperation made a ruin of her.

You knew the truth even then. There was no healing what was never meant to be whole. But you had nodded, because how could you not? How could you bear to be the one who let hope die in her hands?

Rio had sighed, something deep and aching. “I can give him time. That is all.”

It was not enough. But Agatha took it anyway.

And so she ran. She ran from Rio, from you, from inevitability itself, as if distance alone could rewrite fate. And for six years, it almost seemed like it worked.

Nicholas laughed and played and lived. He was warm in her arms, bright in her eyes, whole in a way no borrowed thing should ever be. You visited when you could, but Agatha kept you at arm’s length, afraid of what you represented. Afraid of the truth you carried in your silence.

You had told her once: You cannot save him from his fate. You can only love him through it. But Agatha had never been one to accept inevitability.

And then, one night, he closed his eyes, never to open them again.

He had fallen asleep curled against Agatha’s side, his small fingers still tangled in the fabric of her shirt. When she woke, he was cold. Gone.

You weren’t there when it happened. But you arrived to the sound of Agatha’s grief tearing through the forest, through you, through the very bones of the world. She was still holding him, her body curled around his, whispering prayers into his cold skin. Rio stood at their feet, quiet, unmoving. It wasn’t cruelty. It wasn’t indifference. It was duty, old as time itself.

"You took him," Agatha choked, her voice hoarse from all the crying.

"You knew I would," Rio said.

You reached for Agatha, hands trembling, but she did not see you. Did not feel you. There was only pain. You saw it in the way her shoulders curled inward, in the way her fingers clutched at Nicky’s lifeless form, as if keeping him close could bring him back again.

"You let this happen," she spat. And you knew she wasn’t speaking to Rio alone.

His death left an open wound, and Agatha—Agatha turned her grief into something serrated, something that cut as deep as the loss itself. She did not cry in your arms. She did not seek comfort in the home the three of you had built. Instead, she wielded her sorrow like a weapon and turned it against the only two people who still held onto her.

She couldn't bear to look at either of you—not when every glance felt like a reminder of the choice she had been forced to make, of the son she couldn’t save. In her eyes, Rio had taken him, and you had let it happen.

So, she left again. Hiding behind the Darkhold, where neither you nor Rio could reach her.

You searched at first. You wrote letters and traced spells into candle wax, hoping she’d feel you reaching for her. You went to places you knew she’d been, places where she had used her power, places where the walls still hummed with her presence. You stood outside doors that would never open and called her name into the kind of silence that bruised.

Again, and again, and again.

But she never answered.

Without Agatha, you and Rio had only each other to hold onto. And by the Divine Mother, how you held on. In the beginning, it was desperate; grief spilling from both of you in sharp edges, in hands that clutched too tightly, in breaths that stuttered against each other’s skin. It was unbearable alone, the weight of her absence pressing like stone against your ribs. But together? Together, it became something almost survivable.

Rio burnt with it. She drank her sorrow like poison; let it settle in her marrow; let it shape the way she carried herself—spine stiff, shoulders squared, jaw clenched so tightly you swore you could hear her teeth creak. But when she touched you, she softened. And you let her. You let her bury her face against your chest when the nights stretched too long. You let her kiss you slowly; let her hands map the familiar lines of your body as if she were afraid that they too would disappear. You let her love you in the only way she knew how.

She still loved Agatha. You still loved Agatha. But Rio also loves you, and you love her back. So, you built something steady. Something good.

It wasn’t the same; it could never be the same, but it was real. It was healing spells traced onto her back while she read; her body was never hurt but you hoped (in vain) that it could ease the pain in her heart. It was her hands in your hair, the rough pad of her thumb sweeping against your temple. It was always leaving a place at the table for Agatha.

Some nights, you dreamt of her. You’d wake with the ghost of her scent lingering in the air—woody and slightly florally, but with something dark and electric curling at the edges too. It feels like she’s still there, just beyond your reach.

Some nights, Rio whispered in the dark, “Do you think she’ll ever come back to us?”

And you never had an answer. You don’t know if Agatha is someone you’re meant to find again or if she has gone too far from you both to ever be whole in your hands. You only know that Rio still reaches for her in sleep, just as you do. That there is a space between you both that no amount of love, no amount of time, has ever truly filled.

So instead of answering, you’d press a kiss to Rio’s bare shoulder. You’d listen to her breathe. You’d hold her the way you wish you could hold Agatha.

—

The moment Wanda takes the Darkhold from Agatha, and she is left powerless, Rio gasps—a sharp, guttural sound that cracks through the quiet. Her entire body seizes, every muscle locking tight, her fingers digging into the bed like she’s trying to ground herself against something unseen. The air around you constricts and hums with the sudden shift in power, with the absence of something that had tethered itself to Agatha for too long.

"I can feel her."

Rio's voice is raw, almost broken, and your heart stutters; it misses a beat.

It’s been so long, and yet you can feel her too.

Knowing strikes like lightning. Magic thrums in your veins, pulling you toward her. There is no hesitation, no second-guessing.

Rio is already halfway out of bed, her breath uneven, her hands trembling. You reach for her, pressing your palm against the back of her neck to ground her, letting your own magic weave into the space between you. She leans into it for only a second before pulling away, eyes full of something you haven’t seen in years: hope.

“She’s in Westview,” Rio says, shoving herself into the nearest pair of jeans, urgency vibrating off her skin. “I can—fuck—I can feel everything. She’s—” Her voice breaks, and she presses her hand to her chest like she’s trying to hold something in.

You’ve spent so long mourning her, searching for her in dreams and half-formed spells that never led anywhere. Now, she’s real again. Somewhere out there, stripped of the magic that kept her hidden, and you can feel her hurting.

You don’t waste another second. You reach for your boots, for the coat draped over the chair. Magic crackles between your fingertips, thrumming beneath your skin, desperate to find her.

Rio catches your gaze. "We bring her home."

There is no other option.

You nod once. Then, together, you go.

—

Westview is a graveyard of illusions. The remnants of Wanda’s hex still cling to the air, thick and suffocating, like ghosts that refuse to leave. You wade through the wreckage, through the weight of what was left behind, and find her standing amidst it all.

Agatha Harkness—stripped of power, stripped of the Darkhold’s suffocating grasp, stripped of everything but herself.

She is small in the vast emptiness. Smaller than you remember. Just a woman now, no shadows curling at her fingertips, no smirk sharpened into a blade. Just hollowed-out ribs and weary eyes and a body that looks like it might buckle under the weight of its own ruin.

Rio stops dead beside you, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths. Her magic pulses beneath her skin, hungry and desperate; years of grief and longing compacted into something volatile, something barely restrained. You feel it too. The way the space between you all vibrates with too much emotion, too much history.

Agatha lifts her head, eyes locking onto yours.

And the years fall away. Just for a second. Just long enough for something inside you to splinter wide open.

Her shoulders pull back, her chin tilts up—an old mask fitting over something brittle, something on the verge of collapse. “Come to gloat?” she asks, her voice carrying the remnants of the woman she used to be. Clipped, cutting. But it wavers at the edges. “Or did you just miss the sound of my voice?”

Something inside you snaps.

“You left us,” you say, voice stripped bare.

Agatha exhales sharply through her nose, something flickering behind her eyes—guilt, pain, regret—but she doesn’t let it settle. “I had nothing left.”

Rio scoffs, stepping forward, eyes burning. “So we were nothing?”

Agatha flinches, but the bitterness that twists her mouth is sharp. Defensive. “I thought you’d finally learnt to let go.”

The air between you thrums with all the things unsaid. You step forward, magic sparking at your fingertips, not as a weapon but as a manifestation of everything boiling beneath your skin—grief, fury, longing, betrayal. It crackles, raw and unchecked.

Rio doesn’t hold back. “You think you’re that easy to forget?”

She’s trying to sound angry, but the hurt is there, barely concealed. It seeps into the edges of her voice. Agatha hears it—sees it—and the mask finally falters. Her breath stutters, and she shakes her head, something dark passing over her expression.

“It doesn’t matter,” she murmurs, almost too quiet to hear. “None of it mattered.”

The words are meant to push you away, to wound. And they do. But more than anything, they make something deep inside you twist, furious and aching.

“You don’t get to say that.” Your voice is sharp, edged with something dangerous. “You don’t get to fucking say that after all these years—after leaving us to grieve you like you were dead. You weren’t the only one mourning Nicky.”

Agatha recoils like you’ve struck her. Her mouth opens, then closes, something frenzied building behind her ribs. “Do you think I don’t regret it?” she spits, and her voice cracks. “Do you think I don’t know what I did?”

Her breathing is ragged, hands curled into fists at her sides. She’s trembling, coming apart right in front of you, and there’s no stopping it now. The weight of it all—of Nicholas, of the choices she made, of the years spent running—it all comes crashing down, shattering what little composure she has left.

Then—then she breaks.

Agatha staggers, the weight of everything finally too much, and the second you touch her, it’s over.

She crumbles into you, into Rio, into the only arms that have ever truly held her without expectation, without demands.

Your own hands shake as you wrap them around her. You don’t know if you can still be the warmth between them, if you even should be, but Agatha shudders against you, and Rio lets out something between a choked cry and a curse, and you realise—you never stopped loving each other.

Rio presses a shaking hand to the back of Agatha’s head, pulling her in tight. “You’re such a fucking idiot,” she breathes, voice wrecked, and Agatha lets out a sound that is somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

You don’t speak. You just hold her. Hold her as she clings to you, fingers twisting in your coat like she’s afraid you’ll disappear.

—

You take her home. To the place she’s belonged all along.

The world outside is still broken, Agatha is still powerless, but in this small, sacred space, it’s just the three of you, tangled in grief and longing and something dangerously close to hope.

The air shifts. The fury, the jagged edges, begin to ebb away, leaving something else in its wake. Something raw. Something desperate.

Agatha reaches for you first. She kisses you like she’s drowning, like she’s trying to tether herself to something real. It’s clumsy at first, all shaky inhales and stuttered gasps, but then Rio is there—heat at your back, lips tracing a burning path along Agatha’s jaw. A sharp inhale. A low, wrecked sound that is half relief, half ruin.

It starts slow. It has to. Agatha’s fingers ghost over your skin, tentative and unsure. Rio watches, waiting, breath uneven, eyes dark. There is hesitation, the weight of too much time lost, too much pain endured.

But then Agatha gives in. She leans in, she takes, she surrenders.

When her lips crash into yours, there is no hesitation left. Only hunger. Only the desperate, unrelenting need to consume and be consumed. Hands explore, teeth catch, and nails dig into flesh like an anchor. Agatha gasps against your mouth, and then Rio is kissing her too, swallowing the sounds whole.

It’s messy. It’s frantic. It’s years of longing, grief, and anger, worked out in the way you pull at each other’s clothes, in the way Agatha’s nails dig into your back, in the way Rio’s hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise.

Agatha moans as you grind against her thigh, the fabric of your underwear soaked through, the friction delicious. Her hands tighten on your hips, guiding you, and Rio groans against the crook of your neck, voice wrecked. “I’ve missed this.”

It’s not enough. It will never be enough. Not after years of distance, of pain, of words left unsaid. You need more. Agatha needs more.

With a sharp inhale, she tugs at you, her teeth scraping against your jaw before she shifts, pushing you back onto the bed. Rio is already moving with her, already reading the intent in her darkened eyes.

“Lie back,” Agatha breathes, her voice rough, ruined. “Both of you.”

She settles herself between you and Rio, exhaling shakily as she leans in, her lips dragging over the soft skin of your stomach before her hands trace lower, her fingers hooking into your waistband and pulling your underwear down with aching slowness. Rio mirrors her, her hands firm as she helps rid Agatha of the last of her clothing, leaving her bare and exposed beneath your combined touch.

There is no hesitation, no shyness left between the three of you. You and Rio move in tandem, pressing her back against the bed, parting her thighs between you. Agatha gasps as you press a lingering kiss to the inside of her thigh, Rio doing the same on the other side, your lips trailing over her skin, relearning her like a prayer.

“You still sound so fucking pretty when you moan,” Rio groans in pleasure against her skin, her voice thick with hunger.

Agatha shudders, her fingers threading through your hair, guiding, urging. You and Rio share a look before you both move, mouths pressing where she needs you most. The first brush of your tongue against her has her keening, her fingers tightening in your hair, her body arching off the bed.

It’s frantic at first, desperate, but then it slows and turns into something reverent. She trembles beneath you both, gasping, moaning, a broken sound spilling from her lips as years of tension unravel in the heat of your mouths, in the press of your hands.

Her taste is intoxicating, and every sound she makes fuels the fire burning between your legs. You and Rio move in sync, devouring her like she’s the only thing that exists, like you’ll never get enough. Agatha writhes, her thighs trembling, her hands gripping at the sheets before latching onto you both like she needs to hold onto something real.

You and Rio fall into an unspoken rhythm, alternating between mouths and fingers, neither of you willing to give her even a second to breathe. When Rio presses her fingers inside Agatha, curling just right, you take the opportunity to latch onto her clit, sucking hard enough to make her cry out. A sharp gasp, a curse, and then she’s tugging at your hair, her hips bucking between the two of you.

Then you switch. Your fingers replace Rio’s, stretching her open, working her deeper, while Rio’s mouth descends, tongue flicking and teasing until Agatha is keening, shaking beneath you. There’s a challenge in the way you work together, a growing desperation, a hunger to push her further, to see who can be the one that tips her over the edge.

Her thighs are trembling, always so sensitive, and you take the opportunity to bite down, sinking your teeth into the soft skin, sucking until a bruise blooms there. Agatha jerks, a sharp, choked-off moan ripping from her throat. Rio sees what you’ve done and smirks, following suit, her own mouth marking the other thigh. Agatha is covered in you both, claimed by you both.

“Fuck—” she gasps, her breath stuttering, her body tightening beneath you. “Don’t stop—”

Not like you’d even dare to.

You and Rio press deeper, harder, pulling more desperate sounds from her lips, from deep in her chest. The air is thick with heat, with the wet, obscene sounds of pleasure, with the gasping, panting breaths that fill the room.

Agatha cums hard beneath you both, her release shuddering through her in waves. She cries out, her back arching, her fingers clutching tight, and it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. You don’t stop until she’s trembling, until she’s begging, until there’s nothing left but her ragged breaths and the aftershocks of pleasure rolling through her.

Afterward, no one lets go. You stay tangled, skin sticky, bodies pressed too close. Agatha’s head rests against your shoulder, Rio’s arms draped lazily around both of you.

No one speaks; the weight of what happened still lingers like a storm waiting to break, but it’s not as sharp anymore. It’s quieter now, more distant. Love doesn’t erase pain, but in this space, it has softened it.

In the stillness that follows, bodies entwined and breathless, there is something new. Something fragile yet impossibly strong.

Rio shifts slightly, the weight of her words gentle but certain. "You’re not leaving again," she says, as if the promise itself could break the last of the silence between you.

“No," Agatha breathes against your chest, her lips warm, her voice cracked but steady. "Not this time."

The world outside can wait. The past is a shadow, but here, in the quiet aftermath, there’s only the present—only the three of you, bound by everything that’s been and everything that will be.

-----

Slowly but surely i'm getting back into the swing of writing the smut for y'all. Got to get my practice in so I ca update Neighbourly Care some time soon oops

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taglist: @aceday @danveration @alwaysharmony @lostbutlovely33 @sweetmidnights @6stolenangel9 @jujuu23 @juls-stark

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zoloft3 · 1 day ago

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the man i assume to be god

☆彡hitoshi shinso x gn! reader

tags—> weed use, nickname use (sweetheart), no use of y/n, first person pov (i'm sorry this is unlike me), childhood friends to weird ass situationship to lovers, it's sappy :| don't be mad,

a/n : this is technically a cross post, since i originally posted this on ao3 years ago, but i wanted to rewrite it for a character i like better and relate to more now. i also changed a bunch of the writing to what's more my style nowadays. so if you've seen this before... no you haven't. This is also the start of me officially beginning my tumblr writing career :] so if you like this lmk and i might do more

-------༚☆༚-------

We made a bad habit of falling asleep in the car.

Hitoshi was always calling me late at night to go for a drive. He'd pick me up in the car he spent too much money on and make some mean comment about my sweatpants and 1 AM eye bags, all before smiling like it hadn't been weeks since he texted. I would get in the car, let the scent of him envelope me, and immediately forgive him. He’d been dealing with the weight of a quarter life crisis, and apparently needed me and some weed to take a load off. Being best friends and head over heels in love since high school made it difficult to say no to him.

We’d fallen into a bit of a routine, unfortunately. Driving out till we found a good place to stop, and then rolling down the windows to watch the few stars that were out. By the time I had shot-gunned him a few times, per his request, my eyelids would droop and there'd be that stomach settling feeling. The kind that makes it so easy to sit perfectly still and never move a muscle. Being so close to him was dreamy, and the buzzing smoke inhalation never failed to take it out of me.

The weed didn't do much to curb my mind though. Whatever we were, whatever racing thoughts I would think all day about him, didn't stop at the car door. The whole thing was messy and so fucking complicated. I tried not to think too hard about it. Most of the time I’d just focus on how pretty he was and how lucky I am to be able to love him.

When he says my name, I swear-

I don’t even know what it does, it kills me so badly.

This one saturday night in particular, Hitoshi didn’t seem as interested in lazy, open mouthed kisses. He seemed fixated on looking at me.

“Hey, you okay?” I nudged his shoulder, attempting to stir awake the Hitoshi I knew. The man only I got to see.

He was a famous work of art, but only I got to hang the framed canvas on my wall. Only I could stand close enough to see each and every brush stroke. No post card or photo could ever compare to the real thing. He was mine, even if he wasn't my boyfriend, he was mine.

“Sorry,” He seemed to snap out of whatever trance he was under, “Just doing too much thinking lately.”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed that,” I smirked, tilting my head to get a better angle of his moonlit face.

“You think we could, just, I dunno,” He looked out the open window, lost in the open air and pine trees, “Maybe talk? About this? Us?”

My heart did a 180 in my chest, so, as per usual, I relied on attempted comedy and a smile to take the anxiety away, “Talk about us? I was beginning to think you’d never ask.”

“I’m serious, you know." The look on he gave me dropped the smile off my face. He was serious. This was officially bad. My brain wracked itself for every possible negative outcome.

Until he spoke again.

"I’ve been thinking we should try something.” He shifted his hands off the steering wheel to take another hit, then tap the ash out the window. The whole scene was far more attractive than I’d ever admit. The way he put his lips together as he exhaled the smoke in my direction. It was fantastical. Sweet, sappy memories I’d lick off the floor of this car to remember.

I’d do anything to keep him on my mind.

“Try… what?” I asked, genuinely curious and anxious for his answer.

This seemed to bring him all the way back to himself, there was a sly smirk on his lips, “I dunno, sweetheart, what do you think?”

There was that sinking feeling again and my back was glued to the seat, eyes stuck on his face. My mind knew what was coming, but my heart couldn't accept that the thing I'd been dreaming about since I was fourteen, was really coming true. In this very moment. Oh, lord.

He turned to face me fully, and the spell broke. This definitely wasn't a dream. Both our arms resting on the center console brought our faces incredibly close.

We’ve always been this way, together and apart, near, yet so far.

Noses almost grazing each other, I pushed myself to speak in the presence of the man I assume to be god.

“You want me to guess?” I raised an eyebrow despite my aching, heavy heart, “Or will you just kiss me already.”

One thing I loved about Hitoshi, is one way or another, he always did what I told him to do.

He kissed differently than I expected, not so commanding or competitive but slow and compassionate. I knew only then, that everything would be fine. We were together, finally, as one.

We didn’t fall asleep in the car that night.

-------☆-------

a/n : if it was terrible, don't tell me.

i will walk into the ocean and never come back.

thanks to @saemeret for being such a good little beta (annoying baby talk voice) smooch <3

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nessieart · 2 days ago

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The Way Back. XII

WC: ~5k

Summary: These powers were meant to help people. Help The Avengers, your family. It felt like every time you used them, something bad always happened. Maybe someone has the answers, somewhere.

Bucky x reader(past) || Steve x reader

AN: HI! i'm so sorry this took SO long! Not proof read, I just wanted to get this out. Please enjoy, let me know what you think :)

Masterlist

Previously:

You both study each other for another moment. Carol smirks after a long moment, "Show me what you can do," it's not a question. She nods her head to the side. "I'll race ya."

A small smile curves your lips. When you go to take a step closer, Steve puts a hand on your shoulder, stopping you. "I'm not sure if she should. Y/N just woke from a month long coma. Maybe she should take it easy." There's a squeeze to your shoulder.

Carol looks you in the eyes, raising her eyebrows in amusement. "Yeah? She needs to take it easy? Seems like you've gotten enough rest to me."

You huff out a laugh, smile tugging wider, "I'll be fine, Tough Guy. Thanks," you step away from him, and Carol ignites her powers first, then you do.

She takes off like a shot, a bullet through the sky as she gets farther away. You haven't used your powers like that in a very long time. At least, that's what it feels like.

"You don't have to do this, sweetheart. You have nothing to prove." You look back at Steve then, resolute in your decision.

"Yes, I do."

Flying through the skies with Carol was exhilarating. She never asks if you're ok, or if you need a break. She waits and lets your powers surge and grow. Because if anyone knows something about what your powers could do and what they're capable of, it would be Carol.

You both landed hours later, you felt better than you had in a long time.

Stretching muscles that you had never known to be there.

"I've never flown like that before," you let out a breathy laugh. "never knew I could do half that, really."

Carol smiles at you, bumping her shoulder with yours as you both make your way back to the compound.

"stick with me, kid. I'll help you out."

"I'm in my 30s. Why does everyone call me kid?" you heave a sigh.

"I'm 64," Carol smirks at you. You squawk in surprise, tripping over yourself as you try to keep up with her.

A while later, you and Carol were in the kitchen. You sipping tea, and her going through a bag a pretzels.

"So," she hedges, "you knew Nick?"

