#and now i just feel filled with joy at how wonderful it is getting to write and share it with people 🫶

[mxtxfanatic]

i adore the way u express yourself and analyze!!!

this is low-key embarrassing but I really struggle with writing and analyzing. if it's ok and not too time/energy intensive, i was wondering if you had any advice or resources?

Aww, thank you 🥹

And don’t feel embarrassed! That’s like the biggest block to getting better at things. I may not be the best person to ask for advice from about writing because most advice never tended to work for me so I typically discard it. However, a very good rule of thumb is that you���ll never get better at writing if you don’t read. Read things that look like they may interest you, read things that bring you joy, read things that other people have discussed, read things from different cultures, just read as many diverse things as you can to see all the different ways a story can be strung together, whether it’s a fictional novel, nonfiction, or even poetry. And don’t just read: try to get into a paired art thing. Start drawing or doodling, get into film, start listening to new music. The time in my life where I wrote the most, whenever I hit a writer’s block, I’d simply move on to drawing, and when I felt like my drawings started to suck, I went back to writing and the block would be gone. We also tend to feel inspired by more than just one thing: I wrote a poem series once because one song on an album I had been listening to compelled me to write.

On that note, write whenever you get the urge. Carry a notebook on you or make sure you have some sort of writing app on whatever device you carry. If you think it and there’s a chance that you can stop right at that moment and take it down, do it. I promise you will not remember if you “wait for a better time.” I used to write story fragments and dialogue on bubblegum wrappers, and I have a whole folder filled with such scraps that when I had real time to write, I’d weave into something coherent. But you can’t do that if you never even started writing at all. An old professor of mine called it leaving the tap running: if you never turn the faucet of creativity off, you never have to worry about it running dry. Even a few drops is something; even if it sucks, it’s something. If you’re a structure person, I’d say section off a part of your day that you know you’ll have free and dedicate that to writing (or your other creative outlet if blocked). Some people write better in the daytime after waking up, some are night owls. As a child, I’d feel moved to write around midnight, but as an adult, I had to write first thing when I woke up before I even got out of bed or I’d lose the thread.

And as for analyzing, as I used to tell my students, you can’t analyze if you’re afraid to even hold an opinion of what you’re consuming. If you read something, how did you feel about it? Did it make you angry, happy, bored? Why did it make you feel that way? If there’s a section that you find yourself still thinking about way after it’s done, what made it stick out? Was it the way it was written? Was it the language or syntax used? Was it just the formatting of the page? (I am big on how something looks on a page.) Is it the way it sounded when read aloud? Whatever you liked about it, copy it. Shamelessly. Try to recreate that feeling. Now this isn’t advocating for plagiarism, lol, but you get better at things by practicing through what you’ve already seen that you like. Either you’ll get it or you’ll discover something in the process that is completely your own. But you’ll never get to this point if you can’t even tell what the art you consumed made you feel or if your convictions are so wishy-washy that anyone else’s opinions can override them. You aren’t less smart than anyone else consuming the same thing. You have something to add to the conversation. Just remember that creativity is imbued in all humans, not just “intellectuals.”

Anyways to close out, here’s the only book that ever interested me about the process of writing: Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott.

[uhbasicallyjustmilex]

i just caught up with my comments over on ao3 and this literally me right now

[mononijikayu]

i saw mommy kissing santa claus — fushiguro toji

“Mom, I saw you kissing Santa Claus last night.” You froze, the coffee cup halfway to your lips as your cheeks turned a warm shade of red. Your husband Toji, on the other hand, lowered his mug, his sharp green eyes sparkling with mischief. He looked at you, one brow raised, fighting the grin threatening to spread across his face. “Oh, really, kid?” Toji said, leaning back casually. “Mommy here was kissing Santa Claus, huh?” You stammered, caught off guard. “W-well, Megumi, I think maybe you were dreaming—" “Nope!” Megumi insisted, crossing his little arms over his chest. “I saw it, mom. You were right by the tree!” 

GENRE: alternate universe - canon convergence!;

WARNING/S: fluff, romance, nsfw, r-18, christmas day, santa, parenthood, pet names (babe, love, etc), love, humor, light-hearted, domestic life, slice of life, being in love, parenthood, married life, healthy relationship, toddler, family, late night sex, kissing, p-i-v sex, profanity, sexual intercourse, depictions of sexual acts, depiction of body praise, depiction of naked bodies, mention of sexual innuendo, mention of sexual intercourse, husband! toji, mamaguro! reader;

WORD COUNT: 7k words

NOTE: toji seems to me like the type who would have been so good at teasing mamaguro??? like he would definitely be the person that would also wear a santa claus costume just to put megumi's gifts on the tree and then know that megumi would be watching??? anyway i love their tiny family i am so floored every time i write about them. anyway merry fushiguro christmas!!! i love you all <3

box it up, christmas hun! (santa kayu 2024)

main masterlist

if you want to, tip! <3

YOU ALWAYS ADORED CHRISTMAS. Even as a child, the magic of the holiday season was something your mother and father made sure to bring alive for you.

They worked tirelessly to fill each moment with joy, whether it was the way the house glowed with lights or how the scent of fresh-baked cookies lingered in the air. 

Your favorite memories were wrapped in those small, meaningful traditions—sipping hot chocolate while the snow fell softly outside, unwrapping presents by the fire, and gathering together to share stories and laughter. It wasn’t about the gifts or the grandeur, but the warmth of family and the sense of belonging.

Now that you had a family of your own, you were determined to recreate that magic, to pass down those same feelings of joy and love to the people you held closest to your heart. Fushiguro Toji wasn’t raised with those kinds of traditions. 

For him, the holidays were often just another day. Especially when he lived with his family and even after that. There was no desire for a fuss, no fanfare. But when it came to you, he was more than willing to step out of his comfort zone.

Toji might not have admitted it outright, but seeing how much the holidays meant to you made it easy for him to get involved. Whether it was wrestling with tangled strings of lights or holding your hand while you browsed for the perfect tree, he found himself drawn into the excitement. It was a quiet kind of joy for him, watching your face light up with happiness as you brought the season to life.

When your beloved Megumi came along, the holidays became even more special. Toji was quick to embrace his role, even if it meant helping you with putting out the tree or helping to bake cookies that somehow ended up burnt half the time.

He didn’t care if it was messy or chaotic—seeing the laughter, the wide-eyed wonder, and the unfiltered happiness of his family made every effort worth it.

What surprised him most was how much he’s slowly come to love those traditions, too. They weren’t just holidays anymore; they were the foundation of memories he never knew he needed.

He started to look forward to the little things, like staying up late with you to wrap presents or watching Megumi to try to stay awake for Santa, only to fall asleep halfway through their schemes.

Each holiday became another chance to build something new together, a season filled with traditions that were uniquely yours. Toji might have started off doing it for you, but somewhere along the way, he realized he was doing it for himself, too.

After all, your beautiful family meant everything to him, it’s now his safe zone—and these moments were proof that he finally had one worth celebrating.

So on this bright Christmas morning, your comely house was tenderly wrapped in a soft, magical stillness. The gentle hum of the house’s heater and the occasional crackle from the fireplace your husband had set up added to the warmth of the room. 

The Christmas tree glowed with colorful lights, their reflections dancing on the ornaments and the neatly wrapped presents beneath. The faint scent of cinnamon and pine hung in the air, blending with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

Young and bright four year old Fushiguro Megumi shuffled into the living room, his favorite blanket dragging behind him like a cape. His small, sleepy frame was bundled in his fuzzy pajamas, the ones with tiny snowflakes printed all over. 

His dark charcoal hair was a tousled mess, sticking out in every direction as if he’d been wrestling with his dreams. He paused near the doorway, rubbing his blue–green eyes, and blinked at the cozy scene before him.

There you were, curled up on the couch with Toji, both of you cradling steaming mugs of coffee. Toji was dressed in his usual casual sweatpants and a loose T-shirt, one arm draped lazily along the back of the couch, the other holding his mug. He looked relaxed, his sharp green eyes softened with a rare, unguarded warmth. 

You were tucked into his side, your legs curled beneath you, wearing an oversized Christmas special cardigan and your fuzzy faux fur slippers.

The two of you shared a quiet moment, sipping the coffee your husband brewed and exchanging conversation and content smiles as the early morning sunlight peeked through the curtains.

Megumi's sleepy gaze lit up as he took in the sight of the tree, its glowing lights illuminating the pile of presents waiting for him. His little mouth opened in a gasp, and he looked at the two of you with wide, sparkling blue–green orbs.

“It’s Christmas!” he announced, his voice still tinged with the rasp of sleep but filled with excitement. “It’s Christmas morning!”

You smiled, setting your mug on the coffee table and opening your arms to him. “Good morning, sweetheart. Merry Christmas.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. He toddled over, crawling onto the couch and nestling between you and Toji. Toji chuckled, ruffling Megumi’s messy hair affectionately. “Morning, kid. Looks like Santa came through for you this time around, huh?”

Megumi nodded eagerly, his blue–green eyes darting back to the presents under the tree. “Can I open them now?” he asked, his voice filled with hopeful anticipation.

“Not even a good morning first?” Toji teased, arching an eyebrow. But the playful tone in his voice made Megumi giggle. “Too excited, you are.”

“Good morning, Dad.” Megumi said, grinning as he leaned against you. “Good morning, Mom.”

Your heart swelled at the sight of him, his excitement so pure and unfiltered. You kissed the top of his little head, wrapping an arm around him as Toji stood and stretched, walking over to grab the digital camera.

“All right.” Toji said with a smirk, motioning to the tree. “Let’s see what Santa left for you, kid.”

With a delighted squeal, Fushiguro Megumi scrambled off the couch and ran toward the presents, his blanket forgotten on the floor in his excitement.

You and Toji shared a tender glance, his usual smirk softening into a genuine, warm smile. You shake your head, looking at him with much contentment.

He walked back to you, settling beside you on the couch and slipping his hand into yours. His touch was steady, grounding, as the two of you watched Megumi dive headfirst into the pile of gifts.

His bright laughter filled the room, bright and melodic, blending perfectly with the soft crackle of the fireplace.

For a moment, everything was perfect—pure joy radiating from your son as he examined each box like it was a priceless treasure. Then, Megumi suddenly paused, his small frame still in the middle of the living room. 

He turned slowly to face you both, his expression shifting into something unusually serious, his little brows furrowing in a way that was far too mature for his age. When he wasn’t smiling, you were sure your son was quite a young old man in that tiny body. 

You blinked, puzzled, as Toji sat up straighter, his grip on your hand loosening. Before either of you could ask what was wrong, Megumi crossed his arms over his chest, his blanket forgotten entirely now, and declared with absolute certainty:

“Mom, I saw you kissing Santa Claus last night.”

You froze, the coffee cup halfway to your lips as your cheeks turned a warm shade of red. Your husband Toji, on the other hand, lowered his mug, his sharp green eyes sparkling with mischief. He looked at you, one brow raised, fighting the grin threatening to spread across his face.

“Oh, really, kid?” Toji said, leaning back casually. “Mommy here was kissing Santa Claus, huh?”

You stammered, caught off guard. “W-well, Megumi, I think maybe you were dreaming—"

“Nope!” Megumi insisted, crossing his little arms over his chest. “I saw it, mom. You were right by the tree!” 

His little pout was so serious it almost made you laugh. You tried to hold your composure, his cute little glare gleaming at you with the most adorable aggression. He looked too much like Toji when he was like this. And that had made you even more adoring of him in this way.

Toji’s chuckle deepened as he leaned back on the couch, completely unbothered. “Cookies and milk are standard, kid.” he said, shrugging casually. “But Santa? He’s a special guest. Sometimes he deserves a little extra appreciation.”

Megumi tilted his head, his little face scrunching in thought. “Like a hug?” he asked, glancing back at the presents under the tree, though his curiosity still lingered.

“Sure, sure.” Toji said, smirking as he threw a glance your way. “Or something like that.”

You nudged him with your elbow, your cheeks heating up again. “Toji, that’s not something you should be jumping into.” you whispered under your breath, giving him a look that was equal parts exasperated and amused.

Toji just grinned and leaned in closer to you, his voice low so only you could hear. “What? I didn’t even mention the mistletoe.” His tone was full of playful mischief, and you rolled your eyes, trying to suppress a smile. 

“Mom? Dad?” Megumi’s voice broke through, his tiny hands clutching a brightly wrapped box as he looked up at you both. “Can I open this one first?”

You gave a soft laugh, glad for the distraction. “Of course, sweetheart.” you said, smiling warmly at him.

Toji reached over, ruffling Megumi’s hair again as the boy plopped down in front of the tree. “Go for it, kid. Let’s see what Santa left you.”

“Hmm. Okay.” he finally muttered, turning his attention to the colorful boxes waiting for him.

Megumi’s attention shifted entirely to the gift in his hands, his little fingers working furiously to tear the wrapping paper. You let out a breath, glancing at Toji, who was still watching you with that infuriatingly smug look.  His hands wrapped against your shoulders. 

He leaned closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “Kissing Santa, huh, babe?” he teased, leaning in close. “Got any more Christmas spirit for me?”

Your face burned as you playfully shoved him, your smile betraying you. “Shut up, Toji.” you whispered, though the giggle that escaped ruined the effect.

“Guess Santa’s the lucky one this year, don’t you think?” he murmured.

You bit your lip, shaking your head but unable to hide the smile that crept across your face. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah, yeah.” he said, his smirk softening into something warmer as he looked at you. “But you love me anyway.”

“Merry Christmas, babe.” Toji murmured, stealing a quick kiss.

“Merry Christmas, love.” you whispered back, heart full and cheeks still warm.

══════════════════

TOJI SAID HE PLANNED EVERYTHING. And knowing how much you trusted your husband, you do believe him. He hasn’t ever failed you before, after all. Your husband wasn’t going to fail you now either. He said he’s going to make it happen and he will. 

The night before Christmas was serene, the kind of quiet that wrapped around you like a warm blanket. The only sounds were the faint crackle of the fireplace and the occasional rustle of branches as the tree swayed slightly under the weight of its ornaments. 

