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marvelseries19 · 3 days ago

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SAFE WITH YOU

Chapter Five - Castaway

Pairings: Natasha Romanoff ft female agent reader

Genre: Angst

Summary: The process of coming back is hard, yet not impossible, especially since Natasha is right by your side through it all. And you finally get your happy ending.

A/N: Okay, with this, we say goodbye to this series. From this point on, there will be no more chapters. However, I will make one-shots to dive deeper into the healing process and show parts I didn't show or talk about, things you're curious about. As always, you're more than welcome to leave comments, feedback, requests, ask questions, etc. Enjoy. And if you see typos, no, you didn't.

Warning: +18, nightmares, maybe mentions of ptsd, etc. Some very, VERY suggestive part at the end.

Word count: 7.5k+

[You do not have permission to repost or translate any of my stories or claim them as yours.]

The days in the medical wing pass in a strange, suspended rhythm. Time feels warped — too fast in some moments, agonizingly slow in others. You sleep in stretches, eat when they tell you, and endure tests and scans and soft-spoken assessments. They tell you your body is healing well. No major infections. The weight loss is significant but expected. Dehydration is corrected. You’re stable.

But you-you don’t feel that way.

The ceiling tiles blur into a single repeated shape. The bed is too soft. Too still. There are no rustling trees, no ocean wind, and no birds to mark the sunrise. Just the mechanical hum of machines, the occasional beep of monitors, and the muffled footsteps of nurses outside your door.

You find yourself waking in the middle of the night, expecting smoke, thunder, and the sound of waves. But there’s nothing. Just silence. You wonder if your body forgot how to feel safe.

Natasha comes every day.

She doesn't hover. She doesn’t overwhelm. She just is. Always there, curled in the chair near your bed, boots kicked off, hands wrapped around lukewarm coffee, flipping through a book without really reading it. Sometimes she talks. Sometimes she doesn’t. Mostly, she just watches you. Like, she still can’t quite believe you’re real. That you’re here.

There are moments when she reaches for your hand and hesitates, catching herself like she’s afraid she’ll break you.

On the sixth day, the doctors tell you it’s time.

“You’re stable,” the lead medic says gently. “We can continue monitoring from home and give you instructions. It’s entirely your call, but… We think you’re ready.”

You’re not sure what “ready” is supposed to feel like. The idea of leaving the room you’ve come to accept as a kind of purgatory doesn’t make you feel free — it makes your chest tighten.

You nod anyway.

Natasha is quiet as she helps you dress. Civilian clothes. Soft. New. The fabric feels too thick, too unfamiliar. You move slowly, your body still remembering scarcity. Still conserving energy. Still unsure it’s safe to let go.

She kneels to help with your shoes and pauses when you flinch at the contact. You recover quickly, hand on her shoulder. “Sorry.”

“You don’t have to be,” she says softly.

As you stand together at the doorway, your discharge papers in a folder under your arm, Natasha glances down at your hand and laces her fingers through yours.

You hesitate. “I don’t know what’s waiting out there. I don’t know how to—”

“I know,” she says. Her grip tightens. “We’ll go slow. Whatever pace you need.”

You nod, even though your chest still aches with uncertainty.

The elevator ride down feels surreal. You’re not used to enclosed spaces with buttons and polished metal reflections. Your heart skips once, twice — Natasha notices.

“We can go back upstairs,” she offers quietly. “It’s okay if you’re not ready.”

You shake your head. “No. I just… need to get used to it again.”

When the doors open, the light is different. Sharper. Louder. There are more people. Too many. The security staff nods respectfully as you pass, and you catch a glimpse of yourself in a hallway mirror.

You don’t look like the version of yourself that disappeared. You’re thinner. Your eyes are sharper, older somehow. There’s a haunted look to your posture, even when you try to stand tall.

Natasha opens the car door for you. It feels strange — being helped. Being ushered. You slide into the seat and keep your eyes forward the whole drive, watching a world that moved on while you were gone. So many people, so much motion. Bright lights. Noise. Life.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Natasha asks softly, not pushing.

You shake your head at first.

Then, quietly: “It doesn’t feel like mine anymore. Like… I left the world for a while, and it forgot me. And now I’m trying to remember how to belong to it again.”

She nods slowly. “I know that feeling.”

You glance at her. “Yeah?”

“I lived in shadows for a long time. It’s different. But I remember what it’s like to come back and not recognize the shape of your own life.”

That lands. You stare out the window. “And what did you do?”

She looks over at you, eyes soft. “I made new memories. With the people I loved.”

The apartment building comes into view. It’s familiar and unfamiliar all at once. You remember the smell of the hallway, the way the light slants through the windows in the afternoon. You remember the doorframe, the number on it, the chipped edge of the paint. Home. Kind of.

Your hand pauses on the doorknob. Natasha’s close behind you, silent.

You whisper, “What if I don’t know how to live in it anymore?”

She’s quiet for a moment. Then, gently says, “Then we make it new. Together.”

You open the door.

Inside, everything is neat. Intact. Untouched. Maria must’ve kept it clean. Your things are still where you left them: photos, books, and your coat hanging by the door like it had been waiting for you.

You step inside slowly, eyes scanning everything.

Natasha doesn't push. She just follows quietly, giving you room.

In the corner, you spot something unexpected — a small carved figure, worn and faded. Red. Maria must have brought him from the med facility. You walk over and hold him in your hand, brushing your thumb along the ridges of the coconut’s face.

Natasha watches you with something close to reverence.

You finally turn to her.

“I don’t know what comes next,” you admit.

She steps closer, placing a hand gently against your back. “Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out.”

You nod, your eyes wet but steady.

And for the first time in a long time, you believe her.

You stay near a window for a while. The apartment is quiet, every sound soft and unfamiliar. You’re still holding Red, fingers absently brushing the worn coconut shell, when Natasha’s voice cuts gently through the stillness.

“Do you want to take a bath?”

You glance toward her, surprised by how simple and kind the question sounds. A bath. It’s been… years. And for a moment, the idea makes your chest feel tight — not because you’re afraid of it, but because it feels too gentle, too civilized, too far from where you were.

You swallow. “Yeah, but would you… stay with me?”

Her face softens. "Yeah, of course.”

She says it like it’s the easiest thing in the world — like she hasn’t missed you every second of the past three years. Like she wouldn’t drop everything to do exactly that.

Natasha walks you to the bathroom without fuss. She starts the water, adjusting it with practiced motions, quiet in the way she always is when things really matter. You sit on the closed toilet lid, watching steam curl toward the ceiling, already letting the warmth pull at the edges of something inside you.

Once the tub is full, you strip slowly, wrapping a towel around yourself as she turns away to give you space. You can’t help but smile at that, even if it’s faint — Natasha Romanoff, world-class assassin, averting her eyes with her cheeks slightly blushed, like you’re some delicate painting she’s afraid to damage.

You step into the water, easing down with a quiet hiss of breath as the heat envelops you. Your muscles scream and then slowly, slowly, begin to relax.

You lean your head back against the porcelain edge, eyes half-lidded. Natasha sits beside the tub on a folded towel, elbows on her knees, just watching you with a small smile and eyes full of unshed things.

After a minute, her voice breaks the calm.

“Can I help? With your hair?”

Your throat catches. You didn’t expect the offer, not like that — not so softly.

You nod. “Yeah. Please.”

She moves closer, sleeves pushed up, and gathers a little shampoo in her hands. Her fingers slide gently into your hair, slow and careful, massaging your scalp in delicate circles. It feels so good it nearly makes you cry — not because it hurts, but because it doesn’t. Because you didn’t know something so simple could still feel like this.

Her hands are steady, rinsing with warm water cupped between her palms, careful not to splash. She never rushes, never speaks unless it’s to quietly ask if something’s okay.

And when she wraps a towel around your hair and kisses your temple, something in you — something wound too tight for too long — finally lets go.

“You’re here,” she murmurs. “You’re really here.”

You rest your cheek on your arm along the tub’s edge. “It still feels like I’m dreaming.”

“I know,” she says. “Me too.”

You sit in the cooling water a little longer, side by side in silence that no longer feels empty. Eventually, she helps you out, wraps you in warmth, and leads you back to the bedroom with the kind of patience that doesn’t ask anything in return.

And through it all — the quiet, the closeness, the simple human contact — you begin to believe that maybe you really did come home.

And when she wraps a towel around your hair and kisses your temple, something in you — something wound too tight for too long — finally lets go.

—

Later, you’re on the couch, curled in on yourself. You hadn’t wanted to lie down in the bed just yet. Natasha didn’t question it—just handed you a throw blanket, sat beside you, and let the silence settle. She doesn’t crowd you. But she doesn’t leave either.

You stare down at the ring around your neck. The chain is cool against your collarbone.

“I thought about you every night,” you say, voice low, almost ashamed.

Natasha turns her head toward you. “So did I.”

You swallow hard. “I pictured you. Waiting. And then I started wondering if I’d made you up just to have something to hold onto.”

She shifts closer. “I thought I’d never see you again. Every day I told myself I had to keep moving because if I stopped, I’d have to admit you were gone.”

Your voice is a whisper. “And now I’m not gone. But I don’t know how to be here either.”

Natasha reaches over and takes your hand, slow and deliberate. Her thumb brushes over your knuckles. “Then we’ll figure it out together. There’s no right way to do this.”

You lean your head against her shoulder. It feels like touching solid ground after months in open water.

“I missed you so much it hurt,” you say.

She presses her lips to your temple. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

—

That night, after takeout and too many emotions to name, you stand at the bedroom door again.

The bed is made. The pillows fluffed. But it feels like walking into a memory.

Natasha waits patiently, giving you the space to choose.

“I want to try,” you say quietly. “But only if you stay.”

“I was never going to leave.”

She pulls back the covers and slides in beside you, and you crawl in with careful movements, still half afraid the walls might collapse if you breathe too loud.

You both lie on your backs, eyes open in the dark.

“Do you hate that I changed?” you ask.

Natasha’s voice is soft but certain. “I don’t care how you changed. I only care that you’re still mine.”

You roll toward her. Her arm is already there, waiting for you to curl into. You rest your forehead against her collarbone, heart racing like it hasn’t calmed down in years.

“I’m scared,” you whisper.

“I know,” she says, kissing your hair. “Me too.”

But she holds you all the same.

And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself fall asleep.

The room is dark and quiet. Natasha’s breath is steady beside you, warm, familiar, and grounding. You count each inhale, each exhale, like an anchor, like maybe if you focus hard enough, the rest of you will settle too.

But it doesn’t.

The bed is too soft. The mattress, the pillows—it all feels like it’s swallowing you whole. Your muscles are tense, your jaw is locked, and your breath is shallow. It’s not the silence that unsettles you. It’s the stillness. Too comfortable. Too easy. Too alien.

You lie there for what feels like hours, heart thudding loud in your chest, staring into the darkness.

Eventually, you slip out of bed as quietly as you can. The floor is cool under your feet, grounding in a way the mattress never could be. You lower yourself slowly, cautiously, and lie flat on your back beside your side of the bed, the wooden floor pressing firm and unyielding against your spine.

It feels… real. Familiar. You exhale, finally.

And that’s where Natasha finds you five minutes later—when her hand reaches across the bed and touches only cold sheets.

Her breath catches, and then you hear the mattress shift as she scrambles up, switching on the bedside lamp. Her voice is low but tight.

“Y/N?”

You blink up at her from the floor. “I’m here.”

She sees you and stills. Her shoulders drop slightly with relief, though her expression softens with worry.

“I—I couldn’t sleep,” you say quietly. “The bed felt wrong.”

She doesn’t say anything for a second. Then, without asking, she reaches for the blanket at the foot of the bed, kneels beside you, and drapes it gently over your body. Her fingers linger a moment against your arm.

“Next time, wake me. Please.”

You look at her, eyes tired. “I didn’t want to bother you.”

“You’re not a bother,” she says immediately, voice low and raw. “Not now. Not ever.”

A beat passes. Then Natasha shifts down beside you, lying flat on the floor without hesitation. The floor creaks beneath both your bodies. She glances at you sideways, head tilted on the hardwood.

“You’re really doing this?”

“You’re down here with me, aren’t you?”

A small smile plays on her lips. “Of course I am.”

Another pause.

“You know,” you murmur after a while, staring up at the ceiling, “the floor reminds me I’m real. That I’m here. The bed’s too forgiving. It’s too easy to think I might be dreaming all this. Or worse—dead.”

Natasha’s face turns toward you, open and quietly aching.

“I used to sleep on the floor too,” she says after a long beat. “First few years out of the Red Room. I couldn’t take the softness. The quiet. I felt like I didn’t deserve comfort.”

You nod, your throat tight. “I get that.”

“But you do deserve it,” she continues. “Even if it takes time to believe it.”

You’re quiet for a moment. Then: “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again. I didn’t let myself hope.”

She reaches out slowly and links her pinky with yours. “Hope’s stubborn. Just like you.”

The silence that follows is heavier, but not suffocating. A kind of understanding passes between you without needing words.

Eventually, you roll onto your side, facing her. She mirrors you instantly, and your foreheads touch lightly. Her hand finds your waist, pulling you close beneath the blanket.

This close, it’s easier to breathe.

“Thank you for not giving up on me,” you whisper.

“I could never bring myself to,” she replies, barely audible.

And with her warmth against your chest, her breath against your cheek, and the floor beneath you steady and real—you finally drift into sleep. Not perfectly. Not painlessly. But peacefully, for the first time in a very long time.

Together.

You wake slowly, eyes still closed, warm under the blanket, the floor beneath you solid and cool. For a second you forget where you are, panic fluttering at the edge of your chest—until you feel a thumb brushing slow circles against your side, and the scent of Natasha’s shampoo grounding you more than the floor ever could.

“Morning,” she whispers.

Your eyes flutter open. She’s already awake, head propped up slightly on her arm. Her gaze is soft, red hair a little wild from sleep.

You blink at her, throat dry. “You didn’t move.”

“Didn’t want to leave you alone,” she says simply.

You shift a little, wincing faintly from the stiffness. “You’re going to have back problems, Romanoff.”

She smiles, one of those rare, real ones. “Too late.”

You lie there in silence for a bit longer, the light beginning to slip in through the curtains.

“Part of me feels stupid,” you admit eventually, your voice still hoarse from sleep. “Sleeping on the floor, avoiding a bed like it’s a trap.”

“It’s not stupid,” she says gently. “It’s survival. You’re adjusting. That takes time. However long you need—I’ll be here.”

You stare up at the ceiling. “Everything feels different. Like I’ve got to learn the world all over again.”

“Then we’ll learn it together.”

That brings a lump to your throat. She must see it, because she reaches up and brushes your cheek with the back of her hand.

“I missed you so much,” she murmurs. “Every single day.”

You nod, voice tight. “I kept thinking about you. I kept wondering if I’d ever… just see your face again. Even once.”

She leans in slowly and kisses your forehead, staying there for a beat. “Well, now you’re stuck with me.”

A small laugh escapes you, and it feels good. Rusty, but real.

You finally sit up, stretching out your sore limbs, and Natasha follows suit, brushing out her tangled hair with her fingers. You glance at the bed, then at her.

“I think I want to try the bed again tonight.”

She smiles. “I’ll be there, too. We’ll face it together.”

It’s still strange—this new normal, this second chance. But in the quiet morning light, sitting beside her on the hardwood floor with a blanket draped over your shoulders and your heart a little less guarded, it doesn’t feel so impossible.

Not with her.

Not anymore.

The next night, it happens again. You try the bed. Last a little longer. Then move to the floor.

And again, Natasha follows — no questions, no sighs, no trying to coax you back.

The third night, she doesn’t even wait. When you quietly slip down to the floor, she follows moments later with a pillow tucked under her arm.

By the fourth night, you wake up and realize you haven’t moved at all.

You’re in bed. Still in Natasha’s arms. And for the first time since the island, you don’t feel like you have to run from peace.

—

A few months later.

The apartment is lived-in now. There's a plant on the kitchen windowsill that Natasha insists is thriving, even if it leans a little sideways. The couch has a dent where you both usually sit. Red is perched up on the shelf under the TV next to some decorations and framed photos of you and Nat, now forever a part of your life. And you smile every time your eyes land on it. Always a reminder of what you endured.

You’re healing. Not in a straight line, not without setbacks, but with intention. With her.

Some mornings are harder than others. You still wake up drenched in sweat sometimes, heart racing with ghosts. On those days, Natasha doesn’t try to fix it. She just hands you tea, brushes a hand through your hair, and sits close until your breath evens out.

There are good days, too. Days where you wake before her, cook something new, and even laugh freely. Days you catch her looking at you like you’re made of something rare and whole. You still don’t quite believe it, but you try.

You’ve been seeing a therapist SHIELD recommended. You hated it at first—too many questions, too much stillness. But eventually, it became a space you didn’t dread. You’ve started talking about the island, the silence, the routine that kept you sane.

You and Natasha still dance around some things. She hasn’t pushed you for intimacy beyond what you offer. She reads your cues like second nature—holding your hand when you’re overwhelmed, giving you space when your shoulders go rigid, curling beside you in bed when you reach for her without a word.

But it hasn’t been easy.

There was a week when you barely spoke after an argument. She’d gone on a short mission without telling you until the morning of, and you’d panicked, snapped at her, shut down. When she returned, you couldn’t look at her, too afraid of how much you need her. Too afraid of what needing someone means.

It was Natasha who finally broke the silence, sitting beside you on the couch and saying quietly, “You can be mad. I’ll still come back.”

That night, you cried in her arms for the first time in weeks. You hated that it helped. You loved that she held you anyway.

You’ve started working again. Slowly. First from home, reviewing field reports, helping analyze strategies—things that reminded you of who you were. Maria checked in regularly and, once, even told you she missed getting her ass handed to her during briefings. You laughed.

You and Natasha are different now. Not in a way that’s broken, but in the way that time remakes things—gently, with wear and meaning. You cook together more. You argue over whose turn it is to do laundry. You fall asleep facing each other now, not with fear, but with something like trust.

There’s still hesitation in both of you. Moments where your voices lower, not out of secrecy but out of reverence for how fragile things once were. You talk about the future, sometimes in fragments. A trip somewhere quiet. A garden. A place where you both might feel steady.

You're learning how to live again—with her and within yourself. The island isn’t gone. The pain, the scars—physical and not—aren’t either. But the ache isn’t everything anymore.

Love, you’ve learned, isn’t just the reunion. It’s the staying. The choosing.

And every single day, she chooses you.

—

The apartment was quiet one night.

It had been months now. Months of rebuilding, of learning how to be again—how to sleep through the night, how to laugh without guilt, how to let someone reach for you without flinching.

The bad days hadn’t disappeared, but they came fewer and further between. Now, most mornings started with coffee, soft light through the windows, and Natasha wrapped around you in sleepy warmth. Now, you could walk into a room without scanning every exit. Now, the weight on your chest was no longer constant.