You huff a laugh, "Sure, not enough to openly call him by his first name to his face," a fond smile spreads across your face. "After New York, he wanted me to work under Maria - train and learn from her - in D.C."

"And, did you?" Carol perches herself on the counter top, another pretzel crunching in her mouth.

"Nah, turned him down," you laugh. "I don't think Fury ever heard the word 'no' before."

You both share a laugh.

"I've been meaning to ask," you set your cup down, leaning your arms on the counter next to where Carol sits. "How come I've never felt you before? Until now, that is."

Carol hums, thinking for a long moment, she studies you, eyes searching for something you aren't sure of.

"Maybe we were too far apart. I could feel it as soon as we entered the solar system."

After another long moment, you fidget with your now empty tea cup in your hands. "do you ever feel like you aren't enough? Even with these powers?" your voice is small and quiet, unsure. And when you glance back up, Carol just smiles.

"At first, maybe. When I was with the Kree and lost my memories of home and the people I cared about. Then I Remembered," there's a fire in her eyes as she talks to you, it burns bright the more she speaks. "There's people that care about me, that can't fight. So I have to."

You try to suppress the emotions that want to bubble out of you, but you can't fight back the few tears that blur your vision before you blink them away. You swallow around the lump in your throat. Give her a grateful smile and a nod.

Maybe that's all you really needed to hear. Reassurance.

You know you're more than capable of fighting and protecting others, but sometimes it's nice to hear. That you can do it. It's all worth it. It makes your chest warm, your lungs don't constrict with the anxiety of letting your friends down anymore.

Carol steers you out of the kitchen, her touch leaves you when you follow her, "Let's find the others, they're probably worried about you."

"…Missed your sense of humor, Rodent," you hear Tony's sarcastic comment as you and Carol near the garage.

"The Flark you do," Rocket snarks back.

"I know you missed me, it's ok, you can say it."

Rocket spies the two of you before Tony does, his ears perk up and he puts his tools down. "Oh, about damn time! Can we go now? Terrans are so primitive, I literally wanna rip my fur out," he groans.

Tony grabs his chest, mocking hurt, "Ow, you wound me, Rocket. I thought we had something."

Rocker snickers, a toothy grin on his muzzle. "Flark you, Stark." But he makes no move to leave like he said he wanted to.

"Ms Y/N," FRIDAY calls over head.

"Hey FRIDAY. What is is?" There's a pause, and your eyebrows scrunch in confusion. You share a look with Tony.

"Fri?"

"Ms Y?N. Captain Rogers is looking for you. He's in his room."

"Ok, thanks, FRIDAY," you wave to everyone around the room before you leave.

As you near Steve's room on the other side of the compound, you can hear things being moved - heavy things. Frantic movement, things being thrown against a wall.

"Steve?" you call as you near the door. Its ajar enough for you to see inside a little, you push the door open more so you can step inside. There's shuffling and mumbling. You call out for him again, and step into Steve's room.

It's a mess, furniture upturned, papers everywhere. His bed sheets are in a tangle on the bed - messy and wrinkled.

Steve is standing in the middle of the room, the bathroom door is open, steam still curling out of it. HIs back is to you, bare chest and feet, low hanging sweatpants on his hips.

He's panting, chest heaving in ragged breaths, hands clenching tight and releasing at his side.

You call out to him again, but he doesn't seem to hear you. You place a hand on his back, the muscles under your hand tense, he whips his head around so fast you think you heard it crack.

His eyes are wild, stormy blue and so deep, bloodshot with dark circles underneath. His nostrils flared, chest heaving. But then his eyes refocus, he blinks long and hard, and notices you. Steve lets out a shuddering breath, his eyes glaze over and he reaches for you.

"Yo-you're here," its rough and raw, he has to swallow against the tightness in his throat as his large hands grasp onto you. His arms wrap around your middle and he hoists you up and your wrap your arms around his neck. He tucks his face in your neck and takes big, deep breaths. A satisfied hum vibrates through him.

You run your fingers through his hair and your legs lock around his waist. One of his hands cup the back of your neck to keep you there.

After several minutes go by, you place a hand on Steve's cheek, urging him to look at you. He peeks up, barely leaving the spot he was previous.

"Are you ok?" you ask softly. "Do you want to sit down?" Instead of answering, Steve carries you over to his bed, kicking the door shut with is foot before he sits. He pulls you along as he rests his back on the headboard and tugs you tighter in his lap.

"I'm here, Steve. I'm not going anywhere," you mumble into his hair. His arms cling tighter in response.

"I-I had the briefest moment where I thought - thought it was all a dream. And you were still gone." He mumbles into you skin, nose running along the column of your throat. Your fingers grip tighter in his hair, pulling him back to look at you all the way.

There's a small whimper that gets stuck in his throat, his pleading eyes search your face. You're not sure what's going through his mind.

You lower your face to his, lips ghosting over his, a smile pulling at the corner of your lips as he inhales sharply.

"Let me show you that I'm right here," your fingers run across his cheek, Steve's eyes flutter closed and his breath stutters out of his lungs.

"H-how?" he whispers. You grind your hips down to emphasize your meaning. His fingers grip you tighter, he goes to move his lips closer to yours, but you pull back, only slightly.

"Will you let me show you, Stevie baby?"

"Yes," he whispers again. "show me." You kiss him, deep and raw. Like you want to consume him, body and soul. He moans into your mouth and you swallow it whole. When you tug his hair again, he gasps, you plunge your tongue in his mouth, he tastes like cinnamon toothpaste. And he chases your lips when you pull away.

In the early morning, when the suns rays were finally peeking through the blinds, you stirred a little. Something feather light running up your bare spine, it pulls you from consciousness. You him, turning your head into the warmth beside you. There's another groggy hum that leaves you, followed by a low rumble of a chuckle.

You peek an eye open to see Steve awake, his fingers running up and down your back. "It's way too early for you to be this awake," you curl into him more, swatting his hand away. Steve chuckles again, pulling you tighter against his bare chest.

"Y'know… Tony told me you had a beard," you hum. Your lips kiss up his chest, Steve groans in exasperation. "You should grow it back," you smile into his skin. Steve groans again, his head falling back into the pillow, you shake with laughter, but he smiles despite his attempts not to.

Weeks go by, months, you've finally adjusted to being back in your time. It was different at first, trying to navigate life with technology you had to live without in the '40s.

But, it was like riding a bike. That's what Tony had said, anyway.

Everyone went back to their normal lives. You had fallen into a routine of helping Nat with the goings-on around the compound. Sitting in on holo-com meetings with Rocket, Carol, and Nebula. The three of them kept you and Nat appraised of the news in Space. Nothing that either of you could do from Earth, though. But it made Nat fee better knowing everything.

The other part of your routine was spending time with Steve, the two of you growing closer, loving each other. Most nights you'd spend in his apartment, some nights he'd stay at the compound. But the nights at the compound where few and far between.

Steve likes to say it's just easier for you, because you can portal to him in an instant.

One afternoon, your StarkPhone vibrates, a message from Tony asking if you're around, and when you tell him yes, he very casually asks you to come by the cabin. You put your shoes on and Portal, no ones around the compound today, and FRIDAY can forward all holo-coms to your phone - just in case.

You step through your portal, the gravel of Tony's driveway crunches under your feet. You can see the garden on the side of the house. A shed that looked too out of place to be just a normal shed.

As you ascend the porch steps, you hear the screen door slap closed, quick footfalls running in your direction. Then a squeal of laughing as she turns the corner, you kneel down just as Morgan launches herself at you. You laugh as she squeezes you around the neck. Your eyes snap up to approaching footsteps, Tony stands casually with his hands in his pockets.

"Pwincess Charlie!" She adjusts herself in your arms as you stand, one arm around your neck as she pointed to Tony. "Daddy never tolded me you were coming. Will you play with me?" Her large brown eyes turn to you and you smile.

"Later, pumpkin. Auntie and I have some grown-up things to do first," Tony raises and eyebrow when Morgan pouts.

"Promise we can play before I leave, ok?" Morgan seems to find that suitable enough, and she shimmies out of your hold and runs back inside.

Tony stars at you for another moment, a small smile on his lips, "You're really good with her, Y/N."

You scoff, "She's the best, it's not that hard." You push him back towards the door, "Ok, Old Man, what did you want to show me?"

Tony leads you to his study, he walks around his desk and places his hands on a large box. His fingers drum against the cardboard for a second before he heaves a large sigh, then pushes the box across the desk towards you.

You arch and eyebrow, "What's in the box?" Tony shakes his head, a scoff leaving his lips.

"Certainly not the worst thing you can think of," he motions toward it again. An uncomfortable noise leaving his throat.

"Tony…"

"Just- please. Open it."

Inside the box are a bunch of papers. Folders stacked sideways with worm out notebooks -no, journals. There's an envelope with your name on it. It's stuffed to the brim. You run your fingers over the lettering, your breath catches.

"It's - oh," when you flip the envelope over, there's an H under the seal. You glance up at Tony, his brows are drawn close, a half grimace on his lips.

"Only read one of two, they're from dad," he clears his throat. "didn't feel right reading them. He wrote to you. A lot. Birthdays, holidays, every day in between. The, uh - The day he died."

You eyes burn, and the tears well up. "Thought you didn't read many of them," you try to tease.

Tony slides a piece of paper to you, "He wrote me. Just one, and it was about you, too." You feel overwhelmed. Your chest aches. You missed Howie so much. But this, this is too much. You still reach out and read Howard's letter to Tony. You feel almost sick.

"God, yo- you must hate me, Tony…" you whisper.

"What? No! Of course not - Y/N- "he stumbles over his words as he comes around his desk to hug you.

"Why…?" you mumble into his chest. "If I were you, I'd hate me. It's my fault Howie was the way he was. To you. Your mom… If I had only listened - maybe-"

Tony pulls you back by your shoulders, and gives you a small shake, "No, Dad was dad. He drank and he was mean. He didn't drink and he was still an asshole. The only time he was ever anything different was in front of a crowd or those old reels from the '60s. He loved my mother, he just couldn't look at me and-" Tony shakes his head a little.

"Still," you say. You shrug your shoulders.

"Things happened. There's no going back. We can't change the past, honey. Them's the breaks."

You glance at the box again, "did you read my journals?" Tony takes his hands from you and rubs them together. "Tony…?"

"Uh- well," he clears his throat again. "To be fair, I thought you were dead?"

A heat of embarrassment crawls up your chest. A whine leaves you. "To-o-onyyy!"

You spend the rest of the afternoon at Tony's. Going through old photos Howard had taken with the camera you bought him. One or two old reels from the '60s no one has ever seen. One was to Tony, he told you about how it saved his life with a new element for his Arc Reactor.

The second reel was about you.

The room, Howard's office, you assumed. Was dark, the only light was the one on his desk. The camera was unfocused, staring off into the distance over Howard's shoulder. He's hunched over some papers on his desk, his hand skims down a few lines, the other holds a cigarette between his fingers as his thumb runs at his forehead.

He exhales a large cloud of smoke, it billows out onto the desk and around him. He then tosses the papers aside and leans back in his chair. He looks tired, dark circles and bags under his eyes. There's a knock off screen and Howard grunts.

"Mr. Stark, your wife is on line 3," a woman says quietly.

He hums, placing the cigarette between his lips, "Thanks, Helen. You can head out for the night." She gives a quiet thanks and Howard takes a deep inhale, then the click of a phone. "Honey," he greets and lets the smoke out through his nose. There's some shuffling of papers before Howard stands, the cigarette still in his mouth.

"No, no, you're right," Howard chuckles. "Of course, you're always right. Maria - " he stops. One last drag of his cigarette before he snubs it out. "You know what today is - yes I get it." Howard scrubs a hand down his face and sits on the edge of his desk. He picks up his glass next, downs the liquor contents in one swift gulp. He kisses his teeth, a grunt of disapproval leaves his throat.

"Not this again. I told you I don't like to be at that house around this time of —"

He stops again, a click of a case, another cigarette between his lips before the flick of a lighter ignites it.

"My sister was my whole world, honey — God knows I love you, but please, just allow me two days a year to feel like shit. Please —" Howard inhales deep from his cigarette, then exhales after a second.

He's quiet for a long moment, you assume to listen to Maria talk.

"No - no, don't call Peggy. Ugh, I already get an earful during the week. I don't need it today."

Howard stands, twisting around like he wants to pace his office. His eyes scan around until they fall on the camera. He must notice it's still filming. He swallows thickly, then places the cigarette in his mouth again.

"Oh, yes, darling. - I'll call Peggy tomorrow. No- I'll be home in a few hours. - Yes, alright," Howard hums a goodbye and hands up.

He then moves around his desk, the camera lens finally focuses on him as he sits on the edge. He's silent for a moment.

"I think I've written you a few dozen letters over the years, kid," he chuckles humorlessly, taking another drag of his cigarette.

"When did he start smoking?" you ask Tony. Tony just shrugs.

"Picked it up a few years ago," Howard seems to answer. He rolls it between his fingers. Carelessly flicking the ash onto the carpeted floor. "I know what you're gona say - don't think I don't know. Sure, they might kill me, but we both know that's not true-"

"Howard!" you screech.

Howard raises his hands in mock surrender. A bitter laugh leaving his lips. "Alright, that was too much," he shrugs.

"You're a mess…"

"You know he can't -"

Your eyes glass over as you stare at the grainy film.

His eyes come back to the camera. His hand rakes through his short graying hair, "yeah… you're right," he huffs out a cloud of smoke.

"He can't, huh?"

"Sometimes," he chuckles again, "Sometimes I talk to you. Maria thinks I'm crazy. So does Peg. Shit, maybe I am…"

It's quiet for awhile. Howard doesn't move from his percho n the edge of his desk. The cigarette between his finger tips smokes slowly, he picks at his lip with his teeth.

"That might be it, Y/N. We can turn it off."

"No, wait," you inhale a deep breath, waiting.

Howard's eyes look into the camera lens. And you think he can almost see you, there's a small smirk on his lips. "I love you, kid. Don't think I've ever said so to your face. But I do. Love you, Y/N."

You sniffle, Tony's hand covers yours and you cling to him to him like a lifeline. "Love you, too, Howie."

There's a wet laugh that comes from Howard, he scrubs a hand down his face and inhales the tears that burn at his eyes. He smiles, then. He moves toward the camera, "See you later, kid," and the film shuts off.

It's silent in Tony's study for a long while. It's quiet, but not lonely. You can feel the love in the room. from Howard, from Tony. You lean your head on his shoulder and the two of you enjoy just being present.

A year goes by faster than a blink of an eye, you've moved into Steve's apartment in the city. It's quiet in the city. Less cars, less people.

The once busy streets of New York are almost laughably barren. The people that were once here, either moved away or were Dusted.

"You should come today, doll," Steve calls from the kitchen. When you don't respond he finds you on the ouch, the book you were reading open on your chest, brows furred and a frown on your lips. "Doll face?" Steve calls your name again, this time pulling you out of your daze.

"Hmm? What'd you say?"

"I asked if you wanted to come to the session today," Steve leans over the couch, placing his palm on your cheek. It's warm and you nuzzle into it.

"Promised Tash I'd drop by before heading to Tony's," Steve runs his thumb over your cheek, and sighs as he straightens up. He takes a step back, arms crossed tight over his chest. "Skip the meeting today, come with me," you plead. "Morgan would love to see you."

"You know I can't," he shakes his head. You sit up and lean of the back of the couch, reaching for him. But he steps back again, out of reach.

"Steve, they can miss you for one day. C'mon -"

"Forget it. Have fun with Tony."

"What - that's not. Hey!-" Steve turns to leave, you portal in front of him, hand on his chest to stop his retreat. "Talk to me, Tough Guy."

There's a storm brewing in his eyes, his nostrils flare as he stares down at you. His hand comes up to cover yours on his chest. "For once, I want you to choose me." He says low, voice dropping to the space between you. His hand travels to your wrist, gripping it and moving your hand off him so he can step around you.

As he walks around you back towards the kitchen, you follow him. "I did choose you. I chose you when I got back here. I love you, Steve."

He scoffs, "you only chose me because -" he stops. A sharp inhale and he turns away again.

"No, say it. I wanna hear it," you stop on the other side of the island from him.

"You're only with me. Because Bucky is dead," he says bluntly. And it stings more than you think it would.

"Being with you is always like waiting for the other shoe to drop," you mumble. "You're here, but you're never present. At least not with me," your confidence wavers, voice going soft and cracked towards the end. "Maybe I want you to choose me first. For once, Steve. I'm always the last person in your list of everything else in your life. We may life together, but you're just going through the motions. Do you - do you even want to be with me?"

When you glance back up at Steve, he can't meet your eye, you click your tongue. "I'll be here, Steve. Whenever you're ready to actually talk to me and not a support group. We lost people, too. Just remember I'm right here."

You portal away, stepping back and then you're at the compound.

You find Nat in the kitchen, making lunch. She turns her head to see you over her shoulder.

"Hey, stranger," she greets. "made you a PB&J," she points to the plate with the sandwich on it. You mutter a thanks and follower her to her office.

Nat studies you for a moment, her green eyes searching your features. "what did he do now?"

You sigh, picking at the bread, "He said I never pick him. Over everyone else. He's never my top priority."

Nat's face scrunches as she takes a bit of her sandwich, "But you moved in with him. Instead of of staying here. And it's not like you two need jobs - cause Tony owns the building. You're always around each other."

You hum.

"And I only see you on the weekends. He has you the other five days."

You scoff, "You make it sound like you're sharing custody," you roll your eyes.

"Nah," Tony won that custody battle the minute you reappeared back in this time," she tries to joke.

You glance away from her, picking at the bread of your sandwich.

"Oh. It's about Tony, isn't it?" Nat sighs when you let out a hum. "Don't think too much about it, Y/N. Steve's always been jealous of your relationship with Tony."

"That doesn't make it better!" You slump back in your chair with a huff. "Tony and I are just friends. He's married with a kid. I love him like family - its -"

"Complicated?"

"No, not really. I - I'm in love with Steve. But sometimes, I don't know," your voice goes soft. "I feel like he's never really here with me. That his mind is somewhere else and he won't let me in." You look back at Nat, her smile is encouraging, and a little sympathetic. "Does that make sense?"

Natasha hums around her sandwich, and puts it down as she finishes chewing before she speaks.

"I think - Do you wanna know what I think?" you nod. "He's restless, or his body doesn't know he can just stop. We've all been constantly on the go since the alien invasion back in New York. To Ultron, and then Thanos. The treats were getting bigger and badder and we never stopped."

Nat waits, for just a moment, "Maybe I've never stopped either. I'm still here, listening to the world's - the universe's problems." She shakes her head, "I think it's just a distraction -"

"From not thinking about what we've all lost…"

"…Yeah."

You're both quiet as you finish you lunch. The both of you content with just being there for each other. No matter how that is.

You give Nat a hug before you go, a long squeezing hug, like you don't ever want to let her go. Not yet.

"Let me know if someone needs saving, ok?" You tease.

"Yeah, yeah. Tell the troublemaker I said hi, and Morgan too."

You laugh as you step back into a portal. Then the crunch of gravel under your feet as Tony's cabin comes into view.

Tony and Morgan are in the yard, she sees you fist - like always. Her face lights up with a huge grin, its magnetic. The hold this little girl has on you. You'd burn the world to the ground, all for Morgan H. Stark.

She wiggles out of Tony's arms, and skips toward you, "Princess Charlie!" she launches herself into your arms with a squeal. You laugh and twirl her around.

"Hello, Lady Morgan," you peck her on the cheek.

"Auntie," Tony greets with a smirk as he makes his way over. His brows scrunch as he eyes you. "What's the matter?"

You hate that he can tell when something is bothering you, or you're upset. Howard could tell, too. Maybe it was a Stark thing.

"Nothing for you to worry about," Morgan maneuvers herself so she's on your back, hands and feet hugging you like a koala bear.

Tony grunts, skeptical of your answer, he just shrugs and motions for you to follow him back inside.

The rest of the day is spent at Tony's. You help pepper make dinner, and play with Morgan until Tony and Pepper tuck her in for the night. The three of you share drinks out on the porch well into the night.

It's peaceful here. It's quiet here. Like this is where Tony was always meant to be. Him and Pepper cuddling on the porch swing while they look out onto the lake in the backyard. You don't feel like an intruder, not anymore. You feel like part of their small family, like you matter just as much to Morgan, too.

"I'm gonna head out," you say as you stand from the steps. "Thanks for today." You stretch your arms above your head.

"Are you sure? The guest room is there, if you wanted to stay," Pepper says around a yawn. You shake your head, and hug her when she stands to say goodbye. Pepper kisses Tony on the cheek before she bids you both goodnight.

Tony motions with his head to the side, "C'mon, I'll walk you out." He leads you around the porch to the front yard. It's quiet. Only a few crickets break the silence, an owl hoot far in the distance.

But it's so damn quiet.

As you stand side-by-side next to Tony, he lets out a heavy breath, he glances at you a few times before he speaks. "You gonna tell me what's wrong?" he says quietly. When you don't answer right away, he says your name. Pleading for you to just open up.

It takes you a minute, another sigh leaving your lips. "Steve and I had a…disagreement. It'll sort itself out. Don't worry."

Tony turns to face you, "I'll always worry about you, kid," and it's soft and meaningful. You know he means it.

"I know, but you don't have to, Tony," you shrug.

"Yeah. Doesn't mean I still won't worry. It's in the job description," he smiles when you playfully shove him away. "Come by tomorrow, yeah?"

You hum, "We'll see." It's something you've both been saying since you got back. But you always see him the next day, even if it's for a little while.

Tony pecks you on the forehead before he bids you goodnight. "Love ya, kiddo."

"Night, love you, too," and then you portal back to Steve's and your apartment.

It's dim, the only light on is the stove light. It's quiet here, too.

You call out for him, the only answer is your heavy sigh as you make your way to the bedroom. It's empty. Maybe he needed space. Or he's out running to let off steam.