The vibrant living room glowed softly, bathed in the colorful twinkle of Christmas lights that reflected off the shiny ribbons and bows of some of the presents you had already wrapped and bought for Megumi and each other. All Toji has to do now is add the other ones you bought for Megumi.

You had just finished cleaning up after dinner, your feet padding lightly across the wooden floor as you straighten a few stray decorations. A hum of curiosity pulled you toward the living room, and when you peeked around the corner, you couldn’t hold back a small smile from appearing on your pinkish lips.

There he was— Fushiguro Toji, crouched by the tree, fully dressed in a Santa Claus suit. The red fabric clung to his massively broad frame, the white trim looking comically out of place against his rugged demeanor. 

The bright red hat was askew on his head, barely covering his wild, dark hair, and the sight of him muttering multiple times under his breath while adjusting a precariously balanced present was nothing short of endearing.

“Damn this tree’s too small.” Toji grumbled, carefully shoving a particularly large box further under the branches. “How the hell does Santa Claus even do this without knocking everything over? Like, this is just an insane operation for a break in. Mission impossible even!”

You stifled a laugh, leaning against the doorway as you crossed your arms. “You’re really committing to this Santa Claus thing, huh?”

Toji glanced up sharply, his green eyes narrowing at you in mock irritation before softening into a lopsided smirk. You sighed, smiling as he enjoys taking in the sight of you like this. He has never thought he would ever have something as enjoyable as this life. And he always has you to thank for it.

“Caught me, babe.” he said, straightening up and dusting his hands off. “Santa Claus really had to work harder for this. And I gotta commit like he does, babe. I mean, this is harder than it looks, you know.”

You stepped into the room, your gaze sweeping over the scene. “You’re supposed to look jolly, not grumpy, love. Kids don’t want an angry Santa Claus.”

Toji snorted, tugging at the crooked hat and tossing it onto the couch. “You’re lucky I even agreed to wear this, babe.” he said, gesturing at the suit with a faint grimace. “This thing’s itchy as hell. How the hell did people wear this without having to scratch everywhere? Even my crotch feels itchy.”

You rolled your eyes, walking over to adjust one of the presents he’d just placed. “You’re not exactly selling the magic of Christmas, love.”

He leaned against the arm of the couch, his smirk turning sly. “Oh, I don’t know. I think I’m doing pretty good. The kid’s gonna love it in the morning. He’s going to have fun about Santa bringing in lotsssss of cool presents.”

You turned to face him, raising an eyebrow. “And what about me? Does Santa Claus have any surprises for me? I mean….I should get gifts too, right?”

Toji’s grin widened as he pushed off the couch and sauntered toward you, his voice dropping to a playful, sensual murmur. “Actually, yeah. Look up, babe.”

Your eyes followed his gaze, landing on the tiny sprig of mistletoe hanging above your heads. You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head. You looked at him with so much adoration, you couldn’t help it. He just made you feel giddy every single day. 

“You’re impossible, you know that?”

He took another step closer, his voice low and teasing. “Maybe. But I’m also a hardworking Santa Claus. And Santa likes to get paid for his trouble. I’m sure this pretty lady in front of him will ease his troubles.”

You rolled your eyes playfully once more, your lips twitching as you fought back a smile. “Naughty Santa, aren’t you?” you muttered, leaning up just enough to close the gap between you. “What about Mrs. Claus?”

“Don’t have one.” He smiles down at you, his thumb pressing against your lips. “Would you wanna volunteer to be one, pretty woman?”

You laughed aloud at his words. “Shouldn’t you take me out to dinner first?”

“Well, if you’d let me, then I will.” He grins at you.

“Alright, alright. I’ll let you.”

“Good. Santa’s happy about that.”

“Well, we only want that, don’t we?” You smiled at him.

“Hm, very great for securing your kid a spot on my gift list.”

You giggled at him. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah, but I’m your ridiculous, future Mrs. Claus.” 

You laughed at his words again, which made him very happy. Your husband Toji happily pressed hands forward and found your waist as he met you halfway, his sly lips brushing against yours in a passionate kiss that was far too warm for such a chilly night. 

You pushed deeper, kissing him back, pulling him closer to you. When you finally pulled back to take a breath, his grin was smug as it was shameless, his bright  green eyes gleaming with the endless joy that comes with having you as his beloved. 

“Best payment I’ve ever gotten. By far.” he murmured, his voice soft but smug.

You laughed, swatting at his chest as you stepped away. “Go finish your job, Santa Claus. There’s still a tree that needs all the presents to set up for the good kid.”

He chuckled, watching you with a lingering smile as you walked away. “Yes, ma’am. But don’t think this is over.” he called after you, his tone full of promise.

“I look forward to it, Santa!”

══════════════════

OF COURSE YOU’LL NEVER FORGET ABOUT LAST NIGHT. You could still feel your legs sore and your throat full of his pleasurable bites. But that wasn’t important right now, even though, of course it felt really good. Santa was really good with blessings. But that wasn’t the point. 

You could feel your cheeks turn redder and your ears more scarlet. You tried to calm yourself down as you continued to clear out stuff in the kitchen. The cookies were more important. You had guests coming over.

Of course, on the other side of the wall, the living room was alive with Megumi’s excited giggles and the joyful chaos of wrapping paper flying in every direction.  His precious little voice carried as he marveled at each gift, holding up toys and books like treasures. 

You peeked at him from the kitchen, your heart swelling at how happy he was. Your son’s joys were the reason you always worked so hard at the prosecutor’s office. And he was, genuinely, the happiest little boy. And that made everything feel like it paid off.

You were in the middle of arranging cookies on a festive plate when you felt it: a pair of strong arms sliding around your waist, pulling you against a firm chest. The scent of pine and the faintest trace of cologne told you exactly who it was before he even spoke.

“Toji, love.” you started, a hint of exasperation in your voice. “What are you doing?”

“Mmm nothing.” he murmured against your ear, his voice rich and teasing. He grins slowly as he catches a peak of the hickeys from your side, hidden in the cardigan. “Just came to say thank you for, you know... last night.”

Your hands froze, the cookie you were holding slipping onto the counter as heat rushed to your cheeks. You were just trying to forget about it now but the images started to flood your head once more as your husband nibbles against your ear.

“Toji, please.” you hissed, glancing nervously toward the doorway to make sure Megumi was too busy with his presents to overhear. The last thing you need is to traumatize your little son.“Not now.”

But Fushiguro Toji, as always, was undeterred. He rested his chin on your shoulder, his lips grazing just close enough to your ear to make you shiver. He hums against your skin, bright eyes looking at you with wanton affection.

“What? I’m just saying Santa Claus didn’t just get a kiss under the mistletoe. I mean he enjoyed it really well too—”

You spin your head toward him, your bright eyes wide as you whisper with embarrassment. “Will you stop? Love, our son’s on the other side of the wall and—”

Toji only grinned, his hold on you tightening slightly as he leaned in closer. “Come on, sweetheart. Admit it. Santa Claus always deserves a little something extra for working so hard, don’t you think?”

“You sly fox of a husband.” you hissed, swatting at his arm as your cheeks turned an even deeper shade of red. “You are impossible. I swear, Toji.”

He let out a low, rumbling laugh, clearly reveling in your flustered state. “You’re cute when you’re all embarrassed like this, babe.” he teased, nuzzling the side of your neck in a way that made your heart skip. “But I wasn’t lying, you know. Best gift I’ve ever gotten.”

Your heart melted at his words, even as you tried to maintain your composure. “You’re lucky it’s Christmas, love.” you muttered, trying to sound stern but failing miserably as a small smile crept onto your face. “Otherwise, it’d be a different story.”

Toji shifted, leaning back just enough to study your beautiful expressions. His bright green eyes were soft, a rare tenderness shining in them that made your breath catch. The air of joy blossoming in his chest ever so fondly when he looks at you more. 

“Lucky, huh?” he said, a hint of sincerity beneath the teasing. “Nah. I’m the luckiest guy every day I wake up to you. Every day, every minute, every second. Every day. For forever. I’m the luckiest guy on earth, babe.”

Your face burned hotter, and you turned back to the cookies to hide your expression from him. You could feel your heart making flips and jumps against the wall of your chest. He’s always so good at making you feel this way. 

You were really going to be overwhelmed for all your life with how much he always makes you feel the universe with his love and tenderness. You were always going to be falling in love with this man over and over again like this. You sighed, admitting defeat to him. 

 “You’re ridiculous, love.” you mumbled, but the warmth blossoming in your chest betrayed your words. “Really….”

He couldn’t help but chuckled again, reaching around you to snag a cookie off the plate. You gasp as you try to stop him, but he lifts it up and you pout at him, knowing you can’t reach it. He snickers at you. You turn back and continue putting away the other cookies.

“That’s why you love me, babe.” Toji said, his voice smooth and teasing as he took another bite of the cookie, his smirk practically glowing with satisfaction. 

Before you could muster a response, he leaned down, his lips brushing against your temple in a kiss so gentle it made your heart flutter. “Don’t work too hard. Megumi and I are waiting for you, okay? Still got some presents left for us to open.”

You watched him stroll back into the living room, his broad frame relaxed, his laughter already mingling with Megumi’s excited chatter. His voice carried back to you, warm and playful, as he greeted your son again, seamlessly joining him in exploring his new toys. 

The sound of Megumi’s giggles and Toji’s deep chuckles filled the house, creating a melody that could warm even the coldest snowy, winter morning. It was what you wanted to wake up to every single day. It was all you could ever want for all of time.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, leaning back against the counter as a soft smile tugged at your lips. It was uncontrollable, this joy, this love that bubbled up in your chest. This was a love that had a place to go and blossom here in this place, in this family. In this life you have.

Ridiculous, you thought with a shake of your head. Toji was ridiculous. But he was also your, the most precious of men who made even the simplest moments unforgettable, who filled your life with laughter, warmth, and love.

And your precious Megumi. Your sweet, bright boy, was the perfect little light who completed the picture. Everything about life made sense when you met Toji and had Megumi together. Life began when you had this. And you knew he would agree with that sentiment.

You looked out at the scene before you, the two of them sprawled on the floor amid wrapping paper and toys, Megumi pointing animatedly at something as Toji nodded with exaggerated seriousness.

It was so small, so ordinary—and yet it was everything. It meant the world to you. No, you shook your head. It meant the universe to you. And you would never trade this for anything in the world.

You felt it all in that moment: gratitude, contentment, and a profound sense of love. How lucky you were, to have this life, this family. This was your everything. And no matter how many lifetimes you could dream of, you knew there would never be anything more beautiful than this.

“Babe, Megumi wants his mommy!” Toji’s voice called from the living room, pulling you from your thoughts.

You chuckled, pushing off the counter and heading toward the sound of your favorite voices. “Coming, love!”

As you stepped into the living room, Megumi beamed up at you, his hands full of his latest toy, while Toji looked over with a smirk that was both mischievous and affectionate. You settled in beside them, feeling their warmth wrap around you like a hug. 

Life wasn’t just great to live—it was perfect. 

And you wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

══════════════════

TOJI'S TAKING ALL THE OPPORTUNITIES HE CAN GET. But if you were being honest, so were you. Last night wasn't enough for you to get your fill. When your husband is someone like Toji, how could you?

The house was quiet now, save for the faint hum of the heater and the occasional creak of the floorboards as the winter wind pressed against the walls.

Megumi had been tucked into bed after a long, laughter-filled Christmas dinner, his tiny snores signaling that he was sound asleep. The evening had been perfect—filled with warmth, love, and memories you’d cherish forever.

Now, it was just the two of you.

Toji leaned against the doorframe of your bedroom, watching as you pulled off the festive sweater you'd worn all day. His gaze was heavy, but not with exhaustion—it was something else, something that made your skin tingle.

"You finally sitting still for once?" he teased, his voice low, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress the grin that followed. "Maybe I am. Or maybe I was waiting for you to catch up."

That was all the invitation he needed. Toji crossed the room in a few long strides, his arms circling your waist as he pulled you close. His lips found yours almost immediately, hungry, but unhurried. He kissed you like he had all the time in the world, and for once, it felt like you did.

Your fingers slid into his hair, tugging lightly as he deepened the kiss. His hands roamed, tracing the curve of your waist, the small of your back, and eventually settling at your hips, holding you firmly against him. The heat between you both grew, sparking like the fire you’d left burning in the living room.

"I’ve been waiting all day for this, babe." he murmured against your lips, his voice rough and filled with need.

"Me too." you admitted, your breath hitching as his lips moved to your neck, leaving a trail of soft, teasing kisses that made your knees weak.

The world outside didn’t matter anymore. Not the snow piling up on the windowsill, not the mess of dishes waiting in the kitchen, and certainly not the clock ticking down the last hours of Christmas Day. All that mattered was the way Toji made you feel. You always feel so seen, loved, desired when it comes to your beloved husband.

He guided you toward the bed, his movements slow and deliberate as if savoring every second. The night was yours, a stolen moment of intimacy in the chaos of life.

And as his lips found yours again, you knew this was the best gift you could have asked for—time together, just the two of you, wrapped in the comfort of each other’s arms.

Toji’s arm slid right back around your neck, firm yet careful, pulling you closer as his lips claimed yours once more. The way he touched you sent shivers cascading down your spine, every sensation heightened by the quiet intimacy of the moment.

His grip was confident, possessive, and it made your pulse quicken as pleasure rippled through you like a rising tide. Each kiss, each graze of his hands against your skin, ignited something deep within you, leaving no room for anything else but the heat building between you.

He knew exactly how to unravel you, how to make you melt under his touch, and he didn’t hold back. He never holds back. Not when it was you he has to make love to. Making love to you was his church. It was his patronage. It was his repentance, it was his atonement. It was his salvation. His love for you was his salvation.

“Toji…” Your voice was barely a whisper, a mixture of breathlessness and yearning.

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes dark and intense, filled with something raw and unspoken. His thumb brushed gently along your jawline as his other arm stayed firmly around your neck, keeping you grounded in the moment.

“You doin' so good, babe.” he murmured, his voice rough and low, sending a fresh wave of heat through you.