And tonight, the stillness didn’t feel like a threat. It felt like rest.

You sat on the couch together, a half-watched movie flickering on mute, both of you tangled under the same blanket, your legs draped over hers. Her fingers lazily traced circles against your calf, like she was touching you just to remember you were real.

You watched her—her profile illuminated by the glow of the screen, soft and calm and so achingly beautiful in that quiet way you’d come to treasure.

You hadn’t said it out loud, not yet.

But it had been on your mind lately. That ring. The one that used to mean someday. The one that had waited carefully in a thin yet resistant chain around both of your necks for years now, quiet and patient.

You shifted a little and leaned your head against her shoulder.

"Hey," you said, voice soft, hesitant but steady.

She turned her head toward you, the question already in her eyes.

You reached for her hand under the blanket, fingers slipping between hers. “Do you ever think about it? The wedding, I mean.”

Natasha blinked. For a second, she didn’t say anything. Then her thumb brushed over your knuckles, slow and thoughtful. “I used to,” she said, almost a whisper. “Every day. When you were gone, I—I’d think about what it would’ve been like. What we lost.”

You leaned into her a little more. “And now?”

Her hand squeezed yours gently. “Now… I think we might be ready.”

You let out a slow breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “Yeah?”

She nodded, shifting to face you more fully, her free hand brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You feel it too, don’t you? That the worst is behind us. Not gone, but… no longer in control.”

You swallowed thickly. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while. Just didn’t know if I could say it without jinxing it, I guess.”

Natasha’s expression softened, her eyes shining just a little in the low light. “Say it now.”

You looked down at your joined hands. “I want to do it. The wedding. I think… I think I’m finally ready. I feel safe again. With you. With us. I want to stand with you and mean it in front of everyone. I want that day.”

She reached out and cupped your cheek, pulling you into a kiss—gentle, lingering, a promise wrapped in silence.

When she pulled back, her voice was barely more than breath. “Then let’s do it.”

You smiled, your eyes damp, but your heart light. “We waited so long.”

“And I’d wait forever,” she said, pressing her forehead to yours. “But I’m really fucking glad I don’t have to.”

You laughed through your tears, and she kissed you again—this time with more certainty, more heat, and more joy. You curled into her chest, hand tightly holding your ring still proudly on the chain around your neck, heart thudding with a rhythm that felt steady for the first time in years.

And there, in the hush of your shared home, you both knew: it wasn’t just about a wedding. It was about choosing each other, again and again, even when the world fell apart.

And now, finally, you were ready to celebrate that choice.

Together.

It was almost funny how simple it was in the end.

No announcements. No grand gestures. Just two people holding hands on a porch swing, sipping coffee while the sun rose over the Barton farm.

Clint had seen it the second you stepped out of the car with Natasha, your fingers linked, a soft calm in your posture that hadn’t been there before. He didn’t say anything right away. Just gave a knowing smirk, clapped you on the shoulder, and ushered you both inside where Laura was already pulling something out of the oven.

The smell of cinnamon and fresh bread wrapped around you like a blanket. It felt safe there, like nothing bad could happen under that roof. Maybe that’s why you found the words so easily.

“So,” you said slowly, sitting at the long kitchen table with your hands wrapped around a warm mug, “we’re finally going to do it.”

Clint raised an eyebrow. “Do what?”

Natasha leaned in a little, the corner of her mouth twitching with a smile. “The wedding.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Laura let out a quiet, happy gasp and reached for your hand.

Clint blinked. “For real this time?”

You nodded. “For real. We’re ready.”

Natasha didn’t say anything, but she reached over, laying her hand over yours on the table. That said enough.

Clint leaned back in his chair, folding his arms with a proud grin. “Took you long enough.”

You rolled your eyes with a quiet laugh. “You’re one to talk. You and Laura eloped.”

Laura grinned. “And we regret nothing. But you two? You deserve a day. A real one. Something good.”

You hesitated. “We were thinking… maybe here?”

Clint sat up straighter. “Here? Like—here, here?”

Natasha glanced out the window, eyes softening as they landed on the old barn at the edge of the property. “Yeah. It feels right.”

Laura squeezed your hand. “We’d be honored.”

Clint’s grin only widened. “We’ll string up some lights and clear out the barn. Get the kids to stop shooting arrows for five minutes. It'll be perfect.”

You smiled, something warm blooming in your chest. “Just a few people. Small. Family. Maria, Fury, and the team. Phil, if he’s back from the field. That’s it.”

Natasha leaned her head against your shoulder. “Just us. The ones who stuck through it all.”

Laura stood and kissed Clint on the temple. “Then it’s settled.”

The next few hours passed in a blur of light laughter and soft plans. Talk of fairy lights and music. Maybe Lila could make some signs. Nate would be the ring bearer if he could sit still long enough. There was talk of food, dresses, suits—or not. Just something simple. Something real.

You stepped outside after lunch, barefoot in the grass, the wind soft through your hair. Natasha followed, her hand slipping easily into yours. You stood in front of the barn, weathered wood and high beams, the kind of place where new chapters felt possible.

“This is really happening,” you said, voice quiet.

She turned to you, her eyes bright and steady. “Yeah. It is.”

You smiled, then leaned in, forehead against hers.

And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like you were holding your breath.

The days that followed passed in a gentle rhythm—slower than you'd expected, but full of meaning. No frenzy. No rush. Just two people returning to themselves and to each other.

The dress fittings happened in a softly lit boutique that Maria insisted on renting out for the afternoon. “You deserve this,” she said simply when you protested. “And besides—this’ll be fun.”

And it was.

Natasha stepped out of the dressing room first, hesitant, smoothing her hands down the fabric of the ivory gown. It was elegant and minimal, with a soft sweep of silk and lace. Not overly formal. Not flashy. But it stopped your heart in your chest.

You stared for a moment longer than you meant to. “You’re going to ruin me,” you murmured.

A rare flush crept up her neck. “You like it?”

You crossed the small space to her, brushing a hand down her arm. “I love it.”

She reached up to cup your cheek. “Wait until you try yours on.”

You laughed, but when you returned a few minutes later in your own dress—simple, flowy, perfectly you—Natasha just stared.

She didn’t speak at first. Just looked at you like she was memorizing something holy.

“Say something,” you whispered.

She blinked. “You’re real.”

The next few weeks were filled with quiet preparations. You helped Clint hang fairy lights in the barn while Laura stitched small details into the table linens. Lila painted wooden signs. Even Tony, who initially joked about throwing you a Stark-sponsored blowout, settled into his role of unofficial bartender for the night with only mild grumbling.

Fury didn’t say much when you told him the date—just clapped a hand on your shoulder and said, “It’s about damn time.”

Coulson smiled like he knew this would always be the ending.

And Maria—Maria just hugged you tightly, fiercely, as if she'd carried the weight of hope for both of you all this time. The night before the wedding, you and Natasha sat side by side in bed, each holding a notebook of vows you'd been scribbling in for days.

“Want to hear mine?” she asked quietly.

You nodded, heart thudding softly.

She read aloud words about almost losing you, and you coming back- About how she never stopped carrying you with her, even when she didn't believe in anything else.

You cried before she even finished.

Then, with trembling hands and a steadier voice than you expected, you read her your own. Words about the island. About how you survived and how she had helped you live again when you thought you wouldn't.

“I’m not promising easy,” you told her. “But I am promising you everything. Whatever I’ve got, it’s yours.”

That night, you slept in each other’s arms. And for the first time since you returned, there were no dreams.The morning came soft and slow, light pouring in through the farmhouse window. Natasha left early to get ready in the Barton house, Maria dragging her off with a garment bag and a mischievous wink. You stayed with Laura, sipping tea and letting Lila braid your hair while your dress hung by the window, glowing in the sun.

You should’ve felt nervous. You kind of did. But more than that, you felt… ready.

Whole.

Alive.

The barn had been transformed. The fairy lights flickered above rows of chairs filled with people who loved you. The air smelled like wildflowers and pine. There was music playing—soft, old, familiar.

And then, there she was.

Walking toward you down the aisle, in that same ivory dress, barefoot like you, a tremble in her lips and eyes glassy with tears.

You didn’t remember moving—only that you ended up in front of each other, smiling like the world had finally exhaled.

The vows came easy. No shaking. No fear. Just truth.

Natasha reaches for your hands. She holds them like they might disappear — like she's still, even now, making sure you're real. Her thumbs trace soft circles over your knuckles. Her lips press together for a moment as she breathes in, slowly.

Then she begins.

"I didn’t grow up believing in forever," she says, her voice quiet but sure. "Or softness. Or in anything that lasted. I’ve been a weapon. A shadow. A ghost meant to not be seen." You feel her hands tighten around yours. The crowd is gone, fading into a blur. It's just her. Just this.

"But then there was you. And somehow, you saw through all of it. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t run. You loved me back into a person."Her eyes shine, green and wet with unshed tears. Her voice doesn't tremble. "I thought I lost you. And I would have carried that for the rest of my life. But here you are. Here we are."

She pauses, breathes.

"So I promise — not just to stand beside you, but to grow with you. To fight for the life we've built. To listen even when it’s hard and to speak even when it scares me."

A single tear breaks loose and rolls down her cheek.

"You are the only home I’ve ever believed in. You are the peace I never thought I’d deserve. And you’re the only person I will ever want to spend forever with. So I vow to be yours. Without armor. Without fear. With everything I am."

You take a breath.

You hadn’t expected your hands to shake. But they do. And Natasha, as always, notices. She gives them the smallest squeeze —I'm here.

And you begin.

"I used to believe that surviving was enough," you say, and your voice is soft but strong. "That making it through was the victory. But you, you reminded me that surviving isn't the same as living."

You feel Natasha’s grip tighten again, like her heart is answering yours.

"You brought me home, even when I didn't know how to walk through the door." A few sniffles ripple quietly through the small crowd.

"I promise to keep learning how to live—with you, beside you, for you. I promise to wake up every day and choose this. Choose you. Even when it’s hard. Especially then." Natasha’s lips tremble now, but her smile holds steady, and she looks at you like you’re the center of the universe.

"You are my safest place. My sharpest truth. And the first light I saw after so much darkness. I’m not promising perfection. I’m promising honesty. Growth. Love — always, unshakable, enduring. Quiet when it needs to be. Loud when it matters." You pause. "Whatever I have, whoever I become, it’s yours. Always has been. Always will be."

When the officiant says the words—"You may kiss your wife"—Natasha wastes no time.

Her hands come up to cradle your face as yours curl into the fabric of her dress. The kiss is not rushed, but full. Steady. Like breath coming back after being held for years.

And when you part, the barn is full of quiet cheers and wet eyes and smiles that feel carved from joy.

Clint lets out a loud “Finally!” that breaks the spell just enough to make everyone laugh.

You kissed her like it was the only thing you’d ever wanted to do. And it really was.

And when the music picked up, when the sun dipped and the lights above danced in the wind, when your friends clapped and toasted and swayed—

You held her close under the string lights, her forehead pressed to yours, and whispered,

“We made it.”

Natasha smiled. “We start now. I love you,” she whispers, too quietly for anyone else.

“I love you,” you whisper back and know — without doubt, without fear — that this is only the beginning.

—

The cabin sat at the edge of a lake that shimmered silver in the moonlight. It was small, nestled between tall trees and a quiet sky, wrapped in a hush that seemed to exist just for the two of you. The kind of quiet that made it feel like the world had finally stopped spinning.

It was your first night here.

No one else. No duties. No beeping medical machines. Just Natasha and you. Just soft blankets and the smell of pine and a fireplace crackling low in the hearth. The lake was still. The wind was kind.

Dinner had been quiet — not because there was nothing to say, but because the silence was full of the kind of peace you'd both fought for. Natasha had held your hand across the table, thumb brushing over your wedding ring as if to reassure herself it was really there. You’d done the same.

Now, inside the bedroom, you stood at the window, fingertips resting on the wooden frame, looking out at the dark.

Natasha watched you from across the room. You could feel her gaze, warm and gentle, resting on you like a blanket. She didn’t speak right away. She never rushed you. Not since you came back.

You turned around slowly, and when your eyes met, there was something unsaid in them, something shared. You crossed the room with bare feet and a steady heart. Stood in front of her. Let her take your hand.

“I missed this,” you whispered.

Her hand tightened around yours. “Me too.”

No rush. No sudden movement. She leaned in and kissed you, soft and unhurried, like she had all the time in the world. Her other hand rose to your cheek, anchoring you there, letting you feel it — that you were wanted. Loved. Safe.

You touched her face in return, fingertips featherlight on her jaw, and said, voice barely a breath, “I’m ready.”

Natasha’s eyes flickered with emotion, and she nodded. “Okay.”

And in that word — just okay—were a thousand I love yous.

She helped you out of the soft sweater you’d pulled on earlier. Her hands were reverent and steady, asking with every inch of movement. You nodded when she looked to you for permission, and you undressed her too, slowly and carefully. It was the first time in so long that it hadn’t been out of necessity, or urgency, or desperation — but because you wanted each other. Because your bodies had been through war and survival and time apart, and you were choosing each other again.

She guided you to the bed, and the moment you lay down together, it was like something clicked into place. Natasha’s lips brushed your collarbone, your pulse, and your jaw. Her touch was gentle yet firm, a reminder of the love and passion that had always been between you. As you held each other close, the weight of the world seemed to lift off your shoulders, leaving only the warmth of her body against yours.

She slowly removed your shirt , revealing the scars and memories that marked your skin. But instead of recoiling, Natasha's eyes softened with understanding and acceptance, making you feel truly seen and loved in a way you had never experienced before. With each touch, each kiss, it was clear that this reunion was not just about physical desire but about healing and rebuilding what had been broken. The same followed for the rest of your clothes, each layer shedding away the pain and insecurities that had built up over time. As you stood there vulnerable and exposed, Natasha's embrace felt like a safe haven, a place where you could finally let go and be yourself without fear of judgment.

Her hands trace every curve, every scar, every piece of skin as if it were the first time. Soft, gentle, memorizing every new part of you. Her fingers dipped low from your collarbone, down to the small of your back, leaving a trail of warmth and comfort in their wake. With each touch, it felt as though she was erasing the past and creating a new beginning for you both. Her kisses followed your body from your neck to the valley of your breasts and down to your hips, igniting a fire within you that had long been dormant. In her embrace, you found solace and acceptance, a sense of belonging that you had never experienced before.

Natasha looks up to your face, silently asking for permission to continue exploring the depths of your desires. You meet her gaze with a nod, giving her the go-ahead. One of her hands reaches up for your hand, intertwining your fingers with hers, before she finally leans down to your center.

As she delves deeper into your pleasure, you feel a wave of ecstasy wash over you, surrendering completely to the intimacy of the moment. Natasha's touch is both gentle and confident, guiding you to heights of passion you never knew existed.

There were no words for a while. Just breath, skin, quiet affirmations. You whispered her name like a promise. She said yours like a prayer.

When it was over, and the room was full of warmth and the soft scent of pine and skin and shared love, she held you close, one hand trailing up and down your spine.

“Was it okay?” she asked quietly, her voice husky and a little breathless.

You nodded against her shoulder, then pulled back just enough to look her in the eye.

“It was everything.”

Her lips curved into a soft smile, and she leaned in to kiss you again — slow and deep and grateful.

You fell asleep that way. Skin against skin. Her heartbeat beneath your ear. No more running. No more surviving. Just two hearts, still learning to heal, finally at peace.

Together.

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#marvel #mcu #reader insert #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff #black widow x reader #black widow #castawayseries #natasha romanoff imagine #natasha romanoff angst #black widow angst #natasha romanoff x reader angst #black widow x reader angst

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randombush3 · 12 hours ago

Text

DROGA

Alexia Putellas x Reader

Based on Droga - Mora, C. Tangana

I apologise for any whiplash experienced while reading this x

[…]

The sea breeze whispers through the open doors of Alexia’s room in this year’s off-season villa, curtains billowing as though they are gently signalling her to get on with her day.

She groans when she wakes up alone.

She hasn’t yet grown accustomed to that.

With groggy eyes and blurred thoughts, as she sits up, the only thing that comes to mind is you. Last year. Italy and beautiful memories in that suite. A balcony that wasn’t as private as you had decided.

She smiles. She frowns.

If it were up to her, she’d do it all again. “Fuck Ibiza,” she’d say, and book somewhere for the two of you. She would get to know you once more, close the chasm that ruptured your relationship.

“Alexia!” Someone is shouting her name from outside. Probably Jenni, already in a bikini, halfway to drunkenness despite the sun still lingering in the east. “Alexia-a!”

“¿Qué quieres?” she barks back, wincing at the tension in her tone. She told herself she would be cool. Adaptable. Even if the roof has been blown off her house of love and only the skeleton is left.

Alexia shakes her limbs as though the pricks on her insides will disappear. Methodically, she prepares herself to have fun. She will have fun. She’s fine.

Jenni and Leila. It’s Jenni and Leila who ruin her mood.

As she has already reassured herself, she’s fine. But now she’s drunk. And she’s thinking — thinking about things. You, mostly. What happened. How it was entirely accidental on her part.

She didn’t give you her heart. It was a robbery. Stolen by smashing down walls and sweet-talking her into staying the night and going on dates and falling love. Alexia didn’t do love before you. Drunk-Alexia declares to Jenni and Leila that she will not be doing love after you, either.

“You’re still in love with her,” Leila says, eyes glistening under the warm string-lights draped across the imaginary walls of the villa’s patio. Her smile is encouraging. Satisfied.

Alexia is shaking her head. “But if I saw her with someone else”—she’s still disagreeing at this point—”I’d make a scene.”

“Oh, surprise, surprise,” Jenni drawls.

The laughter comprises of only two voices.

Much later, when drunk-Alexia has forced water down her throat and, when that didn’t quite fix her wobbling vision and hazy bad ideas, two fingers, she stumbles into the bed she commenced this miserable day in. Still alone. Still fine.

Still tossing and turning as if she might replicate the feeling of your body beside hers.

Still talking to herself, because her thoughts don’t quiet even though she has no one to share them with.

When Jenni shouts at her from the next room (“SHUT UP, ALE!”), she accepts the prompt to embark on her next step to bring herself closer to sleep.

Alexia, who scoffed at deep-breathing during her recovery and despises the inertia of yoga, meditates.

And it doesn’t fucking work.

Perdona la hora

It’s the first test she has sent you in three weeks. Perhaps it is pathetic that she hasn’t even lasted a month without you.

You read the message instantly.

You don’t reply. She doesn’t really know what to say past sorry.

The pain doesn’t get better. Alexia considers investing in pharmaceuticals — only some miracle drug could fix this.

You’re driving her wild and you’re not even here. No, you left. The absence is felt.

Your lingering presence is loathed.

Three dots appear as she continues to stare at the violation of post-break-up etiquette she couldn’t help but resign to.