There's no note where he usually leaves one, so you send him a text saying you're home, and crawl into bed.

tags: @valckenaux ; @yunloyal

#The Way Back #Steve Rogers x Reader #Bucky Barnes x Reader #mcu imagine #mcu fanfiction #marvel fanfiction #Steve Rogers #Tony Stark #Natasha Romanoff #Pepper Potts #Carol Danvers

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70yearsofwinter · 16 hours ago

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ㅤHe was absolutely still capable of firing back at the loud-mouthed, bratty hero-types he often found himself partnered with, be it Sam, Natalia or Steve, but this was an extreme situation. It wasn't even that he was upset by the killing, because he wasn't, but maybe that was more of the problem. He was so much more effective when he let go and just did what he'd been built for, and Natalia's life had been on the line. There was no balance to this thing, not yet and maybe not ever, and even the fights he'd joined Sam for felt like some kind of proof of that. He'd gotten his ass kicked how many times by that Walker asshole, when all it took was getting hurt enough (plus that literal shock to his system) to kick him into the right wrong kind of mindset. He'd ended the fight, and by some miracle hadn't killed Walker, but it had been a close one. He'd had to go walk that off, both the pain and the messed up headspace.

ㅤThis one was harder to walk off. He felt simultaneously detached and hyper-aware, on point but unaffected. Natalia was the mission, the asset he was sent to recover and protect, but she was so much more than that. Reconciling the two was feeling like an impossible task right then, but the tension was slowly bleeding out. It was repetitive work, the stitch, knot, cut, repeat, and the smooth feel of her skin against his right hand where it brushed as he worked was a different kind of sense memory. He was all messed up and he knew it.

ㅤHis name on her lips was another of those things, and he knew he wasn't supposed to be this, but he wasn't supposed to be what she remembered. He knew that she wasn't his, really hadn't ever been his because even when she'd given herself to him, she'd belonged to the Red Room just as he had. Binding her to him now when he was a broken thing would be cruel, and he knew that, but his brows knit at her mention of Fury, then Odessa. "I owed you for Odessa," he told her, which seemed safe to someone pretending he felt human, like maybe if he tried, it would start to feel more natural again soon. "And he thinks I owed him."

ㅤBucky actually thought he owed Fury a bit for nearly killing him normally, though there was that very pragmatic voice in the back of his head that thought Fury had been the target and escaped death, so that should have been enough. He absolutely had not done this for Fury.

✘ ⌖ ➶ One of the things that Natasha missed about her James was the banter she once had with him. She was always a bit of a brat and he always gave it right back to her. It was their game, their way of flirting. Their way of acknowledging that their lives were complicated and far from ideal, but they could still find a spark of enjoyment in something as simple as giving each other a hard time. She'd heard from Sam that after everything, he seemed to have retained that sarcastic side that he was so good at. He still had his sharp wit. Which was why she was expecting some sort of quip when she gave him a leveled look about the couch. But there was nothing. There were only those icy blue eyes that seemed so devoid of anything human.

It worried her, and as he got to work on her back, she chewed on what that could mean. It helped her ignore the sting of the antiseptics. Getting stitched up was hardly something new to Natasha. Most of the time she'd just do it herself. It would always hurt to a degree to sew up one's skin with a needle and thread, but at this point, she was very used to the sensation. Following his suggestion, the redhead lowered her arms down to her sides, holding onto the seat of the chair. The air was cool against her exposed skin around the sports bra she still wore, and she was more than ready for a shower. Despite any discomfort she felt, though, all of her thoughts were plagued by the enigma of the man working on her.

Metal against skin caused Natasha to shiver slightly. His new arm still felt slightly cool to the touch and she hated learning how much her body missed it. "James..." she started softly. "I, uh.... thank you. I'm sure you did it for Fury, but still. Thank you." Natasha grunted a little feeling the needle go in again, but quickly she was able to swallow any pain. She really wished she had a bottle of vodka, though. "I'd have had a hard time believing this scenario when we were in Odessa," she added with a small smirk.

#xlianovna || main .001 #xlianovna #you hunt me like your last goodbye ☆ natasha romanoff || xlianovna #it always ends in a fight ☆ [v. main]

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cursed-spirit-manipulation · 6 months ago

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lot of ppl upset abt the lack of. Any Real Acknowledgement of Gojo dying and I'm not saying they're wrong but I did realize that I think that's pretty much just how JJK is. Like Riko died. Anyway. Kuroi maybe? We don't know. Haibara died. Ok. Geto died. Like that's a big part of the plot but Gojo doesn't tell the first years SHIT about him. They just know there's a weird monk fucking everything up (and that's fucking Kenjaku lmao). Nanako and Mimiko. Nanako and fucking Mimiko. Like I'm not saying this is... Okay I'm mad about Riko bc like. She's a big part of the reason Geto BECAME A MASS MURDERER I'd enjoy if he mourned her more. I JUST REMEBERED THAT YUKI DIED. And Choso. ANYWAY I don't think this is Terrible Storytelling bc it does feel indicative of the way Jujutsu Society treats sorcerers (and potentialy civilians) where you're just expected to fucking Move Along. And I think there might be something genuine in Gojo, being a part of that system, still feeling like what he wants is to fade away after he dies, arguably showing that in the end he is the same as everyone else, he's human, he's mortal. And that being both a genuine desire and warped coping mechanism, and the way that's hard to truly parse. But also it does kinda sucks when the characters seem to straight up Forget the ppl who died... Like. Sorry I just got so mad Abt Larue and Miguel and THEY DONT EVEN TALK ABOUT NANAKO AND MIMIKO? TBEY TALK ABOUU MISSING GETO BUT WE CANT GET A SINGLE FUCKING MENTION OF HIS GOD DAMN DAUGHTERS? anyway the treatment of death in JJK is a good Foundation for themes and emotional resonance but uhhh Gege kinda sucks at writing so it's. It's eh

#JJK spoilers #Any and every fic I write where Riko dies. You bet everyone is going to be Fucking Upset. And yes I'm roping in Shoko #ANYWAY a personal gripe I have w JJK that I feel is half like Genuine Problem and half My Preferences is that it sometimes feels too #Idk exactly how to put this. Isolated maybe? First of all not enough characters who aren't sorcerers so the world feels off balance #Second of all the characters don't interact as much as I think they should. We don't get enough Tokyo/Kyoto interactions #We don't get enough Shoko/literally anyone interactions. We don't get enough Utahime/literally anyone interactions #I'm going to crawl into a hole and die. Riko is just fucking gone once the star plasma mission is over. Yuki doesn't even talk Abt her #Like. I know the twist comes later but.... AUGHHHHHH hurts. It all hurts. Fuck the culling games that shit SUCKED #We DIDNT NEED MOST OF THOSE CHARACTERS GEGE STOP MAKING NEW FUCKING PEOPLE. IM LOSING IT.#Anyway I'm going to my corner to be mad Abt the treatment of Riko Kuroi Nanako and Mimiko #FUCKING KOKICHI DIED. AND MAI. JESUS #I think the fact I refuse to let them die in my fics bc. I think they were wasted as characters. Is definitely messing with my memories #Of which characters died. But I also do feel like when a character dies they just kinda... Fade away instead of. Being acknowledged #As friends and family and even just people. Like it only matters for a few minutes and then you're done. So it's hard #To remember who actually fucking died cause the characters never fucking act like anyone DIED.#Someone should euthanize me

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fivefeetfangirl · 2 years ago

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'Babe are you okay you haven't done your 91w posting today'

HSJDHSJDH NOO 😭😭😭😭😭

my phone shut down and wont work so i spent the whole day in the car NOT reading 91w like i wanted to. im not kidding i spent almost 10 hours in a car WITHOUT 91W!!! my hands are shaking i need to read

#that phone has been through too much tbh like that phone is so tired and sad that *i* had to be the owner of her #anyways i had my laptop (which is what i am on now) but it didnt have more battery after i finished the benji rosen part and now its 21.18 #and ive tried to fix that goddamn phone for so long ugh its annoing me so much like BITCH JUST WORK!!?!?!?#mostly sad about stuff getting lost and i have no way of getting it back like pics and other stuff but yeah idk i feel very materialistic #when i think like that maybe the memories that i remember should be enough you know??#sorry for the rant in the tags val ahaha (also it was a funny joke ahahaha (ref your next ask) i love that so many are enjoying my posts <3 #91w #so sorry to people who follow that tag cause im CLOGGING it ahahaha

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turnedpalefromlackofsun · 7 days ago

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so i spent money. and guess what

first time in my life im not satisfied with the collection of items i got

earrings because i think they will match her skin shade very nicely. its a copper and orange gem set because her dressing sense is more mature.

gold color copper tea spoon specifically for chai. i was trying to haggle for the tea set but i failed so just this. at the very least the tea spoon can be used for the sugar. its actually very selfish and delusional but it will ease me to think that she can use a tool connected to me to bring sweetness into her life

and then a sonic toy because shes the first sonic fan ive ever met in my life besides myself. when i was a child i used to wish sonic merch existed. now it does. id assume she wouldve felt the same. ive been to her house before a long time ago and i saw the decorations.

there should be more. this isnt enough to speak for me

avo spent money and wants to spend more. qayamat. doomsday is here

#i dont have much money but i wish i did #id buy her parents the tea set actually #avo wtf are you trying to do here? what is the goal #call me crazy but i want to overwrite our last memory together with this. im correcting a long overdue thing #cross it out and mark it in red. yknow #ill go completely crazy if i dont fix it #i think i spent like 2 days of food. 25$#its not enough #the freakiest part is i had to calculate how much food. it didnt compute like normally does #lord above are you watching this. i hope its funny to you.#math time. should i do load balancing or materials calculations?#they ease my mind because im crazy now #this is my personal blog i can overshare as much as i want #and when i regret it i can just disappear and gaslight hehehe #dawg i told my irls that know us both a little bit so they can tell me im crazy and i need to stop #and they enabled it. they said its normal to feel like this and act sporadic sometimes #uhhhhh no its not youre supposed to tell me off for this wtf #then they reminded me how we met and that this is the least crazy thing ive done around her #????? what kind of freak was i then? i dont remember this #nobody gets it! this isnt rational or reasonable!!#its calculated and optimized stupidity!!#these are the engineers btw. the ones who also perform risk analysis. mechanical and civil. THEYRE SAYING ITS OK #maybe my first mistake was talking to engineers.

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tsukimirecs · 7 months ago

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nekoma // fic recommendations

note: remember to read the tags! + i do not own any of these works + the synopsis for each fic belongs to the author who wrote the fic

kuroo tetsuro

taste test - kaientai

synopsis: when you taste the same thing as your soulmate, things get interesting

red all over - meldve

synopsis: you are trapped in an elevator with your work rival, kuroo. what else could go wrong?

your name - tsukisemi

synopsis: kuroo finds you really cute, too bad you keep giving him a fake name every time you come into the coffee shop he works at

public transit - orphan_account

synopsis: your heart pounded, knowing you were being touched, and he was watching you.

but when he loves me - sweetcandyliar

synopsis: there are so many ways that kuroo tells you he loves you.

somewhere only we know - wanderwithme (wanderlustt)

synopsis: four times kuroo proposes to you - and the last time he does

meeting the boys - orphan_account

synopsis: in which no one really believes kuroo could get a girlfriend as incredible as you

落葉 | rakuyou - deltachye

synopsis: maple leaves are most beautiful in which they have died, falling slowly, waiting patiently to be reborn

riverbank - itsleese

synopsis: you're reminded of the little boy you loved way back then, the riverbank you played at together. maybe you should go see it?

caring cats - haikyuu_philia

synopsis: nekoma is family

disrupted meetings - sansos

synopsis: dr. tetsurou kuroo’s research group has transitioned to hosting meetings online. what could go wrong?

cat ears - just__j

synopsis: kuroo approaches you, captain of the girls club, with a proposition of a bet for the losing captain

kozume kenma

change the channel - alkale

synopsis: "i want to buy your game from you"

kodzuken does not have a girlfriend - bunnytime

synopsis: it has been a running joke that kodzuken lies about having a girlfriend for years now. needless to say, his fanbase is convinced he doesn’t really have a girlfriend

second place - yourqueenhasarrived

synopsis: kenma forgets your anniversary and once again pushes you aside for his gaming career. how much can you take?

an inconvenient crush - the_only_iris

synopsis: kenma has had the biggest crush on twitch streamer, (y/n). what happens when their paths cross?

learning process - nomazee

synopsis: you and kenma always had an interesting dynamic. kuroo found it nice for everyone involved

thank you for being a friend! - heichoe

synopsis: ”if it helps: when you gave kuroo head in high school, he said it was great"

yaku morisuke

who dares speak aloud these words (intended for the heart to speak) - sunmoonstarsrain

synopsis: yaku bursts into her life like a hurricane, even whilst akaashi lingers on like the memory of a summer breeze

artists eyes - teapots_and_teacups

synopsis: yaku was used to being ignored on the court

if only i were selfish - this noodle writes

synopsis: yaku was anything but a selfish man, but being selfless had cost him you once before. so, when he gets the chance to see you again, will he finally be selfish enough to try?

note: as you can tell, i'm trying a different recommendations style- what do you think? do you think i should switch back to the first one or is this one better? would love to know your thoughts

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luludeluluramblings · 5 months ago

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tbh I’m more intrigued by the idea of college-age Reader getting pregnant while unmarried still living in the manor and NO ONE has any idea who the father is (maybe she does, but she’s withholding that for now or maybe he’s not in the picture?) and it’s the biggest freak out ever. that just seems so fucking wild and potentially hilarious to me. and nobody noticing she’s pregnant until she’s farther along? or them finding out randomly?? imagine:

damian: you look pregnant. what is wrong with you.

reader: i am pregnant though

the batfam: ????????!!!!!!!!!! and then she proposes that now that she’s old enough and starting a new chapter in her life raising a baby and all she should just move out! (cue everyone disliked that meme)

Neglected!Pregnant!Reader x Yandere!Bat Family

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

Part Two ☁️ Part Three ☁️

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

A/N: Okay, I think I'm about to become a Pregnancy!Reader writer. Which, I'm not mad about. Kind think it would be fun, but I know the trope isn't for everyone. So, if it’s not your thing, I’m sorry.

A/N: Some of this is based off of things from my own pregnancies.

A/N: Oh, no. Frick, I wanna make this a series now. Check the bottom, cause I have a plot idea for this and I want opinions on it. I spiraled, this was supposed to be a quick blurb. I got carried away. Gonna build up to the yandere shenanigans because I’m turning into a writer with a million WIPs.

A/N: Tagging @skay-ali because I like their The Forgotten Daughter series.

Warnings: Fem!Reader, Very minor Yandere Themes (like barely there), minor NSFW, graphic descriptions of pregnancy and medical procedures, Vomiting.

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

You don't really remember that night it happened. But, it only happened once and after you swore you'd never drink again. The hangover after that night had been one of the worst of your short life.

In fact, the sticky feeling between your legs and bitter taste on your tongue had also added to your decision to swear of these college parties. Luckily, you have enough of your memory to remember that you and your partner from that night had both been willing even when wasted. Even if you couldn't remember their name. Or, their face.

It takes you a while to notice. One missed cycle wasn't anything to freak out about, and it was exam season. The stress had probably caused the nausea. It wasn't until you were heading down to breakfast one morning and smelled the burnt eggs in the kitchen that Stephanie had burnt that you realized something might be wrong.

You, of course, ignore it. It was just a fluke. Burnt eggs weren't appetizing to anyone. But, then you nearly faint walking through the perfume section after looking to restock your favorite bottle of scent.

The doctor you finally went to another week later had asked about your cycle and the last time you had been intimate with someone. That's when the reality of things started to set in. You hadn't even thought to do an at home test to check. Your doctor was kind though, saying they could just do a quick urine sample and blood test just to make sure. It might be something else.

The next few minutes felt like ages. But, when the Doctor came back to tell you the positive results you panicked. Not as in panicked as in you broke down, but you threw up a mask. You're good at doing that. You must get it from your father.

When she asks you if this is good news or bad news you can't help, but blurt that it's good. Great even. Which causes her to beam at you. Before you know it, you're being handed a complementary diaper bag with formula and tiny bottles while being given the rundown on your possible due date and future appointments. You nodded you're head along with the information, sliding the paper's into the diaper bag as she hands them to you.

But, then she turns to you with delight and tells you that the Ultra Sound tech has an opening and you're just far along enough they can do your first ultrasound. It'll only be a thirty minute wait.

After nodding along once more, you go back into the waiting room. Holding your new bag with white knuckles and falling into deep thought.

This is happening. But, how? Are you even fit to be a parent? You've hardly ever been loved. How are you going to love someone else? How are you going to do this? What will the family think? What will your few friends think? You don't even remember who their father is. This is impossible. You're not ready. You'll never be ready. That churning feeling is in your stomach again and you feel that single piece of toast you had for breakfast about to come back up.

The thirty minutes fly by with those thoughts in your head. They still swirl in your head as your go back into the ultrasound room.

It's dark, but the tech had few soft lights on in the room. Its actually kind of... cozy.

What's not cozy it the tech telling you that she's going to stick a wand up your bits so you could see the baby. Your eyes screwing shut at the cold invasive feeling.

But, when you open them, she turns the screen for you to see. It's almost amazing how fast the image appears on the screen.

And, their moving. Actually moving. You end up laughing at the sight, causing the screen to flicker and the little blob to move. When the nurse plays the heart beat you can feel yours stuttering in your chest.

Watching them bounce in there with each laugh, it’s easy for the next words to spill out of your mouth.

“Oh, I’m gonna love you.”

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

Every step after that feels remarkably less lonely. It’s not just you anymore. You have someone who you’re going to love.

You don’t bother telling the Family. Bruce would just lecture you on being reckless while the other’s would judge you for it.

Honestly, you don’t care if they did. This is your baby.

Funnily enough, for a house full of detectives and highly intelligent vigilantes no one actually notices. Not even Cassandra. It’s a bit insulting how much they don’t pay attention. But, your symptoms soon make it so you don’t care.

The waves of exhaustion, the way everything smells strong and certain things make you want to gag. Heartburn that burns your throat. The subtle cravings that make you cry when you can’t fulfill them. Thankfully you finished your exams because you were too tired to even move from your bed most mornings due to strange nightmares.

Eventually, someone does notice. And, it’s not anyone you would expect.

Of all things you cried over on the pantry floor, it had to be salt and vinegar chips. They hadn’t been what you wanted, but it was too late to go get french fries and a smoothie at this hour in Gotham. And, you stuffed them down your throat with angry tears.

It was Stephanie of all people to find you. You gave her a sharp glare when she seemed to grow wide eyed. Normally you avoid her gaze, but you were quite pissed about having chips in your mouth and not fries. As her eyes grew wider, your nose wrinkled in further annoyance at her.

Just as you’re about to tell her off, she speaks.

“Do you— um, want something else?”

It’s pitiful how fast your snarl turns into a pleading pout.

“Yes, please. I want fries. I want Jokerized fries so badly.” You practically blubber when she gives you a pointed nod towards the car garage.

It takes you a bit to get off the floor despite the fact that your bump is hardly noticeable, but Stephanie noticed the extremely subtle curve.

“How far?” She asks hesitantly, looking from the bump to your face.

You also hesitant for a moment, looking up at her with tears on your cheeks and a serious look in your eyes. “14 Weeks.”

Her eyebrows raise and a wiry pout appears on her face. “Damn. You’re smaller than I was at that time, so not fair.”

The slightly surprised that information gives you almost makes you pause. But, if you had you would’ve probably toppled back down to the pantry floor.

“Explain on the way?” You ask, still a bit nervous. The two of you had never been close since you moved into the manor less than a handful of years back.

“Sure.” She grins, leading the way.

As you both walk, she whispers. “Does Bruce know?”

“Don’t know. Don’t care.”

“Ah.” Stephanie managed to hide the winces from you.

When you two finally make into the car, you’re already feeling better about life. You’re about to have your fries, and possibly a shake too. You didn’t expect to have any company, but surprisingly it’s nice.

Stephanie drives, and get the fries to go. Munching on them as Stephanie drives you back to the manor. Her sharing her own pregnancy experience.

"Wait, so Tim dated you when you were pregnant with another dudes kid? Babe, forget being me being small, you got game."

"Damn right I do." She says smugly, stuffing her own fries in her mouth. "So, um, do you wanna talk about what happened with you?"

And, just like that your mood shifts.

"No."

"Oh- Oh! I'm sorr-" She starts up, and you can tell she's assuming the worst.

"Don't you start, Stephanie." You interrupt with a pointed glare. "I don't want to talk about it because it's none of y'all's business."

That makes her cough on her french fry. "Wait, wait, what do you mean? Don't you want help?"

"Nah, I got it." Comes your stubborn reply, glaring out the window as you dip your fry into the cheesecake milkshake.

"... You should tell Bruce." She suggest after a moment of awkward silence.

"What? So he can ignore his grandchild, too?" Your filter is none existent with your hormones all out of wack.

"He doesn't ignore you-"

"Oh, yes the fuck he does." Your firmly state. Growing a bit heated. "Y'all all figgin do."

Stephanie is about to roll her eyes, chalking your words to you just being unreasonable. But, then the thought starts to creep upon her with each passing building when she realizes this is the first time she's actually hung out with you. Ever.

"I'm sorry." She murmurs to you. The silence falling over you both as the cars continues back to the manor.

"... I'm only forgiving you because you bought my fries..."

"Really?! That's all I had to do?"

"What? I was desperate for this- Wait! Hang on. Stop the car. Stop the car-"

"What? Why?! Are you- OH! Fuck!"

You ended up regurgitating up all the fries you had just eaten. Right into your lap.

"Oooo, that's nasty." Stephanie says, cracking the windows.

"Is it bad that I still want to eat them?" You mumble to her, eyeing the remaining fries.

"Please, please, wait till we get back or I'm gonna hurl, too."

"Fine." Comes your reply. Your eyes drifting shut for a moment. "If you tell anyone I'm gonna tell Cassandra about your crush on her."

"How did you- Frick, you are more like Bruce then I realize." Her voice going from panic to begrudging realization.