The way he looked at you, the way he held you. Everything about it was overwhelming in the best way. Your body responded instinctively, arching into him as the pleasure coursed through every nerve, building higher with each kiss, each touch, each whispered word.

Time seemed to blur as he continued, his movements unhurried but deliberate, as though savoring every moment with you. And in that moment, nothing else mattered. This was all there was right now, just the two of you, lost in the intoxicating rhythm of each other.

Toji’s lips trailed down to your neck, his hot breath against your skin making you shiver. He knew exactly where to kiss, where to linger, drawing soft gasps from you as his hand caressed your side, sliding over the curves he loved to touch.

The pressure of his arm around your neck wasn’t rough, but good enough to make you feel the tension of his touch against your flesh. Everything about his touch, it was deliberate, possessive, reminding you that he wanted every inch of you, body and soul.

Your hands roamed over his shoulders, pulling him closer, urging him to keep going. The sensations rolled through you like waves, each one stronger than the last, your body responding to his every move. You could feel the heat of him against you, the tension between you building with every touch, every kiss.

“Toji…” you murmured again, your voice trembling with need.

“Hmm?” He didn’t stop, his lips finding that spot just below your ear that made your breath hitch. “Say it again, babe.” he whispered, his tone dark and teasing, sending a fresh jolt of desire through you.

Your fingers tightened in his hair, tugging gently, and the low chuckle that escaped his lips vibrated against your skin, sending shivers cascading down your spine. The sound was rich, deep, and filled with promise, igniting a fire inside you that grew with every passing second.

His lips trailed along your jawline, slow and deliberate, before finding the sensitive curve of your neck. He lingered there, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses that made your breath hitch.

Your body press instinctively closer to him. The warmth of his mouth, the scrape of his teeth against your skin, left you trembling, a quiet gasp spilling from your lips.

His hand slid lower, the roughness of his palm contrasting deliciously against your soft skin. His touch was teasing at first, featherlight, exploring, testing your limits.

But then it grew bolder, more certain, as he found the places that made you quiver beneath him. Every brush of his fingertips sent sparks shooting through your body, the intensity of it building with each moment.

You arched into him, desperate for more, the ache between you growing unbearable. A soft moan escaped you, unbidden but unstoppable, and the sound seemed to ignite something in him.

He let out another low, satisfied laugh, his breath hot against your neck as he murmured, “You sound so good, baby. Don’t stop.”

The pleasure rolled through you like a tidal wave, crashing over every part of you until all you could feel was him. It was all his touch, his heat, his weight against you.

The room seemed to melt away, leaving only the two of you locked in this intimate dance, your bodies moving together in perfect, unspoken harmony.

Your skin grew slick with sweat, the heat between you almost unbearable but so, so good. Every movement, every touch, every kiss only pulled you deeper into him, the connection between you electric and all-consuming.

“Toji…” you whispered, your voice trembling with need, his name spilling from your lips like a prayer.

He lifted his head just enough to meet your gaze, his dark eyes smoldering with desire as he leaned in close.

“I’ve got you, babe. I got you.” he murmured, his voice rough and filled with raw emotion.

And with those words, he claimed your lips again, pouring every ounce of his passion into the kiss. His hand tangled in your hair, his other still exploring, holding you firmly against him as if he couldn’t bear to let you go.

Toji’s breath hitched as he stilled, buried deep inside you, his forehead pressed to yours. The heat of your body wrapped tightly around him, the soft, rhythmic flutter of your walls making him groan low in his throat.

It was almost too much for you, how big he was, how whole you feel when he fit you to the hilt. Everything about it the way you felt, the way your body seemed to pulse and cling to him, drawing him deeper into the moment. It all just felt too good.

His hands gripped your hips firmly, anchoring himself, trying to hold onto the frayed edges of his control. A thought flickered in his mind, unbidden and primal: Can I even last long with this?

The idea sent a fresh wave of heat coursing through him, his jaw clenching as he tried to steady his breathing. He didn’t need to move—didn’t need to thrust or grind or do anything but stay right where he was, utterly consumed by the way you felt around him.

The subtle contractions of your body, the way you tightened around him and the way he fluttered tightly against your walls, that was all enough to drive him mad. You were still as you were before, you were paradise in every sense of the word.

“Toji…love....oh—” you whispered, your voice a mix of need and wonder, your nails dragging lightly down his back. The sound of his name on your lips only made it harder for him to hold back.

“Shit, babe.” he murmured, his voice rough and strained. “You’re gonna kill me like this.”

He pressed his forehead harder against yours, his breath coming in uneven gasps as he tried to wrestle with the overwhelming pleasure. Your moans can only grow as he pushed in and out in a more passionate speed.

“I swear… I could come just like this, babe.” he admitted, his voice low and ragged. “The way you’re squeezing me so good, babe… you feel so damn good.”

The confession sent a shiver through you, your body responding instinctively, and he groaned again, his fingers digging into your hips as if to ground himself. He wanted to move, to chase that inevitable high.

But at the same time, he didn’t want to lose the sheer intensity of the moment—didn’t want to lose the way it felt to just be inside you, connected in every way. He still needed to last a little bit more, he wanted this moment to last.

He leaned in, his lips brushing yours as he murmured, “You’re perfect. You know that?” His voice was raw, filled with both reverence and desperation.

And as he stayed there, lost in the heat and intimacy, he wondered if he could ever get enough of this—of you. Every sensation was heightened, every second stretching into eternity, until nothing else existed but him.

The overwhelming pleasure coursing through you. In his arms, you felt completely unraveled, utterly cherished, and entirely his. The world outside faded completely—just the two of you, tangled together in the quiet intimacy of your shared space.

Toji’s movements grew more deliberate, his bruised lips finding your own again as he deepened the kiss, his arm around your neck keeping you anchored to him. His tongue wrestling against yours as he tried to thrust deeper inside your mouth, earning a groan from your throat.

The way he held you, the way he touched you—it wasn’t just desire; it was love, raw and unfiltered, pouring into every moment.

Your body trembled beneath him, overwhelmed by the waves of pleasure he brought you, and you clung to him, lost in the heat of the moment. Toji pulled back slightly, his forehead resting against yours as he caught his breath, his voice low and husky when he finally spoke.

“You’re mine, babe.” he whispered, the words heavy with emotion and promise.

His calloused hand brushing your cheek as his eyes met yours. And in that moment, you knew there was no place you’d rather be than here, with him, wrapped up in the intensity of his love.

"Always." You whispered back to him.

He felt satisfied with that as he pushed deeper into you.

You couldn't speak words anymore by the end of that.

The world was cold from the snowing echoes, but you were warm.

Warm in the pleasure of the husband you loved the most.

══════════════════

epilogue

The room was still bathed in the soft glow of the bedside lamp, your breathing finally steady after what had been a Christmas evening full of all sorts of intimacy and bright warm laughter.

Fushiguro Toji, ever the opportunist, propped himself up on one elbow, the smirk on his face practically devilish as his fingers began tracing patterns on your bare shoulder.

“You know, babe.” he started, his voice low and teasing, “I’m thinking Santa deserves a little overtime bonus for all his hard work tonight.”

You turned your head, arching a brow as you caught the glint in his eye. “Overtime? Didn’t we just finish the main shift? Both last night and tonight?”

“Oh, I’ve got plenty of energy left, babe.” he murmured, leaning in to nip playfully at your ear. “The question is… do you?”

You opened your mouth to reply, maybe to tease him back, but the sound of soft footsteps in the hallway made you both freeze. Your eyes darted toward the door, which creaked open just enough to reveal a mop of messy black hair and the outline of a sleepy little boy clutching his favorite stuffed animal.

“Mom? Dad?” Megumi’s voice was tiny, wobbling just enough to tug at your heartstrings. “I had a nightmare…”

Toji let out a low groan, his head dropping onto your shoulder as he muttered, “Of course you did, kid. Of course you did.”

“Shush!” you hissed, elbowing him lightly before sitting up and pulling the blanket around yourself. “Come here, sweetheart.” you said softly, patting the edge of the bed.

Megumi shuffled in, his little feet barely making a sound as he climbed up onto the bed and wriggled his way into the space between you and Toji. He immediately buried his face against your side, his stuffed animal squished between the two of you.

“What happened, bud?” you asked, stroking his charcoal hair gently.

“There was a big, scary monster…” Megumi mumbled, his voice muffled against your side. “It chased me, and it almost got me.”

You looked at your husband who sighed back at you. Toji pushed himself up onto one elbow, running a hand through his disheveled hair, looking towards his little son.

“A monster, huh?” he asked, his tone light but laced with mock seriousness. “Did it look like a giant turkey? ‘Cause I told you eating all that stuffing was a risky move.”

Megumi pulled his face away just long enough to glare at his dad, his little brow furrowed in unimpressed indignation. “No, Dad.” he said with a hint of exasperation. “It wasn’t a turkey. It was scary!”

“Scarier than me?” Toji teased, flexing his arm dramatically as if that would somehow settle the matter.

You shot him a look, biting back a laugh. “Toji, love. Please.” you warned softly, shaking your head.

“Okay, okay.” Toji relented, holding up his hands in mock surrender. He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to Megumi’s hair. “Listen, kid, no monsters are getting past me. You know that, right? They take one look at your old man and run for the hills.”

Megumi’s little body relaxed against you, his small hand clutching tightly at your shirt. “Promise?” he whispered.

Toji ruffled his hair. “Promise. Now get some sleep. You’ve got another day of playing with all those presents tomorrow, and I don’t want to hear any complaints about being too tired.”

Megumi let out a sleepy little hum of agreement, his breathing evening out as he drifted off within minutes. Toji flopped back onto his pillow with a long sigh, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye.

“So, what do you think? Nightmare slayer and round-two initiator all in one night? I’m a man of many talents.”

You smirked, leaning over to plant a quick kiss on his cheek. “You’re also a man with a very tired wife and a son snoring between us. Maybe tomorrow, Toji.”

Toji groaned dramatically, throwing an arm over his face. “Tomorrow? I’m not getting any younger over here.”

You rolled your eyes, stifling a laugh as you settled back down, pulling the blanket up over the three of you. “Goodnight, Santa.” you teased, nudging him lightly.

Toji huffed but couldn’t suppress the faint smile tugging at his lips as he turned to wrap an arm protectively over both you and Megumi. He looked at you both warmly.

“Yeah, yeah. Merry Christmas to me." he muttered, his voice soft and warm. And despite his earlier grumbling, you could feel the contentment radiating from him.

For Fushiguro Toji, there was no better gift than this—his family, safe and sound, wrapped in the warmth of a love he’d never stop cherishing. Life was great.

[madamechrissy]

Escort! Satoru- part five

Pairings- Escort Satoru Gojo x shy CEO F! reader

Warnings- mutual pining like a mf, obsessed ass/whipped ass Gojo, mutual pining, lots of yearninggg, kissing (I KNOW YAYYY) dry humping, teasing, fingering, public play, fluffy and cute- there will be a part six! (final) pretty woman vibes 🤭

<<<Part Four - Final Part>>>

Escort! Satoru finally does it, he asks you on that date, watching the shock in your eyes, the trembling of your lips as you step back, and Satoru feels it then, the hammering of his heart. Is it too late? Should he have reached out again to you after the first night, when you didn't answer? His blue eyes peer at you over those glasses, as the sunlight beats down on your skin, making his cheeks just a little reddened, striking across his pale skin.

Escort! Satoru eases his hands gently off your face, when you swallow nervously - he hurt you so badly that night, the embarrassment of asking him to hold you, dying for a mere kiss on the lips. How could you be so foolish, truly, you had to try to forget him in any way you could, after sleeping with him and knowing he would never be yours, always sharing him, he was just there because of your money and maybe he enjoyed it. But it wasn't more.

Escort! Satoru realizes how much he fucking missed you now, as if some void is filled by your presence, but you lower his hands gently, holding them for a moment. 'I was so...' stupid, you were stupid 'I'm very sorry I asked you for things you never do,' you sigh, looking around, seeing people walk by. 'I should have respected your-' Satoru stops you then, tilting your chin up, your gaze focused on him. 'I should have held you, okay? I'm sorry...' you feel your eyes fill with the tears, as words you've dreamed of are spoken, and they feel just like that- a dream. 'I want a real date, could we?'

Escort! Satoru eyes you when your phone rings, and you look down nervously. 'I have a date tonight, the first in... years' Satoru steps back now, glaring at you. 'With who?' you blink in surprise. 'Why does it matter to you? Do you think after months I wouldn't ever wanna try?' Satoru grips your wrist, thumb brushing against the veins gently, sending shivers down your spine, as he tries to compose himself, he has no right to be so mad, so jealous. 'Fine, then give me a date after' he murmurs, desperate for you, how can he see you and not try? After everything he's been yearning for appears before him, and he knows how badly he fucked up. 'I don't know...' you want to, god you do, but you also know how badly Satoru can hurt you, uniquely. 'Please just, give me a chance to explain myself, to be myself and not...' he trails off, the wind blows gently and a little blossom lands on your hair, which he sweetly brushes away. 'One chance'

Escort! Satoru is furious thinking about anyone touching you, though it's toxic and unrealistic in every aspect. His job was to touch, though he'd throw it all away if you asked, god he would, because he doesn't find joy in any of it. No amount of money fills this emptiness, but he never thought he'd have a chance with you - only to ruin it. 'I'll go out with you this weekend, but you pick the place, and pick me up' you say softly, his heart thuds as he nods eagerly, desperate and pathetic for you - something he's never been until you ruined him with just your energy, your body, that laugh he'd love to have back. Memories of your night fill him then, as he aches to touch you, to know you, to kiss you.

Escort! Satoru plans the date to a tee, but the whole time he's wondering - where are you going, and with who? Would you prefer them over him? Meanwhile you're trying to get through that date, mind wandering, you just tried to open up for the first time since Satoru broke your heart - even if it was your own fault. You try to smile, and enjoy him, a handsome man that surely was perfect on paper, and interested in you. As the night goes on and the drinks pour, you think to yourself, you should try, letting him kiss you at the end of the evening, wondering what you'll feel. It's nice, but it's nothing like just being near Satoru. Frustrated almost to tears, you're laying in bed that night, as the man in your head that you almost pushed down enough, is back front and center.