Hola…

You must have spent a long time thinking about what to say. She’s comforted by the idea of you struggling just as much as she is. She is obviously more fine than you. So she’s winning. Even if she didn’t get a choice to participate in this competition.

Ibiza passes then. Almost in the blink of an eye.

On the final night, they get her drunk again and she calls you. “Try it with me again, even if it doesn’t last long.” She’s begging. She never does that.

“Alexia,” you warn. Your voice is hoarse. She must be upsetting you.

“I don’t want to look for you in other people,” she confesses.

You close your eyes.

“Please don’t say that.”

“But I mean it.”

“She means it,” chimes in an equally-hammered Leila.

You wince at how your ex’s friends are mocking her. You wince again when you catch yourself pitying your ex.

“Venga, vale.” Oh, that sounds like Jenni, although her tone is unusually responsible. “Say sorry for the late call, Ale.” You catch a murmured apology down the line.

“It’s fine, Jenni.”

Jenni chuckles, but this is separate from anything else you’ve been subjected to for the past twenty minutes.

“Have a nice evening,” she replies.

You’re free after that. Lying alone in your bedroom, boxes packed up and stacked in the corner. The ceiling is dull and grainy as your eyes slowly lose focus. You will yourself to sleep but the aching in your chest won’t let you float away.

In a month’s time, you will no longer feel this way. You’ll be somewhere else — somewhere free and new and exciting. You’ll meet someone else.

You solidify the mantra in your mind. You march around Barcelona with the promise silently playing on repeat. Your final days in the city are carried out with the enthusiasm of a dilapidated merry-go-round.

“You’re a pessimist,” is what your best-friend labels you as she chains you to her on her overly extensive shopping trip. “Or a nihilist.”

“I just no longer give a fuck.”

Her lips press tightly together. Then she looks you up and down.

“Mhm.” It’s not a sound that a convinced person would make. “You know, you’re allowed to admit you’re sad.”

“I’m the one who wanted it,” you protest. You’re not sure why you are arguing.

“I mean…” She trails off and doesn’t finish her sentence. You glare.

You know what she wants to say.

“Go on.”

“No, no,” she insists with a smirk. Perhaps this is a trap.

“No. Say what you wanted to say.”

Your firmness makes her laugh. Ridiculed, you turn your back and bless a rack of linens with your attention instead. She can fuck off with her truths and assumptions and oddly perceptive advice.

“She’s angry,” says Alba at the dinner table, fingers rubbing the dents in the wood she herself had made as a child in this very house.

Alexia looks up from her plate. Her mother has been alert to this impending topic since they all sat down for dinner, but she delays her intervention, awaiting a response from her eldest child.

The women hear a loud gulp. “How do you know that?” It’s sharp. Cutting. Alexia’s investment is poorly veiled.

“I saw her the other day. With a woman.”

“What did she look like?”

Alba thinks for a moment, trying to recollect details that really were just meant to provoke. She probably should have expected an interrogation so that’s on her. When she remembers, she says, “brunette. Small. Pija, I don’t know.”

“Her friend.”

Alba raises an eyebrow at her sister’s firmness. “Anyway, yeah. I saw her with her friend or whatever. She looked bummed the fuck out. And kind of… bored.”

“Sad and bored?” Alexia could jump for joy at this very moment.

She’s so winning.

She doesn't need to invent a drug because maybe you’ll do it before her.

You performed some kind of witchcraft on her, she has concluded in recent days; you put a spell on her. Perhaps you had read about it. You were always reading.

You remind her of a dog who always runs away but goes straight home when it is finally set free.

She should resent it, but she feels mildly inclined to remind you what it feels like to be close to each other. Plus, she’s not sure anything else will blunt the knife piercing through her chest.

Perdona la hora

Her teeth sink into her lip as she sees her message go through.

Otra vez, she adds.

She imagines you must be more reluctant to read it now that you have no certainty regarding her alcohol intake.

Hola Alexia

Something like disappointment settles in her gut.

K quieres?

Alexia signed her way into this without reading the small print.

No sé — typed out hesitantly.

Three dots appear. It’s as if you can see her burning alive and are finding even more cans of fuel to douse her in.

Your response is a statement. A deflection.

You called me

Alexia could make a thousand excuses. She settles on ‘I was drunk’. She cannot bring herself to explain the truth.

You begged, you text back, instantly. You said “try it with me again”

This could be an addiction. She’s never satisfied. She never will be — not when it comes to you.

Well I still mean it.

You take a long time to even start typing. She rolls over onto her side, tucking her elbows into her stomach and bringing her phone closer, as if examining it with care will provide solutions for unspoken problems.

You left without saying goodbye: Alexia wants to say that, to send the message she has already typed out. It’s hardly productive but it means a lot to her. If you knew the impact your stupid fucking breakup text has had on her life this last month… well, maybe you’d at least grant her the mercy of no longer replying to her.

Alexia doesn’t even know why the hell she’s texting you right now in the first place.

You type. You stop. You restart.

You bite your lip and kick at your duvet, suddenly far too hot under the covers.

You sigh and you delete a word.

You type some more.

You take a deep breath.

Then come here.

You both know that she will.

#alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas imagine #alexia putellas #woso #woso x reader #randombush3

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hannieween · 21 hours ago

Text

fault lines | wicked games series

You didn’t want to think of it—about the finality of your love life. About how fleeting story with Wonwoo was. But you realized, the end had started the moment you both kissed.

☾ pairings: jeon wonwoo x female reader ☾ genre: angst, fluff, smut (18+) ☾ aus: bartender wonwoo, bartender mingyu, messy love triangle, friends with benefits, right person wrong time ☾ word count: 12.1k

› PREVIOUS CHAPTERS – READ MORE

🎧: give more care less – bibi | in the blur of the rain – jiwoo | fall in lust – eden, jiselle | blame – i.m

☾ warnings: smut with plot, hurt/comfort, crying, breakups, fighting verbally and physically, mentions of blood and minor injury. soft dom wonwoo, reader is a bit bratty, body worship, oral sex, fingering, spanking, dirty talk, unprotected p in v sex, hair pulling, hard fucking to comfort fuck, love making, making out, creampies, crying after sex. reader is chubby. pet names: baby, (hers) babe (his)

☾ author's note: it's finally here! sorry for the absence, i'll explain more in my second author's note at the end of the chapter.

this chapter has another long sex scene. it's 3k words long i'm sowwy. i'm sorrrrrry, i'm ovulating and i live vicariously through my yns lolololol tmi tmi aaahh.

☾ disclaimer: minors DO NOT INTERACT. this post is intended for 18+ readers ONLY. please have your age stated in your blog description and do not to look like a bot 🙂

fault lines

Jeon Wonwoo knocked on your door, knowing that it would be the end.

Because when you opened it, he could see it in your eyes. You had been crying, your skin was blotchy, and your eyelashes were clumped with tears. You lifted your gaze to meet him, and your lips parted, forming a word that never made it out.

Wonwoo couldn’t resist himself. Taking one step towards you, he wrapped you in a big, tight hug, hiding his face on the curve of your neck.

You gasped as you were completely embraced in his warmth and his scent. But you reciprocated the hug, wrapping your arms around him too.

“How are you?” he asked softly, lifting his head from your neck and stepping back.

“I’m… okay,” you said without making eye contact with him.

You closed the door just as he was removing his backpack from his shoulders and kicking his slip Vans off. You could see from the corner of your eye that he was trying to search your face, so you turned to the couch, dragging your feet towards it.

He followed you, sighing as the suspense hanging in the air threatened to strip him of his sanity. He knew that you had seen Mingyu earlier in the day, and he didn’t see Mingyu after your conversation, so he essentially knew nothing about what happened. Only the tremble in your voice told him that things hadn’t come out well for you.

And now that he could see the state you were in, he suspected the worst.

He swallowed hard, waiting for you to finish gathering your words. You pushed your knees to your chest, hugging them tightly in what Wonwoo had now categorized as a way to keep yourself from falling apart.

“Talk to me, please,” Wonwoo asked after a moment of silence.

You stopped looking into the void, your teary eyes finding him. “I’m pulling the brakes,” you muttered with a shaky tone.

Wonwoo understood immediately. But his already heavy heart sank, leaving his chest with a hollow sensation that he could only try to push down by clearing his throat. “I understand,” he nodded, looking down at his lap, where his finger fidgeted with the pocket of his cargo pants.

Silence fell in the room, made heavy by the tight feeling in his chest.

He told you he would accept your choice.

This was what you were choosing.

You hadn’t chosen him.

“Did you decide to give Mingyu a second chance?” Wonwoo asked. His tone was low, weakened with the anxiousness he was trying to swallow down.

You didn’t answer at first, making him raise his head to search your face. Something inside him eased when you shook your head. “We talked, but he didn’t ask for a second chance,” you mumbled, shifting your arms around you. “I think I need time. I need to think about what I really want… about what I need.”

He nodded, closing his eyes for the briefest of moments. He experienced something that he hadn’t in a long time. One thing that he knew he would feel when he decided to kiss you for the first time. He felt the centre of his chest ache, the feeling spreading through his veins like some kind of poison.

It was heartbreak.

“What do you want to do?” Wonwoo asked, realizing that his tone had thickened. But it didn’t matter, he still looked you in the eye. “Do you want me to go now?”

You bit your lower lip, shaking your head slowly. “Would it be selfish of me to ask you to keep me company tonight?” you whispered fearfully, lowering your gaze from him. “I understand if you want to leave. I just don’t want to be alone.”

It was then that Wonwoo understood one painful thing.

Initially, he had convinced himself that his role in this situation was to be your rebound. He had accepted being with you, fully aware that you were still hurting over Mingyu. But as time went on, he no longer felt like that was the case for you.

And he finally understood Mingyu.

“Do you really want to pull the brakes?” he asked.

That made you look at him again. The question had touched something inside you, because you looked into his eyes and a spark of fear appeared in yours. “No, I don’t want to,” you muttered, your tone quivering with the same tinge of that spark.

He understood why Mingyu couldn’t leave before it got too late. Love came easily to you. You loved so easily and with such eagerness that it became addictive. Mingyu needed that when he met you. And Wonwoo… he was convinced he didn’t need love, he didn’t need anyone.

But that was before he met you.

“Why are you doing it, then?”

You shrugged, still wrapping your arms around your knees. “I’m confused,” you said, your tone waning and turning whispery. “And scared that I’ll hurt Mingyu,” you lowered your gaze again. “Or you.”

He nodded, also lowering his gaze. He knew that, like you, he would have to make a decision. One that was difficult for him, but in the end, he always knew it would come down to this.

He locked eyes with you. “I’ll stay tonight.”

Your features hardened slightly. “What are your conditions?”

“I’ll tell Mingyu about us,” he said, his tone becoming raw with emotion when he saw your eyes widen and brim with tears again. “I’m sorry, but I have to tell him.”

“Okay,” you whispered, nodding with small motions. You had thought for a split second to protect Mingyu’s emotions. But you knew that it was futile. “I agree. He has to know.”

He leaned toward you, wanting to get closer to you, grab your hand or something. “I’ll leave you alone. You won’t hear from me unless you want to,” he said, becoming impossible for him to speak, his throat was closing up. “I’ll let you have your space.”

You were sobbing more, tears kept rolling down your cheeks as you stared at your own hands. You nodded, unable to speak up.

Wonwoo licked his lips in a feeble attempt to keep his feelings at bay. But he leaned closer to you, now within reach to cup your face, commanding your gaze to him. “I believe that the first step toward healing is to stop punishing yourself for everything.”

Your gaze softened. “I am responsible for all of this,” you countered, your eyebrows knitting as anguish rose in your chest. “I’ve been selfish, and now look at what has happened.” Your eyes glistened, lip quivering. “Mingyu’s going to hate me.”

“He won’t hate you,” he asserted at once, his tone gentle. He threaded a piece of your hair with his fingers, tucking it behind your ear. “I’ll explain everything to him, he’ll understand. But don’t believe that he’ll hate you because that’s just not who he is.”

Your gaze changed. You wanted to believe the certainty in his words, but the burden in your heart made it impossible to do so.

A pause followed, tense and heavy with the silence that distanced you from Wonwoo. Your heart ached to take back your own words, you wished to be in a scenario in which it didn’t have to hurt so much to love him and Mingyu at the same time.

But you saw it now. The breach between the person you were now and the person you were with Mingyu. You almost didn’t recognize yourself. You were so eager to love Mingyu, so willing to give him your heart and accept the broken pieces of his. And now, you were on the other side, loving Wonwoo but with a broken heart.

You hated what you had become. You hated that your desire for love and to be loved had pushed you to do something you’d never imagined you would do.

“Can you forgive me?” you asked, your tone tiny and weary with tears.

Wonwoo’s gaze softened. “There’s nothing to forgive,” he immediately responded, even though his chest was constricted with an awful feeling.

Your shoulders eased, as though a massive weight had been lifted off your shoulders. Wonwoo saw it too, and he outstretched an arm to you, grazing your elbow with the tips of his fingers.

“Hey,” he whispered, drawing your attention to him. “Come here,” he told you gently, holding his arms out for you.

You simply couldn’t resist. You crawled next to him, his arms wrapping around you in a hug. He immediately brought his lips to your head, kissing your hair.

“I think you’re doing what’s right,” he muttered, his mouth still close to your head, so he simply pressed his lips against yours again and again.

You giggled softly. His soft pecks trailed down until his lips met your ear, making you shudder in his arms, trying to recoil from the tickling sensation of his breath against the shell of your ear.

You turned over, now able to see his face.

Wonwoo was tired. That much you knew from just one look. He had dark circles around his eyes, and his lips were slightly dry. “What?” he whispered, studying your face as he waited for your answer.

He flashed you a smile that, though genuine, looked tired. You ran a hand under his chin, noting the slight stubble. “You could use a shave,” you whispered tenderly.

He smiled at you, raising his eyebrows a little. “Yeah? You don’t like it?”

“Oh no, I like it,” you asserted, your tone falling, inevitably turning honeyed. “I like it very much.”

“Do you want me to shave it?” he said, looking at your face as you rubbed the back of your fingers against his stubble.

“Only if you want to,” you shrugged ever so slightly. “I just think it’s out of character for you.”

He clicked his tongue. “Is it itchy when I kiss you?” he asked, the genuine curiosity in his tone was unmistakable.

“You haven’t really kissed me today,” you pointed out gently, your tummy tightening with anxiousness.

The corner of his lip curved lightly. “Is that an invitation to kiss you?”

You blinked slowly, a smile creeping on your face. “Maybe.”

“I don’t do maybe. It’s either yes or no,” he said softly, tracing the features of your face with his gaze, lingering on your lips and then returning to your eyes.

“Wonwoo.”

“Mm?” he hummed, slightly raising his eyebrows.

“Kiss me,” you whispered.

A fluttering sensation went wild inside you at the sight of his smile, but this was fleeting as he dipped his head to meet your lips with his own. The first kiss was tender, marked by a sweetness that you almost compared to love. The moment stretched, and his lips lingered on your own, not kissing you anymore but not stepping back either.

Kissing you was like meeting the petals of a rose with his lips. Your lips were always soft, always welcoming. He loved kissing you like he loved listening to the sound of your laughter.

He swallowed hard, a shaky sigh coming out of him before he kissed you again. This time, the kiss was harder, more eager to feel your lips between his own. You instantly let out a short moan in his mouth, feeling the wetness of his full lips against your own.

Wonwoo tensed slightly against your body. He loved hearing the sounds he brought out of you. A thing stirred in his mind whenever he thought that it was he who made you feel this way. He dove into your lips again, kissing you fervently, showing you the need that was brimming inside him.

Wonwoo loved you. And this was the last time he would have a chance to prove it.

Something came over him. A feeling so desperate that he felt it shift beneath his skin, pushing him to kiss you harder, to lock his lips with yours with more fervency.

“I need you,” he whispered, his heart beating frantically in fear of rejection.

“Wonwoo—” you started, but cut yourself off with a short sigh. “Are you sure? I mean, what about tomorrow?”

“I can leave first thing in the morning,” he said, hating how desperate he sounded, but he had no choice but to give in to his heart’s desires. He closed his eyes, pushing his forehead against yours. “I’ll be gone before you know it.”

You slid your hands on his neck, locking your fingers to pull him into another kiss. Wonwoo hummed into the kiss, sliding his hands down to find your waist, tugging you to him.

You followed his silent command, crawling on top of his body and sitting down on his lap. “Is that what you want? To leave like nothing happened?” you asked right before diving on his lips again.

Wonwoo pulled back for a moment, his lips creating a soft smacking noise. “It wouldn’t be like nothing happened,” he said. His eyes studied your face for one long second. “It’ll give you the opportunity to start fresh. Without me.”

You knew what he meant. But that only drove the breach further, deepening your confusion. You wanted space to think, but you didn’t want to stop feeling this: his body next to yours, the comfort his words gave you. Maybe it was stupid to ask for space when you knew you didn’t want to be alone.

You needed to regain your sense of self.

Wonwoo felt your hesitation. You felt him pause, the slight shift when he took a shaky breath. “Please… just one more night,” he whispered carefully.

You could sense the desire in his words alone. But your heart was riddled with anxiety and sadness over this whole thing. “What if I can’t let you go afterwards?” you asked shakily.

“Then I’ll stay,” he replied firmly. “I’ll stay as long as you want me to.”

Hesitation came over you, tangled with questions and fears of what might happen if you had sex with him again. Your relationship with him was already twisted—and you knew that sleeping with him again would only complicate things more.

You had asked him to stay the night, but you hadn’t meant it that way. And you knew he knew this.

“If you don’t want to, that’s okay,” he whispered.

Your heart faltered. It was crazy to you that he could sense what you were feeling with just a second of pure silence.

“Wait, I—” you started, bringing a hand to his chest over his clothes to push yourself back.

The first thing he did was study your face, as though he needed to gather every detail, every emotion you let show.

Something rewired in your brain—this was the last night you would get with him. This was a choice made purely by your inability to face your own guilt for hurting Mingyu. But if you had known back then that he was going to break up with you the day after spending the night in your bed, you would’ve done things differently.

You closed the tiny space between you and Wonwoo, touching his forehead with your own. “I do want it,” you whispered, a hint of fear making your tone quiver. “I just don’t want to hurt you more.”

His hand slipped beneath your chin. “Don’t worry about me,” he replied, his voice barely audible. He pressed his lips to your own for a long second, backing away slightly with a satisfying smacking sound. “I need you,” he whispered, making you feel the soft brushing of his lips against yours.

And that did it for you. You gave in, kissing him fully, locking your lips with his. He let out a strangled sound into the kiss when he felt you concede, when he felt your limbs starting to move, crawling on his lap.

His hands found the curve of your waist, pulling you in as you sat on top of him, lowering your crotch against his. You moaned slightly when you felt the tip of his tongue brush your lower lip, rolling inside your mouth with expert ease.