"Now, that's offenseive."

"Oh, come on. You're kids gonna have some of Bruce's DNA too."

"Eww. Eww. Don't remind me."

The banter between you both coming back with ease.

When you make it back to the manor, parting ways for the night. You feel at ease. You may have made have finally made a new friend in all this and gained a pillar of support.

As you shower and finish off your fries, you can't help but think about the apartments you had been looking at. Wondering what Stephanie will thinking of your nursery ideas.

Down in the cave, Stephanie slowly walks down the steps. Realizing this might have just gotten complicated.

"You okay, Steph?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay.”

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

A/N: Soooooo, what if, and hear me out, wee add some baby daddy drama to this?

A/N: Please note, I write a Reader that DID NOT grow up with the Bat Family, which means we could have some really really juicy drama here. But, we could just keep the options limited to just close friends of the Bat family.

A/N: What do y'all think? Baby Daddy drama? One of the Bat Boys the Daddy? One of the other vigilantes? Should I do a Baby Daddy poll? I just feel like this is an opportunity.

A/N: Also, Stephanie was a teen mom in some comics from my research. Which I think adds to this and gives her a better chance of bonding with Reader until shit goes down.

#yandere batfam #yandere batfamily #batfam x reader #batfamily x reader #platonic batfam #yandere dc #yandere batfam x reader #yandere batfamily x reader #anon ask #answered asks #pregnant!reader

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thesvnandthemooon · 25 days ago

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𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞

18+ MINORS DNI

a/n: i said i wouldn’t do requests atm but this was requested by a very dear reader on wattpad and i just couldn’t say no 🙂‍↕️

summary: based on the song by bruno mars; masc rich lawyer!reader, bartender!natasha. nat has blonde hair here (no idea how important that detail really is tbh)

warnings: smut…(a bunch of it, actually — strap usage, fingering, oral (n receiving)), alcohol/being drunk; i think that’s it?

word count: 8.2k

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

— LOS ANGELES, USA —

Exiting your car that night, you don't expect that, not too long later, you'll have her in your passenger seat. Like your own personal Cinderella, she'll be with you once the clock strikes midnight.

However, your evening doesn't start as fairytale-like as it'll end.

It's been a shitty day. A brutal case you'd been working on for months. As almost always, it entailed dealing with insufferable clients and their enormous egos, biased judges and ruthless opponents, 80-hour weeks and tons of stress — only to lose the case.

It was humiliating, leaving the court room. You'd trailed to your car like a wet dog and sat there, forehead on your steering wheel, for a solid five minutes. Only when you realized that the press was starting to surround your car, you'd pressed the start button and torn down the street.

Let's pretend you didn't hit a trash can on your way out. Maybe that'll make your day look less like a shitshow.

Being the child of two of Hollywood's most successful lawyers, everyone's eyes are on you. News articles, social media backlash, professional rivals that revel in your failure. You can't afford even a single misstep. Yes, in your case, even a lost case is a misstep. It's just more proof, they'll say. That you're only here because mommy and daddy funneled millions into your trust fund before you even turned 18.

You rarely frequent bars, since there never seems to be enough time for that. It's why you usually keep a bottle of whiskey in your office (telling yourself that's completely normal) — but tonight, you don't want to get drunk sitting in silence. Too many thoughts, too many worries. Instead, you pull up in front of LA's most famous bar.

Hollywood elites, business moguls, and the ultra-wealthy. Expensive champagne flows like water, its coloration matching the golden hues of the bars interior. You step inside and, for once, only feel mildly out of place.

You walk across marble floors and approach the bar. Sitting down, you undo the top button of your shirt and watch the woman in front of you turn around.

A bartender, but possibly the most gorgeous one you've ever seen. Blonde hair and a red dress, makeup so flawless you'd never be able to tell she's been working for over six hours now. If you weren't still pissed off about that stupid case, you'd be able to appreciate the sight a lot more, though.

You lean in and almost order a whiskey. But you have that in your office, so you change your mind.

"Just a martini", you mumble, already reaching for your purse. "Stirred."

She studies you with interest, not saying a word. The memory flits through her head — you, in this bar, two years ago. Middle length hair, slicked back, and a suit. Passed out in the corner. You have no idea this happened, as you were completely out of it, but she remembers.

"No 'hello'? 'Good evening'? What's the magic word again?"

You look up and stare at her, your Black Card between your fingers. "Sorry?"

She shrugs and reaches for the mixing glass. Ice clinks, the gin swirling like liquid silver under the bar's lights as she stirs.

"Maybe my expectations are too high", she says and pours the vermouth. "I should be used to people like you."

You raise your eyebrows, your jaw slackening slightly. "People like me?"

"Exactly. Let me tell you something, hotshot", she says, leaning over the bar. "Have you seen who enters this place? Rich people. Snobby people. The upper one percent. You sat your cute little ass down and muttered your order like you're being forced to sit here."

"Well", you say, struggling to find an excuse for your lack of manners, "I had a shitty day, okay? All I want is a few drinks."

"Not too many", she says, finally straining the liquid into the glass. She plucks an olive from its jar and rolls it between her fingers, her eyes on yours, before dropping it into the drink. "You don't hold your liquors too well, do you?"

"What?"

"Not important."

You accept the martini and take a tentative sip. You study her like she studied you, but with an air of irritation. Your day's been miserable enough already. No need for her to pile on.

"Listen", you say, "I'm not really in the mood to talk. I know you bartenders like to play shrink-"

"I prefer the word therapist, but go on."

"But", you say sharply, shooting her a halfhearted glare, "I had a bad day. A really, really bad day. You probably can't even imagine. So just let it go, alright?"

"Understood", she says. Her green eyes, however, twinkle with the kind of mirth that tells you she definitely will not let it go.

Can someone drive you up the wall but also be annoyingly attractive? Apparently. You're experiencing it in that very moment.

The silence lasts exactly two minutes. It's enough time for the bartender to prepare a Bloody Mary and hand it to a different customer, then she turns toward you again. You groan and let your head fall onto the counter of the bar.

"Ouch", you mutter.

"You're like a child", she states. "A petulant little child who didn't get their way. What happened, hotshot?"

"Leave me alone", you mumble, your breath fogging up the smooth surface of the countertop.

"It can't be that bad." She leans in, arms crossed on the counter, and lowers her head so her face is right in front of yours. You dare look at her and immediately regret it. The green in her eyes is sage with specks of seafoam, mint and apple, unfairly captivating.

Then, her breath hits your lips. Sweet and warm, with an undercurrent of mint.

Before you can imagine her bent over the counter in a very different situation, you quickly close your eyes and press your face against the countertop.

"Let me guess", she says, seemingly oblivious to your internal struggle, "you lost a deal? No, not that. Maybe your shoes don't match your suit? No? Fine. Oh, I got it. Someone had the audacity to say no to you today."

"Truly, fuck you."

"That's a bold thing to say to the woman making your drinks, darling."

You groan and sit up, strands of messy hair blocking your vision. She smirks and brushes them aside.

"This", you say, narrowing your eyes, "is why I don't go to bars."

"Oh, please." She tilts her head. "Me? Harmless."

"Harmless, but annoying. Like a damn housefly."

"How sweet", she says drily. "You know your way around women, huh?"

You give her a deadpan look. She has no clue (or maybe she does — whatever), but you haven't been involved with anyone in over a year now. That is, if you don't count hookups and one night stands and such.

Flirting is also not your strongest suit, but it is hers. You just haven't realized it yet.

"I'm a busy woman", you say. "The only women I see are clients and coworkers."

"Clients, as in...?"

"No." You raise your eyebrows, unimpressed. "I'm a lawyer, not a hooker."

"A lawyer?" She smiles and tilts her head. "Wow. That's exciting."

Sarcasm, obviously. You roll your eyes and lean back a little. Good thing the barstool has a backrest, otherwise you'd be on the floor by now.

"Come on. All you do is pour booze into glasses and poke olives with toothpicks."

"Don't forget pouring water into ice cube trays."

She chuckles when you roll your eyes again. Leaning over the counter, she brushes her fingertips against the collar of your shirt.

Your cheeks heat up. She notices the rosy flush in your face and tilts her head, giving a soft hum.

"So, a lawyer", she says. "A lawyer who had a shitty day."

"Precisely."

"A lawyer who definitely isn't a hooker, either. So asking about the price per hour would be pointless."

You pause before exhaling sharply, dragging a hand down your face — exhausted, annoyed, still half-thinking about your case. But then her words settle, her meaning really sinking in, and despite everything, your lips twitch.

You open your mouth, then close it again. Finally, you lift your glass and down your martini. She laughs quietly.

"I'm Natasha", she says. "And it's a pleasure to meet you, hotshot."

"Y/N", you say, rubbing your eyes with your free hand. "Sorry. I'm tired and ready for bed."

"Me too", she says. She slides the empty glass from your fingers and puts it aside. "I assume you meant something else, though."

You let out a laugh and lean back, hands covering your face. You lower them and smile faintly, eyes running up and down her body. The bar covers everything up to her waist, but that doesn't matter. She's beautiful, and so is the dress she's wearing, and the irritation you felt earlier has shifted into something entirely different.

You're not sure whether there's some kind of rule about this — are bartenders allowed to flirt with customers? —, but, truthfully, you don't care. How long has it been since you felt this kind of attraction toward someone? How long has it been since someone flirted with you and you actually felt the urge to flirt back?

It hasn't been years, but it's been more than a while.

You sit there in silence, eyes still locked on Natasha. She leans over the counter and adjusts the collar of your shirt again. Skin peeks through the unbuttoned buttons at the top, her gaze lingering on it for a brief moment.

"Your shift", you say, watching her pull away. "When's it end?"

She glances at her watch. Midnight. "About two hours. Why? Planning to wait up for me?"

"Maybe" You hum, fingers drumming against the countertop. "You could leave early", you then suggest, tentatively, as if expecting her to say no.

But Natasha glances at the other bartender. Her hands move to untie the apron she's wearing, which she tucks under the bar, then she tells her coworker to cover for her. You can see her hesitate, scanning the space, before she walks around the counter to get to your side.

Before you realize what's happening, you're leading her out of the bar. The air is warm outside, but not suffocating anymore. You feel the light breeze — crisper, fresher, thanks to Beverly Hills being closer to the ocean — and breathe in. No overwhelming variety of perfumes and colognes. All you smell is the faint scent of whatever perfume Natasha is wearing.

You lead her to your car. She pauses when she sees the cracked headlight.

"Hit a trash can", you say before she can ask.

"I see." She glances at you, smiling. "I truly hope you won't get me into a car crash tonight, hotshot."

You crack a smile and sigh, running your fingers through your hair. She laughs and squeezes your arm, then moves to sit in the passenger seat.

You spend your first night together.

When you wake up to the sight of her, hair mussed and naked body wrapped up in thin bedsheets, you know there will be more moments like this.

. . .

— NEW YORK, USA —

Two months and a few meetups (dates? hookups?) later, you fly her out to Manhattan.

It was your idea. You'd gotten sick of having to travel to LA all the time, only to leave again days later. Your main residence is in New York, after all, not California. It's where your condo is, your law firm, where you spend a majority of your time.

Natasha agreed without having to reconsider. You didn't even have to mention it'd be one of your private jets, or that your chauffeur Richard would drive her to your place. She had no clue she'd be sipping champagne and testing caviar during the entire flight, and she said yes anyway.

She knows you have money. She knows you'll spoil her. She doesn't expect it, either. It does happen, though, and she does enjoy it a lot.

There's something special about being able to kick off her heels and stretch out on plush leather seats, letting the staff pamper her. With face masks from South Korea and fresh fruit straight from Thailand, the five hours she spends aloft suddenly seem almost too short.

Richard drives Natasha to the condominium you live in. Billionaires' Row is full of luxury buildings, but yours manages to stand out anyway. High ceilings, floor to ceiling windows, a grand porte-cochère. She spots Rolls Royces and Bentleys being parked by valets in pressed suits and subtly raises her eyebrows. It's starting to get out of hand.

In front of the elevator, she's handed a keycard. Richard instructs her how to use it, then she's on her own.

It takes her all the way upstairs into your penthouse, the elevator bypassing every other floor. Then it stops, the doors swish open, and she's in your condo. In your living room, to be more specific.

A fireplace, a stocked bar (top-shelf liquors, because why not), a glass coffee table. The sectional couch in front of her looks like it costs more than a standard car, too. She glances at the dark marble floor beneath her feet — probably from Italy — and takes a few steps into the condo. As soon as she's stepped out of the elevator, the door closes automatically.

Natasha knew you were rich, but goddamn, this is a lot to take in.

She takes another few steps into the living room and listens for any kind of noise. Unsurprisingly, she can't hear anything. The walls are most likely soundproof, so she won't be able to hear you unless she's in the same room.

Walking closer to the fireplace, she finds a note on it. A normal piece of paper, thankfully, not some expensive textured shit. She reads what you wrote and smiles faintly.

Natasha,

I'm in my office to work on a new case. Sorry I wasn't there to personally pick you up. Will make up for it later, I promise.

Lunch is in the fridge. Make yourself at home. I insist.

— Hotshot :)

Once she realizes she's smiling, she quickly shakes her head and puts the note aside.

Make herself at home? No need to tell her twice.

High heels in one hand, she pads through the long hallway and into the kitchen. Stainless steel appliances, a huge espresso machine she'll definitely play around with at some time, sleek kitchen furniture. A peek into the fridge tells her you — or your private chef, more likely — made paella. She closes it again and walks into the adjacent dining room.

Some plants that look like small palm trees, a long table for at least 16 people, a New Zealand wool rug.

Boring.

Back to the hallway she goes, the heated floors warm under her bare feet. Up the stairs, then back down, hand sliding over the glass railings. Two bathrooms, both with rain showers, a small wine cellar-like room, a huge balcony with a view of Central Park. Somehow, she ends up on the rooftop (and definitely makes sure to remember the pool there) before finally making her way back inside.

Your bedroom is next, complete with an en-suite bathroom and walk-in closet. She's seen the other bathrooms already and was, quite frankly, not impressed enough to look at this one as well. Instead, she decides to check out what kind of clothes you wear.

Natasha spins around in the massive space and scans everything. A minibar, a huge mirror, a seating area. It smells like fresh linen and that very same perfume you were wearing when you first took her home not too long ago.

Two months, she recalls. It's only been two months, and you're already whisking her away whenever you want.

She drags her hand along one of the black walnut shelves, inspecting handmade leather shoes and rows of accessories. Ties, watches, rings. She stops and eyes the tailored suits. Her hand moves to the back of her dress, fumbling with the zipper and pulling it down, then she lets the thin piece of fabric fall to the polished floor.

She steps out of the dress that's pooled around her feet and reaches for a crisp button-down. She puts it on and inspects herself in front of the mirror, then grabs some niche Parisian perfume from your fragrance collection. A spritz behind her ear, one on her wrist...

"Having fun?"

Natasha whips around and stares at you. You're leaning against the doorframe, trying to hide your smile. Despite being at home, where you should be comfortable enough to let loose for a little, you're in a suit. Your hair, however, is messy. A strand partially blocks your vision.

It took you ten minutes to find her. You didn't expect to walk in on her half-naked, barefoot, only wearing one of your shirts. Are you complaining, though? Absolutely not.

"You told me to make myself at home."

"So you did."

"Exactly."

"That's good." You push off the doorframe and stroll into the room. "Not gonna say hi?"

She meets you halfway, her arms coming up to wrap around your neck. Lips brush against yours, a fleeting contact, and your hands rub her waist. "Hi", she mumbles.

"Hey", you whisper, kissing her. First quickly, then a little more deeply. Your hands run up her sides, letting her shirt ride up, and you feel smooth warm skin under your palms. You pull away only to trail kisses along her jaw. "Missed you. How long have you been here?"

Natasha closes her eyes, her fingers raking through your short hair. "About an hour. Lonely?"

"It's a big apartment."

"Penthouse."

"Whatever", you mutter, catching her mouth again. Your thumbs hook into the waistband of her underwear and play with the lace. "Did you have lunch? The paella — I had it made for you."

"I wasn't hungry", she says, speaking in between kisses. "They served all kinds of stuff on my flight. First time trying mangosteen."

"Mhm, my favorite." You squeeze her waist before letting go of her. Walking further into the room, you pick up her dress from the floor and toss it over your shoulder. Her scent hits you, faint and sweet and familiar already. "Listen, I got another meeting in about an hour. Shouldn't take too long, though. You good here or should I ask Richie to give you the tour? He'll take you anywhere as long as it's not somewhere up in the clouds. Poor dude's got a fear of heights."

Natasha lingers where you left her, arms crossed over her chest. She watches you adjust things she never would've noticed are different: pushing the perfume bottle backwards the tiniest bit so it's perfectly aligned with the others, running your hand over the stack of button-ups to remove a crease she wouldn't be able to spot with a magnifying glass, nudging one of the shoes she touched.

"No", she says absently. "I'd rather stay here and wait."

"Whatever you want." You turn around and walk back to her. You wrap your arm around her waist and lead her out of the walk-in closet, faces inches apart, a smile on your lips. "I'd show you around, but I feel like that's pointless."

Natasha rolls her eyes and laughs, tugging at your shirt. You feel her lips against yours, the touch brief but charged with electricity. "You told me to make myself at home, so I did. Can't blame me for that."

"Not blaming you. Just happy you felt comfy enough to rummage through my clothes."

"I didn't 'rummage' through them."

"Oh no?" You grab the hem of the button-up she's sporting and smirk. "What's that, then?"

She doesn't say anything. Instead, she cups your face and pulls you into a deep kiss.

It's the first time in over three years that you cancel a meeting.

. . .

The rug you're on is soft and fluffy, the fireplace next to you way too hot for a September morning.

Sleep-warm skin and cashmere blankets, a half-empty bottle of wine left next to the coffee table. Natasha wakes, blinking lazily, and stretches her arms. You turn just enough to be able to kiss her forehead.

"Morning", you mumble.

"Morning", she replies, hands moving to your chest. Fingertips dance over bare skin, then she starts buttoning up your shirt. "We slept in."

"Yeah", you say, still tired, and lay back down. "Fuck. I have so much work to do."

"No, you have me to do."

"Obviously. Top priority."

Her hands splay out on your chest and smooth out the fabric of your shirt. She leans in, plush lips on your jaw, kisses that are warm and a little too arousing. It's 9 in the morning, and you need to get your ass off the floor and into the office.

However, there is a pretty, naked lady next to you, and that is much more enticing than a desk chair and a meeting with a bunch of old people. And her mouth is all over your skin, her hands starting to roam your body, and fuck it, maybe you can cancel again. Just one more time.

"Dammit", you curse, nails raking down her back. "You're costing me a shit-ton of money, baby."

"You have enough money as it is", she mumbles, voice muffled against your neck. Your arms wind around her. "There's only one woman in your arms, though. Your choice."

You hum, nose buried in her messy hair. Her kisses against your neck start to become wetter, more urgent, her hands squeezing and squishing every part of you she can reach. You moan and she knows she's convinced you.

You hastily take off your shirt and push all the blankets aside, then hold her close before rolling over. You're on top now, where you want to be, and start trailing hickeys along her throat. Her fingers run through your unruly hair and mess it up further.

Palms squeeze and run over smooth skin. Your hand kneads her thigh before moving between her legs. Wet heat against, then around, your fingers. You thrust in and out slowly, rhythmically, and listen to the way her breathing gets heavier.

Face buried in the crook of her neck, you leave lazy kisses on her skin. Slender fingers tug at your hair, insistently, telling you to go faster.

The fire next to you crackles, but it's nowhere near as hot as the space between you. Heavy breathing and muffled moans, fingers curling and nudging deeper. Your thumb circles her clit and you hear a little whine. Natasha comes around your fingers, clenching and unclenching, and you bite back your own moans.

"Shit", she mumbles, slumping into the rug again.

"Yeah." You lift your fingers to your mouth and quickly lick them clean. "I still got work."

"Breakfast first?"

A knock on the doorframe makes you both whirl around. Your eyes land on your private chef slash maid, who's got her eyes covered with her hand. You can see the timid look on her face, anyway.

"Sorry", she says. "I waited until you were...done. I made breakfast and didn't want to disturb you, Ms. Y/L/N. Also, Mr. Pasini is waiting for you."

"Linda", you say, grabbing a blanket and covering both you and Natasha with it. You're so aghast you don't even know what to say. "That's, uhm- that's good. Give us a minute? Please?"

She nods, stepping away and bumping into a potted plant.

"Of course. My apologies, Ma'am. I'll be in the kitchen."

The second she's gone, Natasha starts laughing. You narrow your eyes at her, but the smile on her face is too infectious to not crack one as well. You sigh and melt into her. A kiss is placed on her cheek.

"Alright, laugh it up."

She smirks and jabs a finger into your side. "Come on, that was hilarious. Does she usually stalk you like some creep?"

"No", you say firmly, sitting up and putting on your shirt. Your fingers tremble slightly as you button it up. "She doesn't. And she didn't 'stalk us', she just heard we were finished and came to inform me about breakfast."

"Sounds believable enough, hotshot. You're sure she doesn't have a secret crush on you?"

"She's 58 and married, dummy." You get up and look for your underwear. "I promise, she's just a sweet lady who helps my blood sugar spike. Try her madeleines, they're godly."

Natasha hums and gets up, still butt naked. She grabs her lace panties and the shirt she stole from you the night before and puts both on. You, one leg in your slacks and the other hovering in the air, watch her with wide eyes as she makes a beeline for the kitchen.

"Wait-"

"Breakfast", she says, unbothered, and adjusts her hair a little. "Hurry your pretty little ass up or all the madeleines will be gone."

The exaggerated French accent she used to pronounce the pastry makes you roll your eyes. You hurry to get into your pants before following after her, zipping up and fastening the button.

"You're naked!"

"Anything that could be considered inappropriate is covered."

"I can see your butt."

She glances at you over her shoulder, strolling into the kitchen. Linda glances at her, but doesn't seem too surprised by the sight. Instead, she plates breakfast for you. Avocado on sourdough toast, freshly squeezed juice, Eggs Benedict, buttery madeleines, some cappuccino.