Escort! Satoru can't stand it, knowing you're on a date, he almost texts you so many times before he caves - 'ready for our date?'- he smirks, hoping your with whoever it was. But you don't answer him for hours, until you finally write him - yes - and that's it, no sweet banter like the two of you had. It's different, had you really already moved on? He trembles as he texts you - 'how was the date?' - and you write - 'it was fine, any jobs tonight? - and that's when he realizes you're mad. The sweetest girl he met is so clearly mad. He hadn't taken a job tonight, and he's cancelled his week, but he gets it clearly. - 'no job tonight, I'm excited to see you' - He's never said that to anyone. You heart the message, emotions catching, excitement but apprehension in equal parts, you just don't know if he's serious, you're so scared to let go again.

Escort! Satoru picks you up that night in his car, some little Maserati sports car that looks like it goes way too fast. You can't act like he's not sexy as fuck as he steps out of it, opening your door and grinning at you, but you try to hold back, smiling with a 'thank you' as you slide in next to him. Satoru's hand craves to press on your thigh, but fuck if he's not nervous, he hasn't had a date since he started this career despite his job being to go on dates, not a real one, not with someone he asked. He's damn near shaking with his nerves, trying to play it off, as he drives through the quiet streets, smiling over at you with a quirk of his lips. 'You look beautiful' his words make you flustered, nervously tugging a bit on the gorgeous dress you're wearing, glittering like the stars in the sky - fuck your very skin itself glitters. 'you're saying it truly this time?'

Escort! Satoru glares now, foot on his break, scowling at you. 'what do you mean truly? you think I didn't mean any of it?' you blink back unexpected tears, looking out the dark tinted window as he drives once more. 'It was your job, that's all, and I told you I took it too far, you shouldn't feel bad that happened. I - ah!' he skids to a stop suddenly, pulling off the side of the road, and unbuckling your seatbelt so fast you can barely register. He's got you on his lap so fast, as cars whirl by, shaking the fucking car and shocking you further, as he handles you like it's nothing. You brace your hands on his chest, so nervous now, hands clenching the black jacket of his tux, breaths faster and faster. 'You are beautiful, I never said that because of a job' he swipes away your tears, lips hovering over yours, as he exhales, breath tickling your lips. 'What are you doing, Satoru?' your whisper is weak, as he drags you even closer, and his eyes dart to your lips. 'What I should have done that night'

Escort! Satoru slams his lips on yours then and there, you feel it like hot, electric shots going through your body when he does, when he's pressing those plush, glossy lips on yours, and you're shattering over him, lost in his kiss. Satoru has never felt anything like it, like finally kissing you, his tongue slipping in your mouth, drinking up your every cry, every gasp, as you roll your hips just right, and he feels the heat he's been dying for against his aching cock. 'Fuck...' his hushed words are met with your little cry, which just has him dragging you down harder, ready to devour every sweet inch of you, but barely being able to drag himself from your lips, gasping as he pulls back, eyes meeting yours, glimmering now. 'Satoru you... kissed me...' you're close to crying now, trembling as he sighs, cupping your pretty face, the one that's haunted him. 'I've wanted to since I first saw you'

Escort! Satoru keeps kissing you, over and over, desperate and messy, you almost cum just from that friction against you, his teeth sinking into your lower lip, as his huge hands press into your skin. 'I need you, fuck I need you sweetheart- god you have no clue' you're easing back, struggling to compose yourself. 'Am I so VIP?' you tease softly, and he feels it then, the soft way you're asking - not judging, but scared. He exhales, resting his head on yours, shaking his head and pulling you down again. 'I'll gladly delete my whole fucking profile, for a chance with you' his words sink in fully. Your cheeks are hot under his gentle touch. 'I just don't... Satoru, you don't have to do this for me. I understand...' He kisses you once more, before your phone rings.

Escort! Satoru glares, and you can't help but giggle. 'Are you jealous?' he just sets his jaw, as you look over and see it, holding the phone with a shaky hand, and he pulls you harder on his cock, having your eyes roll back in your skull. 'Tell him you're on a date' he whispers, gripping you so tight, before easing you to sit back in your seat, kissing you over and over. 'Let's get there, okay?' you're trying to compose yourself, seeing him shift and wince while he drives once more, pouting. 'You enjoying my pain, sweets?' you can't help but giggle again. The date is pretty and serene, the restaraunt on the roof top, swathed in moonlight. Satoru feeds you carefully, the two of you sharing dessert, talking and laughing like the first time he fucking met you - when he knew then, something was so special about you, something he could never pin fully, but he sees it, with how the candle light hits your face, your sweet blush as his hand slips up your thigh.

Escort! Satoru is not happy to learn you've had a kiss, and your amused little smile is quickly lost, when he slips his fingers between your thighs, and you wildly look around, as he smirks at you. 'That's cute, you kissed? did you like that?' he's taunting now, possessive gaze, that you can't get enough of, fuck you want all of him, even though you're scared, so scared to be hurt again. He's pressing his fingers against your panties, which are soaked, watching as your eyes get lidded, hand gripping the thick white cloth, and he slips under then, feeling the heat he'd been dying for, leaning in close. 'Asked you a question, hmm?' you lean closer, hips shifting, jerking as he thumbs your twitchy little clit, making you gush. 'Would you be mad if I liked it, Satoru?' he sighs, slipping two fingers in your slick hole, making you almost moan in the fucking restaurant now. 'You're wet for me, aren't you, all me?' He's curling them now, acting so casual as a waitress refills your wine, and you pray no one hears the squishing noises your juices are making.

Escort! Satoru can't help but suck you off his fingers, right before he makes you cum, and you're throbbing around nothing, wanting. You're clenching your teeth as you watch, as if he's finishing his dessert- and when he tastes you again!? He can barely control himself, eyes dilated while you sink into his tastebuds, ready to finally give you what you want, and need, and deserve, fuck you so good you can't function, and hold and kiss you. Satoru slips his lips on yours in front of the restaurant, and you taste yourself, whining into his lips. Suddenly a girl sees him, a frequent client who'd gotten too obsessed, and walks right up to him, crossing her arms. He eases back in the seat, as you look down shyly, unsure of who she is. 'I'm on a date' his words make your heart flutter now, as she glares. 'ah, so you do kiss? was this some special package, do you know how expensive you are?' you bite back a smile, and Satoru just grins, shaking his head like a little shit. 'It's different, she's my girlfriend.'

Escort! Satoru blushes when you whisper 'your girlfriend, huh?' in his ear moments later, as a very angry client stomps off, and he brushes back your hair, hard body against yours, studying your face. 'Would you... be my girlfriend?'

taglist 1 @shydroid3000 @aducksmokingquack @miya4life @ravenbc @yenayaps @nezukuwu @etsuniiru @ieathairs @kenqki @princess-bblgm @belovedxiao @ninikrumbs @ieathairs @myahfig4 @theelegantpotato @vvaoo @aldebrana @celestep004 @whoisteona @ladyneisa @lililovely78 @gamerhere @wstaley2 @allthesqueaks @slut4donghyuck @maisiefrancesca @yittten @femaholicc @jjknanamin @that-b-word-lol @devastyle @mat-mat-mat @jkslaugh97 @ovela @mxgnolia @rikiswifeyyy @kaayyhunnyy @gojos1wife1 @arabellasolstice @01ve3rz @jud3thedude @firemoonlightfly @vyluvs @artist1936 @kyelikesanime @alygator77 @seternic @qlucoise @mysticranger575 @undermegumisbed

[madwomansapologist]

──────〃✰ KINKTOBER DAY 1: 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐏 𝐏𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐑

title: poker face synopsis: luckily, mr. zero didn't knew you were a mugiwara. luckily, mr. zero fell for your bluffs. unfortunately, you never imagined it would be that hard to not fall for crocodile's charm. [3.1K] cw: mugiwara!fem!reader, strip poker, strip tease, public sex, cock crush, nipple stimulation, size difference, fingering (f!receiving), riding, biting, scratching, finger sucking, p in v, creampie, possessive behavior, mob boss meets a baddie, pussy so good he wonders about marriage.

PREV POST ✰ NEXT POST

With a thick cigar between his teeth, Crocodile forced himself to smile. “Five of a kind”, he dropped his cards on the table. “Seems like the house won. Again.”

Crocodile’s presence in Rain Dinners works to reinforce his reputation as a hero in this wretched island. Unfortunately, it also means Crocodile is tormented by the most boring clientele.

To watch someone gambling everything they own out of delusional hope and losing it all because of sheer mischance is only interesting the first few hundreds of times. Now, all Crocodile feels is disdain.

He curses those vermin that stole the joy of victory.

Murmuring complaints, two bettors left the table. The croupier stretched his arm, reaching for the cards left far away from him. As the cards were shuffled, Crocodile took in the chance to observe the tables nearby. Searching for chaos to be dealt with, such a common occurrence in a casino, an unusual sight stole his attention.

A long, thick, light pelted fur coat. Crocodile inhaled the smoke, holding it in. Admiring you with that coat over your shoulders, no one would’ve imagined this is the middle of a desert. And still, you didn’t break a sweat.

One of the bettors decided it was the right moment to thank Crocodile for his protection over Alabasta. He did his best to sound modest, heroic. To embody the last hope of this dying island. The moment a white blur entered his peripheral vision, Crocodile simply ignored the man’s existence.

With a hand over the chair’s top rail, you stared directly at the croupier. “May I?”, you asked, voice sultry as the desert.

Crocodile took the cigar out of his mouth, releasing the smoke in the direction opposite from you. “Made just in time”, he moved his hand towards the croupier ready to start. “Do you know how to play, hon’?”

You took a sip from your glass, not bothering to answer him. Placing your coat over the chair’s rail, you reached inside its pocket and took the poker chip’s box. You left it open on the table, emerald dress moving on your body as you sat down and crossed your legs.

The box was filled to the brim.

Your lack of interest on him ignited something within Crocodile. Curiosity. Something far more interesting than gambling against weak bluffs. “New to poker?”, Crocodile smiled devilish. The sort of smile that make pretty women like you forget about decency.

If only you had looked at him.

“New to this island”, you answered, sounding as bored as Crocodile was before you got there. The way you danced around his question was enough for him to know you didn’t want the others to think of you as an easy target. Usually, Crocodile would simply profit on it. This time, with you staring straight into his eyes, he couldn’t care less about this game. “Is it worth?”

“It will be.”

A promise Crocodile intended to fulfill.

Feeling his gaze burning your skull, to not smile was never so difficult. If you were weaker, you would’ve laugh until your cheeks fell apart from your face. How funny. How alluring. Ah, Luffy really told you the truth.

Your life will be funnier around me, Luffy gave you the brightest smile you ever saw. Stroking your cheek, he cleaned the trace of tears. I will never let you get bored.

A Shichibukai stands before you, unable to see you as part of the threat he is so interest in dealing with. The man that sent thousands of bounty hunters after your crew, that forced Vivi to witness as unnecessary violence tore her nation in pieces, doesn’t even know that you’re part of the group he wants to exterminate.

Good. That means the plan of distracting Crocodile has a chance of working.

Each bettor made an initial contribution for the deal to start. At every round, you raised the amount of chips. It didn’t matter if others were dropping out of the deal or if Crocodile doubled the bet with no hesitance. You simply continued to bet more.

That was alluring. It told more about you than your pretty lips could. You’re not here to make money. You’re not here to waste it. You’re here for amusement. And that Crocodile can give you any time.

“Showdown”, the croupier called. “Please, bettors, show your hands.”

The woman sitting beside you sighed, showing two pairs. Two bettors had dropped out, choosing to wait until the next deal. You placed your cards on the table. 4, 3, K, 10, 10. One pair. “Does that mean anything?”

The first man to drop out chuckled. “Only that you lost.”

Lost in the way your smile spread across your face, the croupier had to remind Crocodile it was his time to show the cards. “Three of a kind”, he murmured. This time, he put no effort into acting as if he cared that he won. Crocodile just wanted to learn more about you. “Do you know the rules?”

“Does it really matter?”, your bright smile was enough to enlighten the whole place. As the croupier changed the card sets, you gave him your solely attention. “The best liar wins at the end.”

“No surprise you haven’t won yet”, Crocodile smirked. He spread his legs, cigar between his fingers. His golden hook glistened, reminding you of the threat he represented simply by breathing. “It’s so easy to see right through you.”

But not to see how I stole all those chips from you, was what you thought. “Seems like a failure of mine”, was what you said out loud.

With a movement of his hand, a waiter approached. Crocodile whispered into his ear; eyes still fixated on you. Intoxicated on his presence, you forgot to look away. What a tempting man. From then on, your glass never remained empty.

Deal after deal, you continued to lose just as Crocodile continued to win. Deal after deal, you continued to answer just as Crocodile continued to ask.

Until there were only you two left at the casino. You let go of your glass and closed the poker chip’s box, raising from the chair. “Should have expected a pirate to be a good gambler.” You took your coat, walking away from the table. “Have a good night, Crocodile.”

“One last deal?” Crocodile was quick to offer. Desperately, you would add. “And then we call it.”

You raised the empty box. “I have nothing left to bet.”

And at that, Crocodile saw his last chance of amusing you. “Then let’s bet everything we have.”

Sat down again, chin supported by your palm, you frowned. The wine had started to affect you both. “And by that you mean…”

“Everything”, Crocodile spread his legs, resting his hook on his thick thigh. You told yourself he was begging for you to stare, but you weren’t that sure of it. “Every chip on this table. Everything on our bodies.”

As he closed his mouth, a part of Crocodile feared his proposition would offend you. It doesn’t happen often, but there is a chance he misread your signals.

“I’ve been eyeing your rings since I sat here”, you wondered out loud. “Just as you been eyeing my dress.”

But to be so straight to the point… Crocodile wasn’t quite expecting that. It was what he wanted, but to see how you two were connected made harder for him to breath.

Then you sighed.