You grabbed his head, fingers slipping through his dark and messy hair. A raspy sound reverberated in his chest when you let your fingernails run on his scalp. He reacted impulsively, using his hands to press you harder against his body.

Hearing that sound and receiving that kind of reaction only fueled you more. Your fingers curled around his hair, and then you pulled, yanking his head back. He gasped softly when your lips separated, his eyes fluttering open to see your face.

“Fuck,” he whispered, swallowing nervously.

You arched an eyebrow. “I knew you liked having your hair pulled, but I didn’t know it was this bad,” you teased.

He blinked slowly, recovering. “Don’t get too excited,” he said, his voice low and raspy. But he smiled softly at you, his hands shifting from your waist to your thighs, pushing his fingertips onto your bare skin.

“Mmm,” you hummed, leaning to plant a taunting kiss on his wet lips. “You just gave me an idea,” you said playfully. Cradling the back of his head with your hands, you just grabbed a fistful of hair, pulling it firmly and slowly.

He let out a short, breathy laugh, his hands sliding down your legs, feeling your skin freely. “You keep giving me reasons to spank you,” he whispered, moving a hand to meet your cheek.

Your fingers relaxed around the strands of his hair. “That sounds like fun,” you smirked.

He brought you closer so he could press his lips against yours. “But I don’t want that right now,” he countered.

You trapped his lower lip between your teeth, making him gasp softly. “What do you want, then? Mm?” you asked sultrily, keeping your voice low.

His hand left your cheek, and a second later, you felt it playing with the hem of your tank top, lifting it so he could sneak his hand underneath. You flinched when his hand pressed in the small of your back, pressing gently.

“I want to make love to you,” he said, enunciating each word with a waning tone. “I want…” he sighed, and you understood that sound to be from wanton need. “I want to feel you. God, I need you.”

You smiled against his lips before kissing him again. “How?” you whispered. “How do you want me?”

He didn’t skip a beat. “Naked,” he said huskily. “I want to see you first.”

A shaky laugh escaped you, making you hide your face against the curve of his neck. He instantly flinched at the sensation of your breath fanning against his skin. You didn’t think you could have enough grace to give him a show, so you initially hid.

You heard a soft laugh from him, his hand snaking underneath your shorts, feeling your thigh. You responded by pressing your lips against his neck, kissing him tenderly, tauntingly.

A strangled sound landed against your ear. “Baby,” he drawled. But he tilted his head back, letting you shower him with kisses on his neck.

You slipped a hand down his chest, feeling him sigh and relax with your kisses while his hand travelled up your back. Your skin prickled at the caress of his fingers, making your nipples pert and harden.

You pressed your chest against his, lifting your head to kiss his lips. “Okay, I’m going,” you replied impishly, climbing off his lap clumsily.

Now standing before him, you were unable to hide from his gaze. You had to bite your bottom lip to stop yourself from hyperventilating as you pinched your tank top with your fingertips, pulling it up your torso slowly.

He had to tilt his head back slightly to follow the travel of your tank top, revealing more and more skin as you got it off your body. You saw him part his lips, taking in a deep breath as his gaze roved all over your skin.

Something made you think that there was more in his eyes than just lust. Wonwoo just looked at you so slowly, so tenderly that for a second, you forgot that the moment was supposed to be sexy.

But his gaze darkened when you unclasped your bra, letting it fall on the floor. Your clothes were beginning to pile at your feet, but you didn’t care. You were now strangely allured by the way Wonwoo kept looking at you, as though he wanted to memorize everything.

You were his for tonight. And he wanted to enjoy it.

Your heart was pounding frantically when you slid your shorts down, stepping out of them. You were becoming increasingly more aroused as the seconds went by, and the unique sensation danced beneath your warm skin. You were sure the shyness was showing on the features of your face.

But he never blinked away. He swallowed hard when you discarded your panties, too, now fully naked in front of him.

He reached out to grab your hand, pulling you towards him. His other hand came to your hip as he leaned forward to press a kiss on your belly. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered against your skin.

Your hands found the back of his head, cradling it as he littered your lower tummy with sweet kisses. His lips continued trailing down, meeting your mound. You flinched, pulling his hair as an automatic reaction.

He paused, sending you a dark look.

“Sorry,” you whispered sheepishly. “I need you.”

“Lie down on the couch,” he motioned to the space next to him.

Nervously, you followed his instruction as he rose to his feet, taking his jacket off and white t-shirt altogether. Your eyes followed him as he knelt on the floor, grabbing one of your legs and resting it on his shoulder.

He made no pause, wasted no time. He just leaned over, pressing his lips on your mound again before he started kissing your pussy. The feeling gave you whiplash, disconnecting you from reality for a moment. You let your head drop back, enjoying the feeling of his mouth against your folds, just teasing and kissing.

He licked a fat stripe of your arousal, humming softly as you tensed on the couch, letting him eat your pussy out. You cradled his head once again, dropping your mouth to let a long breath out.

There was a moment of silence. You were completely unable to voice out the pleasure you were subdued to, and Wonwoo was busy kissing your pussy. The only sounds you could hear were the smacking wet of his lips and tongue pleasuring you.

But he didn’t go far. He just kissed you, teased you—never deciding to take you higher.

“Wonwoo,” you called softly, lifting your head to see him.

You saw his lips wrapping around your clit, almost like making out with it. You understood that he wasn’t even trying to edge you, he just wanted to kiss your pussy, delight on the taste of it.

“Please… more,” you asked softly.

But he wasn’t stopping, nor giving you signs that he’d do what you were asking of him.

“Wonwoo, more,” you repeated more salaciously. But then, you bucked your hips, bumping his face with your cunt.

He groaned, pulling back from you. “Brat,” he reproached, lifting a hand and bringing it down on your thigh quite harshly.

You yelped pathetically. “Wonwoo—!”

“You wanted that, didn’t you?” he taunted, his eyes glinting with some kind of fascination.

You couldn’t reply vocally, just gaped at him before giving him a slow nod.

A smirk crept on his lips. “Is it too much to ask that you be a good girl for me?”

“I’m being good,” you replied with a playful tone.

“Yeah,” he sighed, raising his eyebrows. “Right.”

You closed your eyes as he lifted his hand again, slapping your thigh again. Your limbs tensed, but you couldn’t stop your pussy from clenching around nothing.

“Fuck,” you gritted, your skin getting hot and tingling from the fleeting pain.

Wonwoo rose to his feet, tucking his thumbs under the elastic band of his black sweatpants, pushing them down along with his boxers. And despite him not really giving you a show, you enjoyed the way his cock slapped his lower abdomen, standing fully hard.

“Get on the bed,” he snapped, motioning to your bed.

You were barely registering your limbs. But you stood up, walking to your bed with him following you. You were about to lie down on your bed when you felt his hand patting your ass gently.

“Hands and knees. Facing the headboard,” he said.

You crawled on your bed on your hands and knees, facing the wall. You itched to see him, to feel him again.

His hand cupped your pussy, his fingers sliding between your wet folds, smearing your arousal all over your cunt. His middle finger slipped inside your wet pussy, pushing inside your walls once, twice and then he pulled it out.

“Wonwoo,” you mewled, pushing your cunt against his hand.

“Hold onto the headboard, baby,” he said softly, and as you did, you felt his hands gripping your hips.

And then he pushed his dick in, not giving you warning, nor time to adjust. Wonwoo started thrusting his cock into your pussy in a near-feral pace. You moaned loudly, squeezing your eyes shut so hard you saw stars.

You realized that he was giving you what you wanted—to be fucked, hard and passionately. It was the only way he knew you felt alive, felt something.

The way he started moaning almost drove you to the edge. It wasn’t his cock, hitting that glorious spot repeatedly, it was the reactions he got form fucking your pussy hard and fast. Wonwoo was moaning, grunting almost. His hands gripping your waist started to squeeze your skin, barely holding himself back.

“God, fuck,” he sighed in pleasure. “I love how you squeeze around me, baby,” he said breathlessly. And you could almost picture his face riddled in pleasure, him tilting his head back, leaving his neck open, his throat bobbing.

“Wonwoo,” you cried out, holding onto the headboard that kept bumping against the wall. His hips snapping against yours were creating a very obvious sound, and you could no longer contain your moans.

So the room was quickly filled with the sound of hard sex. The slapping of skin, Wonwoo’s quiet but raspy moans and your cries of pleasure. You tried suppressing your sounds by biting your bottom lip, but the sounds instead sounded even more pathetic. You sounded almost like a whimpering animal.

“Fuck, babe,” you sighed, unable to do something other than angling your hips for his ruthless thrusts. “Wonwoo—please, don’t stop,” you drawled languidly, verging closer to your release.

A moan came out of him, raspy and urgent, as though the sounds you were making for him were only inciting him further. “Fuck, you’re being so good for me, baby,” he praised.

The pleasure was nearly suffocating. You felt it everywhere, and you knew he wasn’t going to stop soon, so you just let your mind go blank, leaving your body at the mercy of his feral thrusts.

You sank to your elbows, pressing your face against your pillows. The change in position only made the pleasure higher, consuming you quickly. You moaned loudly, not caring about anything and just let your orgasm wash over you.

“Fuck, yes, cum for me,” he gasped, feeling your walls clenching around his cock and listening to the sounds you were muffling against your pillow.

Your hands balled into fists on your bed covers, trying to hold onto something as your orgasm tore through you. But it was quick, letting you come down from it as Wonwoo kept ramming his cock into you. “I’m close, baby, g-god—” he groaned.

He leaned his body over, chest pressing against your back, quite literally trapping you with his body. You felt his mouth against your nape, heard the strangled sounds he made. “You’re my fucking girl,” he whispered hoarsely while rutting into you desperately. “All fucking mine,” and then his thrusts became deeper, slowing down as he fucked his cum deep into you.

He kissed your hair and shoulder, breathing erratically against your skin. “Turn over,” he rasped, pulling away from you.

You were in no position to question him. You turned over, eyeing him curiously as he stood before you on his knees. He was still hard, his length completely covered in your arousal, his cum leaking from the tip.

He pressed his elbows on your pillow, framing your head.

You watched him intently, his gaze was still darkened, heavy with lust. And you could tell he wasn’t done with you by the way he captured your lips in a swift kiss. “Wonwoo,” you called softly.

“Mm?” he replied shortly.

Your hands were roving up and down his naked back, feeling his skin as he kissed your lips. Your breath caught when he pressed his hips against yours, making you feel his hard cock, his soft pubic hair—you gulped.

“Nothing,” you finally replied with a light giggle.

“Tell me,” he immediately mumbled, kissing your face slowly.

Your hands stopped caressing his body, stopping at his shoulders to push him off slightly. Wonwoo understood well, pulling back to lock eyes with you.

You didn’t need to speak—you just gave him that look, trying to convey without words what you weren’t quite ready to tell him yet. You wanted him. You wished for things to be different, to live in a scenario where you loved both men freely.

Wonwoo parted his lips, something waiting at the tip of his tongue. But he bit it back too, resorting to just nodding at you, and he didn’t need to say anything either.

You reached between your bodies, finding his cock to stroke it languidly. “You okay?” you whispered, guiding his cock to your wet pussy.

He nodded, leaning over to meet your lips with his own, at the same time he slipped inside you. And like the first time, he didn’t waste time and started pushing in and out of your walls. But the rhythm of his thrusts was completely different. It was gentle now, deep and slow.

You slid a hand on your pillow, trying to slip it under his once you found it. Wonwoo grabbed your hand, locking his fingers with yours and switching his weight on his elbows.

He wanted this—to make love to you while looking at your face.

You cupped his face with your free hand, holding his gaze as he pushed into you languidly. You thought of saying something, of telling him how he made you feel. But your heart faltered as you looked into his dark eyes.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered in between short breaths.

His thrusts were picking up the pace, and you knew that he was close from the short gasps that spilled from his pretty lips.

“Kiss me,” you whispered, needing more of his touch, more of the pleasure he could give you.

He closed the space between his mouth and yours, moaning deeply when your tongues touched. You kissed him, kissed him until you ran out of breath, until you felt your pleasure blooming under your skin, spreading relentlessly. You wanted to cum, you needed to feel him deeper.

You pushed your knees up, angling your pussy for his cock. Blindly, you felt Wonwoo’s hand on your thigh, finding the back of your knee and pulling it over his shoulder, pushing deeper into your pussy. You cried out into the kiss, moaning pathetically.

He broke the kiss quickly, breathing fitfully against your mouth. “You close?”

You nodded quickly. “Please,” you gasped, circling your arm on his back, holding onto him as he kept moving on you.

“I’m close too,” he whispered, pushing his forehead against yours.

You closed your eyes, feeling like you could sob. “Together?” you whispered.

Wonwoo nodded, the grip around your hand becoming tighter. And you just let yourself go, holding his hand, moaning his name repeatedly. You squeezed his hand back, and his thrusts became deeper. This orgasm was different, as fleeting as the first but somehow lingering in your body, sizzling beneath your skin.

“Wonwoo,” you sobbed.

He quickly brought his mouth to yours, kissing you deeply as his thrusts slowed down and then stopped completely. But you kept making out with him, as though neither of you could speak and resorted to kissing each other fervently.

But both of you needed to breathe eventually. While both of you recovered and came down from your high, Wonwoo nuzzled his face in the crook of your neck, pulling out of you gently.

The quiet settled in.

Misery crept over you before he could even move. You didn’t want to see it. But it was becoming more and more obvious as the time for him to go drew nearer. You knew that once you were alone, it would be unescapable.

Wonwoo rested his head on your chest, his arms sneaking underneath your back, hugging you. He breathed in deeply, closing his eyes to relish the moment, to try and memorize the smell from your skin, your clothes.

Your hand found the back of his head, slowly starting to thread his hair through your fingers.

He knew there was nothing left to say. He knew what he was getting himself into.

For a moment, he wondered what his life would look like if this were just a normal night and he was just staying over at his girl’s house. He squeezed his eyes shut, suppressing the thought.

“Are you sleeping any time soon, babe?” Your tiny voice broke the silence. You were still caressing his head, trying to soothe him to sleep.

But he resisted.

“No,” he sighed. “I don’t want to.”

“But you have to,” you whispered, your voice waning, and that was how he knew you had started to tear up again.

He lifted his head, his glasses falling back in place as he found your face. Your eyes were teary, eyelashes clamped together in their wetness. His heart squeezed tightly in his chest.

“Don’t worry about me,” he said, rolling over and lying next to you.

You turned to him, following him instinctively. “You have work tomorrow,” you said.

Wonwoo paused, looking at the features of your face, softened by the pain and anguish you were feeling. “But I won’t see you tomorrow,” he whispered.

The impact of his words showed on your face. You blinked several times, your mouth parting slightly as your lip quivered. You looked away, down to his chest, and more tears sprang from your eyes.

“Hey,” Wonwoo called softly, bringing two fingers under your chin to make you look back at him. Once your eyes were on him, he thought of what to say. But no words came, nothing he could say to soothe the pain you were feeling, nothing he could say to make it better.

It this was the last time he would be close to you, he had to make it count. And he did. He kissed you, he showed you how much he loved your body, your face. How much you’ve made him happy just by being with you.

But he wanted to allow himself to be just a little more selfish.

You were starting to wonder about the reason behind his silence, his hesitation. Your eyes searched his face, your eyebrows quirking a little.

Wonwoo was overwhelmed by a sudden rush of nervousness, not knowing how you’d take this, unsure if he was making things better or slightly worse. But he had to say it. At least once before the morning came. “I love you.”

You blinked. You stopped breathing. Part of you knew, hoped that this was going to happen.

It didn’t make you change your choice. But still, it made your heart fuller.

He was brimming with uncertainty. It was the first time he uttered those words in years. And he only did it under the most traditional circumstances. He hated himself for being so nervous of rejection, of adding to the weight of his guilt for falling in love with you.

“I love you too,” you said, cupping his cheek to kiss him tenderly.

Wonwoo reciprocated the kiss, feeling his heart fuller, like he was allowed to breathe again. He broke the kiss, but only for a moment. He thought of what you’d feel like when the time came for him to leave, and felt like dying a little. Even though he respected your choice, he didn’t want to leave.

One thing he’d learn about you is that you were strong. All you’ve shown him this time he’s met you is that your heart is strong, and so full of love. He wished—desired more than anything—to see you put all that love into yourself.

“Can I ask one thing?” he whispered, and then smiled a little. “Well, another thing.”

“Anything,” you replied in kind, looking into his eyes.

“Please don’t blame yourself for this,” he said, carefully selecting his words. “Whatever happens with Mingyu, please don’t believe this is your fault.”

You gave him a smile, one that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “You’re asking too much from me,” you said. “I knew what I was doing, Wonwoo. I could’ve pulled the brakes long before this got too complicated.”

“Still,” he whispered, his eyelids falling heavily. “I don’t want you to carry this burden like it’s only yours. If anything, the burden is more mine than yours.”

The features of your face contorted slightly in a pout, which broke with the sob that tore through you. But you were quick, smashing your lips against his in a hard kiss, one that told him that you didn’t want to break this off.

But you had to.

“I love you, Wonwoo,” you whispered.

And your words brought an inexplicable feeling to him. It gave him one very optimistic certainty—it gave him hope. A kind of hope that was twisted.

“I love you,” he replied with a lazy drawl, his eyelids falling close now.

Once he was completely asleep, you could also rest. But sleep didn’t come as easily for you, and part of you refused it as a petty form of punishment. You resorted to observing him in the dark, outlining the features of his face while he was peacefully asleep. There was no worry deepening his brow, or any fondness curving his lips.

He had tucked one of his arms beneath the pillow, while the other was perched lazily on the curve of your waist. His head was slightly leaned forward, so close to yours that you only had to push yourself a little to touch his forehead with your own.

You breathed slowly to not disturb his peace, listening to the soft rhythm of his breathing, anchoring yourself to it, letting it lull you to sleep too. You closed your eyes, not thinking that this was the last time you’d see him in your bed, so close to you.

You didn’t want to think of it—about the finality of your love life. About how fleeting your story with Wonwoo was. But you realized the end had started the moment you both kissed.

But you had the certainty that it was ending, at least.

With your eyes closed, you tried memorizing the feeling of having him near, the weight of his body making the mattress dip, the way the bedsheets wrapped around your body and his.

You were terrified of being alone. You had thought that you were breaking things with Wonwoo because of the guilt you felt for loving Mingyu and hurting him. But the reality was, you were terrified of what you were turning into.

The thought persisted in your mind, but thankfully it allowed you to sleep. You tried to keep yourself light, so you could feel him while you slept. But somewhere in the night, your sleep became heavier, making you forget about your worries.

Because as soon as you woke up, you knew Wonwoo had left. His warmth was long gone when you turned under the bedsheets, and every single one of his belongings was nowhere to be seen.

He was gone.

And maybe he’d left before you woke up to make the last thing he said to you one sincere I love you. Maybe he left before you woke up, so he didn’t drag the torture out longer. But it didn’t soften the blow for you.