As soon as she's done, she tells you to enjoy your meal. You catch the small smile on her face as she leaves the room to go on about her duties.

"You were right", Natasha says, sitting on a chair with her foot propped up on the seat. "These are godly."

"Told you", you say absently, scrolling through your work-related emails. "The best. Dip them in the cappuccino."

She hums, eating in silence and watching you respond to emails and texts. Her leg stretches out under the table to bump against yours. Then, she rests it in your lap. You squeeze her calf, eyes locked on your phone.

"Hey", you mumble, sliding your hand further down her leg and tapping her ankle, "how would you feel about a slight change of plans?"

"Hm?" Natasha tilts her head, a half-finished glass of orange juice in her hand.

You turn around and show her the email. She leans forward, eyebrows furrowed, and reads it.

"I said we'd spend the next two weeks here, but I gotta go to Tokyo. Work-stuff. Want to tag along?"

"Tokyo?" She looks up. "Just like that?"

"Yeah. Like I said, work-stuff."

She smiles faintly, then shrugs. "Sure. Why not."

"Great."

"All of this is normal, right?"

"What?"

"Forget it, hotshot." She gets up and kisses your temple. "See you in a minute. I have to try that rain shower before we leave."

The urge to get up and follow her like a lovesick puppy is strong. But then your phone buzzes, announcing another email, and you sigh as you realize you'll have to wait a bit longer.

. . .

— TOKYO, JAPAN —

You order the sushi in near-perfect Japanese.

Natasha leans into your side. Clad in the off-shoulder black dress with the deep neckline that you got her right after your arrival, she's been turning heads all night long. Her fingers toy with the shimmering necklace you put on her, oblivious to the 18k white gold's worth, and her eyes roam the restaurant's interior.

"Fancy", she whispers once the server has dashed off. "I wanted to come here for a while."

"This restaurant? I've been here a couple times."

"No, dummy. Japan. Tokyo." She smiles and looks at you. You flush under her gaze and nudge her cheek with your nose. Her hand cups your cheek, thumb against your lips, and you press a kiss to it. "You need to get out of your bubble more, you know."

"What bubble?"

"This bubble. Not every experience has a Michelin star, or costs a couple thousand bucks. There's more to life than just fancy dinners, hotshot."

You hum, studying here. There's a truth to her words that stings. You're privileged, and you know it, but your lifestyle and career make everything about you and everything you do so different. The way you live traps you in a bubble you either can't or won't escape, which limits the things you experience.

Natasha is the best example for that. You may have been lucky enough to run into her, sure, but only because of a coincidence. Again, you don't go to bars. You don't go out with friends, or even colleagues. You spend your Friday nights sitting at your desk with a dozen files opened on your laptop. Maybe you'll drink some whiskey or fall asleep ten minutes into a movie, too, but that's about it.

"You'd rather I take you to McDonald's tomorrow?", you ask, trying to deflect. She tilts her head. "Okay, okay. Not a fan of the clown. Got it."

"You know what I mean", she says, hooking a finger into the collar of your shirt. "Saving up for another car, or jet, won't make you happy."

"I know", you say earnestly. "It's why I got you. To spend that money on you instead. Now — sake or umeshu?"

"Oh, no. Wait. Did you just-"

"I'll spoil you rotten", you say, quickly pecking her lips, "and get happy in return. You make me happy. Now tell me what drink you want."

She rolls her eyes, but doesn't argue. It's not like she doesn't like the whole princess treatment you've been giving her ever since your first night together, after all. She enjoys it maybe even too much.

You enjoy it, too. Before her, all you knew was work and lonely beds. Pleasure mostly came from meaningless one night stands, never lasting longer than a couple hours, or — a classic — your own hand.

It's different now. You get to satisfy someone else, someone who's interested in you, who makes you smile, who's pretty. You can spoil her all you want. Dresses, champagne, jewelry, spontaneous trips to the most gorgeous places on earth. In return, she makes you happy. There's not even much she has to do to achieve that. You appreciate it a whole lot, anyway.

Her breath fans your ear, lips tickling your skin. You exhale sharply, silently, and close your eyes.

"Sake, please", she mumbles, voice sultry and soft. Her hand runs down your front, deliberately brushing against the buttons of your shirt, before coming to rest on your thigh. "And you. Sake and you."

. . .

Being in another country usually means vacation.

Not for you, though. You've been stuck behind your desk for over an hour now. Keyboards clack, the a/c hums, bedsheets rustle. In front of you are floor-to-ceiling windows, displaying Tokyo's skyline. Thousands of lights in every color imaginable adorn tall buildings, creating a sea of neon. Billboards and pulsing nights, and streets that never seem to sleep.

You're not sleeping, either. And neither is Natasha. While you're tapping a pen against your knee before responding to an email, she keeps rolling over in bed and trying to fight boredom.

You briefly glance at her. Only in a silk robe that hugs her curves and leaves little to the imagination, it's getting increasingly harder to not just call it a day and join her.

You turn to your laptop again and bite back a sigh. Another email popped up, this time by one of your employees, so you click the reply symbol and start typing. Right as you hit send, you feel a familiar pair of hands on your shoulders. You close your eyes when her palms slide down to your chest.

"Hey", she murmurs, warmth breath fanning your ear. Her lips press against your nape, then the side of your neck. "Still working?"

"It won't end. I just keep getting new emails."

She hums, continuing to trail hot kisses along your neck. Her fingers fumble with the buttons on your shirt, slowly undoing them. "You need to relax a little, you know. Forget about work and come to bed with me."

"Emails", you protest. Natasha smiles against your neck. Her hands move down to yours on the keyboard, gently peeling them off. "I need to finish this. It's important. Seriously."

No response. Heat shoots into your lower belly when she sucks on your pulse point. She runs her hands up your arms and to your biceps, squeezing the muscles there, then she slides the shirt off your shoulders. Fingers dance across your skin, trace your chest and your stomach, before teasing the waistband of your pants.

"I want you to fuck me", she rasps into your ear. "Show me I'm important, too."

Of course she's important. More important than the emails, more important than anything else. Can you say it, though?

No. The only thing that leaves your mouth is a quiet whine. You hear the laptop in front of you being shut. Natasha pulls at the back of your chair and swivels it around, your eyes opening automatically.

The sight is godly. She's standing between your legs, her robe thin and enveloping her body like a second layer of skin. You catch a glimpse of the bra she's wearing, black lace showing through the open top of the robe, and your fingers twitch with the desire to touch her.

You cave. Fingers find the end of the silk sash around her waist to give it a deliberate tug. The robe comes open and reveals creamy skin and black lingerie.

"When did you..."

"You left your credit card when you went downstairs to pick up those files", she says, fingers trailing along your jaw. Her hand cups your jaw. "Thought it'd be a nice surprise."

"Credit card fraud", you say, both amused and turned on. "Theft, too. Dammit."

"You like it, though."

Oh, you do. You can't even be mad. There's more than enough money on your bank account, and truthfully, purchases like this one benefit you both.

You put your hands on her waist and get up. Her body is flush with yours, her breath fanning your lips. You kiss her, tasting strawberries and sake, and trace the seam of her lips with your tongue. Her mouth opens, letting you deepen the kiss, and you swallow her moans.

Bodies up against the window, the heat between you fogging up the glass. Natasha's robe falls to the floor, and you start trailing kisses over her shoulder and chest. You pull away for a split second to drink her in. With the backdrop of the city's lights — bright and flickering and reflecting off her skin — you're once again proven that she's the most gorgeous thing you've ever seen.

The clasp of her bra comes undone easily. You push the straps off her shoulders, let the tiny piece of clothing slide off, then your mouth is attached to her body again. Hands squeeze and grope her breasts, thumbs flicking over her nipples, before running down her sides.

You hear a soft thud when her head falls back against the window. Breathy moans and mhh-sounds, nimble fingers raking through your hair. You lick a stripe over her breast and suck her nipple between your lips. Pushing aside the fabric of her panties, you find her cunt. Her pussy is soaked, your fingers sliding in with ease.

"Fuck", she moans, tugging at your hair. "Baby, slow down."

You look up, not able to speak through the mouthful of boob. She looks down at you, panting, and brushes some hair away from your forehead.

You don't want to slow down. Not now, not when she's looking at you like this, still wearing the panties she bought with your money, standing in the suite you payed for. She makes you happy. She chases the loneliness away. You want to give her everything, the entire world, and that includes a night filled with orgasms.

Holding eye contact, you thrust your fingers into her. Her hips buck to chase the feeling. Moans fill the space around you, whiny and needy, and her hips rut against your hand with more fervor.

Your mouth releases her breast. You litter it with kisses and hickeys, still fucking her with your fingers. You slowly sink to your knees to bury your face against her stomach, leaving kisses there as well, and continuing pumping your fingers in and out of her. Slickness covers your hands, dripping down your wrists, and Natasha meets every thrust.

"I'll buy you everything", you moan. "Anything. Whatever you want."

"Bribing me?" She tries to laugh, but it comes out strained. She grinds against your hand, forcing you in deeper. You nudge that spongy little part and hear another moan. "I'm not your trophy, you know."

"No." You kiss along her lower stomach, your free hand gripping her thigh. Your movements become quicker, harder, feeling her walls clench around you in desperation. "Never said you were."

Natasha wants to respond, but in that moment, she can't. She lifts one leg and hooks it over your shoulder, letting herself take you wholly. Goosebumps and kiss-bitten lips, hickeys and flushed skin. Your fingers curl, your lips wrap around her clit, and her body tenses up.

You feel her orgasm as if it were your own. Intense, all-consuming, wiping every thought from her brain. She keeps riding your hand until it all becomes overstimulating, then you pull out.

Looking up, the sight of her disheveled state brings a smirk to your face. She pinches your bottom lip.

"Ow. What's that for?", you ask, her fingers lingering on your mouth.

"You're getting cocky."

"Am not."

"You definitely are. Get up, hotshot."

You grumble and kiss her fingertips, but do as told. Natasha leans in to kiss you, her hands fumbling with the zipper on your slacks. She walks you backwards, pushes you onto the bed, straddles you. The bedsheets are cool against your skin, tangled from Natasha's earlier tossing and turning.

There's not much time to think about any of that, though.

. . .

— RIO DE JANEIRO, BRAZIL —

A private pool that seems to spill out into the ocean below. A plate of fruit sits on the edge, the papaya and mangoes long forgotten about, with two empty coconut shells next to it.

Aside from the lapping of the water and the rustling of the trees, only your soft moans fill the air. Her hands on your shoulders and yours on her hips, you guide her up and down the strap rhythmically. She looks down, watching the girthy piece of silicone through the water. How its full length disappears inside of her, again and again, blurred by the water you're in.

Another moan. You lean in and press your lips to her collarbone, tasting sunscreen and something sweet. Her fingers mess up your hair and slide back down to your shoulders, fingernails raking over your skin and leaving marks.

"I'm close", she whimpers, hips rotating on the strap. You guide her every movement, pushing the toy in as deep as you can. You watch stupidly how her body moves on it.

"Sound like it, too", you rasp. After almost a year of this, you know every telltale sign. "Open wider, baby."

Her thighs part just the tiniest bit more, but it's enough for her clit to rub against the base of the harness. Her head drops forward, forehead resting against yours, and she cries out quietly.

"Fuck, I-"

"Almost there." You rub her sides and watch her ride harder, pushing herself over the edge. Once the climax has lost most of its intensity, she collapses against you. "Holy."

"I feel like we should stop. For our neighbors' sake."

You laugh and kiss her bare shoulder. You're both completely naked, thanks to the pool being directly attached to your suite. No one can see you, but you're sure many people can hear you.

"Need a break already?", you tease.

"No, hotshot", she replies, nuzzling your neck with her face. "I just want to enjoy this for a moment. No distractions."

This. You and her, intertwined, doing nothing in particular. It shouldn't surprise you, but it does, anyway.

Neither of you know where this is going. You don't know whether this is just going to end someday, or whether you actually have a shot at making it. But, truthfully, you don't know what 'making it' would entail, either.

Natasha also doesn't know. She still doesn't know whether you feel the same as her. Whether you're in as deep as she is. Maybe she is exactly what she fears most to be — a trophy. Someone you don't feel anything real for.

You don't talk about it. Starting a conversation like that is risky, because the worst case scenario is everything falling apart.

In the beginning, it was fun. It was passionate and indulgent, a sexy fantasy. It was all about sex and money and pouring champagne like it's water.

Then, feelings came into play. You're not sure whether that's ever ended well.

. . .

— PARIS, FRANCE —

"God, you're obsessed."

You look up, still kneeling on the floor with a high heel in your hand. You give her a deadpan look.

"Keep that up and you're sleeping on the balcony tonight. Now give me your foot."

"I'm just saying. You, on your knees for me? Should've rented out the jewelry store instead."

"What?... Oh. Ha. Uhm-"

Natasha laughs and does as told. You shake your head, cheeks pink and warm, and slide the heel onto her foot. You make sure it fits right and then hum in approval.

Aside from the two of you, the changing room is empty. In fact, the entire store is. You rented it out for the next few hours, making it easier for Natasha to look at clothes and try them on without being bothered.

"Not bad", she says, resting her leg over your shoulder. You turn your head and kiss her calf. "Maybe in another color?"

"Which one? Black, maybe? Or lilac? Those would look nice with that dress you-"

"Y/N", she cuts you off, "this one's fine. Really. I like it."

You give her a skeptical look, but she just raises her eyebrows at you. She seems to be telling the truth, so you squeeze her ankle before moving her leg off your shoulder. Straightening up, you reach for another dress.

Natasha grabs it and steps into the fitting room. She returns not too long after, and the sight renders you speechless.

A deep red gown, its fabric hugging every curve just right. The silk cascades down her body and pools at her feet, but the long slit at the side keeps it from looking too modest. Your eyes land on the plunging sinful neckline, then trace the delicate straps framing her shoulders.

She steps in front of the mirror and studies herself. In this lightning, the dress looks like molten wine clinging to her skin. You finally look up and catch her gaze in the mirror. Paired with the faint smirk, the timeless dress becomes something entirely different.

Dangerous. Unfair.

Heat crackles between you. You swallow heavily, eyes locked on the sight, fingers twitching and want throbbing in your body.

"You're staring."

You swallow again. "You're in that."

"I am."

Your hands ball into fists. You shift and try crossing your legs, but when she runs a hand down her side, it's over. You step closer, unable to stop yourself at this point. Your hands find her waist, your lips hover next to her ear. Then, you press a kiss to her earlobe.

Your hands wander further up her body, cupping the swell of her breasts. You toy with her hardened nipples, which are barely concealed by the dress's thin fabric. Natasha moans and leans into you.

"We're in a store."

"We're alone."

"The employees..."

"The employees won't come in unless we call them", you assure her, voice a strained mumble. Your fingers tug at the neckline of her dress until her chest is revealed, then you tuck the fabric under her breast. "Look at you. Fuck."

Her head drops against your shoulder. You kiss her neck, bared to you, and cup her breast. Your free hand runs down her body, finding the slit of her dress and dipping underneath it.

"Move the dress?", you mumble.

One hand on the back of your head, Natasha pulls the skirt of the dress aside until you can see everything clearly. Her thighs, her lingerie, the garter belt. Creamy skin, adorned by the faintest of stretch marks. Your face has been buried between those very thighs dozens of times by now, but you'll never get sick of the feeling.

You run your fingers over her underwear. It's soaked.

"That was quick."

"Really? You'll make fun of me now?"

"No, baby." You kiss her shoulder and pull away, only to step around her and get on your knees again. This time, for an entirely different reason. You hold onto her thighs and look up. Her breathing is slightly uneven. "This okay?"

"Anything else wouldn't be okay", she replies. You hook your fingers into the waistband of her underwear and pull it down. It drops to the ground and gives you a full view of her cunt. Hand on the back of your head, she guides you closer.

You bury your face between her legs and immediately feel the slick heat. It coats your cheeks, your tongue, letting you taste the tangy sweetness you've grown familiar with. You grip the backs of her thighs for more support and run your tongue through her folds.

Natasha feels every touch, every movement. She grips your hair to keep herself from falling over, nails digging into your scalp. You eat her out surrounded by mirrors, letting her see every angle of what you're doing to her.

. . .

Hand in hand, you walk down Avenue Montaigne.

The sun is beaming down at you, making the street look even more fairytale-like than it already is. Tall buildings, brick walls, trees lined up on either side of the road. You squeeze her hand.

"What's next?", you ask, looking at her. "Perfume? Maybe a purse?"

Natasha tilts her head. There you go again, asking about things that should be irrelevant. Things that, if she's being honest, never were relevant. All of this extravagance is fun. Being flown around in private jets, traveling the world, getting whatever she wants whenever she wants it — she enjoys it, no doubt.

But is that all she wants?

Of course not. In fact, it’d be a lie if she said it ever was.

From that first night in the bar, she wasn't trying to find someone who'd drown her in money. Otherwise, she would've found someone like that ages ago. The bar she worked in was one of the most prestigious in all of Los Angeles. It would've been easy to pick a random person and make them fall for her.

She didn't want that, though. She stuck to dating literally anyone else to avoid ending up as a trophy, as someone who isn't anything else but something to make her partner look good.

Then, you stumbled in. Not once, but twice. Everything about you was painfully similar to the other people sitting in that same bar that night, but you were also completely unlike them.

Everything about you screamed money. The stupid suit, the Black Card, the way you talked to her. But you weren't snobby. She'd known that from the first time she saw you there — when you got so drunk you passed out. Everyone else cares about their reputation, their public image, but you let yourself get black out drunk.

You returned. You sat down right in front of her. She took one look at your face pressed against the counter, hair a mess, and knew she'd love whatever is hidden underneath that hated suit you were wearing.

Your hair is always a mess. Even now, walking down the street in Paris's most luxurious shopping street, you look like you got caught in a storm. Short, unruly strands, some blocking your vision, others hastily tucked behind your ear.

Natasha stops in the middle of the street. She leans in and kisses you.

Another indulgence or something sincere — she doesn't know. Maybe she doesn't want to know.

"No more shopping", she says. You give her an unsure look. "Please."

"Okay", you mumble. You continue walking.

Her instruction should be simple enough to follow. No more shopping, no more expensive clothes, no more Michelin starred food. But how does someone who's spent their entire life surviving on money, and gifts, and everything material, suddenly change their ways? It's your form of affection.

It's more difficult than it should be.

You keep walking. You don't pay the big designer brands any mind.

That is, until you pass Chaumet.

A French jeweler specializing in refined pieces, romantic pieces. Jewelry with meaning.

Your eye catches the engagement rings. Natasha follows your gaze.

For a moment, neither of you move. Do you really have what it takes?

You look at her. She brushes the hair away from your eyes. Your hand squeezes hers once more.

A bell rings, a door closes.

It's your last big purchase of the day.

#natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #black widow #black widow x reader #x reader #fanfic #wlw #lesbian #marvel mcu #marvel #moon’s fics

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dollzites · 2 months ago

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⏦ﾟ♡︎ YOUR HONEYMOON WITH GDRAGON

୨ৎ pairing: husband!jiyong x fem reader

୨ৎ genre: fluff! with mild sex talk

୨ৎ from myeong: wahhhhh! hello! so happy to take this request especially for my precious jiyong ): I hope I’m able to do well enough and you enjoy! x

with jiyong.. it’ll have to be a super extravagant trip! even if you don’t want it to be that expensive or crazy he’ll do everything that he can to make it the most romantic getaway you’ve ever been on.

if it’s somewhere with a beach? absolutely adores it because he can see you in such pretty swimsuits. no matter what negative thought you have about your body, he’s there to praise you and make sure that you feel your greatest and most beautiful.

jiyong will enjoy building sandcastles with you or at least try his best to attempt one and will either take so many photos of the you, the both of you, or a cute video of you and him building it together.

the gentleman he is he’ll ask if he can throw you in the water and once he gets the answer he wanted so badly, you’re picked up in an instant and thrown into the water but jiyong quickly checks on you to make sure he wasn’t too rough and holds you close against his warmer body pressing gentle kisses all over your face and down your neck. (he loves that)

if it’s a beautiful city? will take you shopping and spends so much money on you. don’t feel bad about it because he married you!! his money is your money and he will continue to spoil you so much.

“baby? I seen you looking at this dress and bought it while you were in the fitting room. can we go back there and try this one on, hm? I’ll be good.”

it’s so hard for him to behave but with your stern looks he acts scared to make you laugh and puts on his best behavior even if he wants so badly to take you back to the hotel and make love. yes I said make love because that’s what jiyong will say.

steals your phone to take pretty pictures of you to post and show your friends or family. he’ll then take plenty of pictures with his phone and stare at them for a few minutes before giving his attention to you.

“how’d I get so lucky? you’re so breathtaking.”

if it’s a tropical island? you’ll spend hours on the beach or he’ll take you to the aquarium! one of the largest in the city and hell of course buy you so much at the gift shop to remember this day.

it’ll be hard for him to wait for sex but he wants you to know and understand that isn’t the most important to him especially if he knows you’re super excited to leave the hotel and explore! so.. if anything he’ll do his best to wait for that night. what you want is far more important to him.

that night? well you’re in for a pretty long night with him. he’ll want to go for several rounds with a few breaks in between. each break he takes with you is a new special memory. he loves to hold you close to him and talk about all sorts of topics.

“wanna go another round? maybe this time in the shower or bath? that sounds so sexy.. I don’t know what it is about it. how does it sound to you baby?”

he’ll wake you up with breakfast in bed and after? prepare for morning sex and it’ll be hard to say no to him especially knowing he’s now your husband. cooking for you so early and going out of his way to make everything so perfect? yeah you need him.

“I can’t wait for you to get pregnant. is that okay to say? I just can’t wait. I know we’ve talked about it before but to see you pregnant with my baby? it’s going to be something so special and exciting.”

jiyong will try all sorts of dishes and desserts with you even if he doesn’t think it sounds good. the best part about the honeymoon is bonding and sharing memories together. him gagging over something he really didn’t like was a great memory.