“As tempting as it is,” and you were standing again. Crocodile hated to see that. He would hate even more to see you leaving. “It is also getting late. Like I said, I’m new to this island.”

“You have nothing to fear”, Crocodile bargained. “Not when I’m around.”

“But you won’t be around on my way back to the hotel.”

“Then stay here”, he offered. You arched an eyebrow. “I don’t intent on letting you walk away that easily. I’m a pirate. I’m used to taking what I want for myself.”

For an eternity, you both stared into each other’s eyes. A silent negotiation. His final offering, your final chance of doing the right thing and walking away from danger. You could see his very soul. How it burned just beneath the surface. Crocodile felt the same heat coming from you.

The croupier forced a cough, remind you of his presence. It took much of his strength for Crocodile to not kill him right then and there.

“Shuffle the cards and leave”, you ordered.

He obeyed. Quickly. You both took a look at your cards sets. A smile died within you. A smirk grew on Crocodile’s face. The moment the croupier closed the exit door, Crocodile showed his hand.

Crocodile looked even bigger than he already was, filled with the confidence of a winner. “Four of a kind.”

Dropping your hand on the table, you were the winner he believed to be. “Royal flush”, you smiled. “Pretty sure that’s the highest since we’re not using any wild cards.”

Shock was a good look on Crocodile. After analyzing your cards, his gaze returned to you. “You said you didn’t know how to play.”

“Oh”, you drank the last sip from your glass. “Did I?”

And at your answer, all he could do was laugh. Crocodile ran his hand through his black hair. “You hustle me”, he whispered. Crocodile wasn’t able to get rid of this genuine smile.

Your laugh was real too. It made Crocodile breath in your scent, get drunk on the sweet sound coming from you. Not a bluff, not an act. It was real, and it only made you more beautiful. “And now you have a debt to pay.”

His face darkened, reminding you of who he is. You hustled Crocodile. You hustled Crocodile. You never thought of yourself as a stupid woman, but here you are. For fucks sake. Luffy really is rubbing on you.

Crocodile bended over the table, his broad shoulders creating a shadow over you. His hand grabbed your chair’s arm, his hook moving your chin upwards. A strand of hair fell in front of his orange eyes, and looking into them you felt like a powerless prey about to be ravished.

Face lurking inches above yours, Crocodile smiled devilish. A smile that made you forget about decency, focusing only on the promise of more of him. More of the man that wants to kill you. “Enjoy the show”, Crocodile whispered.

His blue scarf was the first to be throw away, and neither of you cared about where it would land. His long fingers worked on the buttons of the rumpled black-striped vest, so slowly you almost took it off of Crocodile by yourself.

The peach shirt beneath showed a portion of his wide chest and instead of finally getting rid of it, Crocodile held the leather belt around his waist.

He had so much fun teasing you, admiring how you couldn’t look away. A man as handsome must feel entitled to the silent praise. He really thought he was the one in charge, didn’t he? And for long enough, Crocodile was.

You’re a lot of things, but you’re not patient.

Leaning against the chair, you raised your leg. The silver heel brushed against his pants, from down on his ankle until the insides of his thigh. And when your painted nails shined right in front of his crotch, you forced your feet against it.

“Stop playing around.” Cocking your head, eyes explored his still covered up body. “Don’t make me wait.”

Crocodile grabbed your ankles, calloused hand stroking softly your skin. It wasn’t a rough touch, but not less possessive because of it. You put more pressure, making him groan. “You are insane.”

“And why is that?”

“Anyone else would fear me”, Crocodile’s voice reminded you of velvet and sharp knives. It lingered on your ears. “And here you are. Demanding more.”

You sighed, fingers brushing against your lips. That voice… it was your last straw. Fighting his hold, you put your foot down on the ground. You grabbed his shirt, pushing him back until Crocodile sat down on his chair again.

He opened his mouth as you sat down on his lap, but you gave him no time to do anything. “You talk too much.”

Holding the chair’s top rail as leverage, you dive into him. Tooth biting his lower lip, tongue forcing a passage into his warm mouth. Your free hand found a spot on his large neck, bringing Crocodile closer to you. Instead of waiting, you took what you wanted for yourself.

Just like a pirate would.

She isn’t fragile, Crocodile thought. She won’t break.

Sinking into you, Crocodile forgot about self-control. He simply ravished you, just like you demanded of him. A wild animal and nothing more. Exploring your mouth as if it was his to control, hand grabbing your soft skin without a care about finesse or decorum. Crocodile pressed his hook against your chest, enjoying how it didn’t stop you from moving as you wanted to.

You got him out of that stupidly tight shirt, hands scratching his chest as your hips moved on top of his crotch. He forced you down, putting your whole weight upon himself, and ripped your emerald dress into pieces with his hook.

“You’ll pay for this one.”

It was a complain, but your fingers working to unbutton his pants made clear you couldn’t care less. His kisses travelled to your neck, tongue leaving a trail of drool on your shoulder, mouth closing against your nipples. Your fingers intertwined with his hair, encouraging Crocodile to continue.

“I will get you anything you want”, he said, voice muffled. He couldn’t get away from your body to speak. “You burn hotter than the fuckin desert.”

No shame, no hesitation. Freed from his pants, you licked your palm before grabbing his cock. You pumped him with zero delicacy, thumb pressing against the dark, sensitive head. Just like everything in Crocodile, it was big enough to make you wonder.

As if he could read you mind, Crocodile slid his hand into your panties. Long fingers explored your lips, precise with every movement. Thumb pressing against your clit, two fingers against your wet slit. His hook brushed against your thigh, arm locking around you to press you down on his fingers.

Your loud moan embarrassed your very soul, but all Crocodile did was laugh. His teeth closed around your neck, biting hard enough to make you whimper. That’ll mark you for sure. “Ride me, hon’.”

With your nails deep into his back, you stretched yourself on Crocodile’s fingers. You bit his earlobe, brushing your face against his as you speed up your movements. In your hand, his cock throbbed. Crocodile was leaking, burning in the same way you do.

“Take what you want”, you whispered against his ear. “Fuck me already.”

It happened so quickly, you barely understood how he moved. A second before you were on his lap, two fingers deep into your hungry cunt, lips around his ear. Then you were sat on the table, poker chips falling on the floor, Crocodile standing between your legs.

A fucking monster.

Crocodile took his drenched fingers from you, and wasted no time before sucking them clean. He grabbed your thighs, exposing yourself from him. “She’s delicious”, Crocodile stared at your pussy. His fingers pulled your lips apart. “Will get me addicted to her.”

Using your legs, you got him even closer to you. Crocodile grabbed your hair, pulling you into a messy kiss. Fighting against your tongue, he fit the head of his cock into you. You moaned into his mouth.

Moving your heels against his thighs, you forced him inside of you. A stupid decision. Your head collapsed against his shoulder, the entirety of his length touching all the right places. So good, so right, so… much.

Crocodile wasn’t in that much of a better situation. Eyes closes tightly, lips hanging open as a deep cry escaped. So wet, so warm. Moving slowly, Crocodile chortled. He had no control over his mind anymore.

“Don’t you dare stopping”, you manage to say. “Just… fu-fuck, just like that.”

Deep thrusts as his fingers worked on your clit: Crocodile wouldn’t dream of doing anything other than you wanted. He could feel your drool gathering on his shoulder. How your fingers were deep into his forearms, or how the hold of your legs around his waist weakened.

All Crocodile wanted was to make you as addicted to him as he already was to you. To get you to scream his name, begging for more and more. He wanted you to take from him. To get what you wanted. And Crocodile wanted everything you could give him.

Feeling waves of pleasure washing over you, mind empty as a white canvas, you tilted your head back. Eyes half-open, you admired him. His raw lips, face covered in sweat. Marks of lipstick all over his chest, just as deep nail marks and surface scratched. You looked down, watching as he entered you.

“You are worth way more than eighty million.”

Crocodiled bended, tongue playing with your aching nipple. “After my head, hon’?”, he sucked on them. You stroked his hair, enjoying how primal Crocodile looked.

“Do I look insane?”, you moaned.

Crocodile looked into your eyes, face near yours. You placed your arms around his shoulders, but he held you in place. Crocodile simply looked at you. As if there was something new, something he never saw before.

“You do”, Crocodile whispered. It felt so intimate. For a moment, you weren’t being fucked in an empty casino. For a moment, you two were sharing a secret. “You’re perfect.”

You melted against him. Lost on your orgasm, you unlearned how to breath. The fact you couldn’t think didn’t stop Crocodile from kissing you. As you closed around him, Crocodile reached his limit. Tooth deep into your throat, he marked you again.

Tears formed behind your eyes, throat aching as you finally breathed again. You laid your head on his chest, feeling it rising with his unregulated breathes. A firm hand held your waist, his nose stopped in the union of your shoulder and neck. His biting hurt so good, just like your scratches on his skin.

When Crocodile opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was his hand holding onto the table. He looked at the fours rings you said caught your attention. And he saw how there was only one finger lacking a ring.

Insane, Crocodile thought. She’s making me insane.

As his hips moved away, a cry left your throat as he emptied your pussy, your legs finally stopped working. Crocodile took his cigar from the ashtray, smoking it for a few seconds. When he released the smoke, you grabbed his chin and made him face you. Inhaling it, you closed your eyes.

Not a second after you let it go, his hand and hook slid beneath your thighs. Effortlessly, Crocodile took you from the table. Your shaken legs closed around his waist as he carried you. “What you doing?”

Crocodile finally looked into your eyes again. He smiled, and it was genuinely. “Taking what I want for myself.”

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[seasidefallenangel]

gimme, gimme, gimme a man (2)

calling bllk boys your husband while you're still dating ft. bachira meguru, alexis ness, karasu tabito, otoya eita, shidou ryusei

notes: part 2 to this, fluff, banter, down bad loverboys, use of "wife" in alexis and karasu's, suggestive in shidou's (he's his own warning)

༄ bachira:

“megs, please stop moving - yeah, hi. my husband lost his id and we just need a replacement.”

✣ the second those words leave your mouth the cogs in his head are sent into hyperdrive. he’s barely ever thought of himself as boyfriend material, nevermind husband. for you to proclaim it so boldly in front of others makes him incredibly giddy with joy - to the point where his uncontrollable giggles begin to make the rest of the patrons and government workers a bit paranoid.

⁀➷ bachira’s latched onto you like koala as the two of you exit the office after getting the new id and a handful of concerned looks from the other people inside. his grin is so bright it almost hurts your eyes, and all he can say over and over is “husband? i’m your husband, right? when are we getting married? what kind of dress do you want? what’s the color scheme? i have to ask isagi if he’ll be my best man, and -!” you try to shut him up with a kiss, but the second your lips part he goes right back to babbling about your ‘upcoming’ wedding. you made your bed, so guess now you have to lay in it.

༄ alexis: “can me and my husband just get a slice of sachertorte and a mini quiche?”

✣ so, so, in love with you. you’re already his wife, soulmate, reason for living, so hearing you reciprocate his fantasies has him on cloud nine. he’s staring at you like you hung the stars in the sky, and his grip on your hand only tightens at your words. it doesn’t matter if people think he’s moving too fast, if he’s too dedicated to you - because you feel the same way. how could he ever even fathom letting you slip from his grasp?

⁀➷ “what season do you want our wedding to be in?” he asks softly as the two of you sit by the cafe window. despite his favorite dessert being right in front of him, he can’t be bothered to eat it. not when you’re across from him, your divinity blessing his meager existence. the question surprises you a bit as he takes your hand, lightly kissing across your knuckles. your expression is so adorable, he can’t help the small laugh that leaves him when he continues, “we’re getting married soon, aren’t we? i’ve already planned the ring i want for you, and i really don’t want to wait that much longer to make you mine.”

༄ karasu:

“hmm, i think they’re too small… oh, excuse me? do you mind getting a bigger size for my husband?”

✣ amused by how blatant you are about it. sure, he knows he wants to marry you someday, but he didn’t expect you to take these jumps so early. he doesn't mind it at all, though. domesticity has always been in the back of his mind when it comes to relationships, preferring to invest in long term romances than lust-filled flings like a certain friend of his. there’s been roughly a billion fantasies involving married life with you, and there’s about to be ten billion more now that you’ve called him that.

⁀➷ “husband, hm?” he says with a smirk as the store employee goes to grab the other pair of shoes. you turn to him with a raised eyebrow and unamused look, asking if he has a problem with it. raising his arms in defense, he simply chuckles and tells you, “not at all, babe. just wondering how i bagged a cute wife when i haven’t even proposed yet.” you just roll your eyes and turn back to the shelves to compare the other cleats. unable to resist, he stands and rests his hands on your waist to whisper into your ear, “your husband didn’t bother getting you a ring? seems like a scumbag. i’ll buy you one right after this,” before placing a gentle kiss on your lips - and rest assured, he’s true to his word.

༄ otoya:

“if you’re gonna keep flirting with my husband, you can fuck off.”

✣ scared out of his mind. he never planned to have any sort of long term relationship with you yet it happened to naturally. for the first time in his life, he found himself being the yearner instead of having his lovers chasing him down. hearing you call him your husband confirms to himself he’s totally smitten. it’s pathetic and frankly terrifying, but he thinks he’d die if he let you go. so of course, you’re with him the one time he really isn’t flirting with someone else and they won’t leave him alone. just his luck.

⁀➷ as the two of you walk back from the coffee shop, he’s convinced he’s about to see all nine of his ninjutsu lives be cut down with the way you’re steaming. the silence is killing him though, and he simply lets out a shaky “babe?” to test the waters. when you turn towards him with rage burning in your eyes, he knows he’s fucked ; except you take his cheeks between your hands and pull him down, telling him he belongs to you and you only. he’s shaking with how passionate you are, realizing you did believe him and it’s everyone else you don’t trust. heart pounding out of his chest, he feels a bit of relief begin to come back. yeah, he doesn’t mind being your husband one bit.

༄ shidou:

“i’m so sorry about my husband's behavior. he didn’t mean to offend you like that.”