You sat up, looking around even though you knew that you were alone. Looking down, you sighed, bringing your hands to your face, too tired to cry, too tired to do anything at all.

You were a mess.

Never learned a thing.

Back to square one.

The Spot was still closed.

Wonwoo arrived before anyone else. Being the only other person who owned the key besides Seungcheol, he just started his shift earlier. He didn’t mind being in silence; in fact, he enjoyed it. It gave him peace of mind, and it soothed his heart.

He was tired, there was no doubt about that.

When he woke up it was already ten in the morning, and he needed to go. His heart twisted upon remembering the way you were still asleep, huddled in your bedcovers. But he forced himself to leave before you woke up, or else, he never would.

So there he was, feeling like shit. He went into the bathroom with his backpack still hanging on his shoulder. But he had everything he needed to help himself put together, more human.

He brushed his teeth with mechanical movements, not really paying attention to it, but just performing everything from muscle memory. He washed his face. He wet his hair and tried to comb it with his fingers, remembering the way you threaded his hair to help him sleep.

It was going to be one tough way to get you out of his system.

He’s had breakups before, of course. But he didn’t think he could even call this a breakup—you were never his girlfriend to begin with.

But god, it sure hurt like it.

He walked out of the bathroom after putting on some deodorant and lotion, feeling more refreshed.

Then, from the corner of one fridge, he got a Monster and opened the can. The loud hiss was paired with the sound from the door to the backroom opening.

“Nice breakfast,” Seungcheol pointed out, leaving his laptop on the countertop and moving to remove the locks from the front door. “You looking rough, my friend.”

“Yeah, I know,” Wonwoo said, keeping his head down. “But I’m okay.”

“Sure thing,” Seungcheol said with a huff.

“Well, I’m here. I can work just fine,” he said.

Seungcheol paused, placing his hands on his hips as he took one long look at Wonwoo. “You’ve always intrigued me with one thing.”

Wonwoo set the drink aside, crossing his arms. “And what’s that?”

“You’re always here,” he shrugged. “The others come and go, they don’t get too hooked with this place, but you? You’ve never missed a day.”

“I’m sure I have missed one day,” Wonwoo said with a light smile, one that felt unsure.

“Not to my knowledge,” Seungcheol replied. “And don’t get me wrong, I love having you here. You could run the bar with your eyes closed, it’s something even I can’t do.”

“Come on, boss,” he sighed. “Don’t make me laugh.”

“I mean it,” Seungcheol pouted slightly. “I don’t know what happened to you. But this is the worst I’ve ever seen you,” he lifted one hand, as though demonstrating the state Wonwoo was in. “And look at you. You’re still here, not calling out.”

Wonwoo emitted a short laugh. “Do you want me to call out?”

Seungcheol looked at a loss of words. “I mean, I would grant it to you.”

“That bad I look, huh?”

The door opened once again, but now resounding across the bar with a powerful crack, revealing Mingyu. Wonwoo watched as Mingyu approached with a determined step, fear gripping him wholly when he saw the dark and dangerous look in his best friend’s eyes, dead set on him.

“It was you,” Mingyu said, his voice low, so low. “You knew I saw you with her and you didn’t say a fucking word.”

Wonwoo held his breath, his heart beating so hard against his chest that it made his voice uneven, but he remained determined: “I couldn’t tell you before.”

“What so you let me walk in there like a fucking idiot?” Mingyu said, stepping closer. “You let me sit for fucking days thinking she hated me while you—what? Were seeing her?”

Wonwoo’s jaw tightened, every nerve inside him firing with anxiety. But he did not move. “That’s not how it was.”

But Mingyu wasn’t listening. “Since when?” He asked, breathing fitfully. “Since when did you two start seeing each other?”

Wonwoo knew this was not helping the situation at all. But he had to be honest. It was everything he had now. “A month after you walked away,” he answered.

Mingyu gave him a humourless laugh. “Yeah? Very convenient timing.”

“I didn’t mean for it to happen. Not at first,” Wonwoo said, the words escaping him before he could think twice about them. “She was hurting. And I was there.”

Mingyu’s gaze snapped to Wonwoo’s face. “Don’t. Don’t make it sound like some noble thing! You told me that the right thing was to end things with her,” he said, his tone sharpening in anger and disgust. “Admit it—you were waiting for your fucking turn.”

All caution flew out the window. Wonwoo’s gaze darkened. “I waited because I thought that maybe you’d get your shit together. I told you to talk to her. Call her. I told you to show up. But you never did.”

“You have no idea what I was dealing with!” Mingyu fired back.

“Because you shut everyone out!” Wonwoo replied. “You shut her out. Me.”

Rage flickered in Mingyu’s eyes. “You knew I love her. All this time, you knew.”

Wonwoo’s mouth parted, not holding himself back now. “Well, you didn’t act like it.”

“Hey, both of you. Calm down,” Seungcheol called, his voice stern and unquestionable.

But Mingyu was blinded, and his ears were buzzing. “You knew I was trying to protect her from my mess,” Mingyu breathed. He pointed a finger at Wonwoo’s face. “All while you were pretending to be the savior.”

Wonwoo stared him down, rage rising inside him in dangerous waves. “I didn’t pretend shit. And you didn’t protect her—”

“You wanted me to let her go. Admit it!” Mingyu spat.

“You left her hanging when shit got too real for you.”

Mingyu looked like he was struggling to breathe, his shoulders were tense, his hands flexing at his sides. “So what, that gave you the right to step in?” he huffed, his eyes wild with anger, and something more.

“No,” Wonwoo replied. “But you made it clear that you weren’t going to.”

It happened quickly—Mingyu grabbed Wonwoo by the shirt and slammed him back into the shelves. Bottles clattered above, Seungcheol coming to grab Mingyu from behind, hooking an arm around his torso, reeling him back.

But Mingyu wrestled against it, rage fueling his whole body. “She was mine—”

“No, she wasn’t!” Wonwoo cut in, finally raising his voice. His eyes widened in exasperation after being pushed back. But he didn’t relent. “Not anymore. You walked away. I was there to see her fall apart. Not you.”

“And then what?” Mingyu spat, his voice rising, gaining a raspy edge: “You—you thought you’d be the better man?”

“No. I thought she deserved someone who actually stayed.”

That did it.

Mingyu stood there, his body completely rigid to the exception of his face. He was breaking hard, grinding his teeth as though biting his words back. There was a glint in his eyes, the words had stung.

Unblinking, his fist flew before he could exert any kind of control over himself. His knuckles found the centre of Wonwoo’s mouth, making his head snap back, and sending his body back against the shelves.

The bottles behind him rattled, one of them tipping over and falling beside Wonwoo’s feet.

It was fast and sharp—pain tickled instantly inside his mouth, spreading all over the soft tissue inside his lip. Instinctively, Wonwoo staggered back, bringing a hand to his mouth as blood trickled down his open lip. He caught himself, dazed, shocked and worst of all—hurt.

Mingyu froze.

Wonwoo raised his eyes at Mingyu, waiting for the next blow but it never came. Mingyu dropped his fist at his side like it had suddenly gotten burned. Like it had betrayed him.

“Wonwoo—” he started, his voice shaky and strangely hollow. “I didn’t mean—”

“Enough.”

Seungcheol’s voice cracked between them like lightning. He brought a hand to the centre of Mingyu’s chest, easily pushing him back. “The fuck’s wrong with you two?”

And Mingyu didn’t fight him this time. He staggered back too, looking pale and shaken, his eyes set on Wonwoo’s face—but there was no trace of that fiery anger. Mingyu was worried.

“You want to throw punches?” Seungcheol told him, his voice low and menacing like someone who was ready to subdue any class of trouble. “Wanna settle this like fucking kids, then do it outside. Not in my bar.”

Wonwoo used the back of his hand to wipe the blood trickling down and mixing with his saliva. His jaw clenched, his front teeth hurting slightly. He didn’t speak. The smell of alcohol from the smashed bottle filled his senses, anchoring him to reality.

Mingyu had punched him. And he’d fully deserved it. In fact, part of him wanted it to hurt more.

Seungcheol looked between them. “Seriously, what’s wrong with you two?” he reproached, his voice stern like a disappointed parent. “You. Outside. Now,” he ordered, pointing his finger at Mingyu.

Mingyu’s shoulders went slack, but he didn’t resist. Turning around, Wonwoo caught a glimpse of Mingyu’s face before he walked out, letting the door close softly behind him, and all rage simmered down.

Seungcheol turned, kicking a large piece of broken glass. Wonwoo motioned to get the broom, but Seungcheol raised a palm to him. “Leave it,” he said, studying Wonwoo’s face. “You okay?”

“Yes,” he said quietly, avoiding eye contact.

Wonwoo felt ashamed. Of himself, of what he’d brought to Seungcheol’s bar.

“Why did you do that?” Seungcheol asked, his tone laced with curiosity but something else, a quiet judgement.

Wonwoo dared to raise his gaze to the man who had been his business partner for years now. Despite of years of knowing each other, Wonwoo had never let something so personal show. He always kept everything concealed. So he wasn’t surprised to see the concern and real disappointment behind Seungcheol’s eyes.

“I don’t know,” Wonwoo finally replied.

But that was a lie. Weeks of being with you had taught him that there’s no such thing as a straight answer. Not when it came to love and all the complications that his heart has put him through.

He betrayed Mingyu, yes. But he never intended to. Just as he never intended to fall in love with you.

“Grab a plastic bag and ice before that lip swells more,” Seungcheol instructed, the muscles of his face had relaxed.

“Sure,” Wonwoo muttered, lowering his gaze again.

Seungcheol sighed, putting his hands on his hips. “You’re dismissed for today.”

Wonwoo’s heart dropped, raising his head to meet Seungcheol’s eye. “I can still work—”

Seungcheol rolled his eyes, shaking his head lightly. “I need you to take the day off,” he stated, his tone stern, but there was worry in his eyes. “For your sake. You look like hell, not only that, but you’d have to be crazy if you didn’t feel like hell. And I need you two to stay away from each other for a day, okay?”

Wonwoo almost tried to persuade him to tell Seungcheol to let him work tonight instead of Mingyu. He needed this job, not for the money, or to be somewhere other than at home. He just needed to fill his head with noise, drown the voice in his head telling him he’d made a terrible mistake.

But he nodded curtly. “Okay, boss,” he muttered.

And that might’ve been the first time he’d taken a break from The Spot.

The air was cold outside. The light rain pattered softly on the windshields of the two cars parked behind the bar.

Mingyu leaned back against the wall, looking skyward. It was painted a pale grey, spotted with slightly darker clouds. He blinked as tiny droplets of water landed on his forehead and cheeks.

His hand was trembling.

Between all the things happening inside his head, Mingyu was concerned with one in particular—why?

The door opened, and the loud metallic creaking made his ears ring a little.

Mingyu didn’t look at Wonwoo. Shame heated from his cheeks to the tips of his ears, making them red. He knew he’d made a terrible mistake. It was his first time throwing a punch with the full intention to start a fight. And he regretted it immediately.

“I didn’t mean to hit you,” Mingyu muttered, closing his eyes before swallowing the knot in his throat.

Wonwoo didn’t answer.

Mingyu lowered his face after a moment of silence. His eyes brimmed with shameful tears when he saw Wonwoo pressing a pack of ice to his mouth.

“I’m fine,” Wonwoo said, lifting the pack to show him a clean cut to his lip, already swollen and flaring red. “It’s nothing.”

Mingyu dropped his gaze to his feet. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I just—I didn’t—what you said—” he cut himself off, running a hand down his face.

“I’m sorry too,” Wonwoo finally said, his voice breaking a little.

Mingyu nodded slowly. “I trusted you.”

Wonwoo flinched, the words hitting worse than any punch could. “I know. And I’m sorry.”

And that did it.

The shame, the guilt. Everything that Mingyu had been bottling up from the moment he saw your photos on Wonwoo’s computer came crashing down on him like a thousand bricks.

Why, why, why?

Mingyu sniffled quietly, his gaze lowered but Wonwoo could get a glimpse of the glistening below his eyes, the lonely tears that trickled down his cheeks. “I saw the photos on your computer.”

Wonwoo’s heart stammered. Of all of the possible ways Mingyu could’ve put the pieces together, this was one of the worst. Because when he took those photos, they didn’t mean anything to him yet. You were just a thought in Wonwoo’s mind. A friend. Someone he wanted to get to know more because you were hurting.

Wonwoo lowered the ice pack to his side, the shift and the chill air made the cut sting. But he didn’t pay attention to it. “She asked me for space.”

Mingyu blinked, raising his face. “What?”

“She said she needed time for herself,” he said. “She didn’t want this to happen, you know?”

Mingyu exhaled. The statement had hurt him, like something had rung with familiarity. “She told me the same thing. That she needed to heal,” he said, his tone weak. “So you two are not…”

Wonwoo shook his head gently. “No. I’m not seeing her anymore.”

Mingyu didn’t respond, the words had shaken him. He was breathing hard again, and Wonwoo could guess that it was just as painful to Mingyu as it was to him.

“I think she’s trying to find herself again outside of all of this mess—me, you, her ex. Everything.”

Mingyu frowned. “Her ex?” he asked, his gaze softening in acknowledgement. “Did he come back?”

Wonwoo shook his head. “He’s getting married. Told her it should’ve been her instead of his actual partner.”

Mingyu blinked, realization hitting him as he sighed heavily. “Fuck,” he ran a hand down his face. He laughed bitterly, his eyes still wet with tears. “And there I was, thinking that if I told her I loved her, I would fix everything.”

Wonwoo didn’t say a thing.

Mingyu tilted his head back again, looking at the sky for a long second. His breathing was even now, but the hurt in his face was still there, hardening his features. He turned slightly, looking now at Wonwoo.

“Do you love her?” Mingyu asked.

Wonwoo’s eyes widened slightly, his mouth parting. But he gave a single nod. “Yes. I do.”

Mingyu blinked away slowly, swallowing hard again. “What now?”

Wonwoo was expecting this question. In the midst of everything, this was the only thing that mattered. The only thing that remained. He and Mingyu.

“I don’t know. She’s not with you. She’s not with me. I think that we should let her breathe. In the meantime, we should try and figure out how to clean up this mess.”

Mingyu stood there, looking at the sky as silence stretched on.

This wasn’t really about you anymore. It was about trying to figure out who both Mingyu and Wonwoo were after this irreversible step.

“Do you think you can forgive me?” Wonwoo asked quietly.

“I don’t know,” Mingyu replied, his tone thickening. “You should’ve told me before.”

“I was going to tell you. I was looking for the right time to do it.”

“I don’t want to be mad at you,” Mingyu said, his chest deflating with a sigh. “Help me understand why you did it.”

Wonwoo looked away for the first time. Going back to the memory was even more painful than he thought. “I thought you had used her to forget Gigi,” he confessed.

“What?!” Mingyu exclaimed, his tone rising. “You think I’d do that?”

Wonwoo blinked, getting a glimpse of Mingyu’s hurt expression. “Even then I thought it was strange you’d do that. But you need to understand—you changed, Mingyu. After Gigi, you shut me out and didn’t talk to me… I thought that all of this was the aftermath of your breakup with her.”

Mingyu gaped in shock and utter disappointment. “I told you how I felt about her. Many times.”

Wonwoo tilted his head to one side, his brows knitting softly. “But you also told me how you weren’t all in, remember? You told me that you couldn’t stomach the thought of commitment, but then you would go back to her,” he said.

“I still don’t understand why you would do this,” Mingyu pointed out.

Wonwoo stilled. “I never meant to get close to her, believe me. We became friends, we got closer… and things got blurry after that.”

Mingyu exhaled, his face twisting in pain. “So all this time I’ve been wallowing like an idiot, you were—”

“Mingyu,” Wonwoo called his tone stern and low. “You slept with her and the next day you dumped her. I’m not saying you should’ve done things differently, but you weren’t being honest with yourself, and that complicated things when you finally decided to let her go.”

Mingyu squeezed his eyes shut. He remembered it well—the night you told him about your ex, about how badly you were hurt. And he told you multiple times he wouldn’t leave you. He remembered how scared he was at the thought of breaking your heart, of being the same person Gigi was to him.

And he did it anyway.

“I fucked up,” Mingyu said bitterly, sniffling quietly.

“But she still loves you.”

Mingyu raised his teary eyes, blinking slowly. “S-she told me something similar,” he said.

Wonwoo nodded. “She never intended to hurt you—while she was with me,” he lowered his gaze. “But she was convinced that you didn’t want her anymore.”

“And you let her believe that,” Mingyu replied pointedly.

“Mingyu, you didn’t know what you wanted,” Wonwoo said, trying to put his best friend into his perspective. But no matter how hard he tried to flip things into his view, he knew he also did wrong. “But yeah, I also wanted her. It didn’t matter to me that she was using me.”

“That’s fucked up,” Mingyu exhaled, his gut twisting in resentment. “Did you seriously think I would not be mad at you for that?”

“I never believed you’d sit right with it,” he countered. “But I also… I also never thought it would go that far and when it did, I couldn’t stop it.”

“Yeah, I know how that goes,” Mingyu mumbled, looking skyward again.

A moment went on in silence. Mingyu stared at the clouds, feeling like a complete idiot. He let you go and in your pain you sought comfort with his best friend. There was no room in his head to explain why you would do this. Was it revenge on him for leaving you so abruptly?

You said you loved him. The day he saw you for the last time. He remembered the brittle look on your face, the tears that formed in your eyes when you told him you had changed.

No, you wouldn’t do this as a form of revenge. Mingyu has known you since you and he were teenagers. Sure, you were never this close back then, but he knew your true nature. Kind, honest, and so loving. And the last time he saw you, he felt that part of you just wasn’t there anymore. Even when you confessed that you loved him too, there was something fractured.

“I broke her,” Mingyu said, the words slipping out of him in a quiet sigh.

You had opened up to him, shown you the vulnerable side of you and he left you afterwards.

“You did what was right for you,” Wonwoo said. “And she… she just needs to do what is right for her now.”

Mingyu nodded, but his gaze had fell out of focus. “Yeah…” he trailed off. “I’ll leave her be.”

One truth was that when his fist collided with Wonwoo’s face, his rage dissipated. It didn’t mean that he’d let go of the resentment he felt, but he was less angry about it. He still needed to understand why everything had happened the way it did, but for that, he needed your side of the story.

“Not everything’s forgiven,” Mingyu said, his voice barely a croak. “But I can’t stay mad at you, even if I don’t fully comprehend why you did that the way you did. You could’ve told me before, even if you knew I was going to be mad.”

Wonwoo listened, looking at Mingyu intently. “You’re right. You deserved to know sooner. And I’m sorry for hurting you. That wasn’t what I wanted.”

“Is there anything else I need to know?” Mingyu asked.

“I’ve told you everything,” Wonwoo confirmed, giving him a tight nod.

Mingyu blinked slowly, letting out a labored sigh. “I need some time to think about this whole mess,” he said.