“look it’s a stray cat! should we bring it home?”

“please? can we just bring it home! looks so cute.”

that’s when it’s time to drag jiyong away from the stray cat because if not? you’ll end up bringing it back home with you and hours later? he’s asking about the stray cat and if it’s doing okay. awww

before the end of your honeymoon he pulls you into his lap and gets emotional about how lucky he is to have you as his wife and how beautiful this honeymoon has been. he’s the best husband you could ever ask for. romantic, sweet, caring, so supportive and one of the most handsome ever.

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kwilquib · 1 month ago

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Falling for You, Again.

TripleS Kim Yooyeon x Reader

Switching POV

Word Count: 14.4k+

Kim Yooyeon sat upright in the hospital bed, the sterile scent of disinfectant clinging to the air. It no longer unsettled her the way it once did. She had been here long enough to adjust—to wake up every morning knowing she had lost her memories, knowing that her only grasp on the past came from what others told her.

And what they told her was this:

She was married. She was deeply in love. And her husband, who had been abroad for work, had been devastated when he heard about the accident, even more when he couldn't return immediately. Today—the day of her discharge—she would finally go home.

Her parents had been with her since the beginning, threading her past together with their words. Their voices were steady, unwavering—as if the truth could be spoken into existence.

"You and your husband were so perfect together," her mother gushed, her voice thick with emotion. "Always looking at each other like you were the only two people in the world."

Yooyeon held onto the words, testing them, trying to find something familiar in them.

A flicker of memory surfaced. A formal dinner, the gentle clink of wine glasses, a man’s hand resting on the small of her back as they smiled for photographs. She could almost hear the laughter, but it felt distant, muted—like a scene from someone else’s life.

Her father nodded approvingly. "He's a good man. Responsible, capable. And devoted to you, as any husband should be."

Another fragment—her husband adjusting his tie in their shared bathroom mirror, his reflection catching hers. A quiet familiarity between them, practiced and smooth. She remembered feeling something then—a warmth in her chest, steady and certain.

"You don’t remember?" her mother asked hopefully.

Yooyeon hesitated. Did she? The images were there, but they felt too crisp, too clean—like a story well-told, not a memory truly lived.

"I... I think I do. Little pieces."

Her mother brightened immediately. "See? It’s coming back! I always said true love leaves its mark on the soul, even if the mind forgets."

The words settled over her like a soft weight. True love.

With each story they shared, more pieces seemed to surface. Their first dance at a business gala. Weekend brunches with friends where they finished each other’s sentences. Vacation photos where they looked blissfully happy.

Each memory felt genuine—yet the edges of them blurred, like an oil painting smudged by an impatient hand.

She wanted to believe it. She wanted to be the woman they spoke of, the one who had been so deeply in love.

But wasn’t love supposed to feel more certain than this?

The nurse entered with her discharge papers. "Mrs. Kim, you’re all set to leave. Your husband must be relieved—his wife is finally getting discharged."

His wife.

The words settled into the quiet room, lingering in the air longer than they should have.

She had heard it before—"your husband," "your loving marriage," "you were so happy together." Each time, the words had been spoken with certainty, as if they alone could fill the void in her memory.

But this felt different. Final. Binding.

Her fingers curled around the ring on her left hand. The metal was warm, familiar. She traced its shape, searching for something—anything—that felt like certainty.

She waited for the rush of emotion, the deep-seated knowing. It didn’t come.

Her mother squeezed her hand. “Your husband called while you were resting. He’ll be returning from his work trip this week.”

Yooyeon nodded, ignoring the flutter of something in her chest. Excitement? Anxiety? Or something else entirely?

As the elevator descended to the hospital lobby, her parents chatting excitedly beside her, Yooyeon let herself lean into the stories, into the warmth they promised.

If she reached for the love they spoke of, if she believed hard enough—would it become real?

Today, she was going home.

To them.

And maybe, just maybe, to the love she was supposed to remember.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You step into the familiar quiet of your home, and for a moment, it doesn’t feel real.

This place—this moment—was never supposed to happen like this.

You were supposed to come back with a clearer mind, with the weight of your feelings for Yooyeon finally worn down by distance and time. You had convinced yourself that being away, that drowning in work, was the right thing. You had nearly succeeded in quieting the ache of wanting her—of wanting something you were never meant to have.

But then the call came.

The accident. The words you never expected to hear. That she had lost her memories, that she couldn’t remember you.

And suddenly, the distance that was supposed to help you move on became unbearable.

You couldn’t leave. Couldn’t abandon your work, not when this deal had been months in the making. But you couldn’t call her either. You weren’t ready to hear her voice, to confirm with your own ears that she didn’t remember you. Instead, you asked about her indirectly—through doctors, through her parents. Keeping yourself just close enough to know she was okay, but far enough to not face the truth.

Now, you’re home. And for the first time since you left, you can’t avoid her anymore.

She’s in the living room when you step in, arranging flowers—an image so delicate, so carefully composed, that it stops you in your tracks. You never remembered her paying so much attention to things like this before.

“Welcome home,” she says, offering you a small smile. It’s polite, warm even, but there’s something unfamiliar about it. It’s measured, like she’s giving you exactly what she thinks you expect.

It throws you off.

She’s different, and yet—she’s not. She’s not an entirely new person, not a stranger. She’s still Yooyeon, but softened in ways she never was before. Less guarded, less sharp. And it terrifies you how easily she could slip into the version of her you used to dream about—the version that could have loved you back.

You clear your throat, setting down your luggage. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get back sooner.”

Her fingers still briefly over the petals. “It’s fine… they told me your trip was important.” Her voice is light, but there’s something beneath it. A hesitation. A quiet disappointment.

Then, softer, almost to herself, “We could’ve at least talked on the phone.”

Your chest tightens. You don’t know if she’s saying it because she wanted to talk to you or because she thinks it’s something she should say.

“How have you been?” you ask, even though you already know. You know what the doctors have said, what her parents have told you. But you need to hear it from her.

She launches into a recounting of her recovery—how she’s been adjusting, how her parents have practically hovered over her. But as she speaks, something feels off. Her words are careful, almost rehearsed, as if she’s reading from a script someone gave her.

And it hits you—she is following a script.

She’s trying to fit into the life everyone says she had. Trying to be the person they tell her she used to be.

The realization unsettles you.

It should be easy to draw the line. You told yourself, over and over, that this marriage had given you nothing but a lingering ache. That whatever warmth you once felt had long since dulled into something muted, tolerable. Maybe this is the clean break you need—the perfect excuse to finally move on without guilt.

But instead, all the walls you’ve built, the callousness you spent months forging, begin to crack.

You watch her—this version of Yooyeon, untouched by old wounds and past hesitations—and wonder.

Is this a curse? Or is this the only chance you’ll ever have to hold onto something that was never truly yours?

Later, over lunch, the air between you still carries an odd tension—not uncomfortable, just… unfamiliar. You catch yourself hesitating before speaking, unsure which parts of your shared past she still holds onto and which have slipped through the cracks.

"Do you remember the trip to Busan?" you ask, testing again, reaching for a thread of the past.

Yooyeon blinks, her brows knitting together. "Busan…?"

"The conference," you remind her. "Last year. You spent half the time making fun of that presenter’s slides."

She lets out a small laugh but shakes her head. "I don’t remember that at all. But it does sound like something I’d do."

There’s a beat of silence, then a quiet chuckle from both of you—awkward, but not entirely unpleasant.

"Tell me about it?" she asks, tilting her head, curiosity flickering in her eyes. "I want to know what kind of person I was."

The question throws you off guard, though you’re not sure why. Maybe it’s the vulnerability in her voice, the quiet plea to be filled in on the version of herself that she’s lost.

You hesitate, then exhale softly. "You were—" You stop, correcting yourself. "You are sharp. Witty. You never let anyone get away with nonsense."

She smiles at that, as if it reassures her. "That’s good to hear."

Bit by bit, the stiffness fades.

By evening, it’s different. The space between you, once uncertain, feels smoother, more fluid. It’s not the same as before, but in some ways, it’s easier. Lighter.

Yooyeon touches you more. Small, fleeting gestures—her fingers brushing against yours when she hands you a plate, resting a hand on your wrist when she asks a question, leaning into you slightly when you walk side by side. It’s nothing dramatic, nothing she seems to think twice about. But it’s different.

Before the accident, before the marriage, you thought of Yooyeon as a great friend—someone easy to talk to, someone who made life feel less heavy. When you agreed to the marriage, you thought maybe, just maybe, you were moving toward something more. At first, it seemed like it. The familiarity deepened, your feelings began to take shape, creeping in slowly, almost unnoticed. There were moments—glimpses of what could be—where it felt like the two of you were truly building something together.

But then, it stopped. Or maybe it just never went far enough. She was always there, yet just out of reach. She smiled at you, laughed with you, shared meals with you, but there was always a quiet hesitation in her, an invisible wall she never dared to cross. You wanted more. You wanted to pull her closer, to make her see what you were feeling, but something kept holding you back. Kept holding her back.

Your love for her didn’t fade—it grew. And the more it grew, the more it hurt.

You lived together, spent your days and nights side by side, yet the gap between you remained. A happy marriage, but never quite content. Companions, but never quite lovers.

And now? Now she’s changed. Now, that boundary is gone—not in the way you once wished it would be, but in a way that feels almost unreal. Like something delicate and fleeting, something that shouldn’t be yours to hold.

You don’t comment on it.

You tell yourself it’s just her way of adjusting, of seeking comfort in something familiar.

So you play along.

As the evening drags on, you feel her eyes on you constantly, but there’s no familiar ease to it. No comfort. It’s as if she’s studying you, trying to figure out the person she’s married to, trying to place you into this new reality where you don’t fit. You catch her refilling your water glass before you even ask, adjusting your collar just slightly, even suggesting things she thinks will please you—asking how the trip went, what you did, if you’re tired. Every move she makes feels calculated, like she’s not trying to be the woman you married, but the woman she thinks you expect her to be.

Her actions are all wrapped in politeness and care, but it feels like a performance. You’re a stranger to her now, and she’s just trying to fit the role she believes she has to play.

You can’t help but wonder, does she even know who you are anymore?

After dinner, Yooyeon sets her chopsticks down and looks at you expectantly. “Can we watch some videos?” she asks.

You blink. “Videos?”

“Our wedding, maybe? Or just… us?” She hesitates, twirling a strand of her hair between her fingers. “I want to see. I want to remember.”

You don’t answer right away. Something about the request unsettles you, but you don’t know why.

She watches you carefully, waiting. And for some reason, you find yourself nodding.

Minutes later, you’re both sitting on the couch as the TV screen flickers to life. The first video plays—a montage of your wedding day. The ceremony, the smiles, the laughter. The perfect image of a couple in love.

Yooyeon watches intently, her gaze scanning the screen like she’s trying to etch every second into her mind. “I remember this part,” she murmurs when the camera captures her slipping the ring onto your finger. “I was so nervous.”

You glance at her. “Were you?”

She nods, eyes still locked on the screen. “I kept worrying I’d drop the ring. But you… you looked so calm.” She tilts her head, studying the way you held her hand in the video. “Did you feel nervous?”

You almost laugh. “No. It was just a formality, I was rushing for the event to be over.”

The words sit between you, stark and unfiltered.

Yooyeon doesn’t flinch. Instead, she hums thoughtfully. “Still. We looked happy.”

You don’t answer.

The video shifts to another clip—your honeymoon. A trip spent half in public, playing the roles expected of you, and half in quiet companionship behind closed doors.

“You remember this?” you ask, testing her again.

She pauses. “Not all of it,” she admits. “But some parts… they feel familiar.”

She leans into your side, her body warm against yours.

You hadn’t noticed when it happened, but somehow, Yooyeon ended up nestled against you, her head resting lightly against your shoulder, your arm loosely draped around her. The closeness should feel foreign—it never used to be like this—but strangely, it isn’t.

It feels natural. Too natural.

On the screen, the version of you from the past smiles at her, something soft in his expression that even you don’t quite recognize.

Yooyeon shifts slightly in your arms, tilting her head up to look at you.

Your breath catches.

She’s close. Closer than she should be.

The glow of the screen casts soft shadows over her face, highlighting the curve of her lips, the quiet intent in her eyes. The air between you grows heavy, charged with something neither of you acknowledges.

And then she moves.

Her lips press against yours—gentle, seeking. A quiet, hesitant question in the form of a kiss.

Your body reacts before your mind does.

You’d spent months trying to forget, convincing yourself that this love was better buried.

And yet, here you were—undoing everything in a single moment.

You kiss her back.

Before your kisses could get any deeper, she breaks it off.

“I— I should probably take a shower…” her breath heavy. “Before we continue…” she muttered almost a whisper. As she runs towards your room.

The warmth of her lips still lingers on yours as Yooyeon stumbles away, her words barely registering in your mind. Your pulse is erratic, breath unsteady as she disappears into the bathroom. The sound of running water fills the space, but your thoughts are too tangled to process anything else.

You exhale sharply, running a hand through your hair. What just happened?

The weight of her kiss, the way her body fit against yours—it felt inevitable, like something long overdue.

Minutes pass, stretching endlessly until the water finally stops. The door creaks open, and for a brief moment, you catch a glimpse of her silhouette before she vanishes into your room, wrapped in nothing but a towel.

Your heart is still racing as you push yourself off the couch. The air feels thick, charged with an energy you don’t know how to name.

The shower is quick, the cold water doing little to calm the storm inside you. Even as you dry off, the memory of her touch lingers—her warmth, her scent, the way she looked at you before she kissed you.

Steeling yourself, you step into your bedroom.

And then—you freeze.

Yooyeon lies on your bed, the blanket pooling around her bare shoulders, exposing smooth skin bathed in the dim light. Her damp hair spills over the pillows, dark strands curling at the ends.

Your throat goes dry.

She watches you, her expression unreadable, lips parted slightly as if caught between hesitation and expectation.

Then it hits you.

Under that sheet, Yooyeon is completely naked.

And so are you.

The towel slips from your fingers, falling soundlessly to the floor. Her gaze follows the movement, trailing over your body before flickering away when it lands lower—shyness warring with curiosity.

You move closer, sitting at the edge of the bed. Your hand reaches out, fingers brushing against the soft fabric of the blanket. Slowly, deliberately, you peel it back, unveiling inch after inch of her bare skin.

First, her collarbones, delicate and defined.

Then her breasts, supple, rising and falling with her breath.

Your eyes trace the gentle slope of her stomach, the way it tenses slightly under your gaze.

And then, finally, the last of the blanket falls away, revealing the most intimate part of her.

You pause, drinking her in—every curve, every detail, the sheer vulnerability of this moment.

She is beautiful.

You remind yourself not to rush. To take your time.

Slowly, calmly, you lean in, capturing her lips in a kiss—soft at first, testing, savoring. Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she melts into you, her hands trailing up your back, fingertips pressing lightly as if urging you closer.

The kiss deepens.

Your tongues meet, a slow, intoxicating dance. Her taste lingers on your lips, warm and sweet. You tug at her tongue, coaxing it out, teasing, savoring every second before finally breaking apart, breathless.

Both of you pant for air, foreheads pressed together, heat radiating between you. Then, you feel it—Yooyeon’s hand wrapping around your length, her touch light at first, then firmer, stroking you, making you harder than you already are.

You tense, instinctively pulling back for a second, startled by the sudden contact. Her eyes flicker with confusion, but you don’t explain. Instead, you press forward, shifting your focus.

Your lips trail down her body, kissing her skin, feeling the way she trembles beneath you. Her quiet moans spill out as you kiss along her side, then lower, past her navel.

You don’t linger. You know she’s already wet.

Positioning yourself between her legs, you part them, revealing her.

“Yooyeon… can I?” Your voice is low, thick with need.

She nods, her gaze heavy-lidded, filled with anticipation.

You lean in, your tongue sliding against her folds, tasting her, teasing her. She gasps, back arching slightly, her moans growing louder as you work her with slow, deliberate strokes. You take your time, letting each flick, each swirl of your tongue build her pleasure.

You feel her body loosening, her walls softening around your touch. Taking it as your cue, you push your tongue inside, warmth enveloping you as her arousal coats your mouth. She’s overflowing, her body giving in to pleasure.

Her legs clamp around your head, a sharp gasp escaping her lips. Fingers tangle in your hair, grasping tightly as her moans turn desperate, erratic.

You hold her thighs apart, refusing to let her escape. The way she writhes beneath you, the way her voice rises with each stroke of your tongue—it only fuels you. Her pleasure feeds your hunger.

You pick up the pace, teasing and flicking against her sensitive bud. She cries out, hands gripping the sheets, her body arching as the sensation overwhelms her.

Then, without warning, you push your tongue back inside, not giving her a moment’s reprieve. Her moans turn to breathless, broken sounds, her mind too lost in the pleasure to form words.

"Fuh…Ah—Nnn… fuah!!!"

Her body tenses, muscles locking up as the pressure builds. Her legs tremble, stretching outward, her hands pressing against your head, trying to ground herself. Her back arches high, head tilting back as the wave finally crashes over her.

And you don’t stop—drawing out every last pulse of her release, savoring the way her body trembles beneath you.

But your hunger isn't satisfied.

Even though she’s already drenched, already ready, you want more.

Moving back up, you claim her breast, taking a hardened peak into your mouth. Your tongue swirls around it, sucking, teasing, while your hands knead her softness, fingers flicking and pinching in tandem with your lips. You alternate between gentle licks and sharp bites against her sensitive tips, drawing a sharp gasp from her lips.

A loud moan escapes her, her back arching.

Your eyes flick up, catching the way her head tilts, her neck exposed—a silent invitation.

You answer it immediately, trailing kisses along her skin, feeling her pulse quicken beneath your lips. Each press of your mouth sends another shiver through her, her body reacting to every touch.

But you need more.

Your lips find hers again, and before you can even take the lead, she’s already parting her mouth, welcoming you, her tongue eagerly meeting yours.

The kiss deepens, slow and consuming, both of you losing yourselves in the heat of it.

And then—another moan escapes her, breaking the kiss.

Your tip presses against her, teasing her entrance.

You don’t stop. Instead, you return to her lips, deepening the kiss as you rub your length along her slick folds, coating yourself in her arousal.

Her moans sync with each slow, deliberate movement, her body shuddering beneath you. Her hands cradle your face, fingers gliding over your skin, smearing the mess of your mixed saliva as she pulls you in closer.

Your lips part, but your tongues remain locked in their heated dance, unwilling to separate—until she finally pushes you back, breathless.

"Dear… it’s enough… ah!" she whispers between moans.

But is it?

Doubt lingers, and instead of answering, you dip back down, capturing her breast in your mouth, sucking lightly, flicking her sensitive tips with your tongue. She gasps, arching into you, her fingers tightening against your skin.

You trail back up, capturing her lips once more, silencing any protests. She parts her mouth as if to speak, but you don’t let her—your tongue claims hers again, drawing another muffled moan from her.

Finally, she pleads, her voice trembling with need.

"Please… put it in…"

You pull back slightly, your breathing ragged.

Is it really enough?

Your eyes search hers, questioning and hesitating. You want her completely—but only when she’s truly ready.

Then another thought crosses your mind: rubber. Hastily, you reach for the drawer, but before you can, her hand intercepts yours.

“Wait…” she says softly, holding out a condom. Her eyes sparkle with a mix of impatience and assurance. You know you’re supposed to use it, yet in this heated moment, the raw intensity of your desire makes you yearn for an unfiltered connection.

Clutching the condom in your hand, you feel that inner battle between safety and passion. In one impulsive moment, you decide—raw is what you need. With deliberate urgency, you press yourself against her, entering her without delay.

“Ahnnn…” escapes her lips as she welcomes you. Every thrust is met with her rising moans—a rhythmic symphony that spurs you on.

Your hand slides up to her breast, massaging and flicking it, alternating between gentle licks and teasing bites along her sensitive nipple. The sound of her moans draws your attention to the delicate curve of her neck, where your lips trail a fiery path of kisses.

Her insides grow warmer and more intense with each movement, wrapping around you, pulling you deeper into the moment. Sensing that the intensity might soon overwhelm both of you, you briefly pull back—tearing open the condom wrapper with a mix of urgency and hesitation.

You withdraw slightly, and she moans in response. The pause makes you acutely aware of how close you both are to the edge. Desperate not to lose the rhythm, you fumble to put the condom on again.

Sensing your hurry—and perhaps sharing in your urgency—her hand reaches out, deftly fitting the condom for you. Without missing a beat, she guides your length back to her welcoming embrace. Your body re-enters her, and you murmur her name, “Yooyeon.”

“I'm about to cum,” you confess in a low, husky tone, “but… is it okay?”

She meets your gaze with a smile and a nod of encouragement, “Yes… do it whenever you like.”

Emboldened, you resume your pace, each thrust growing more rapid as your kisses overlap with her soft moans. The sight of her—flushed and panting, eyes half-closed in bliss, strands of hair clinging to her flushed skin—drives you closer to your limit. You grip her waist tightly as her arms cradle your head, locking you together in a passionate embrace.

You feel your release building rapidly. Her hips rise to meet your every thrust as she arches her back, her body moving in perfect rhythm with yours. In a final, desperate surge, your finger finds her clit, adding one last burst of stimulation to the electric mix of pleasure.

“No—… Not—There—” she gasps breathlessly as her body twists with the overwhelming sensations.

"I’m—cumming—cumming… Ah!!!" she cries, and in that climactic moment, both of you shatter under the intensity of your shared release.

Her body convulses as waves of heat and pleasure surge through her, each pulse sending shudders down her spine. The sheets beneath you seem to ripple with the force of your climax, every fiber of your being alive with raw ecstasy. You feel her muscles tighten around you, an unspoken invitation to surrender completely to the overwhelming sensation.

Exhausted yet exhilarated, you collapse beside her, your heads turning to face each other. Her expression radiates satisfaction and joy as she softly calls your name. Gently, she plants a kiss on your lips, then on your forehead, and finally on your nose—each tender gesture sealing the memory of your shared passion.