✣ first of all, yes he did. second of all, this is probably the worst mistake you’ve ever made. shidou already has you-induced psychosis, so anything you do to feed his ego and remind him that you also like him back just creates an even bigger monster. he tries to steal a kiss in the middle of you speaking, but you know him too well and drag him down by the ear into an apologetic bow. consider him whipped, cause you putting him in his place is so painfully attractive to him he’s about to get down on that one knee now.

⁀➷ “is that any way to be treating your husband?” he says with a shit eating grin while you tug him by the collar down the sidewalk. the restriction around his neck should be painful, but he loves seeing you annoyed so much that he certainly can’t feel it. when you mutter something about already getting a divorce, his smile drops and he digs his teeth into your neck, making you yelp in pain and elbow him in the stomach. he laughs maniacally before brushing his lips against your ear and telling you, “see? we’re made for each other, babe. hurt me a little more, will ya?”

[bring-forth-his-sac]

Not sure if this is too far but maybe some dads best friend mixed in with close calls and very rough stuff if ya know what I mean 😏

Stained

Word Count: 7.4k

Warnings/Tags:  rough sex, degrading name calling (slut), mentions of a facial, cheating (soz Lucille), alcohol consumption, hair pulling, semi-public sex

It happened again.

By now, Negan knows the routine. Argue. Say shit neither one of them can take back. Lucille kicks him out or else Negan reaches his limit and storms out. Make up later. It’s their pattern.

But tonight is different. 

They were supposed to go to a friend’s house for dinner, which threw a wrench in their usual routine. A part of Negan still wanted to go. Sure, he dreaded the tension-filled conversation, Lucille throwing in her usual passive-aggressive digs, but there was a silver lining: he could vent afterward. He needed to. To someone who’d actually get it, without the sugar-coating.

Negan has been friends with your dad for years, long enough to know they could trade a few sharp words and move on without it turning into some dramatic scene. Sometimes, Negan could really use that kind of blunt, no-nonsense talk with another guy. 

But hell, he wouldn’t mind shooting the shit with you either. You always got his humor and honestly, you were the only one who could make him laugh without trying so damn hard.

Instead of your home, he finds himself at a bar. Lucille was quick to call dibs on going solo to your parents house, not wanting to deal with Negan in front of friends. 

He left without another word, driving to the local watering hole like a man on a mission.

The bar is the usual kind of dimly lit place that doesn't ask questions. Negan doesn’t need questions tonight. What he needs is a drink and a distraction.

He settles onto a chair by the bartop and orders a whiskey, the burn of it going down smoother than he expected.

Lucille’s parting words echo in his head, the sharpness of her dismissal stinging all over again. The way she had shut him down so easily, almost like telling off a child. Negan can feel the frustration creeping back in. He could’ve used a laugh tonight but instead, he’s stuck here. 

Alone, as usual.

On a typical night, Negan hates how quiet the bar is. He can’t stand silences, everything about it gets on his nerves. The patrons are too tight to even cough up a quarter to play a song on the jukebox. It always feels like the kind of place where the air is thick with nothingness and every minute stretches on longer than the last.

Negan doesn’t have the luxury to brood over that on this particular night. Instead, the loud chattering of a group of girls fills the bar, cutting through the silence like a chainsaw.

Just a handful of them crowd around a table, all bright-eyed and wide smiles, laughing as though the weight of the world hasn’t yet found them.

His brow furrows as he watches them out of the corner of his eye. They’re not doing anything wrong but the racket they’re making feels invasive in the normally subdued space. 

Every time they laugh, the sound hits him like a hammer to his skull, ringing in his ears. It’s like a constant, steady hum of disruption. Negan can appreciate a little noise and some new life in the place, but tonight?

Tonight, it’s too much. It’s frustrating him. He takes another swig of his whiskey but it doesn’t quite block out their high-pitched, frantic laughter. 

One of the girls spills a drink, and the others burst into a fresh round of giggles, the kind that seems to echo through the entire room. 

He’s about to look away when another girl quickly picks up the drink and continues to say something. She's sitting across from the others, leaning forward and talking animatedly, her hands flying through the air with each word. 

One of her hands subtly goes to her thigh and she tries to discreetly yank down her dress. 

Negan wonders if women know they don’t need to wear tight mini dresses or the crop tops to get laid. But he supposes that’s the joy of being a  youngster. They do stupid shit, wear stupid shit, drink stupid shit. Some grow out of it while others still say stupid shit and end up drinking alone at a bar.

His eyes flicker over her figure. Negan can’t see her face, the angle of her head and the way her body is half-turned away from him hides it. 

Negan doesn’t mind. He can still appreciate her thighs and the curve of her ass from his seat at the bar. Her hair and back covers most of her upper body too so Negan can’t appreciate any titty action just yet.

His fingers drum against the bar and he catches himself, realizing that he’s staring. He quickly looks away, taking another drink of his whiskey as if the liquid will wash away whatever was just stirred up inside him.

In a way, Negan’s glad you’re not like that. You’re pretty without all the extra shit. Since elementary school, you've never been the type to crave attention or stand out in a crowd. Yet you're not the kind of introvert who keeps completely to yourself either.

You fall somewhere in the middle, comfortable with who you are without needing to put on a show for anyone.

There’s been plenty of times you’ve been the most entertaining thing to Negan at your parent’s dinner parties. He loves the witty remarks you toss his way and how you both quietly poke fun at the evening while the others remain oblivious. Those little moments are the highlight of his night.

But, of course, there are also those other times. When a careless comment from your father or mother hits a nerve and you retreat into yourself, disappearing into the background. Negan can always tell when that happens; the sharpness in your eyes dulls and the sarcastic remarks you usually offer him vanish. 

He wonders if you’ll be disappointed tonight, when it’s only Lucille who arrives for dinner. You make the dinners bearable for him but surely you reciprocate that feeling. Both of you are as thick as thieves in your own subtle way.

The woman he’s been checking out stands, saying one more quick thing to her friends before she turns and heads for the bar.

Maybe it’s because you’re already clouding his thoughts that seeing you in person hits him even harder. He’s imagined you a thousand times, with your quiet demeanor and the casual clothes you wear that make you almost invisible.

The mental image of you is so vivid, it’s like you’ve been etched into his mind… yet here you are, so different than that.

You do the same action that you did earlier, yanking down the end of your dress as it threatens to ride up your thigh. Negan lets out a gulp, not sure how he feels at the fact that he’s been checking out his friend’s daughter.

Turning back to say something to your friends, you let out a laugh as you clog along in your high heels to the bar. 

This is exactly what you needed. A night away from all your worries and stresses… and your parents. 

Besides, you're an adult now. You’re allowed to have fun! Whether that be crazy golf, drinking until you need your stomach pumped or smoking whatever. No matter how much guilt or pressure your parents try to put on you, tonight is yours. You’re no longer bound by their expectations. You can take a break from being the person they want you to be and just be.

Maybe that’s why the words “Lydia found out her boyfriend cheated so everyone was going to go over to hers and cheer her up!” came out of your mouth when you told your parents you couldn’t stay for dinner instead of “We all want to go out and down tequila shots!”.

Whether your actual reasoning would’ve worked or not, it doesn’t matter because they let you out with no more than a remorseful look as you left to help your heartbroken friend.

“Get more salt sachets!” a giddy Lydia calls out as you clip-clop up to the bar. 

You’re so caught up in your own little bubble of excitement that you barely notice the guy at the bar. You wait beside him, leaning on the counter and waiting until the bartender comes over. When you feel his eyes linger, you glance his way, wondering if you’ve found some fun for the night. 

You look over, pre-emptively batting your eyes lashes everything seems to slow down. There, standing just a few inches away, is Negan. Your dad’s friend. 

You freeze for a moment, excuses caught in your throat, as you realize that it’s not just the familiarity of his face that’s throwing you off. It’s the way he's looking at you. Negan’s expression is unreadable but the way his gaze lingers has a weight that catches you off guard.

You try to swallow the sudden lump in your throat. What is he thinking? How long has he been standing there? And why, of all people, did it have to be him?

You hate it. On one hand, you want to ignore him. Maybe give him a nod of acknowledgment before pretending like you’re not in front of someone you’ve known since you were a kid. 

But on the other hand, you know what Negan’s like and the last thing you want is for him to loudly draw attention to your… friendship? 

Ushering yourself closer, you hurriedly whisper “What are you doing here?!”.

Negan struggles to maintain his composure, forcing himself to keep his eyes on your face instead of letting them wander. 

“What am I doing here?” His jaw clenches as if readying himself to barrage you with questions “What are you doing here, dressed like that? Are you drunk? Do your parents know you’re here? I swear….”.

You scoff defensively, glancing down at the glass of whiskey in front of him. “Oh so I can’t go out with friends but you’re allowed to drown your sorrows?”.

Negan doesn’t even entertain your question, immediately waving it off. “That’s not the damn point,” he hisses “I’m not the one with my tits out and stumbling around a bar!”. 

He shoots some other patrons a glare as they try to eavesdrop, making sure they keep their eyes to themselves. You gasp, putting a hand on your chest. Maybe your dress is a lower cut than what you’d usually wear but your boobs aren’t about to pop out of the thing!

“You— you can’t talk to me like that!” despite how your face flushes, you stand your ground. You’ve always known Negan to be raunchy but not once has he ever spoken to you like this before.

"Can't talk to you like what?” Negan doesn’t give you the time to ponder that rhetorical question, crossing his arms as he continues to lecture you.

“You think you look appropriate right now? You think your parents would approve of this outfit?" his eyes narrowing dangerously.

“I’m out with friends, not at dinner with my parents!” You defend, deciding to add in your own jab “Besides, I thought you were at theirs tonight, having dinner with Lucille… not drinking alone”.

Negan can’t keep still. He’s too antsy, wanting to shake some sense into you but trying to stay cool in public.

With an elbow propped up on the bar, Negan points a finger at you “Watch it, before I haul your ass outta here”.

This is the closest you’ve ever seen Negan to real anger. Whenever he’s been at your house, it’s always been the aftermath of it you’ve witnessed. His sullen mood and Lucille’s small comments at him whenever the conversation allowed; both of them handling their simmering frustration in their own way. 

To not only witness his anger first hand, but to have it directed at you… you’re not sure if you want to pout or get on your knees right then and there.

You scoff, trying to seem unbothered. “Enjoy your drink, I’m going back to my friends,” you say it with just enough sass, turning to retreat back to your table.

You know it’s a pointless endeavour. 

Negan won’t allow it. And you know it.

His hand snakes around your upper arm, his grip firm but not painful. "Oh no you don't,” he tugs you back, urging you to face him again “we’re leaving. Now”.

You were hoping for a little more time here, a bit more back-and-forth, rile him up before hopefully breaking down those stubborn walls. 

“You can leave, but I’m not!” you snap, digging your heels in.

He leans in close, his anger flaring back to life as his voice drops into a dangerously low growl. “I’m not asking you, sweetheart, I’m telling you” the pet name slips out like a command, making something tighten in your chest. 

“You’re drunk, you’re dressed like a goddamn slut and you’re not staying in this bar another second”.

Is it bad you can feel the heat between your legs as he degrades you? How is it your dad’s friend, someone you kinda considered your own friend too, is calling you a slut so easily? And why does he keep trying to steal quick glances at your chest?

Heh, well, you know the answer to that last question.

Still, you play your part and you slap his arm. “Don’t call me that! Jackass” you say with a defiant huff.

His eyes widen but Negan doesn’t acknowledge the slap in the way you wanted him to. Instead of continuing to bicker, he grabs his leather jacket from the back of his chair and throws it on, his movements sharp. 

“Jackass?” he repeats, clearly not amused.

“Yes! You’re acting like a major jackass!” you fire back, though there’s a glimmer of amusement in your voice. 

Negan grins, that mocking, almost wicked smile spreading across his face as steers you away from the bar.

“Yeah, and you know what else I am?” he asks “The one dragging your drunk, barely dressed ass out of this bar before you make a complete fool of yourself”.

He starts tugging you toward the exit. “I had like… two drinks!” you protest, stumbling slightly to keep up.

But just as he’s about to drag you out the door, you use all the momentum you have to shove him into the door right next to the exit. 

The ladies toilets. 

Your friends giggle as you both disappear from sight, assuming you’re hooking up with the stranger. They’ve always known you have a thing for older men but little do they know who he really is…

Negan stumbles into the bathroom, his mind still trying to process how he went from the exit to somehow ending up in here instead. His brow furrows as he takes in the situation.

Before he can say a word, you speak, your voice steady but firm “Negan, I’m not leaving”.

He steps closer “Yes. You. Are. We’re leaving. Right. Now”. His hand shoots out to grab your arm, but you’re already one step ahead. You sidestep him, narrowly avoiding his grip.

“No!” you exclaim, more forcefully than you intended. Hoping to get through to him, you soften your tone, offering a sliver of vulnerability. “My parents don’t know I’m here… they think I’m just at a friend’s place” you admit.

Your words hang in the air, a soft confession of rebellion. But Negan’s response is as expected—he rolls his eyes, the action exaggerated as if he’s heard this excuse a thousand times before. 

“I don’t give a fuck if your parents ground you for a year!” He snaps, his voice low but intense “You’re not staying here dressed like that and acting like this”.

“Acting like what? Having fun?”.

His jaw clenches. “By acting like you’re only worth a quick fuck in the backseat of someone’s car,” Negan replies, the words carrying a weight that makes your stomach sink.

The insult stings, but you refuse to back down. With a small scoff, you shake your head and tilt your chin up slightly. “You’re telling me you didn’t do that when you were young?” you challenge.

Negan’s expression falters for a split second, his lips twitching as if he’s about to crack a grin but he maintains his steely expression. 

He exhales sharply through his nose, his stance stiffening. “I did it because I’m a guy,” he mutters, his tone clipped “so it’s different”.

“That’s misogynist,” you point out as you cross your arms, unintentionally making your cleavage more noticeable.

For a moment, you catch Negan’s gaze flickering downward before snapping back up to your eyes, his face strained. 

His lips press together in a tight line, his eyes briefly closing in frustration as he fights to maintain his composure. “Fuck, can you just…” Negan gestures vaguely at you “Cover up or something?”.