“I’ll give you time,” Wonwoo replied almost immediately. “And if you need to talk, I’ll be ready.”

Before the moment stretched too long, Mingyu turned to the door, opening it so Wonwoo could come back inside with him.

“You go,” Wonwoo muttered, his lip having swollen slightly.

Mingyu paused, still holding the door handle.

“I’ve been dismissed for today,” Wonwoo explained shortly. And after seeing Mingyu’s face contort slightly in worry, he added: “Seungcheol thought it’s better for us to stay apart for the rest of the day.”

Mingyu huffed dryly, sending a look upwards. “It’s not like I’m going to hit you again,” he joked. “See you back home,” he said humourlessly now, disappearing after the door and shutting it behind him.

Wonwoo’s mouth pressed into a tight line despite the cut still pulsing on his lip. All alone, he could face the silence bravely, with a steady heart. The silence told him everything he needed to know—he’d done a terrible mistake.

All his life he had made decisions carefully. If he had to think three or five times about something, he did it. But when he met you, he felt he had never been in control. He got to know you and never realized how you broke down all his walls.

The night he kissed you for the first time was the most impulsive he’s ever been in his life. And he made that decision only because his heart truly desired it. But now he knew the consequences of his actions. He acted out of love and affection and in the process hurt his best friend and lost you.

Everything that remained was a painful lesson—Wonwoo would never act on his heart again.

Mingyu ran a hand down his face.

The soft piano music coming from the speakers of the café was almost unsettling him. It was too quiet, too calm, while his head was banging and thrashing with horrible thoughts.

He wasn’t ready for this.

It had been an impulsive decision.

If this went badly, at least he could blame it on acting without considering the possible consequences.

He wasn’t ready for this, yes. But he also felt in his heart like he needed it.

Coming to this café wasn’t his idea. It was his first time there, so he limited himself to buying a cold brew americano. That way, he could have an excuse to sit down at one of the tiny tables that were cramped with several others.

He bounced his knee obsessively, frantically as he eyed the time displayed on his lockscreen.

This time, there was no need to prepare a stupid speech. He knew what he wanted to say because those were things he hadn’t been able to let go of. Now that he saw things from a different perspective, he wished he had done this long before he let you go.

But it was too late to turn back time.

Through the corner of his eye, he saw the chair opposite to his move.

Gigi sat down, fixing her hair nervously.

The first thing Mingyu noticed was that she avoided eye contact. Her face was lowered, but left to Mingyu’s expert eye. She looked exactly how he remembered, prim, composed. Her caramel-brown hair was loose in fluffy waves that splayed over her shoulders. Her milky white skin had an unnatural glow to it, the blush near her cheekbones pink and glittery. There was a beauty mark on her cheek, the same one Mingyu used to kiss lovingly.

His stomach tightened.

Gigi raised her face, smiling at him softly, but the joy never reached her brown eyes. “Hi, Mingyu,” she cooed like this encounter was meant to be sweet.

He nodded once, trying to remain polite. But the truth was, he was beginning to regret this. “Gigi.”

“You look good,” she said, eyeing him from the waist up. “Stronger.”

He didn’t reply, feeling like he couldn’t return any kind of compliment.

And his silence unsettled her. She neatly folded her hands on the table, pursing her lips. “I’m so glad you reached out. I’ve been meaning to talk for a while now.”

“I know you have,” Mingyu replied dryly, his voice gruff. “But I didn’t come here to talk. I just wanted to say something.”

She gaped for a second. “O-okay.”

A pause followed, which Mingyu used to arrange his words as best as he possibly could. But there was no better way to say this. “You broke something in me.”

She blinked, the muscles of her face contracting slightly.

But he didn’t let her speak. “After you cheated, I couldn’t look at myself the same. I kept thinking that it was just me. That I was paranoid. That if I had done something else you wouldn’t have cheated.”

She stiffened completely on her seat, hiding her face as she inclined her head forward. “It wasn’t about you,” she said softly.

Mingyu couldn’t believe her, but he breathed in, letting her say her piece.

“I was a mess back then,” she said quietly. “I was upset with myself, and I never believed I deserved you, so I guess I just acted that out by doing what I did to you.”

Mingyu blinked slowly, feeling more surprised than hurt at hearing Gigi’s words. He hated for a fraction of a second that Gigi wasn’t saying explicitly what she did to him. But he couldn’t quite figure out why.

“I know that now,” he said. “But back then, I didn’t. And someone tried to love me after you, and I hurt her because I didn’t trust love anymore. I kept thinking that something had to go wrong. And maybe that’s on me. But I never told you that.”

She raised her face again, her eyes widened and glazed over. “Are you still mad at me?” she asked, her tone rising in disbelief.

“No,” he said, not caring about the falsity in her voice. “Not mad. Just done.”

Gigi’s lips parted slightly, caught off guard. “Is this about her?” she blurted, losing composure. “About that girl you’re seeing?”

Mingyu remained expressionless, but it took everything he got to do so. He didn’t want to question how Gigi knew about you, or comment about the way she referred to you. But he took another deep breath, letting his heart bleed at the memory of you.

“It is,” he conceded stiffly. “I found someone who made me feel good after what happened with you,” now it was his turn to lower his face, but just briefly. “I pushed her away because I didn’t trust myself.”

Her lips pursed again, and there was a certain way she blinked. A fleeting roll of her eyes. “Do you want me to apologize?”

He shook his head, hearing the dismissal in her tone.

But she did it anyway. “I didn’t mean to ruin you.”

Mingyu tried to ignore it, the venom in her words but still masked in a sweet way. “You didn’t ruin me,” he said, not hiding his annoyance. “But you cheated on me and made me feel crazy for not trying to salvage our relationship. You left with him, and I stayed fucked.”

“And I hated myself after. I still do,” she said, her voice dropping.

Mingyu softened, his heart faltering. But he commanded himself to stand his ground. “Then this isn’t just for me. Maybe you needed to hear it too.”

She made no comment, she remained crestfallen and playing with the golden rings around her fingers.

Mingyu remained studying her, wondering why he felt absolutely nothing. Not even pity. Somewhere in his mind, he compared his story with Gigi to his story with you. He realized that Gigi’s betrayal was something she had built for weeks, she lied and hid while sharing his bed. Meanwhile, he felt like he was in no position to judge you. He hurt you first, played with your time and then walked away when you needed him the most.

His heart hurt when the memory of you sitting on the bleachers flashed behind his eyelids. The way you hugged yourself tightly as you crumbled, sobbing as he walked away.

If you had found love with Wonwoo, then Mingyu felt like he couldn’t really blame you.

“I still think about us,” she admitted with a sad tone. “About what he had. What we could’ve—”

Mingyu cut her off. “What we had was dishonest. I loved you. And you lied to me,” he said.

She blinked fast. “Do you love her?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

Gigi took in a breath as though she’d been slapped. But she said nothing, she gulped hard, swallowing her words.

“I’m not here to talk about second chances,” Mingyu added, sighing through his nose. “I’m here because I don’t want you to look for me anymore. And I just want to have closure on what happened between us.”

Mingyu noticed her gaze disconnecting somewhere in the middle of what he was saying. She didn’t get what she wanted. And it was then that he realized that he wouldn’t either.

She lowered her face, sniffling quietly but no tears came. “I’m sorry, Mingyu.”

He pressed his lips into a tight line. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “Me too.”

And when he stood up, she didn’t stop him.

As he approached the door, he didn’t cast a look over his shoulder to see her one more time. All the love and resentment he had for her had been buried the moment he stepped outside of the café.

He pulled in a big breath, feeling freer despite still having a weight in his chest.

But for the first time in months, he felt that he’d made the right decision.

☾ author's note ii: hey, everyone

sorry for being absent for the past few days. life has been a bit hard for me and i was in no condition to write. i wanted to, but couldn't. between job hunting, saving money to move and so on, i had to take a break for my sake.

but what made things better for me were you guys, who kept sending me loving messages and asking about me, which kept me grounded. thank you all for looking out for me, y'all make me feel special 🥹🩵

this chapter was... difficult to write in some parts. it felt like i was speaking to myself. and honestly, this entire fic is so deeply personal that it took me so long to update it. i posted the first chapter on september 2024... and then left it to collect dust until april 2025.

i really need to stop self-inserting in my fics. kdfjgh but i know that i won't. it's just impossible to me.

anyway, if you liked this chapter, feel free to tell me in the comments? i try to reply to all of your feedback, and if i don't reply, trust me i'm always smiling when i see your comments and your reblogs. you guys don't know how happy you make me with your comments, asks and reblogs!

that's it from me for now, i love you all

toodles!

♡ check out my patreon ♡

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itzpookiepooh · 13 hours ago

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Hi, pooh, it's me once again ✌️, how ya doing (nvm, I think i pretty much know 😭). Once again, thanks for answering my request last time, really appreciate it. Since you allowed me to make another request, I'll get right to it 😁:

-i have a fantasy where they (all the LaDs boys) caught (hc) MC, reading a spicy book. It leads to them wanting to *ahem "understand" the "depths" of the book (of you get my drift 😉.

Hopefully that all made sense lol. Thanks so much for the time and effort you put in in making these fanfics and reactions for us.

I can try my absolute best!

Hot In Here

You were confused about what position the characters in the book were in. You had one knee on the bed and the other propped up while the book was in your hand. You were contorted like a rope in Girl Scouts. You heard the door creek open and Zayne stood there blinking at you.

Could this get anymore embarrassing?

“I’m not going to ask.” He bluntly said holding his hand up to stop you from explaining. You huff sitting down as he moves closer grabbing the book.

He skimmed the contents of the page. The gears in his head were turning as he tried to picture the position himself. He lifts his head then looks at you as he puts the bookmark in the page.

“I can demonstrate if you’d like.” He spoke softly making you gasp and softly hit his arm.

“Zayne!” You scold as he breathed a laugh through his nose.

You had no idea the dragon was reading over your shoulder. You both were reading in his library but you didn’t know his eyes wandered over to your book. He had his arm propped up on the arm of the couch as his eyes skimmed through the pages.

“I’m confused here. What position is this?” He asked breaking the silence. You jumped closing the book.

“How long have you been reading along?” You whisper harshly at him. He smirks laughing before answering, “Since chapter 12.” He points out.

“Oh my goodness…” You groan slumping down on the couch.

“I can show you what I think this paragraph looks like.” He purrs in your ear making your body heat up.

You were on the edge of your seat as the scene continued to get spicier. You had your elbows in your knees as you were engrossed in the book. Caleb came into the sitting room walking slower as he watched you get sucked into this book.

“Oh I’ve read this one.” He quips as he leans over the back of the chair you were in. He nods reading along.

“What? Really?” You were shocked he even had time to read it. He nods as he explains how he liked it.

“I also liked this part.” His voice low and seductive as he pointed to the paragraph. You felt your heart skip a beat.

“Wanted to show you just how much I liked it.” He whispered kissing below your ear. You felt like you were going to spontaneously combust.

Xavier was helping you play out a position in your book. He was quick to accept your request since he was also curious. It was a weird position you couldn’t lie and Xavier hasn’t complained once.

“Okay now put your leg here.” You instruct as he does so pressing into you. Xavier swallows hard as his hands are in either side of your head waiting for instructions.

“And then—what is—Xavier are you?” You give rapid fire questions. Xavier went beet red, he got hard.

“I couldn’t help it.” He says sheepishly trying to shy away from you. You laugh as he turns away from you.

“It’s fine.” You saw through laughter as you hold his warm face.

Rafayel read the book you were reading while you were at work. When he asked you about it you became embarrassed. This was a guilty pleasure of yours and you tried to hide the book from him. He can sniff stuff out like a hound dog.

“Tara lended it to me! She said it was good but I had no idea there were sex scenes in it.” You ramble trying to plead your case.

“Well I’m intrigued by how humans try and procreate.” He smirks mischievously. Your jaw drops, you can’t believe he said that.

“And in return…I’ll show you how lumerians mate.” He spoke seductively in your ear. You felt like you were going to overheat as you turned away from him.

I did this while running errands I gotta finish writing this bday post 🥲

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munsonsmixtapes · 1 day ago

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Electric Touch (2)

virgin!rockstar!eddie x fem!reader

Eddie shows up to your surprise and when you finally go back to his place, he decides that he wants you to take his virginity.

cw: MDNI (18+) smut (p in v)

Thanks @the-witty-pen-name for proofreading!

part one

The club is absolutely packed when you and your friends get inside. They’re scoping out the place but you’re looking for the familiar mop of hair. You don’t even know why since he left you on read and never told you whether or not he was coming. And you don’t know why you care anyway. You don’t actually think he’s going to show up. He clearly thinks he’s too cool for you so you don’t care if he’s here or not. You’re going to have fun with your friends and maybe even go home with a guy who will treat you the way you deserve. Eddie who?

You and your friends order your drinks then head over to a surprisingly empty table where you all sit. You’re so in your head that you’re not even paying attention to them giggling about something. It’s not new so you don’t really care. It could honestly be about anything.

You feel bad for being in your own world tonight but you can’t help it. You just really thought that Eddie would show up, but you guess you were wrong about him yet again. You really can’t believe that you actually thought he would take your words to heart. He seemed offended in the moment but he probably just let it roll off his back like he does anything else.

“Oh my god, it’s Eddie Munson,” Hannah whispers and your eyes widen at her words. No, it can’t be. Can it? Maybe your words actually did mean something.

“And I think he’s staring at you, y/n,” Bree pointed out. You turn towards where she’s pointing and sure enough, he’s staring directly at you from where he’s sitting in the VIP section. He’s smirking, waving you over and part of you wants to pretend he doesn’t exist. You want to make him feel exactly how he made you feel. To show him how badly it hurts. But you kind of want to have some fun first.

Without a word, you head over to the VIP section where a security lifts a red velvet rope to let you in. You get into the booth with Eddie, keeping your space. You don’t want him to think he’s earned anything just for showing up.

He looks you up and down, your silver dress catching the light just perfectly. God, you’re so beautiful. And you’re so close. You’re actually here. And now that you’re here, the long, heartfelt apology he wrote immediately leaves his brain. But he’s come up with shit on the spot more times than he can count so he’s got this.

He takes a sip from his whiskey before licking his lips, hoping the liquid courage will help. He looks up at your face and takes in your body language. Your arms are crossed over your chest and you look like you’re about to shoot lasers at him with how angry you look. He just wants to fix this. And even if nothing happens tonight, he at least wants to show you that he’s really not a bad guy.

“Look,” he says, licking his lips again, his hand reaching for your thigh but he quickly pulls it away. “I just want to apologize for last night. I had no right to act like that and I’m not going to come up with some lame excuse. I’m sorry. So sorry. I told myself I was doing to test you, but I was just trying to protect myself. I totally understand if you never want to see me again, but if you’re up for it, I’d really like to get to know you.”

You take in his words, watch his face as he speaks. He could be lying so you don’t know why you decide to forgive him. You just want to put all this past you and to start fresh. You guess you shouldn’t hold one night against him.

As you mentally accept his apology, you’re really hoping that he’s really going to show you the real him. You want to see the version of him that you’d see every week at the hideout. You want to see the Eddie that was there before all the fame, girls, and money. You really hope you get him back because you really missed him even though you’ve never actually met him.

“I forgive you,” you tell him after several beats of silence and he lets out a sigh of relief. This was clearly weighing on him. He’s so close to telling you how the whole thing kept him up into the early hours of the morning. He felt so bad that it made him sick to his stomach. The guilt ate at him and he was able to pour those feelings into a song. He scribbled and hummed and tossed crumpled pieces of paper before tossing them. His hotel room is still cluttered with little balls of paper. The one that he thought was worthy is currently in the pocket of his jacket. If he finally gets the guts, he plans on giving it to you.

Even though he plays to venues filled with thousands of people all the time, it’s the one on one time with people that always makes him anxious. He can fake confidence on stage all he wants but put him in front of a stranger and all of the cool melts away, leaving the shy awkward boy he’s always been.

You don’t make him nervous, but the vulnerability of showing you something he’s written is making him feel sick again. And the fact that he wrote it for you is making him feel even more so. He feels like such a loser right now. He knows you won’t make fun of him if he showed it to you, but he’s been burned so many times.

He can still hear the giggles of the girls who laughed at him when he showed the song he wrote for Kelly Sherman. He had been crushing on her for months and watching her laugh in his face as she read the song he wrote for her caused irreparable damage to his heart. He was able to bandage it up and now it’s caged up and he won’t dare show it to anyone else. He can’t, not after all that.

He shakes his head and once he zones back into reality, he sees that you’re closer to him, your bare thigh pressed to his. He can feel the warmth from you and when you rest your hand on his thigh, he tries to remain calm. He can tell you’re not making a move just from the look on your face. You’re trying to bring him comfort and without another thought, he rests his hand on top of yours. He then leans forward and whispers in your ear.

“Do you want to get out of here?” You can tell just by his tone that he’s feeling overwhelmed and wants to go somewhere he’ll feel more comfortable.

“Please,” you reply and wrap your fingers around his hand before pulling him up from the booth. He blindly follows, knowing that you’ll take him where he needs to go. Everything is closing in and the music is staticy. His heart is racing and he can feel every piece of clothing touch his skin. A panic attack is coming on and he immediately feels a little relief when he finally gets outside.

This is why he never likes to go out. He loves to be social, but not like that. There’s too many people and the music is too loud and everything feels distorted. It all just gets to be too much and he always feels like a dick for leaving so he just doesn’t go in the first place.

A car is conveniently waiting for the two of you when you get out onto the curb and Eddie doesn’t remember even doing that. You must have called an Uber when was going through his overstimulation. You open the door for him and he slides in, letting out a sigh of relief when you close the door. Cars always feel safe to him.

He gives the address to his hotel to the driver and when he turns to you, he sees that you’re close to him again. You’re leaning into him, your hand still holding his. You’ve been so nice and he doesn’t think he deserves it. But he’s going to take it anyway, his head leaning against yours as you squeeze each other’s hands.

He knows you barely know each other, but there’s something about this that just feels right. Your fingers fit perfectly like puzzle pieces. And it’s like all the anxiety that always sits on his shoulders melts away.

You feel the same-feeling like there’s something about this that’s just meant to be. Just with the way he's behaving now, you can see that he was telling the truth. He’s the complete opposite from how he was last night and now you’re glad that you decided that you gave him a second chance. The “cool guy” exterior has melted and now he’s just Eddie.

You always hoped for something like this but you never thought it would happen. It’s something that you’d dream about before falling asleep at night. You don’t even know how you got here but you’re not going to take it for granted.

You blink and you’re standing outside Eddie’s hotel room as he unlocks it. He then opens it and lets you head inside first. You’re amazed by the size of it and are pretty sure that it’s bigger than your apartment back home.