As her eyes close and she nestles into your embrace, you both drift in the afterglow—a raw, unforgettable moment of intimacy that lingers long after the night fades.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Yooyeon stirred awake to the warmth of a steady heartbeat beneath her cheek, her fingers curled lightly against his bare chest. His arms were still around her, firm yet relaxed, holding her in a way that made her feel safe. Wanted. Loved.

A quiet smile ghosted her lips as she let herself sink into the moment.

Last night had been…

Her cheeks flushed at the memory—her own boldness, the way she had moved on instinct, the way his touch had set fire to every inch of her skin. She hadn’t thought too deeply about it at the time. She had simply acted on a feeling—a feeling that told her she wanted him, wanted to be close to him in the most intimate way.

And she had been right.

Being with him had felt good, natural. She felt satisfied, happy, content in a way that only reaffirmed everything she had come to believe since waking up in this life—she loved him.

She was sure of it.

The realization sent a quiet thrill through her. She had been nervous, hesitant, unsure if her memories would ever return, but last night had proven that love didn’t need memories to exist. She felt it in the way she craved his presence, in the warmth that filled her chest when he looked at her.

Yooyeon shifted slightly, pressing closer to him, breathing in the faint scent of him—clean, comforting, familiar.

But then his voice cut through the soft haze of her thoughts.

“That was… unexpected,” he murmured, his fingers absentmindedly tracing slow circles on her back.

She blinked, tilting her head up to meet his gaze. “Unexpected?”

He hesitated, just for a second. Then, with a careful smile, he said, “It’s been a while.”

A while.

The words settled in her mind, stirring something she didn’t quite understand. Of course, it had been a while—she had only woken up to this life weeks ago. But his tone, the way his hand tightened slightly around her waist, made her feel like it was more than that. Like this distance between them wasn’t just from her accident, but something older.

She wanted to ask—why had it been so long?

But the words never left her lips. It wasn’t hard to imagine why. Their relationship was complicated. She might not remember everything, but she could sense it—the hesitance in his touch, the way he always seemed to be holding back, like there was something unspoken between them.

Maybe that was just how marriage worked. Maybe love wasn’t always constant, but something that came and went.

Still, as she rested her head against his chest, the thought lingered.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

At first, it unsettles you.

The way Yooyeon moves around you so effortlessly, the way she reaches for your hand without hesitation, the way she speaks to you with such natural affection—it’s disorienting.

She doesn’t remember.

She doesn’t remember that your marriage was built on something practical, something strategic. She doesn’t remember that love was never part of the equation.

And yet, she looks at you like it is.

Like it always has been.

You catch yourself hesitating around her more often than not. There’s a strange discomfort in knowing something she doesn’t, in feeling the weight of the truth pressing against your ribs every time she smiles at you. You should tell her. You should set things straight.

But you don’t.

Instead, you find yourself falling into the rhythm of her new version of your life together.

You wake up with her in your arms, and you don’t pull away.

You sit together for breakfast, and when she instinctively places a peeled orange slice on your plate, you take it without thinking.

You come home from work to find her waiting, sometimes with dinner already prepared, other times with stories of her day, filling the house with a warmth that never quite existed before.

And slowly, day by day, you stop resisting.

You settle into married life again—but this time, without hesitation.

She reaches for you first. She falls asleep in your arms, waking up smiling at you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The distance that once defined your relationship is gone, replaced by something warm, something dangerously easy to believe in.

You let yourself fall into the illusion.

One evening, as you sit in the living room, Yooyeon is curled up beside you, flipping through an old photo album she found while reorganizing the shelves.

“Oh,” she says, her fingers tracing over a picture. “I remember this one.”

You glance over. It’s from a ski trip, a company retreat you attended together two winters ago. She had nearly sprained her wrist trying to prove she could keep up with the more experienced skiers. You had ended up guiding her down the slope, an arm around her waist, both of you laughing as she barely managed to stay upright.

“You do?” you ask, cautious.

“Sort of,” she hums. “It’s faint. More like… I remember how I felt.”

You watch her quietly. “And how did you feel?”

She turns to you with a small smile. “Happy.”

Your chest tightens.

There are other moments, too—soft, fleeting, but impossible to ignore.

Nights spent in the kitchen, cooking together, bumping into each other as you move around the stove. She steals bites of whatever you’re preparing, grinning at you when you feign irritation.

Late-night talks, lying in bed with the lights off, her voice quiet but filled with warmth as she tells you about all the things she wants to do, all the places she wants to see. And for the first time, you let yourself imagine being there with her.

She steals kisses—teasingly, playfully, like you’ve always been in love. A kiss on the cheek as she passes by, a lingering press of her lips to yours just before bed. At first, it startles you, but then you start to expect it. Crave it.

And before you realize it, you start kissing her back.

You begin to dream of a life where this isn’t just a lie.

Another time, during dinner, she asks a question you aren’t prepared for.

“What was our first date like?”

You pause, chopsticks hovering midair. “Our first date?”

She nods eagerly, resting her chin in her hand. “I was thinking about it earlier. I tried to remember, but I couldn’t, so… tell me.”

You exhale slowly, setting your chopsticks down. A smile tugs at your lips, unbidden. “You don’t remember sneaking out of that charity banquet when we were seventeen and eating instant ramen at a convenience store?”

Her eyes widen in surprise before a small, delighted laugh escapes her. “That was a date?”

“You called it one,” you say, smirking. “Said it was the best meal you ever had.”

She hums, thoughtful, before grinning. “I must’ve been charming back then.”

“You still are,” you murmur without thinking.

Her expression softens. Then she tilts her head playfully. “That’s cute, but I meant a real date. You know—one where we both knew what it was.”

You hesitate, because you know what she’s really asking.

There was never a first date in the way she’s imagining—no sweet, nervous anticipation, no deliberate choice to step into something romantic. Your relationship had always been tangled in something more complicated.

But now, as she looks at you with expectation, her fingers absentmindedly toying with the edge of her napkin, you find yourself saying—

“Then let’s have one.”

She blinks. “What?”

“A first date,” you say simply, watching her reaction. “One you can remember.”

Her face brightens, eyes gleaming with something warm, something real. “Okay,” she says, smiling. “Let’s do it.”

And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe that maybe—just maybe—this doesn’t have to be a lie.

You don’t realize when you stop overthinking things.

When she slides her hand into yours while walking through a park, you don’t flinch.

When she leans against you while watching a movie, you don’t stiffen.

When she laughs at something you say, her whole face lighting up, you don’t look away.

And one day, you catch yourself smiling at her when she isn’t looking.

The feeling that stirs inside you is unfamiliar and familiar all at once.

Because the truth is—you’ve always had feelings for her.

You just never let yourself acknowledge them before.

But now, standing in the middle of a life that feels almost real, you wonder if this is a sign.

A sign that maybe, just maybe, you can start again.

And maybe—just maybe—you don’t have to tell her the truth.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Yooyeon stood in front of the mirror, carefully adjusting the delicate bracelet around her wrist. A soft hum of excitement bubbled in her chest as she checked her reflection one last time. Their first real date—the kind she had always dreamed of. She wanted today to be perfect. Not because it had to be, but because it already felt like it would be.

She had spent the past hour choosing the right outfit, something that felt effortless yet pretty, hoping he would notice. Hoping he would look at her the way she was starting to look at him.

By the time she stepped out of the bedroom, he was already waiting near the door. His gaze flickered over her, lingering just long enough for warmth to spread through her.

“You look nice,” he said simply, his voice softer than usual.

She grinned. “Only nice?”

He exhaled a small chuckle, shaking his head as if she was impossible. Then, more sincerely—“Beautiful.”

Her breath caught. She wanted to tease him, but the way he said it, like he meant it, left her speechless. Before she could find the words, he extended his hand.

A simple gesture. A quiet offering.

She took it without hesitation, her fingers slipping between his, fitting as if they belonged there. He gave her hand a small squeeze, and together, they stepped out into the world beyond their home.

The day unfolded like something out of a dream.

Their first stop was a small bakery-café, the kind nestled between old bookstores and cozy boutiques. It smelled like fresh bread and vanilla, warmth curling in the air like an embrace. Yooyeon picked a selection of pastries for them to share, carefully choosing the ones she thought he would like.

She watched with barely contained excitement as he took a bite of a strawberry tart.

“It’s good,” he admitted, chewing thoughtfully.

“Good?” She gasped, placing a dramatic hand over her chest. “This is art.”

His lips quirked into a smirk. “Alright, it’s art.”

Satisfied, she took her own bite, savoring the sweetness. The café was quiet, filled with the murmur of soft conversations and the gentle notes of a piano melody playing in the background. She found herself stealing glances at him, memorizing the rare ease in his expression, the way the afternoon sunlight kissed his skin.

For the first time in a long time, it felt like they weren’t pretending.

The movie theater was next. She had picked a lighthearted romantic comedy, wanting to keep the mood playful. He hadn’t protested, only giving her an unreadable glance when she insisted it would be fun.

It was.

She found herself laughing at the silliest scenes, and every now and then, when she peeked at him, she caught the faintest trace of amusement in his eyes. He wasn’t laughing outright, but he was watching her more than the movie, and somehow, that made her heart flutter more than anything on the screen.

At one point, when she reached for the popcorn, their hands brushed. Neither of them moved.

Slowly, he intertwined their fingers beneath the dim glow of the screen.

Her heart stuttered. She squeezed his hand lightly.

He squeezed back.

By afternoon, they had made their way to the park, where a small picnic awaited them. She had planned it in advance, packing simple homemade sandwiches and fresh fruit. The air was crisp, the sky stretching endlessly above them, and for a while, they simply enjoyed the peacefulness.

Yooyeon leaned against him, letting her head rest against his shoulder. He didn’t move away. Instead, his hand found its way into her hair, his fingers brushing through it absentmindedly.

Her heart melted.

“I think this is the first time we’ve actually done something like this,” she murmured.

“Like what?”

“Spent a whole day together… just being a normal couple.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then, in a voice so low she almost missed it—

“Yeah.”

She smiled, closing her eyes for a brief second, savoring the warmth of him. The world felt quieter like this. Like it had shrunk to just the two of them, existing in a space untouched by the past.

She wanted to stay in this moment forever.

Night had fallen by the time they reached their final stop—a quiet hill overlooking the cityscape. From afar, the lights twinkled like stars, stretching far beyond what the eye could see. The air was cool, crisp against her skin, but standing beside him, she barely noticed.

“I used to come here alone sometimes,” he admitted, his voice softer, more open. “Just to think.”

Yooyeon turned to him, searching his face. “And now?”

He looked at her then—really looked at her. As if seeing her for the first time. As if realizing something he hadn’t before.

“Now, I think I’d rather share it with you.”

Her breath hitched.

The moment stretched between them, delicate and charged.

Without thinking, she stepped closer, lifting a hand to his cheek, her thumb brushing over his skin. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, leaning into her touch, like it was something he had been waiting for.

Her gaze flickered to his lips.

The tension thickened, the world around them fading until there was nothing left but the space between them.

She moved first, closing the distance, pressing her lips to his in a kiss so soft, so tender, it felt like a secret. He inhaled sharply against her mouth, his hands finding her waist, pulling her closer.

The kiss deepened, slow and consuming, filled with something warm and terrifyingly sweet.

When they finally pulled apart, they were both breathless. He pressed his forehead against hers, eyes closed as if grounding himself.

“Maybe we should go home,” he murmured, voice husky.

Yooyeon nodded, still dazed. “Yeah.”

He took her hand again, this time holding it a little tighter as they made their way back.

And deep down, she knew—tonight wasn’t over just yet.

The drive home is quiet, but not tense. Her fingers remain laced with yours the entire way, her grip firm—like she’s afraid you’ll disappear if she lets go. You don’t say anything about it. You just hold on.

By the time you step through the door, the house feels different. Warmer, despite the lingering shadows. It’s strange how just her presence can make it feel like home again.

Neither of you turn on the lights. There’s no need. The dim glow from the night city lights outside is enough to guide you through the familiar space. Without a word, you both make your way to the bedroom, as if some unspoken understanding pulls you forward.

And now—here you are.

Sitting side by side at the edge of the bed, your hands still loosely linked. The weight of the night settles over you, thick with all the words that haven’t been spoken yet.

You steal a glance at her, only to find her already looking at you. There’s something different in her eyes tonight—not just longing, not just resolve, but something deeper. Something that makes your breath catch.

You thought you had lost her. And maybe, in a way, you did. But now she’s here, choosing you—not because of old memories, not because of a past you held onto alone, but because of now.

And that’s when it hits you.

You had loved her before. Loved her in quiet ways, in restrained touches, in the unspoken words that always hovered on the tip of your tongue. But now—now, you’ve fallen again. Harder. Deeper.

She tilts her head slightly, waiting. For you to speak, for you to move, for you to reassure her that this isn’t a mistake.

You exhale, threading your fingers through hers, squeezing once. “Yooyeon…”

Her name feels different when you say it this time—like something new and familiar all at once.

She smiles, small but real, and she pressed her lips against you.

And just like that, you fall all over again.

She pulls away, her lips barely parting from yours as she searches your face. There’s warmth in her gaze, a quiet certainty that makes your chest tighten. Then, she smiles—soft, unwavering.

You cradle her face in your hands, and she leans into your touch, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment as if memorizing the feel of you.

You kiss her again. This time, there’s no hesitation—just slow, unhurried intimacy, deepening with every passing second.

Her hands rest lightly against your chest, fingers curling slightly against the fabric of your shirt. You can feel her heartbeat, unsteady yet eager, mirroring your own.

Your hand slides up the smooth curve of her thigh, fingers ghosting over her soft skin before slipping under the hem of her skirt. She shudders but doesn’t pull away—if anything, she presses closer, her breath coming faster, anticipation thick in the space between you.

Your lips break apart just as her gaze flickers down—drawn to the movement of your hand between her legs. She knows what’s coming. She wants it.

Without hesitation, your fingers slip beneath her panties, gliding over her soaked heat. A slow, teasing stroke along her slit makes her breath hitch, her thighs twitching in response. You find her clit, circling it with deliberate pressure, and she gasps—soft at first, then louder as your touch grows bolder.

Her head drops onto your shoulder, her body sagging into you, surrendering. You let your free hand tangle in her hair, stroking her, keeping her close as she clings to your other arm. Her grip tightens whenever you rub just right, her body reacting instinctively, desperately.

She’s soaked now, dripping, her slickness coating your fingers as you ease one inside her. She tenses, then relaxes, her walls fluttering around you as you curl your finger, testing, teasing.

“Hnnng…” A breathy moan spills from her lips, her body trembling against yours.

She leans into you, eyes wide and desperate as they lock onto yours—raw, pleading, and hungry for more. You can tell she’s craving every inch of this moment, and you’re more than ready to deliver.

“Can... can I—like, you... lie down?” she asks shyly, her voice low and breathy.

“Sure,” you reply, a mix of confusion and intrigue in your tone as you both head for the bed. Once there, she starts undressing, and you watch, not quite sure what she’s planning.

“Should I... too?” you ask with a playful smirk.

“Ye—yes,” she stammers, her voice thick with anticipation.

Before long, you’re shedding your shirt, pants, and boxers, leaving you completely bare as you wait for Yooyeon to finish. With a final, deliberate move, she slips off her soaked panties, revealing everything. Her eyes linger hungrily on your throbbing package, and after a deep, steadying breath, she crawls over and positions herself on top of you.

Meeting your gaze, she confesses, “It’s because... last time, you teased me way too much,” her cheeks flushing with both embarrassment and desire.

Before you can even reach out for a cuddle, her hand finds your cock, stroking it with a confident, teasing rhythm.

“Yooyeon...” you murmur, barely above a whisper.

Without missing a beat, she shifts so that her dripping, slick pussy meets your throbbing tip. Her natural juices make every touch wet and irresistible.

“Hnnng…” she breathes as she slowly pushes down on you, her warm, inviting opening taking you in inch by inch. Her body settles over yours, fully engulfing you as she adjusts to the sensation.

Then. Her hips start moving—first slow and deliberate, then quickening into a relentless, pulsing rhythm. The heat of her body surrounds you as she rides you hard, every thrust drawing you deeper into a night of raw, unfiltered passion.

“I can feel it twitch…” she breathes, her voice husky as she asks, “Do—does it feel good?”

“Yeah, Yooyeon… it feels amazing,” you reply, your words thick with desire.

Your lips collide, entangling in a deep, fervent kiss as your fingers cradle her cheeks. The kiss intensifies, every touch stoking the fire between you. Rising slightly, she quickens her pace—her desperation unmistakable as she chases her own pleasure.

Before long, exhaustion begins to claim her, and her movements slow; yet even as she gasps for air, her hips remain insistent, grinding slowly despite her fatigue. Sensing an unspoken urge, you murmur, “Yooyeon, there’s something I want to try,” offering an excuse in case she’s too shy to ask outright.

A quick nod is all you need. You reposition her gently to your side, guiding her so that her head rests on your arm. With her back to you, you slide into her again, savoring the fresh angle as both your rhythms realign. Her moans return, matching the new, steady pace that builds once more.

As your hands explore, hers finds yours, fingers interlocking tightly as the intensity escalates. Your other hand wanders over her breasts, teasing her hardened nipples with every deliberate stroke. “I’m—I'm close,” Yooyeon confesses, her voice trembling with anticipation.

Noticing her gaze drifting back to you, you grasp her chin and pull her into another searing kiss, your tongues dancing together. Shifting once again, you climb atop her, pressing her flat against the bed as you prepare to drive her to the edge. “I’m close too,” you murmur between kisses, the admission fusing your sensations into one.

The pace quickens; her moans grow louder, her movements erratic as both your breaths come in ragged bursts. The heat between you becomes almost unbearable, every thrust and every touch amplifying the approaching climax. “Cum with me… please,” she pleads, her voice raw with need.

In that electrifying moment, her body convulses in overwhelming pleasure. You feel your own climax surge through you as you pull away, releasing your heated burst onto her back. The space between you, though charged with the remnants of passion, holds the echo of every gasp, every moan, and every shared moment of unbridled ecstasy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lying in bed, Yooyeon feels the warmth of his arm draped over her waist, the steady rise and fall of his chest against her back. The room is dim, the only light coming from the soft glow of the city outside. She should be at peace, comforted by his presence—yet something gnaws at her, an unease she can’t quite place.

She traces slow circles on the back of his hand with her fingertips, a habit that feels instinctual, familiar, though she can’t remember why. The motion soothes her, but the ache in her chest lingers. Without thinking, she murmurs,

“You always used to hate holding hands.”

His entire body stiffens.

She feels it instantly—the tension in his muscles, the way his breath halts for a split second before resuming, just a little too controlled.

She blinks, turning to look at him. His face is carefully blank, but she knows better now. Knows enough to recognize the way his guard snaps into place.

“…Didn’t you?” she presses, searching his face for an answer.

He exhales slowly, withdrawing his hand. “I don’t remember saying that.”

But she knows he does.

Her memories aren’t whole—just flickers, shadows of something real but unreachable. Yet, in those fragments, there’s a truth she can’t ignore.

She starts noticing it more—the subtle moments when he pulls away. The slight hesitation before he responds to her touch. The darkness in his eyes when she speaks too easily of their love.

And it starts to hurt.

One night, the weight of it all crashes into her. “Why do you act like this?” she asks, voice trembling. “Like you’re afraid of me?”

His expression hardens. “I’m not.”

“You are,” she insists, stepping closer. “I see it in your eyes. Every time I talk about us, about our past, you look at me like—” Her throat tightens. “Like you’re waiting for something to fall apart.”

His jaw clenches. He looks away. “Yooyeon, drop it.”

But she can’t. She won’t.

“Why did we choose the beach?” she asks suddenly, searching his face for the truth she feels slipping through her fingers.

His arm stiffens around her shoulders. “You wanted something grand.”

No. The memory surfaces, unbidden. I wanted it small. Private. Just us.

His gaze is raw, almost pained, as if she’s a ghost he can’t touch. When she reaches for him, he hesitates—a heartbeat too long—before brushing a kiss to her temple.

Something inside her cracks.

The fear she’s been trying to suppress rises to the surface, wrapping around her throat, making it hard to breathe. She needs to hear it. Needs him to say it.

“Did you love me from the start?” she whispers in bed that night, her palm flat against his chest, feeling the erratic rhythm of his heartbeat.

He goes still. Seconds stretch into something unbearable before he answers,

“Yes.”

But it’s the wrong kind of yes—heavy with guilt, not devotion.

She sits up, the sheets pooling around her. “Then why does it feel like you’re lying to me?”

His jaw tightens. Moonlight catches the sheen of sweat at his temple.

“Yooyeon—”

“Tell me the truth.” Her voice cracks. “Please.”

He turns away, his silhouette rigid against the night. “You’re still recovering. We shouldn’t—”

“Stop treating me like I’ll break!” The words burst out sharper than she intends. When she grabs his wrist, he flinches.

He actually flinches.

Her breath catches. “You… you’re scared of me.”

“No.” But his pulse is racing beneath her fingers.

“Then why won’t you look at me?” She cups his face, forcing his gaze to meet hers. What she sees there steals the air from her lungs—anguish, regret, something deeper, darker.

His voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper.

“Because when you remember everything… you’ll wish I hadn’t.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You notice it the moment you step inside.

The air feels different—thicker, colder, heavy in a way that has nothing to do with temperature. Some of the lights are off, casting the house in an eerie dimness, as if it were holding its breath.

And Yooyeon—she isn’t there to greet you.

That alone makes you pause. Even on days when she’s distracted, even when she’s lost in thought, she always turns at the sound of the door unlocking. Always lifts her head, always meets your gaze.

But tonight, she doesn’t.

Your chest tightens. You don’t even take off your coat before stepping further inside, following the faint glow of the living room lamp.

Then you see her.

She’s sitting on the couch, unnaturally still. Her hands rest in her lap as if she’s forcing them to stay there. But it’s her eyes that give her away—locked onto something on the table, unblinking.