Without waiting for an answer, Negan turns away, running a hand through his dark locks. 

You let out a quiet sigh. “I didn’t bring a jacket,” you say flatly, not giving him the satisfaction of seeing you flustered.

He mutters something under his breath, too quiet for you to catch. With a dramatic huff, he whips off his leather jacket. “Of course you didn’t. On top of everything else, you want to get hypothermia too” His voice drips with exasperation.

Negan turns back to you, holding out the jacket, his eyes briefly look to your chest again before quickly darting back to your face, his bottom lip caught between his teeth.

You catch the slight pause, the way his gaze betrays him, but you choose not to acknowledge it— at least, not directly. You stare him down, not hiding the smirk plastered on your face. Then, in one swift movement, he practically hurls the jacket at you. 

“Here,” he says, the word a little too resigned.

Instinctively, you catch the jacket, but you don’t put it on. Instead, you hold it in your arms, letting it drape over them as you roll your eyes at his comments. 

“I’m not some delicate little flower,” you tease, your smirk becoming playful “maybe I like it rough”.

The words slip out without thinking, a little too flippantly, and you feel the heat rise to your cheeks.

Maybe those two drinks were enough to get you tipsy after all.

Negan’s eyes narrow at you and you can see the gears turning in his head. There’s a flicker of something in his expression. Maybe amusement, maybe disbelief, but before he can say anything, you catch the faintest hint of a smirk forming on his lips.

He steps closer, his imposing frame shadowing you as he leans in. “Damn, you’re something else,” he says, his voice thick with something you can’t quite place.

You’re not sure if it’s the alcohol or the overwhelming presence he has, but for the first time tonight, you feel a small shiver run up your spine. 

“Rough, huh?” His words are like a threat, his tone smooth and dangerous.

Before you can respond, his hand shoots out, and suddenly, he has a firm grip on your hair, tugging it just enough to pull your head back. 

“Ow! Negan!!” You whine, your voice a mix of surprise and irritation. Good job at proving you like it rough.

He loosens his grip, but his fingers stay tangled in your hair, holding you captive in his gaze. He stares down at you, his dark eyes boring into yours. 

“You think I don’t notice how gorgeous you are?” he murmurs, his voice low, almost possessive “But this? Telling me you like it rough? Tsk, tsk, tsk”. 

Your heart skips a beat at the admission, and your eyes widen ever so slightly. The words settle in your chest, warm and electric, and for a split second, everything else fades away. 

Negan thinks you’re gorgeous. 

You can barely process it but you don’t get a chance to let the moment settle. His fingers tighten in your hair again, this time with purpose. 

“There’s a difference,” he growls, his voice rougher now, “between making eyes at some random guy at a bar and teasing a man who actually knows what to do with you”.

You swallow hard. His grip on you, the way he towers over you, his scent— all of it feels like a pressure you can’t escape. You can barely breathe.

“And you…” You pause, testing the waters “You know what to do with me?”.

And then, possibly the most un-hot thing happens. A toilet flushes. The sound is loud and sudden, causing you both to freeze. It comes from one of the stalls at the end of the room and it’s quickly followed by the drunken shuffling of feet and a zipping noise. 

Without a word, you and Negan lock eyes, an unspoken agreement passing between you in that single, charged moment. 

“Shit,” Negan mutters under his breath, his hand still tangled in your hair, but now pulling you toward the nearest empty cubicle with urgency. 

“Ouch!” you whisper, batting at his hand and making him untangle his hand from your hair. You barely have time to shoot him a glare before he’s guiding you into the small space, his body close behind you.

Just as the cubicle at the end of the room unlocks, the lock to your cramped cubicle slots into place with a soft click.

For a moment, you both hold your breath. You’re pressed together in the cramped space, his chest against your back, your bodies flush together.

You hear the drunken patron stumble, mumbling something unintelligible as they turn on one of the taps and start washing their hands. You both hold still, waiting for the heavy footsteps to move away. Negan holds you against him, one hand on your waist to keep you close. 

Although that’s not the only thing that’s touching you. 

It’s hard not to notice the unmistakable press of his semi-erect cock nestling against the curve of your ass. It feels firm yet pliant, a promise of things to come. 

Turning your head just enough to look up at him through your eyelashes. He doesn’t meet your gaze, too busy zoning into some spot in the stall door as he listens intently to the patron outside.

His brow furrows just slightly, the lines on his forehead deepening as he focuses. You can tell he's strategizing, weighing up different excuses in case he’s caught in the ladies room. Negan’s lips are pressed together, a slight tension around them, but it's not a scowl. 

Deciding you want some attention, you press your ass back slightly. You hear a grunt.

“You’re not making this easy on me,” he huffs. You can feel the warmth of his breath against your neck as he looks down.

Through the thin walls, you can hear the drunk go on their way, their footsteps slowly fading as they stagger out of the bathroom. The door swings shut with a final, echoing creak. 

As if to prove his point, Negan moves his hips forward, forcing his erection against your ass. He’s harder than you thought and you shudder at the mere size of the thing in his pants. 

He makes a quiet, pleased sound against your ear as his hand trails up your waist, teasing passing the side of your breast before settling on the back of your neck. 

“Fuck, you're responsive…” He pulls back slightly, making sure you can still feel him.

“Is that a good thing?” you ask softly.

He chuckles, his voice low and husky. “It's a dangerous thing, darlin,” he squeezes your neck teasingly “Nothing good ever comes from being too responsive... unless you're trying to drive a man wild”.

“Maybe that’s exactly why I’m trying to do” you push back against him again, this time bending your body slightly to really accentuate your ass.

Except all that does is encourage your dress to ride up your thighs again, stopping just before your ass. Grabbing his leather jacket from your arms, Negan tosses it up on the stall door before moving to your thighs.

Negan isn’t a one to waste time, especially when it comes to taking advantage of certain situations. Bringing both hands down to your thighs, he helps you dress by tugging it up in one swift movement. You let out a gasp as the cool, thankfully air conditioned bathroom making the skin on your ass get goosebumps.

“Negan! I-“ you move to turn away so he can’t see your ass but Negan’s one step ahead this time.

 Looping an arm around your torso, he makes sure you keep the squirming to a minimum. With his other hand, he brings it down between your legs and presses a finger against your panties.

He holds you in place, bent at the hips and ass against his crotch. You can feel the dampness of your panties against your heat. The wetness seeps into the fabric, making it stick to the lips of your pussy. 

“Fuck me, you are soaked!” with no qualms about modesty, Negan swipes the tacky panties to the side and gets a feel of your folds himself. 

You stop a moan from escaping, not wanting to be too eager. "Goddamn, you're a sticky little mess, ain't ya? All wet and sloppy, just fucking dripping” he teases your hole, momentarily pressing a finger to it but never dipping inside.

Hoping to gain some control, you go to stand up straight. The thoughts of looking into his eyes as he fingers you is more appealing than your view being the wall of a bathroom stall.

But Negan isn’t as fond of the idea. The arm looped around you quickly makes its way to your back, forcing you to stay bent. You let out a scoff as the side of your face smushes against the wall. 

“Negan, what the fuck?” You whine, blindly throwing one of your arms back at him “If you’re gonna finger me, at least let me enjoy it!”.

“Nuh-uh,” he grabs your arm and presses it against your back, restraining you before he continues his exploration of your pussy “I get to decide how the fuck we do this”.

You quieten down when you feel a finger trace your folds, spreading your wetness around. “You this much of a slut for every guy or am I just lucky?” He asks, chuckling at his own thoughts “Your friends were cheering like this is a usual thing for you”.

Before you can reply, Negan plunges two fingers deep inside your dripping cunt, his thumb grinding against your clit. “I— ah!” You mewl, trying to give a coherent response “N-no, never!”.

Negan picks up his pace, loving how you give in, basically slumping against the wall. “See, doll, I want to believe you. I mean, I don’t know that many sluts that get this fucking wet from just a little grinding… it’s shameful, really” he curls his fingers to hit the perfect spot, making your squirm.

“But in saying that,” Negan continues, his breath hitting against your neck as he leans closer “I don’t know that many modest gals that wear something like this”. 

Deciding you know better than to repeat your mistake and move again, Negan takes his hand off your back and paws at your chest instead. But in true Negan fashion, he needs to up his antics.

Tugging down the low cut neckline of your dress, you hear a ripping noise as he pulls at the fabric and forces it down past your bra.

“Huh… surprised your modest enough to wear a bra” he comments, quickly rectifying the situation. Without warning, Negan roughly shoves the bra cups up, freeing your tits completely. "Fuck, look at these," he growls, appreciating the sight of your breasts spilling out. 

The fingers he has working your hole pause and retreat, much to your disappointment. You take the opportunity to turn around to face him, starting to feeling a crick in your neck from being smushed up by the wall.

“Asshole, you tore my dress“ your voice is laced with frustration, although that may be from how much you want him to stop teasing and fuck you already. 

With an amused scoff, Negan goes to hold up his hands in surrender. His fingers glisten with your juices. “I’m trying to be a gentlemen here, doll” he chuckles as he defends himself.

You fight the urge to cover yourself, knowing that’s what he’s waiting for. He wants to see that shy side, to see you blush and get flustered. 

You glare at him instead “How is this being a gentleman?”.

“Well, I coulda just ripped it clean off, but I left ya some dignity,” Negan smirks, crowding you again. You’re left no choice but to back into the wall, holding your glare as you look up at him.

“And I've fingered ya before fucking ya which is pretty damn noble” he adds, seeing you battle between staying annoyed and wanting to blush. You open your mouth to complain but a loud moan comes out instead as Negan pinches one of your nipples.

He thumbs your hard nipples, chuckling as they perk up even more under his touch. “Damn, always knew you’d have a good pair on ya," he muses “fuckin’ perfect”.

Negan doesn't hesitate, leaning down to engulf one nipple in his mouth. He sucks hard, letting his teeth graze the sensitive bud as he kneads the other breast roughly. Groaning around your nipple, he switches to the other, assaulting it with the same fervent enthusiasm. 

With a grunt, Negan grabs your thighs and hoists you up, pinning you against the wall with his muscular body. Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist, arms going around his shoulders.

Negan grinds his still clothed cock against your bare pussy, applying just enough pressure to make you whimper. 

The rough denim of his pants provides no comfort, each thrust of his hips pressing his erection directly against your sensitive clit. "You feel that?" He asks against your tit “Want you to beg for it, gotta hear ya saying it”.

You have no hesitation. There is no reluctance to beg for him, not when you’re this close to getting what you thought would always be a wet dream. 

"Please, Negan, I need it!" you beg, your hips bucking against his pants in desperate attempts to get friction. “I’ve wanted you for so long, to fuck me in my bedroom o-or on the dinner table! Fuck, anywhere! I don’t care!”.

That seems to convince him. Reaching down and fumbling with his jeans, Negan has his cock out in record time. He grips the base, stroking it a few times as he lines it up with your soaked pussy. 

The head of his cock presses against your entrance, the tip barely peeking out from between your folds. Negan slowly eases in, allowing you to adjust to his massive size. 

You writhe and moan against him, trying to keep your body relaxed as he enters you. Trying your best to keep eye contact, you let out a string of whimpers as he fills you completely. 

"Damn, I actually fit," he says, stretching you out in a way you’ve never felt before. Negan pulls out carefully, as if testing the waters before plunging back into your needy pussy with vigor.

"Holy fuck, even tighter than I imagined. Built for my dick, aren't you?" he grunts, starting to fuck you hard.

Each brutal thrust of his hips drives his thick cock deeper into your pussy, stretching you wide open. "Fuck, you're so tight it feels like my dick is splitting you in half. Love it. Fucking love it" Negan rambles on and grabs your thighs, spreading them as wide as he can.

"Fuck, Negan... you're so..." you try to speak "ah!”. It’s all too much in the best way possible. That delicious ache of being so thoroughly penetrated, the feeling of absolute fullness with each deep thrust.

"More... fuck me more..." your hips arch up to meet his thrusts, trying to keep up.

Negan angles his hips upwards, hitting that spot inside you over and over as he pounds into you. "Look at me," He growls, "Look at me while I break you in half with my dick. You like that? You like feeling so stuffed?"

“I-I've never been this full before…” you say with teary eyes.

Negan notices your body tensing and shuddering beneath him, your pussy walls starting to flutter wildly around his thick cock. "Holy shit, there it is... Your cunt's squeezin' me like a fuckin' vice. You gonna cum on my dick?".

The pressure is building to an unbearable point, your entire body trembling as your orgasm approaches. Your mind goes blank, unable to answer his question as he hits that perfect spot.

Just as your orgasm hits, Negan feels your pussy clamp down around him like a silken fist. "Holy fuck..." you gasp, back arching as pure pleasure courses through your veins. 

Your entire body quakes, inner muscles milking his cock as you ride out your intense orgasm. You dig your nails into his shoulders, legs trembling uncontrollably.

Negan grunts, fucking you through your intense orgasm with deep, deliberate strokes. He can feel your pussy spasming wildly around his shaft, coating him in your slick arousal. As the last waves shudder through you, he finally pulls out, his cock glistening with in the light.

He lets you stand for a moment but you legs are so wobbly, it’s difficult to support your weight after that intense orgasm.

Before you can even catch your breath, Negan grabs your shoulder roughly and forces you onto your knees. Your body complies in an instant, unable to fight against such force.

Your knees ache as they hit the bathroom floor but that’s the least of your concerns. You look up at him in wide-eyed shock, lips parted as you anticipate him coming all over your face.

"Fuckin' hell, such a pretty face..." He strokes his throbbing cock with his fist, ready to explode.

But instead of aiming for your face, Negan aims his cock at your chest, unleashing a thick, hot load of cum all over your tits. He groans loudly as he paints your breasts with his seed, the warm liquid dripping down between your cleavage and seeping into the fabric of your dress.  

“Next time you’re either swallowing it or you’re getting a facial courtesy of yours truly” he informs you, although the only piece of information you truly savor from that is ‘next time’.

Doing the gentlemanly thing, he grabs some tissue from the toilet paper dispenser and hands it to you. You dab at your chest, knowing the dress is a lost cause and will probably have to be thrown out later. 