You throw yourself onto the bed and can’t help but laugh. His life is so different from yours. He gets to tour the world while you’re stuck in your tiny town. Just a few years ago, that was him. Now he’s playing sold out shows at Madison Square Garden and you couldn’t be prouder of him.

Eddie slowly lies down next to you and you can feel his eyes on you. You turn to look at him and can’t help but let your smile match his. He grabs hold of your hand and pulls it to his mouth, pressing a featherlight kiss.

“Thank you so much for giving me another chance.” He’s closer now and you can smell his cologne. It’s mixed with the cigarette smoke that’s clinging to and you feel yourself moving closer, like he’s got a magnetic pull on you.

“You were so sincere and I thought you deserved it.”

He’s lying on his back now and you hover over him, your hands landing on his chest. You then lean down, slowly slotting your lips between his. He responds quickly, his hand moving to the back of your head, cradling it while his other one rests against your back.

Your bodies are now flush, legs tangled together as the kisses progress. Your hands move to his hair as your tongue flicks into his mouth. He moans as your tongue roams his mouth and now you’re a mess.

You kiss your way down to his neck and give it a suck, getting even wetter when he moans again. You keep at it, pulling even more sounds from him and hearing him beg for you makes you feel like you could come right there.

His jacket comes off and so does his shirt and he can’t believe that he’s letting this happen. He never gets this far. It never goes farther than over the clothes touching.

He’s always been so nervous when it’s come to this part, but with you, it feels so natural, so right. He actually thinks he might be ready to go to the next step this time. And he’d be more than honored if you were the one who took his virginity.

You unbutton his jeans and he rests his hands on top of yours but only to stop you because he feels like he owes you the truth.

“Stop,” he says and you’re quick to pull away, a worried look on your face.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry. I should’ve-“ You’re panicking now, sure that you’ve overstepped. You’ve never slept with a virgin before. You don’t know the protocols so you’re going to tread very lightly.

“No, it’s okay. I want to, I really do. I just wanted to let you know that-that I’m a virgin.” Your eyes widen but quickly soften and you give him a soft smile. You’re obviously surprised but this is in no way a deal breaker.

“Oh,” is all you say. “And that’s okay. We don’t have to do this. I don’t want to pressure you.” You feel bad now, taking it there. You honestly never would have guessed if he hadn’t told you. And now appreciate that he has. You feel so grateful that he trusts you that much.

“Y/n. I want to so badly. Like you have no idea. I don’t feel pressure at all.” He’s hard beyond belief underneath you and you need him now.

“Okay,” you press a kiss to his lips. “But if you feel uncomfortable at any point, we can stop.”

“Okay.” He’s excited now, still a little nervous, but now he’s just looking forward to seeing what all the hype is about. He just can’t believe that you want him like this.

#stranger things #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie x y/n #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson smut #rockstar!eddie #rockstar!eddie x fem!reader #rockstar!eddie x reader #rockstar!eddie x actress!reader #rockstar!eddie smut #rockstar!eddie munson

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wandasaura · 3 days ago

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GOOD TITS, BIG HEART

summary — renee’s a shining light in the darkest sea. she’s tranquility in erupting chaos. nothing changes when she introduces you to magic mushrooms for the first time and shows you feelings you’ve never known before

warning(s) — established relationship, smoking, drug usage, inexperienced!reader, slight corruption themes, blunts and bowls, psilocybin chocolate, shotgunning (weed), kissing, teasing, bullying as flirting, hair pulling, nicknames, face grabbing, manhandling, smut, dom!top!reneé, impaired consent, praise kink, thigh grinding (both), couch sex, pillow princess treatment (r!receiving), elements of subspace, fingering (r!receiving), oral (r!receiving), light mean!reneé, mutual orgasm, lesbians in love, aftercare, men/minors dni

authors note — heavily influenced by the good hang podcast. for legal reasons and reneés publicists sanity… she’s actually never done a single drug before in her life. that will certainly hold up in court!

Nothing else exists when you’re with Reneé. For a while, that simple fact had terrified you. It was never that you were ashamed or lily-livered to love her — a woman, a confident one at that, but rather that you were utterly petrified of how intensely that feeling came over you. You’d loved women before. You’d shared your bed and your heart with them shamelessly, freely, willfully, but Reneé had somehow made what had always fiercely belonged to you hers in a heartbeat. One single synchronized heartbeat in Midtown had changed the entire trajectory of your life.

It still astonishes you that Reneé had fallen for you at the time. She’s so confident, so unabashedly herself. It’s not without recognition that she hadn’t always been this way that you file these points away in your brain, but it's the reminder that she’d found the strength to grow when you still seem stunted with timid shyness that sits with you. That’s how you’d describe yourself. Timidly shy. Reserved even. It’s taken years to admit you're not the eccentric personality you can be at times always, but now that you have accepted that, it truly amazes you that Reneé sees anything in you at all.

You’re not typically a downer to this extent. These comparisons aren’t always made scornfully or in passing moments of insecurity. They’re just comparisons. Reneé has voiced on many occasions that your unhinged comparisons make her day, but they’re just the only way you’d ever learned how to process anything, so you brush her off with flushed cheeks and a giggle of speechlessness. You never know what to say to that.

Reneé was fresh out of North Carolina at that point. She’d seemed so mature then. Nineteen years old. You were eighteen. Not even a full month out of high school yet. She’d been bossy, and kind of mean, but evidently charming enough to hook you and reel you in with only a five minute meeting on the street. You’ll forever thank the spontaneous rain for keeping you inside just five minutes longer at the restaurant downtown. Just five minutes earlier and you never would’ve run into her desperately fleeing the August Wilson theater after a matinee.

A giggle ripples from deep in your chest, and Reneé glances at you with squinty eyes. “What’s so funny?” She teases, still sifting through her bag for the chocolate bar she’d stolen from Julie who’d evidently first gotten it from Stephanie.

”You looked so straight when we met.” It falls all around you like pebbles of sunshine, and those giggles only spiral into full on belly laughs as you hug your knees to your chest. Your fingertips shoot outward to reach for the bowl she packed for you twenty minutes ago, and without missing a beat your other hand digs the pink lighter out of your hoodie pocket.

Your legs slip off the edge of the couch without your arms keeping them secure, and Reneé scoffs at the image of you already so gone and blissfully out of the loop. You couldn’t hold a serious conversation right now if you tried, but that was exactly what she’d been aiming for when she’d first lulled you into the prospect of trying mushrooms. The weed you’d scrounged out of her office was just a bonus, especially when you leaned in for a smoke-filled kiss like you craved her simple touch on your skin. You did. Shamelessly. You craved her like a drug when she got you like this. No fix of marijuana or shrooms would ever compare to the euphoric sensations of having her to yourself.

The flicker of the flame teases the tip of your nose with warmth. When you’d first dipped your toe into this specific pastime, that sweet sensation would’ve been enough to send you flinching away. You’d looked at Reneé with such innocent wide eyes back then. She’d always leaned forward to light it for you. You’d come a long way since then.

The first drag is the best one in your opinion. Reneé doesn’t agree. She thinks it's somewhere in the middle, a drag you overlook in the moment, but with hindsight chase until the next time a perfect hit comes along sandwiched between the burn of smoke in your throat. You like the burn though. It’s particularly satisfying when it satisfies a craving that's been growing beneath the surface for a while. No one particular moment has led you to craving this outlet, but the last month or so as a whole has most definitely contributed.

Your eyes flutter closed, your breath holding as you trap the smoke in your lungs for a second, and then two, and then three. You would’ve kept it through, slowly burning through your lungs, clouding your eyes with stinging tears, but Reneé’s weight settling over your body on the couch pulls you back to the moment and everything you’d kept in your throat and lungs escaped through your nose. A cough spluttered out, your elbow catching clouds of smoke that continue to come up your throat.

Reneé is unaffected by your momentary lapse, slinking her arms around your neck while you get yourself in order again. Your cheeks are flush, eyes glassy when you finally settle your stare on her again. A shy smile pulls at your lips, the bowl dropping onto the couch haphazardly, ashes still burning a bright orange.

“Feeling good, baby girl?” She checks in, her fingers pulling and tugging at the hairs along the nape of your neck. Her teeth graze your jawline, however unsharp it may feel beneath her bite isn’t even on your radar as you surrender to her. Only her. All you need is her. You manage a nod, and Reneé hums. “Yeah? I can tell. You’ve got that dumb look in your eyes.” It’s mean. It makes your heart patter in your chest. Your blood is rushing, it's burning hot in your ears.

“My head is spinning.” You admit with a lopsided smile, your gaze stuck on her blue eyes that shine impossibly bright in this moment. They’re always bright, even when she’s sad. You think they shine brighter when she’s sad actually. They hide nothing. They’ve never been able to. “You have pretty eyes.” You muse, your lips pouted, your hands coming up to frame her cheeks and keep her gaze pinned to you. You’d make a bulletin board out of her if you could.

Reneé’s not with you on this level yet. She’s taken a couple of hits, but not enough to get her so giggly and inebriated that she can’t multitask. Her hand reaches for the bowl that you’ve abandoned before it can burn the cushions you sink into slowly by the second. Her thighs are braced on either side of your waist, her core just slightly grazing your lower abdomen when she reaches for the lighter.

She holds the bowl up to your lips without saying a word, lighting the flame before she lowers it to where the bowl sits between your pillowy lips. Your eyes watch her, glazed over and blown wide. She could drown in the way you look at her like she’s your entire world. Right now, she is.

“God, I don’t think there's a thought behind those eyes right now.” She muses. It’s unnecessary to bring any attention to your inebriated state. It’s clear as day that you're stoned. But she feels the need to mention it anyways, and had you been any less gone to the plant she’d painstakingly grinded down to bits before this moment, you would’ve blushed like a fool beneath her winsome condescension. ”Good girl.” She coaxes you through a particularly lengthy inhale, not pulling the bowl away from your lips until the burning orange ashes flicker with something brighter until they burn out, grey mixed in with black that was once a satisfying forest green hue.

Reneé chases your lips. It comes naturally to her. You hardly think about your actions as you exhale into her mouth, letting the smoke that filled your lungs and dizzied your brain slip away into the grasp of her possession. Reneé draws the exchange into her lungs as deeply as she can, all while her tongue assaults yours. Your lips are a tight, practiced seal. It provides limited range of movement, it requires her to have some patience with her kisses, but it’s worth it for the warm buzz that begins to crawl through her veins.

When she pulls away, the cloud of smoke that escapes is fainter than it should be. She still smiles at you through the haze. Your insides melt in combination with the hit, and if you weren’t already putty beneath her hands, entirely weightless in your own body, you were now. Reneé giggles. She pats the side of your face encouragingly, like she’s some sort of coach and you’re the dutiful player on the field.

Her hand reaches behind her. She’d set the chocolate bar down on the table with disinterest, much more consumed with feeling you fully beneath her rather than chasing a high she’ll be the first to open your eyes to. She’s honored. Just two weeks ago you’d still turned down her advances to trying something stronger. She respected your reserve. Your devotion to personal morals. But curiously won out tonight when your last straw had snapped. Reneé was taking it personally and seriously to ensure that everything went as well as it could for you.

Even if you never wanted to share a chocolate bar infused with magic mushrooms with her again, she wants to make sure this single experience isn’t something that traumatizes you. It’s sweet. Or, you’d think it were sweet if your brain was moving fast enough to catch up with her actions.

“You want to try shrooms, baby?” Reneé husks against the hell of your ear. Her words are warm, like a breeze carrying only rays of sunshine without rain. Goosebumps rise on your skin. They’re everywhere and nowhere. So faint you can’t feel them beneath your fingertips that curl around your wrists, but they’re there undeniably.

A lazy smile dawns on your face and you nod, “Yeah.” You confirm your desire, and Reneé makes a small noise in her throat to appraise your verbal consent. “How long does it take to hit?” It takes more effort than you’re willing to admit for that sentence to come out cohesively, but even if you were to vehemently deny the slur in your words, Reneé picks up on your slowed speech. She smiles. You still can’t hold your weight against her.

“About forty minutes. Are you nervous?” She asks delicately, pulling your attention back to her face when you get trapped in the creme tone of her kitchen walls. They’re just visible around the corner, gleaming bright beneath the light and stove top fan you forgot to turn off. Reneé smiles when she physically notices your eyes focus on her face, a smile gleaming on your lips shyly.

Your head bobs. Up and down. The movement makes you dizzy. It’s not even that you don’t smoke often. You’re the one in the relationship that has a half gram sativa cart upstairs in the closet, which is your preferred quick hit spot because it's relatively impossible to forget to change into her hoodie before you carry on with whatever activities you planned out. You will forget if you’re anywhere else. It’s just a known fact.

“Words, baby.” Reneé smiles encouragingly. She always pushes for vocal confirmation when you're like this. She always makes sure that someone is looking out for you. A smile frames your face. It sparks behind your eyes, ignites in the tip of your nose. Reneé revels in the sensation of simply feeling your love like this.

“I’m nervous.” You whisper, because you’re not so far gone that you string together a sentence, but zooted enough to have no sense of volume control. You’re aware that you’re being unnecessarily quiet in your girlfriend's empty house, but there’s nothing you can do about it. “I don’t want to like… die.” Your face blanches, loses all of its color, and Reneé has the sense to find your wild conclusions endearing.

“You’re not going to die.” She assures you. She speaks to you like it comes naturally, like you’re no different than the children she makes friends with at the grocery store. Patience. Kindness. Engagement. She’s checking off all the foundational boxes that once encouraged her to take a child development class in college. It should make you blush, but you’re used to it at this point. This is just how Reneé expresses her inexpressible emotions. She’s tried to vocalize them with compliments and cusses, but ‘I fucking love you, so fucking much’ doesn’t quite encapsule all that’s she tried to share, so in moments like this, when it’s just you two, she speaks to you like she one day wants to speak to the people she brings into this world. It’s a tone derived from nothing but the utmost attentive fondness. “I’m not going to let you die. Do you—“

Reneé raises a challenging eyebrow when you make a move to interject before your turn, finding something to say on the tip of your tongue. She holds up a single finger, shakes her head. Reneé mutters, “Uh, no, I’m speaking, thank you. Do you trust me?” Your cheeks burn with a blush you don’t know if she can even see on your cheeks, but you feel it full and hot as it twists in your core. You’re entirely susceptible to anything she wants in this state and Reneé knows it.

“Of course I trust you.” It feels silly to even have to say it. The one thing you’ve never doubted about Reneé is her loyalty. Even when it feels like the entire world is against you, she’s never been a part of that number. You’ve never gotten any impression that she was cemented anywhere else but your corner. You’d trust her with your life. You’d trust her with anything.

It’s Reneé’s turn to be dazzled by your appearance and the soft words you whisper. Her smile is sweet as she melts a little deeper into your lap, letting you bear more of her weight subconsciously. You feel entirely complete with her body pinning you down, like this is the one thing you really needed today. Reneé isn’t a sentimental person. She doesn’t get teary eyed looking at pictures from your first date, or talking about the wistful future ahead. She’s not a yearner. You’d called her a dying breed once, because you’d never met a lesbian not guilty of yearning at least every once in a while, but that just wasn’t Reneé. She’s just not overtly emotional the way that you are, but she bridges your differences seamlessly. She’s bridging them right now with that starry look in her eyes that you know she’s never let anyone else feel.

“Good.” She hums tenderly. She always does get just the littlest bit softer around the edges when she’s high. You think she’s just less unconsciously guarded. “You’re not going to die. We trust who we got it from, and we’re home with nothing to do.”

You take a deep breath. It fills your lungs like a brick. It’s uncomfortable, hard to hold, apparent in the back of your throat. You feel better when you release it though. Reneé knows you feel better, she can see it in your shoulders. They relax, fall away from your ears a little bit.

She reached for the chocolate bar again. The wrapper crinkled as she pulled it open, humming in consideration as she felt around the dark brown bar. She made a soft noise in her throat, something you think she’s entirely oblivious to, before she brings the bar to your lips.

“Bite to my fingers. Don’t think about the taste, just chew and swallow.” She tells you. You’d be lying if that wasn’t slightly discouraging. It didn’t matter. You’d do anything she asked of you right now. You open your mouth, leaning toward to take the chocolate between your teeth. It’s dark chocolate, you can tell without even trying to find a name for the flavor. There’s a distinct earthy taste on your tongue as you take a bite. “I said to my fingers. Not my fingers.” Reneé narrows her eyes when you pointedly graze her knuckle on your bite down.

Your nose scrunches. Even with the chocolate attempting to conceal the taste of psilocybin mushrooms, there’s no outright getting rid of the unique and unpleasant flavor.

“Don’t think about it.” Reneé reminds you, taking a slightly larger bite of the chocolate while keeping encouraging eye contact. “Good girl.” She praises softly when she watches you swallow with scrunched up features. She reaches for the water she’s pointedly left on the coffee table, holding it up to your lips for you to take a sip.

For a moment you think she may be leaving you. Her body twitches on your lap like she has full intentions of going to get something or moving to a different location, and desperately your hands grip into the hem of her hoodie. She doesn’t have pants on. Reneé never has pants on when she can help it. She never had a bra on either. There’s limited fabric to grapple with in your momentary panic, but you manage with what little clothing she has on.

“Hands to yourself.” You need direction. You need to put the weightless feeling in your belly into something, or it’s going to consume you. You need to calm down, clear your mind, or you’re going to have the trip you anticipate instead of the one Reneé wants to show you. She raises an eyebrow when your brain doesn’t seem to register her direction. Your breath catches when her fingers wrap around your wrists once she sets the glass of water down, pinning them to the couch with a surprising level of force. “I said keep your hands to yourself, baby.”

“Stay.” You whisper, entirely entranced by her. She doesn’t seem to mind. She never minds. Reneé is the kind of person who can float on her own until the end of the day. She’s the kind of person who begs for time alone and encourages healthy separation, but when you finally come together it’s like a magnetic force keeps you close. She’s the first to encourage personal growth and experimentation, but she’s equally as smitten with your quiet company. You’ve never doubted that even when she needs her own time, you’re half of her entire world. You’ll gladly be half.

“I wasn’t going anywhere to begin with.” She rolls her eyes. In a turn of events that you didn’t anticipate, she rolls off your lap and manhandles you into hers. Her palms, however small they are in theory, feel like cages on your thighs as she grips you like a baseball and jerks you around like you’d always been the perfect addition to her catcher's mitt. It’s jarring. The quick motion makes your head spin, the marijuana you’ve been puffing for the last hour only adding to your sensitivity to motion. Reneé knows that. She doesn’t care.

Your core brushes over her thigh. You know she can feel the heat radiating off of you. You wonder if she can tell that your panties are drenched beneath your shorts. The material is thin, flowy. essentially useless honestly as one sudden move exposes the globes of your ass when you walk. They’re permanently your inside shorts. Not because you give a fuck how anyone perceives you or your clothing, but because it drives Reneé crazy to know she’s the only one who gets to see you in shorts that were arguably meant for your frame.