A single sheet of paper.

Something prickles at the back of your neck.

“…Yooyeon.”

She flinches. It’s subtle, barely noticeable, but you catch it.

Then, like a switch, she turns to you, a smile flickering onto her lips—too practiced, too forced. “You’re home.”

Your gut twists. Something is wrong.

Still, you don’t press. You nod, greeting her quietly. She nods back, but her fingers tighten against the fabric of her dress, her nervousness seeping into you.

You tell yourself to let it go. To wait. If it’s important, she’ll bring it up.

So you step away, heading toward your home office. The silence follows you.

You place your briefcase down, reaching for the drawer to put away your documents—

—and stop.

The drawer is open.

Your heart stutters.

It shouldn’t be. You always keep it locked. You always make sure.

Your breath is shallow as your eyes lower—and then you see it.

The contract.

The one detailing everything. The terms of your marriage.

The proof of how pragmatic your relationship was.

The paper that stands in direct contrast to the warmth you’ve built with her now.

Your pulse pounds.

Yooyeon.

She saw it.

You’re moving before you can think, your footsteps brisk as you retrace your steps, each second stretching unbearably long.

When you step into the living room again, she’s already looking at you.

Panic. That’s what you see first. She opens her mouth, stumbling over her words, voice thin and desperate, like she’s trying to contain a flood. “I—I found it when I was cleaning. I didn’t mean to pry, I just—”

She stops, swallowing hard. Then, softer, like she already knows she won’t like the answer:

“…What does it mean?”

Your throat tightens.

The weight of it crashes between you, an invisible force pressing against your chest, against your ribs.

She knows.

She doesn’t know.

Not completely. Not yet. But she’s one breath away from understanding.

You could lie. You could say it was nothing. That it was just an old, forgotten document. You could keep pretending.

But you don’t.

Because the truth is already here, unraveling between you.

You exhale, stepping forward, your voice quiet, steady.

“Yooyeon… there’s something I need to tell you.”

The silence is suffocating.

Yooyeon doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t have to. You see it in her eyes. The confusion, the disbelief, the quiet, desperate hope that this isn’t what she thinks it is.

You wish you could spare her. Wish you could rewind to a moment before she found that damned contract, before she looked at you with that kind of fragile, breaking expression.

But you can’t.

So you force yourself to meet her gaze, force yourself to let the truth spill before it’s too late.

“Our marriage wasn’t… real. At least, not the way you think it was.”

Her breath catches.

You don’t look away. “It was arranged. A contract. Your parents and mine, they wanted us to marry. We went along with it.”

Her lips part, but no words come out. You can see the gears turning in her head, the memories she’s tried so hard to piece together now twisting into something cruel, something she never saw coming.

She swallows. “So… so you’re saying…” Her voice shakes. “It was all fake?”

Something twists in your chest.

“No,” you say immediately. Desperately. “No, I—” You drag a hand down your face, frustration clawing at you. “It wasn’t like that. Not for me.”

She flinches.

And that’s when it happens—the moment her heart breaks.

You can see it, feel it, the way her entire body tenses like she’s trying to hold herself together, but the cracks are already there, spreading, widening.

“…Every time you told me you loved me,” she whispers, “was it just part of the act?”

“Yooyeon.” Your voice is strained, pleading. “I didn’t lie about loving you. I just never had the courage to tell you the truth.”

She stares at you.

Then she lets out a quiet, shaky laugh—one that isn’t amused at all.

She takes a step back. Then another.

Your stomach drops.

She’s leaving.

You don’t know where, don’t know if she even has anywhere to go, but she’s walking away from you.

“Yooyeon, wait—”

She shakes her head. “I need to think.” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “I just… I need to think.”

Everything in you screams to stop her. To explain, to beg, to do anything but let her go.

But you don’t.

Instead, you inhale sharply and take a step back first.

“I’ll give you space,” you say, though it nearly kills you. “But don’t leave. Please.”

She hesitates.

You reach for her hand—just barely, just enough for her to know you would still hold on if she let you.

And finally, finally, she exhales, her shoulders dropping as if she’s too exhausted to fight anymore.

“…Okay,” she whispers.

She stays.

But the distance between you has never felt wider.

You exhale, slow and measured, though everything inside you is fraying at the edges.

“I’ll stay at a hotel,” you say, voice quiet but firm. “For as long as you need.”

Yooyeon doesn’t respond right away. She’s still looking at you like she doesn’t know who you are anymore. Like she’s seeing you for the first time and hating that she ever trusted you.

It’s unbearable.

“I don’t want you to feel trapped here,” you continue, forcing the words out despite the knot in your throat. “I don’t want you to think I’m keeping you in a place built on lies.”

Her breath stutters, but she quickly masks it. She’s still trying to be strong.

You wish she wouldn’t.

You wish she’d yell at you, cry, say something that doesn’t feel like an unbearable silence stretching between you.

“Okay,” she finally whispers.

You nod, forcing yourself to move. To walk away first, even when every instinct in you screams to stay.

But before you reach the door, her voice stops you.

“How long?”

You turn, eyes meeting hers.

“How long were you going to keep this from me?” she asks, arms wrapping around herself. “If I hadn’t found out… would you have ever told me?”

The truth is cruel, but it’s the only thing she deserves now.

“…I don’t know.”

Yooyeon swallows, then looks away.

That’s when you realize—you’ve broken something that might never be fixed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Yooyeon wakes up alone.

The bed feels bigger now, colder, the silence stretching around her like an unwelcome embrace. She lies there for a moment, staring at the empty space beside her, before finally sitting up.

Another day.

She moves through the house like a ghost, her footsteps quiet, her routine unchanged—yet everything feels different. The kitchen table where they used to share quiet breakfasts, the couch where he used to sit, sifting through papers while she curled up beside him. It’s all the same, and yet it isn’t.

Because he’s not here.

He never called. Never came back.

She should be relieved. This is what she wanted, wasn’t it? Space. Time.

But instead, all she feels is this aching loneliness.

Her eyes fall to the coffee table, where the contract still sits, edges curled from how often she’s touched it, read it, searched it for something—anything—that could make this hurt less.

Each word, each line, feels heavier now. A binding agreement, an arrangement born from necessity. But as the days pass, as she reads it over and over, something in her shifts.

It was never just that.

Her mind drifts back to that night—his voice, raw with emotion.

"I didn’t lie about loving you. I just never had the courage to tell you the truth."

She remembers the way he looked at her, desperate, conflicted, afraid. She hadn’t been able to see it then, too consumed by the betrayal, by the weight of everything she didn’t know. But now, with time, with distance—

Hadn’t she felt the same way?

She rests a hand over the contract, fingers trembling slightly.

Her memories come in fragments. Unclear at first, like pieces of a puzzle she can’t quite fit together. But slowly—painfully, inevitably—they start to return.

She remembers loving him. Wanting him. Long before marriage was even a question.

They had been friends first, before their parents had forced them together. But she had never felt trapped, had never resented the idea. Because she had wanted it too.

She had been happy, at first. Happy at the opportunity to be something more, to step into a future where she could love him freely.

But then—she hesitated.

Fear had crept in, silencing her before she could say the words, before she could risk what they already had. She had told herself it was better this way. Safer.

And then—

The accident.

The memories she had lost. The love she had forgotten.

Yooyeon lets out a shaky breath, pressing her palm against her forehead.

She had already fallen for him before the marriage.

And now—she's not going to lose him again.

She already lost him once to her memories. She won’t let it happen a second time.

It doesn’t matter how it all started, doesn’t matter what had happened before. She had fallen for him before. More importantly is that she fell for him again.

She loves him. Now.

And that’s enough.

Her hands tighten around the contract for a moment before she exhales, setting it aside. She grabs her coat, her keys. She needs to see him.

She needs to fix this.

Without another thought, she heads for the door, heart pounding as she makes her way to his hotel.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You weren’t expecting her.

Not tonight. Maybe not ever.

Days had passed, stretching into something unbearable, something you forced yourself to endure because it was what she needed. Space. Time. A chance to decide if she even wanted to come back.

You had told yourself you wouldn’t wait forever. That if she wanted to leave, you would let her. That you wouldn’t be selfish—not anymore.

But when the knock comes, sharp and hesitant against the hotel door, your heart betrays you.

You open it, and there she is.

Yooyeon stands in the dim hallway, arms wrapped around herself, eyes flickering with uncertainty. Her hair is slightly damp, as if she’d rushed here without thinking twice. Her lips part, as if searching for something to say—something to explain why she’s here at all.

But then she steps forward.

Her hands reach for you first, fingers curling into your shirt, and before you can ask, before you can even breathe—

She kisses you.

It’s not careful. Not hesitant. Not like before.

It’s deep, unrestrained, filled with something desperate and aching, like she’s trying to grasp something that’s always felt just out of reach.

You’re stunned. For half a second, your body locks up—because how could you have prepared for this? For her? For the way she clings to you, pressing herself close like she’s afraid to let go?

And then you give in.

Your arms wrap around her, pulling her fully into you, returning the kiss with everything you’ve held back for too long.

She came back.

She wants this.

When she finally pulls away, her forehead rests against yours, breaths mingling in the small space between you. “I don’t want to remember a love we pretended to have.” Her voice is quiet, steady despite the way her fingers tremble against your chest. “I want to love you for real.”

The words hit harder than you expect.

You swallow, pressing your lips together, hands tightening at her waist. “Are you sure?”

Her answer is immediate. “Yes.”

And that’s all you need.

You don’t know how you make it to the bed. Only that she doesn’t let go. That every step, every kiss, every touch feels like something slipping back into place—like something that had always been there, waiting to be found.

She’s warm against you, tucked under the sheets, her body curled into yours as if she belongs there.

And maybe she does.

Her head rests against your chest, fingers playing absently with the fabric of your shirt. She’s quiet, but not distant. Not like before.

You hesitate, then run a hand down her back, slow, deliberate. She shivers, but doesn’t pull away.

“I thought I lost you,” you admit, voice low in the quiet.

She shifts, tilting her head up to meet your gaze. In the dim light, her eyes are soft, filled with something painfully tender.

“I won’t leave you,” she murmurs.

You inhale sharply.

She presses her hand against your chest, right where your heartbeat pounds—steady, strong.

“Not again.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Their steps were slow, unhurried, yet every kiss, every touch, pulled them further inside, as if gravity itself was drawing them together. Yooyeon wasn’t even sure who was leading. It didn’t matter. Between soft sighs and the heat of his hands on her waist, guiding her closer, she only realized they had reached the bed when the backs of her knees met the edge.

She looked up at him, breathless, her pulse thrumming with anticipation. There was no hesitation this time, no uncertainty. Just them.

She kissed him again, rising onto her toes to meet him, her lips warm and insistent. He responded without pause, deepening the kiss, his hands steady on her waist as he pulled her closer. The sensation of him, solid and warm, sent a shiver racing down her spine.

Then, he pulled away just enough to rise above her, his gaze heavy with intent. Yooyeon’s breath caught, her skin buzzing with anticipation as his fingers found the hem of her sweater. Slowly, deliberately, he lifted it, the fabric sliding over her skin, gathering just above her chest. Cool air met the warmth of her body, sending a shiver through her as her stomach and the lace-covered swell of her breasts were revealed to him.

Her heart pounded as he leaned down, his lips tracing a slow, unhurried path along her jaw, then lower, down the delicate curve of her neck. Every press of his mouth left her skin tingling, warmth pooling deep inside her. His hands followed, tender yet assured, cupping her breasts, his thumbs brushing over the sensitive peaks. A quiet sigh escaped her, her back arching instinctively into his touch, silently urging him on.

His fingers skimmed the slope of her waist, tracing along her ribs before venturing lower. The anticipation made her breath stutter, her senses sharpening as his hand found the waistband of her jeans. She felt his fingers slip past the fabric with ease, the heat of his touch pressing against the thin lace of her panties.

A sharp breath hitched in her throat as he explored, teasing at her center with slow, deliberate strokes. The sensation was electric, sending waves of pleasure curling through her. She clung to his shoulders, her grip tightening as he pushed her further into sensation—patient, unhurried, savoring every reaction she gave him.

Beside her, his warmth enveloped her, grounding her even as his fingers continued their slow, teasing rhythm. Every movement was precise, coaxing, igniting a fire deep within her. She could feel the way her hips responded, rising instinctively to meet his touch, chasing the pleasure he so expertly drew from her.

Her breath came in quiet, uneven gasps, each one only spurring him on. His gaze flickered between her flushed face and the way her body moved under his touch, drinking in every sound, every shiver.

Then, seamlessly, their position shifted. He sat up, pulling her with him, his arms wrapping around her as he cradled her against his chest. Her head rested against the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, her breath shaky, her body trembling in his hold. Yet his hand remained between her thighs, never faltering, never rushing—just holding her there, guiding her deeper into sensation.

She clung to him, her fingers gripping his shirt as if anchoring herself against the pleasure that threatened to consume her entirely.

“Yooyeon…” He whispers her name, his voice deep and coaxing.

His free hand stroked her hair, tender and grounding—a stark contrast to the way his other hand moved with aching precision. She gasped, thighs trembling around his wrist, and he tightened his hold around her, murmuring soft reassurances against her temple.

She could feel his arousal pressing against her through his pants, heat radiating from him. Instinctively, her hand drifted down, palm grazing over the rigid outline. A quiet sigh escaped him at her touch.

“I want to make you feel good,” she whispered, her voice laced with quiet desire.

A silent agreement passed between them as he slowly withdrew his hand from between her thighs, releasing her just long enough to let them shift.

Yooyeon pulled her sweater over her head, the fabric slipping away to reveal bare skin beneath. He helped her, his fingers grazing along her arms as he eased it off. She returned the gesture, undoing the buttons of his shirt, pushing it from his shoulders, baring him to her touch.

Piece by piece, they undressed—her bra, her jeans, the soft slide of lace slipping down her legs until nothing remained between them. She moved closer, hands finding the buckle of his belt, unfastening it with deliberate care. He watched her, breath shallow, as she worked the zipper down, easing his pants over his hips and letting them pool at his feet.

Left only in his boxers, his arousal strained against the fabric, the tension between them thick with anticipation. Settling between his legs, Yooyeon reached for the waistband, fingers curling around it as she tugged it down, inch by inch. The moment the fabric gave way, his erection sprang free, no longer bound by restraint.

She glanced up at him, lips slightly parted, her breath warm against his skin. He looked down at her, eyes dark with something between restraint and longing.

“Yooyeon… you don’t have to,” he murmured, his voice low, hesitant.

She shook her head, her heart aching at how gentle he was with her. “But I want to.”

And she did. It wasn’t just about desire—it was something deeper, something that went beyond the heat simmering between them. She wanted to show him how much he meant to her, how much she trusted him, how much she loved him. Every touch he had given her had been filled with tenderness, with devotion. She wanted to give that back to him now, to see him unravel because of her.

Holding his gaze, she leaned in, letting her lips brush against him first—soft, deliberate, reverent. His breath caught. Encouraged, she let her tongue flick out, tasting him, before slowly taking him into her mouth. He twitched against her tongue, and a quiet groan slipped from his lips. The sound sent warmth curling through her, not just from arousal, but from the knowledge that she could bring him pleasure like this. That he would let her. That he wanted her to.

She moved slowly, savoring the weight of him, the heat, the way his fingers threaded through her hair—not to guide her, not to demand, but simply to touch, to hold. His restraint was palpable, and it only made her more determined to make him feel good.

Her eyes flicked up to meet his, and the sight of him nearly stole her breath. His jaw was clenched, his brows drawn together, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. But it was his eyes that struck her most—heavy-lidded, filled with something deep, something raw. It wasn’t just lust. It was trust. It was need. It was him letting her in, completely.

She took him deeper, her fingers gripping his thighs as she found a rhythm—slow, unhurried, giving him everything she had. She wanted him to feel it—to feel her. To know that this was more than just pleasure, that it was her love, her devotion, poured into every movement.

“Yooyeon…” His voice was strained, rough with need.

She stilled immediately, understanding him without question. He wasn’t asking her to stop—he just wanted something different. Something more.

He reached for her, his hands open, waiting. Without hesitation, she took them, letting him guide her up, pulling her closer.

She followed his lead, moving effortlessly into his lap, their bodies pressing together as she settled atop him. Face to face now, her knees hugged his sides, her chest brushing against his with every breath. A sharp shiver ran through her as she felt him—hot, hard, pressing against her stomach, the intimacy of their position making her pulse race.

She gazed at him, her fingers trailing over his shoulders, his neck, his jaw, memorizing every inch of him. His eyes, dark and unreadable, searched hers, and for a moment, they simply breathed together, held in the gravity of this moment.

Slowly, tenderly, she leaned in, capturing his lips in a kiss—one filled with everything she couldn’t say out loud.

But she wanted to show him. To give him everything.

Her gaze drifted downward as she reached between them, her fingers grazing along his hardness, feeling the heat of him against her palm. A quiet shiver ran through her as she caressed him, taking her time, savoring the way he responded to her touch. With careful precision, she guided him, adjusting her position, her body instinctively preparing to take him in.

And then, without hesitation, she moved.

A quiet gasp left her lips as she slowly enveloped him, her body stretching to accommodate him, every inch sending waves of sensation through her. Her arms wrapped around his neck, seeking both support and connection, her forehead resting briefly against his as she took a steadying breath.

She felt him—deep, warm, filling her completely. But more than anything, what she felt was joy. A slow, radiant smile formed on her lips as she met his gaze, her heart swelling with something beyond just pleasure.

And then, as if that smile was all the invitation he needed, he began to move.

The first thrust sent a sharp, sweet pleasure rippling through her, her breath catching before it spilled out in a quiet moan. The next had her clutching onto him, overwhelmed by the intensity of feeling. The sound of their mingled breaths, the heat between them, the way their bodies moved together—it was all-consuming.

She melted into him, lost in the rhythm, lost in him.

The intensity overwhelmed him, and he fell back, bringing her with him. A gasp left Yooyeon’s lips as she followed, her body molding against his as his thrusts remained unrelenting. His hands moved to her hips, then lower, gripping her firmly as he guided her movements, driving her deeper into pleasure.

She felt the heat, the desperation between them, the way their bodies refused to part even for a second. Every movement sent another wave of sensation crashing through her, pushing her closer to the edge.

But she wanted more than just the pleasure. She wanted him—completely.

Yooyeon cupped his face, her fingers threading into his damp hair as she looked down at him. His jaw was clenched, his brows furrowed, lost in the sheer intensity of their connection. She could see it, feel it—the tension coiling tight within him.

So she kissed him.

Soft at first, then deeper, her lips parting to welcome him, their tongues meeting in a slow, tangled dance. She poured herself into the kiss, coaxing, soothing, grounding him even as the pleasure consumed them both.

And slowly, she felt him relax beneath her, surrendering to her touch, to her.

As his pace became less erratic, she adjusted, matching his rhythm with newfound confidence. She learned his movements, feeling the way their bodies aligned, and slowly, she took control—rolling her hips in time with his, meeting each thrust with her own.

Their breaths synced, their bodies moving together in perfect harmony.

She felt it in the way he held her, in the way his hands tightened on her waist, guiding her but letting her lead. A quiet thrill coursed through her at the unspoken understanding between them, at the way he let her set the pace, trusting her, surrendering to her.

Their eyes met, locking in an intimate gaze, the world around them fading away. There were no words—there was no need for them. In that moment, everything was clear.

It was just them.

“Yooyeon… I’m close…” His voice was ragged, strained, barely holding on.

She gasped, her fingers tightening against his shoulders as pleasure coiled tighter inside her. “Me too…” she whispered, her breath hitching. Then, she met his gaze, her eyes soft, full of trust. “You can… it’s fine.”

A shudder ran through him at her words, at the quiet certainty in her voice.

And then, together, they unraveled.

His grip on her waist tightened as he thrust deep, his release spilling into her just as she came undone around him. A sharp, breathless cry escaped her lips as pleasure surged through her, overwhelming, consuming. She trembled in his arms, her body clinging to his as the waves of ecstasy pulsed through them both.

For a long moment, neither of them moved—just the sound of their breaths mingling, their bodies still entwined, the warmth of each other keeping them grounded.

Slowly, Yooyeon melted against his chest, her heart still racing, a soft, contented sigh escaping her.

They had never felt closer.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You wake up before her.

The first thing you notice is the weight of her arm draped over your chest, her fingers lightly curled against your skin. The second is how deeply she sleeps—peaceful, unguarded, as if she belongs here, as if there was never a time when she didn’t.

Something tight eases in your chest.

You should move, should slip away before she stirs, but you don’t. You just lie there, watching the slow rise and fall of her breathing, the way the early morning light catches the strands of her hair.

She came back.

Not out of obligation. Not because of memories.

But because she chose you.

Your fingers brush over her knuckles, tracing the shape of her hand. She shifts at the touch, her brows scrunching slightly before her eyes flutter open.

For a second, she blinks at you, dazed with sleep. Then, she smiles—small, warm, real. "You're staring."

You huff a quiet laugh. "You're the one who came here in the middle of the night and threw yourself at me."

She flushes, burying her face into your chest. "I did not throw myself at you."

"You did." You smirk, tightening your hold around her. "Not that I’m complaining."

She groans but doesn’t pull away, only presses closer. You feel the sigh she lets out, something soft and content against your skin.

Then, quieter, almost hesitant—“What happens now?”

Your grip on her tightens slightly.

Because the truth is, you don’t know.

There is no contract binding you anymore. No pretense of a marriage built on expectations, no excuse to hide behind the illusion of what you used to be.

There is only this—the love she chose to give you.

And you—the love you’ve always had for her.

You exhale, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “We take it one day at a time.”

She tilts her head up, searching your face. You meet her gaze, your voice quieter when you add, “And this time, we don’t hide.”

Her expression softens. She lifts a hand, cupping your cheek, her thumb brushing just below your eye.

"Okay," she whispers.

And just like that, it’s decided.

This time, it’s real.

No pretending. No distance.

Just you and her.

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