Cold fingers snake beneath the pink fabric. She’s pale. She looks even paler up against the bright neon of your shorts. Her nails are blunt. They’re painted black. They curl around the fabric of your panties. They make no move to explore your skin. They just sit on your hips like paperweights slowly getting heavier as the seconds tick by.

“Hi, Naé.” You smile dreamily, your lashes impossibly heavy as they bat in her direction. You look so spacey right now. So far from the world you’re actually in. Reneé is beginning to appear the same. Her eyes lose a bit of their sharp recognition as she feels the drugs in her veins. Neither of you pick up on your ebbing senses, entirely drowned by sweet stares and heavy touches.

Reneé smiles softly, leaning in to kiss your lips once, then twice. “Hi, baby.” She greets you, her eyes filled with brilliant light you knew she once never thought she’d find a way to maintain. She’s come to far. You’re so proud of her.

“I love you.” You frown. You’re an easily emotional person. It doesn’t take much to make you cry, nor does it take much for you to shut down entirely. Your emotions are delicate, fleeting — sometimes it feels like they come too quick to hold onto. Reneé’s never made you feel impossible to love because you change with the breeze. She changes with the tide. You change in tandem with each other like you were always meant to grow off of each other's exploration. It’s beautiful and personal.

“I love you too, honey.” She smiles softly. She’s not all there. It’s been ten minutes, too soon for the chocolate to have kicked in fully, but long enough for it to twist in her eyes and paint your stare a vibrant shade she doesn’t think she’ll ever find again. Your voice surrounds her. It’s like a luring echo. She’s almost certain their hypo-disks in your vibrato. “Are you feeling good?”

“Your eyes are glowing.” You muse softly, and Reneé giggles. It’s not that funny. But both of you laugh. She drops her forehead against yours. Her bangs are whisky. They tickle your eyebrows. They feel like tiny ants crawling across your face and you pull away from her in alarmed concern, batting desperately at your forehead. “There’s bugs on me!” You panic, and in your haste to move away from the imaginary ants that feel very real to you, your core drags along Reneé’s thighs and she groans unceremoniously.

“Do you even know how wet you are? I can feel you.” Reneé grounds, her head dropping against the back of the couch as she grabs your hips. Her grip is bruising. Your hip bone sits against her palms, she grabs onto them and drags you down along her leg again. “Fuck.”

“There’s bugs on me.” You whisper, voice low, shaky. It didn’t register to Reneé that you were panicking until your elbow narrowly avoided her head as you desperately wiped at your eyebrows, still feeling the tickle of her bangs against your skin.

Her eyes are clouding with lust, but there’s a desperate need to take care of you that accompanies that growing arousal she’s losing control over containing. “There’s no bugs.” Reneé shakes her head, and the ends of her shaggy cut sweeping against your arm send you spiraling further down into delusions only you can see and feel and taste on the tip of your tongue. She frowns softly when it dawns on her that the sensation of her hair on your skin — something you typically crave — is too much at this moment.

There’s always a hair tie on the side table. There needs to be no specific reason as to why, you’re both women after all, but there is a specific reason why it’s there and it only heightens the coursing desire that threatens to make a frat boy out of Reneé. She sweeps the layered cut up into a bun at the top of her hair, her bangs pulled up too. You don’t realize that she’s throwing it up the way you beg for every night, because she just looks so dangerously soft with her hair all messy and her jawline sharp and her eyeliner smudged from hours of rubbing her eyes.

“There are no bugs.” She whispers, cupping your cheeks. She forces you to feel how cold and clammy her hands are. You shiver, it distracts you from the bugs. “Let me make you feel good. Even better.” She encourages, luring you into a breath stealing kiss. You’re looking at her softly now, through heavy lashes, your mind turned from delusions of spiders to how addicting she looks in that black cropped zip-up.

“Okay.” You whisper, eyes filled with stars and lust as your pupils dilate to fill your entire dazed stare. Your eyes are glassy without the lust that taints your presence, but they’re dark and glistening with the whisper of wanting more of her. You always want more of her. Reneé’s happy to give you everything that she can.

“Lay down for me, baby.” She turns her body just slightly, enough to guide you into the couch and slowly move down your body as you slip off her lap. It’s a natural transition. One that happens seamlessly. “Good girl. God, you’re stunning. Great tits.” She hums, leaning down to drown herself in your breast. The tight fit of your athleisure top leaves nothing to the imagination; neither does that plunging v-neckline that shifted out of place enough to give her the perfect space to leave a love bite.

Your back arches off the couch, into the warmth of her mouth wrapped around your nipple. Her tongue soothes the second bite she leaves around your areola. It’s cruel, pointed, meant specifically to rid your brain of any other thought. A shrill whine leaves your lips as you writhe beneath her, breathy pants slipping out into the air around you.

Reneé reaches out toward the coffee table, her face still in your tits, her tongue still tracing your nipple and soothing bites she leaves like a fein. She only pulls away from your embrace to light a blunt she’d rolled when she returned home. Your bowl was thrown aside, probably knocked onto the floor to be swept up as shards of glass later. It doesn’t matter. You don’t even think about it.

She pulls away only to light the blunt, holding it between her lips as she tilts her head upward. You watch her from below, still panting, even more flushed than you’d been before. You’re tasting colors, tasting the way her eyes look as she unmakes you with a predatory gleam. You can taste the confidence, the lust, the pent up emotion. It's tangy like the electric pulse of a penny on your tongue. It tastes metallic and your tongue darts out to moisten your bottom lip.

She exhales and her entire body melts, swaying with a high she’ll certainly still feel tomorrow morning. She doesn’t care right now. She’ll pay the price of lethargy to have just five minutes of you beneath her fingers feeling like this. Another drag is quick to follow the first. She leans forward, her lips crash into yours. There’s smoke filling your lungs, she’s blowing it into your mouth, you’re inhaling as much as you can.

A gasp breaks the exchange. Your back arches, your fingers desperately dig into the throw pillow beneath your upper back. It’s uncomfortable, but you don’t think to reach beneath you and pull it away. Instead you ground yourself in the thickness of the fabric cover Reneé bought on Etsy. Her fingers have found their way to your covered cunt. They’re unabashed, bold, abrasive. They’re rough and uncoordinated as they bump against your clit that pulses with desperation.

“God, you’re dripping.” You don’t know how she’s still forming coherent sentences. Her voice looks like a triangle that’s glowing with a vibrant red aura behind your eyelids. Your heartbeat flutters in your toes and you’re sure there are koi fish swimming in your belly that’s equating to the feeling of tightening pleasure in your core. You don’t know which way is up, or which way is down. You can’t tell if you’re falling through the sky or nestled safely into something firm and protective. There is no sense of reality in the headspace you find as she sinks a finger into your core, your panties pulled aside only enough to allow her entrance. “I love those pretty sounds. I love just watching you take what I give you.” There’s a distinct haze to her tone. As much as she radiates stone composure, she’s not fully in the moment like she usually is. Neither are you. You’re both existing together, but light years away. It’s blissful. It’s freeing. You’ve needed this for months without knowing.

Her single finger curls into your velvety walls. They’re hot and warm around the digit, and when she flicks the pad of her finger against that fleshy rough patch that drives you wild, they contract even tighter. Her finger leaves your core all too soon, and your body reacts before your mind can process anything that follows.

“Look at how wet you are.” She groans as she slowly retracts her finger, a string of evidence connecting you for five, ten, thirteen seconds before it snaps and splatters against your trembling inner thigh.

You’re essentially a simultaneously heavy and weightless blob beneath Reneé’s body. She straddles your thighs now, rocking against you with a rhythm you can trace back to a recent project in your fingertips even though they don’t touch her skin at all. You don’t have enough control over your limbs to even pick your head up, let alone find her body and hold on tight.

“Fuck, you taste so good. You’re so desperate for me, baby. A slut for me, yeah? Just for me?” Your cheeks flame, but you don’t have the thoughts to form a response. You don’t have one either way. You are a slut for her. Proudly. Unabashedly. All your friends know just how utterly wrapped around her finger you are. “God, you’re so fucking perfect.”

Your hips jump on the cushions, desperately searching to meet pressure and glorious friction. Reneé smiles, it’s sharp and bright, and rainbows float before your eyes. Your head falls farther back, you’re arching deeper now, you can feel the strain in your back muscles as she works your shorts down your thighs at a painstaking pace.

She’d initially aimed to focus your high on something real — grounding — but in that process she’d gotten lost in her pleasure and your pleasure and the overwhelming feeling that comes over her anytime you let her take control. Reneé’s felt a lot of things about her relationship with control throughout her life, but you’ve never made it seem suffocating. You’ve always accepted it, welcomed it, craved it. Usually she likes a fight. She likes butting heads and electrifying confidence, and while you can give her that sometimes and you enjoy how she pulls witty banter out of your soul, you’re not always so rough around the edges with a shameless ego and confidence.

There’s a chunk of time that elapses you. You’re entirely surrendered to the pleasure she’s bringing over you, wrapped up in its soft embrace and being dangled over the edge of a cliff. When feeling comes back to you in a way that doesn’t just settle in your belly as rocks, it’s like your veins become live wires. Her mouth is hot as it sinks onto your core, her tongue plunging into your weeping entrance that her finger had previously teased.

Her hips jerk against your lower thigh in messy motions. When she twitches, the sound of your moans like music to her ears and she’s always been sensitive to song, her clit catches on the sharpest spot of your thigh where your patella rounds around the corners. Her core is hot, moist. It squelches in the quiet and sounds like it’s playing through a professional sound system as it envelopes you completely.

“Please.” Your voice is hoarse and dry, but sweet and gentle as you finally find your words. It’s like an all powerful motivator to hear you, to know that you’re trying so hard to beg for what you want. Reneé’s eyes don’t always get red. Most often, they get all puffy and squinted. She’s glancing at you through pinched eyelids right now. She looks like she can barely see straight.

Reneé glances at your face from between your thighs, her tongue still plunging into your glimmering hole as her fingers trace figure eights around your pulsing pearl. At some point, they switch, and when two fingers plunge deep into your walls, you’re seeing stars and triangles and the color magenta as rain shows paint the living room and your back arches off the couch. Your thighs tremble, your muscles tighten and relax as waves of pleasure crash over you at varying pressures. Reneé takes full advantage of the tightening muscles beneath her core, grinding down against you harder now, with even less coordination that she’s poised before.

It doesn’t take words to know that you’re getting close, and so Reneé’s efforts to push you over that edge double. Two fingers become three, kitten licks to your clit become broad strokes of a strategically flattened tongue. Her hips grind against your thigh. They snap upwards then backwards, side to side before they jerk. It’s a pattern. A beautifully intricate one.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum. You’re so perfect.” Reneé groans, and the vibration of her words against your core ignites something desperate in your belly. Your hands curl into the fabric of the pillow still beneath your upper back, pinned between your shoulder blades. The tighter you squeeze the more it feels like yellow is shooting through your veins and it becomes impossibly hard to hold onto anything. Every action feels too much, every moment of stillness feels too little. Tears prick your eyes as your body jerks and writhes and squirms, but Reneé forces you beneath her with a hand on your hip that bruises you sweetly. “You’re squeezing my fingers so tight. Can you hear how wet you are, baby? I know you're close, hold it. Hold it for me. Just feel it. It feels good, doesn’t it? Feels pretty. You’re so pretty.” Reneé doesn’t pull her mouth away from your core as she speaks, and the onslaught of vibrations against your clit pushes you over the edge with or without her consent.

It’s like a trigger for Reneé’s release, just feeling yours against her tongue and her fingers. Your clit throbs, your walls pulsate around her fingers desperately, refusing to let them go but subsequently attempting to push them out. Her hips snap against your thigh, your skin glimmering with wetness that’s eventually rubbed in by the sodden fabric of her panties that she hadn’t removed yet.

She exploded with wisps of white hot pleasure, and you’re in the same blissed out state as you let her work every last ounce of an orgasm out of your cunt. She doesn’t pull away when you squirm with sensitivity, even when her own hips come to a stilling stop on your thighs, just a heavy weight that keeps you grounded now. Her tongue sweeps through your folds once, twice, three times. It plunges into your entrance when her fingers leave so quickly that you don’t recognize the absence at all.

Her tongue, rough though slick with your arousal, licks a bold stripe across your inner thighs, clearing the splatter of desire that had stained your skin however long ago. Time isn’t real around you. Neither of you know whether it’s been ten minutes, or an hour. It doesn’t matter.

You’re dazed on the cushions. Your eyes blink slowly. You're glowing with a sheen of sweat. Reneé doesn’t have the sense to strip out of her sodden panties, the stickiness between her thighs doesn’t even register as she sinks against you. She’s the actor that keeps you steady. You bob, and you sway, but you never stray any farther than she’ll allow.

“Still feeling good?” She hums against your collarbone, her fingers hastily fiddling with your sensitive nipples.

You hum, unable to produce any words, and sink deeper into the couch. Reneé reaches beneath you to grab the pillow, and your entire body deflates into putty as you finally find full comfort on the couch. Reneé snuggles deep into your side, her ear resting just above where your heart beats. It doesn’t take long for either of you to fall asleep, lulled deep into slumber until mid-afternoon the next day when you wake uncomfortably sticky and marked up.

#reneé rapp 🍒₊˚⊹#reneé rapp #dom!reneé rapp #reneé rapp x reader #dom!reneé rapp x reader #regina george x reader #reneé rapp x you #reneé rapp fluff #reneé rapp smut #reneé rapp oneshot #reneé rapp fic #minors dni ৎ୭

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shadowsubzowo · 3 days ago

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(Me holding them bc real😔)

Answering this bc my love is asleep and I want to cling to them SO MUCH, but cannot 🥺🥺🥺

Spectrum: Do you expect your next relationship to last a lifetime and beyond or are you the type who doesn't plan that far ahead?

I expect our relationship to last forever and ever and everrrrrrr 💕💕💕💕

Deity: What type of partner would be ideal for you? Dominant? Masochistic? The nervous or the worshiper type?

Definitely a dominant yet gentle, caring partner with a mysterious aura to them yk cold and distant with others, but gentle and kind to me 🍭

Fae: In a relationship there are no secrets or lies or do you prefer to have at least a modicum of privacy?

I prefer we be open to each other, but keep some secrets maybe instead of saying everything at once it keeps the fun in the relationship! As long as it's not cheating or something 😭

Werewolf: How much of yourself are you willing to give up to your partner? Your identity? Your humanity even?

As much as giving up my humanity for them, maybe even my life. I can't see myself changing myself though to make them happy because I wouldn't want them to 🥺🍫

Vampire: Would you be willing to depend completely on your partner? As if you could not live without them?

Absolutely!!! Make me dependent on you, lock me up and throw away the KEY 🔑💕💕💕

Kelpie: Would your partner feel the need to kidnap and isolate you or would you go willingly?

I'll go willingly (⸝⸝ᵕᴗᵕ⸝⸝)

Phoenix: Do you believe in second chances?

2nd,3rd but not 4th

What would be the worst thing you would be willing to forgive?

The worst thing is lying to me, but only if it's not related to cheating ig

Slasher: For your part, what would be the worst thing you could do for your love? Either directly to them or for them

Ig commiting crimes for them /JJJ

I don't know honestly leaving them alone is the worst thing I could do, or hurting them in anyway 😭

Nimph: are you the dreamer type who admires them from afar or the type who takes things into your own hands? Are you the type to take the first step? If not, what's stopping you?

I'm the dreamer type I admire them from afar, I'm to much of a bottom to take control of anything lmao, what stops me is me being shy like 😭

Fairy: Does the fact that your partner can be a pathetic little thing appeal to you?

I rather me be the pathetic little thing, but it's comforting to know they have a side like this to them

Shape-shifter: would you change who you are or how you behave to make them like you? Are there some things you would and some things you wouldn't? Or do you think they should love you for who you are?

I'd change maybe how I behave try to at least even if I'm stubborn.... If I'm desperate.. Some things I wouldn't like my fashion style or how I want to stay clean from TW!!! substances, cigs., dr#gs. I do think I should be loved as how I am because there isn't another me.

Dragon: are you greedy for your loved one's time and attention or just enough to understand that they can do things unrelated to you and still be their priority?

I'm very selfish for their attention I'm literally a sad menhera 😭

I want to be a greedy bf for them.., even if I know they have a life outside loving me. I want to be the center of their world 💕

Golem: is your heart made of stone or do you fall in love easily?

My heart is a bit in between, being demi romantic. It depends how someone treats me, how I feel. If the aura is off I can be pretty emotionless, but if we match well I might fall in love faster

Basilisk: do you hide the ugly parts of yourself or do you expect your partner to accept and love them as the best parts?

It's hard to hide the bad parts of me, being a mess like me. Plus I suffer tw!!! {D.I.D so having not much filtering sometimes emotions pop out... 😭}

It scares me to, so for them to accept and love me they are a strong person....

Doppelganger: how much would you want your partner to be like you and how much is too much? Optional bonus question; would you date an exact double of yourself? Physically or just in the personality aspect, your choice.

I want them to be themselves, it won't be interesting if they are like me however it'd be nice if we have at least 50% hobbies, interests in common. As for dating a double version of myself I cannot see it, I am not doing bottom x bottom even if sfw. I want to have that dom. leading partner (sfw) I want to be babied, cared for and if they are like me in that way there is barely any self love, it's hard to love in general for me that'd be a match made in h3ll😭😭😭😭

Gargoyle: are you the yearning type? Do you believe that there really is something that can satisfy your longing?

I am the yearning type. I do believe there really is something that can satisfy my longing however I always feel hollow inside when that something is not around I feel very self destructive even if I'd never hurt myself in my mind it's like a void swallowing me whole without the person I admire

Harpy: are you the type that collects and treasures every memory of them? Or the type that constantly does things to remember them? (Whether it's gifts, playlists, pinterest boards, anything is valid).

Not really, but I do write & study the person I admire for science. I also love treasuring every memory with them. I also constantly do things to remember them. Thinking of love letters to write, gifts to give them, music to share, looking at Pinterest things that remind me of them.

God: do you want to worship your partner or be worshipped? Maybe both? Or neither?

Both ways pls 🙏😌

(All credits to person who did these asks🌟)

So, I've noticed that most of the asks games are for yans, so I made my own for soft yanders/darlings :D

Spectrum: Do you expect your next relationship to last a lifetime and beyond or are you the type who doesn't plan that far ahead?

Deity: What type of partner would be ideal for you? Dominant? Masochistic? The nervous or the worshiper type?

Fae: In a relationship there are no secrets or lies or do you prefer to have at least a modicum of privacy?

Werewolf: How much of yourself are you willing to give up to your partner? Your identity? Your humanity even?

Vampire: Would you be willing to depend completely on your partner? As if you could not live without them?

Kelpie: Would your partner feel the need to kidnap and isolate you or would you go willingly?

Phoenix: Do you believe in second chances? What would be the worst thing you would be willing to forgive?