“Help me up?” You ask, somewhat shyly once you’re done.

Taking your arm in a much more gentle grip than before, Negan helps you up, subtly looking over your chest to make sure you’ve wiped off all of him. “You feeling alright?” he asks lowly, as if remembering the public place you’re both in. 

You blink, giving yourself a moment to calm, your body still humming with the aftermath. “That was…” you pause, collecting your thoughts, “...wow.”

A soft chuckle rumbles from his chest, and he slips his leather jacket off the stall door. “Well, that’s a better response than I expected,” he says with a smirk, draping the jacket around your shoulders and gently guiding your arms into the sleeves. Without a word about how the jacket nearly swallows you whole, he zips it up, pulling it snug to cover your chest. 

This is a completely different side to the Negan you’ve seen tonight. This is the Negan that gives you a small, reassuring smile after your parents throw some off handed insult your way. 

The two of you stand close, your breaths mingling. Slowly, the space between your faces narrows, as if drawn by some unspoken pull. You gently tilt your head, just enough to bring your lips into alignment with his. 

The kiss is a tender brush. Featherlight and hesitant. It’s the kind of kiss you’d expect before going at it like a bunch of animals… not afterwards.

The kiss lingers, still tasting of warmth and something unspoken. Pulling back just enough to rest your forehead against his, you can feel the soft touch of his lips still tingling on yours. You mutter against his lips, almost sheepishly “Can you drop me home?”.

His lips curl into a quiet smile, a slight glint in his eyes as he nods. “Considering I didn’t get to finish my first glass of whiskey, yeah I should be good,” Negan gives you a playful look.

Unable to help yourself, you give him a small smile. It’s not as seductive or teasing as the ones you have given him previously. In all honestly, it feels like Negan has fucked the seductiveness out of you– if that’s even possible.  

“... So this wasn’t some drunken mistake?” you ask coyly. 

Negan wraps an arm around your shoulders as he unlocks the stall door and carefully guides you out. ”Wear a dress like that the next time I’m at your parents for dinner and you’ll find out” he replies with a smirk. 

Besides his tousled hair, Negan still looks fine. He’s not dishevelled or out of breath or having trouble walking… all things you attribute to yourself.

Negan notices your state too, keeping his arm around you as you subtly leave the bathrooms and head for the exit. If it’s even possible, Negan pulls you closer, guiding you out like a drunk that’s had one too many. His presence is possessive in the gentlest of ways.

You give your friends a knowing look as you both leave, one that says you’ll explain everything later.

The sound of drunken chattering and laughter fades as you step out into the night, the streetlights casting a soft glow on the parking lot. 

When you reach the car, he opens the door for you with a small smirk, his eyes never leaving yours as you slide into the seat.  A few moments later, Negan slides into the driver's seat and the engine rumbles to life. 

The car doesn’t even get out of the parking lot before Negan’s hand finds yours. The ride home is quiet. He doesn’t say much, and neither do you, but the silence between you feels relaxed.

Every now and then, his thumb gently brushes across the back of your hand like a quiet reassurance. He doesn’t mention the contact, simply letting it linger. 

 The soft, rhythmic motion of the car becomes like a lullaby and with every mile, the weight of the night lifts just a little more. Every so often, you glance over at him, his face relaxed. When your eyes meet, he offers a smile and you sleepily return it.

Negan doesn’t pull up directly outside your house. Strategically stopping his car a little down the street, he sighs.

“Hate to say it but I’ll need that jacket back,” he gives you a once over, as if to memorize what his leather jacket looks like on you.

Fiddling with the zipper, you mumble “So I’m supposed to walk in there with a ripped up dress?”.

He laughs at that, shaking his head before reaching into the backseat. “Here, I know it’s dirty but it’s the best I can offer,” Negan hands you a sweatshirt. 

The sweatshirt is faded, its fabric softened from years of use. The sleeves are slightly frayed at the cuffs and a few small holes hint at its age. On the front, several dark oil stains mark where hands have wiped off grease, probably from Negan when working on his motorbike. 

But most importantly, it smells like him.

As you take off his jacket and put on the sweatshirt instead, Negan gives you some privacy and looks away. “Are you coming in too?” You ask, gently placing his jacket on his lap once you’ve changed.

Taking that as his signal to look, Negan gives you a sympathetic smile. “Not tonight, darlin,” he replies “think Lucille would chop my nuts off with your mom’s fancy silver if I showed my face”.

“You two are fighting that bad?”.

Negan shrugs “Same old, same old”.

You try not to fidget with the frayed sleeves of his sweatshirt, not wanting to pick at it right in front of him. 

“And… this?” You focus your attention at simply inspecting the sleeves instead of picking at them “I mean, I know you said it wasn’t a drunken mistake but still… I get it if you wanna pretend like it never happened”.

As much as you wanted quick reassurance, you’re met with silence. 

Negan leans back in his seat, taking his eyes away from yours and looking at the street. Up ahead, he can see the porch light on to your parents house. Although, he doubts Lucille will be leaving anytime soon. She’ll probably stay late, try to wait it out until Negan has drank himself silly and fallen asleep.

“Tonight shouldn’t have happened,” he says with little emotion “It ain’t right. I know it. You know it. Hell, anyone in a ten mile radius would call me all sorts of names if they knew about it…  fucking your friend’s daughter is a whole mess”.

You stay quiet, unsure whether you should just get out now.

“But shit, if you wanted to suck my dick right now, I wouldn’t say no,” he chuckles “it’s a fucked up thing to say but I wouldn’t mind something like this happening again”.

That puts a smile back on your face. Getting ready to leave, you say “Maybe if you come to dinner next time, I will suck your dick”.

Negan watches you with narrowed eyes. Of course you’d be able to make his dick twitch again, making him feel like a teenager that could get it up over and over again. 

“I’ll hold you to that,” he warns as you get out.

“Good,” you hop out of the car, giving him one last flirtatious smirk before going “I hope you do”.

Closing the door, you strut along the pavement, your heels clicking as you go to your house. Walking has never seemed so hard, not only because of your shoe choice but from the aching in your gut and your legs wobbling more than you’d like to admit. 

Still, you try to do your best to walk straight, knowing Negan is watching. 

When you get to the front door, you give Negan one last glance before disappearing inside. He wait a few moments before starting up his car and leaving. 

The first thing you hear is a chorus of polite laughter from the dining room. Great, looks like they’re still in the midst of dinner. Before you have a chance to debate if you could get upstairs without them hearing, you hear your father call out your name.

“Is that you?” He calls out.

Reluctantly, you walk in, lingering by the doorway. Your parents to turn in their dining chairs to face you. Whereas Lucille has you right in her line of view. She offers you a gracious smile as you enter.

“I thought you were staying at Lydia’s tonight,” you mom says, eyeing your sweatshirt and what appears to be a skirt. Thankfully she doesn’t comment on how short it is.

“Eh, Lydia talked things out with her boyfriend so they’re back together again,” you lie casually “you know how they are; fight, break up and make up”.

Lucille casts her gaze down slightly, as if your words hit a little too close to home for her. You shift uncomfortably. 

“There’s some leftovers in the kitchen if you’re hungry” your mom says, blissfully unaware.

“I’m ok,” you give her a smile “I think I might just shower and head to bed early”.

“Alright,” she already waves you off, turning back in her seat “if you’re sure”.

You don’t linger, giving them a polite nod before leaving. It’s only when you turn to leave does Lucille look at you again. 

She’s never believed in coincidences. And she’s never believed you to be into repairing cars. She knows the faint stains on your sweatshirt, mainly because she’s the one who spent hours trying to scrub them out… only for Negan to reward her with new stains on the damn thing. 

Nodding along with whatever it is your father is saying, Lucille’s mind strays further and further from the dinner and to Negan instead. 

Something’s happened. What exactly, she’s not sure. But you’re involved and so is her damned husband.

—————

Part 2 can be found here!!

A/N: thought I’d put in a quick note just to say thanks for reading and apologies for disappearing all month! My family almost got scammed out of 11k (it was insane) but!! More importantly!! I got seriously bad writers block so apologies if this fic is a little choppy, I’m still getting back into my stride!!

[zazaiafe2]

How to make Your shifting journey fun again

(and stop being haunted by pressure, guilt or mental exhaustion)

So… you’ve been trying to shift for a while. You started out excited. You thought it would happen any day now. You felt the spark, the drive, the wonder.

But time passed, and now… it’s not so fun anymore. You feel stuck. Maybe even stressed. Intrusive thoughts? Compulsive rituals? A sinking feeling that it’s "just not working"?

Yeah. I see you. And this post is for you.

First, let’s name the enemy: Negative habitual conditioning

There’s something I call negative nabituation:

It’s what happens when your brain gets used to failing.

Each time you try to shift and "nothing happens," your brain marks that experience. Over time, these “failures” become the default neural expectation, even if consciously you want it to work.

Your subconscious starts expecting not to shift, because that’s what’s familiar.

Your excitement drops. You stop feeling newness.

The mind begins associating the act of "trying to shift" with frustration, not wonder.

-> Familiarity without success = subconscious resistance.

This is not your fault. It’s how the brain protects itself from disappointment. But the good news is, you can rewire it.

We see that the majority of people who have never shifted, have, for the most part, knew shifting for more than a year.

Why this happens

The dopaminergic system thrives on novelty and small wins.(In easier language your brain crave novelty and success)

If you always repeat the same methods without results, dopamine drops, motivation follows, and you enter a loop of expecting failure.

The prefrontal cortex, responsible for self-monitoring, becomes overactive with pressure and stress.

If you develop intrusive thoughts, impulse fears, or even OCD-like rituals, that’s your brain reacting to pressure by trying to control the uncontrollable.

This is a brain based reaction, not a character flaw.

This is also why I think many people shift by accident when they consciously stop trying it creates novelty, no pressure, no stress the level of cortisol and stress drastically descend. It also avoids self-checking since the person no longer seeks to check anything and it allows the thoughts to soften without intrusive thoughts about the fear of not shifting.

So how do we fix it?

1. Reintroduce Playfulness

Stop treating shifting like a test or a job. You're not failing school. You're exploring your own consciousness.

Do silly, creative daydreams

Make aesthetic moodboards or playlists for your DR

Write letters to your DR self

Imagine flying toast if that helps. No rules.

Joy = new neural plasticity and it will help you build new beliefs.

The more positive emotion you tie to the experience, the more likely your brain is to let you go deep at the key moment because you will break the negative loop.

Personally, I have mood boards and playlists.

2. Cut out guilt-based content

Let’s be real:

A lot of content out there is filled with toxic messages like:

> “If you didn’t shift, you didn’t want it bad enough.”

“You just didn’t believe hard enough.”

“It’s your fault. You're stuck in the victim mindset”

No. No. And no. That’s not how psychology, neuroscience or even spirituality works. Guilt is a terrible motivator for altered states. It triggers cortisol, not calm.

Unfollow what makes you feel like shit.

You don’t owe anyone a perfect journey.

3. Do shadow work to find the mental block

Ask yourself:

What does not shifting say about me?

What part of me believes I don’t deserve it?

Where did I learn to associate failure with identity?

These beliefs live in the subconscious, and until they’re seen, they’ll run the show.

Use:

Journaling

Hypnosis

Voice memos

Inner child work

You don’t need to heal everything to shift. You just need to create space

4. Relax the rituals

If you’re doing 37 affirmations, 5 meditations, a 45-minute audio loop, and re-writing your script daily… you’re probably exhausted.

Fun fact: over-ritualizing creates a false sense of control and often signals to your brain:

-> “This is hard. This is dangerous. We need to over-prepare.”

Try this instead:

Let your rituals become gentle routines

Do 10% of what you used to do

Take 1 night per week where you shift without any prep

Surprisingly, this works better for many people.

The majority of those who shift on command do not have a comprehensive or lengthy method

5. Shift your beliefs with hypnosis & Ccgnitive Work

Sometimes, it’s not your method. It’s your mental model.

Your brain may be caught in:

"I can’t shift because of X"

"It only works for other people"

"If I don't do it right, I'm stuck here forever"

These are cognitive distortions. And you can:

Use self-hypnosis or subliminals to implant new beliefs

Write counter-beliefs and repeat them with emotion

Reframe failure as data, not identity

6. Use audio That sparks curiosity, pot pressure

Instead of going for the “perfect frequency to force a shift,”

try soundscapes that make your brain go:

-> “Oooh… what’s that?”

That could be:

Low alpha or theta beats

Psychill, ambient or fantasy music

Natural sounds + suggestion layers Let it feel like exploration, not performance.

A playlist that make you think of your Dr

This frequency is super cool for that.

7. Tiny Wins Build Big Momentum

You don’t need to fully shift to celebrate:

Did you feel vibrations? Success.

Did you enter a trance? Huge.

Did you have a DR dream? You're syncing.

Did you feel excited again? That’s everything.

Each time you reward your brain for even small progress, you reprogram it to expect success. That’s where the magic begins. Start to treat your own journey like a game

You are not behind!

You are not broken!

You are not failing!

You'll get there and you'll see how it was all worth it.

You're unlearning stress, expectation, and inner noise. You're coming back to your own mind. To your playfulness. Your awe. Your joy. Start to gently trust yourself and the process again i know you can do it, don't let "not shifting" become a part of your identity because you are much more than that.

Shifting is not a punishment.

It’s not a race

[thewritingrowlet]

The Uncontested Attention, ft. NMIXX Sullyoon

tags: first time

length: 13k

---

The roar of the crowd is a distant hum in Jihoon's ears. He's on the free-throw line, the weight of the game resting squarely on his shoulders. This is a crucial semi-final match in the national tournament, and every point counts. He takes a deep breath, focuses on the hoop, and sinks the shot, but not before the ball rattles around the rim—quite the unnerving sight for the captain; missing a free throw in the dying embers of the game might turn out disastrous.

The cheerleading squad bursts into an energetic routine on the sidelines, a blur of motion and color. He hears Yoona's clear, bright voice leading the chants, her presence a steady, familiar beacon in the exhilarating chaos. As he backtracks towards his team’s side of the court, Jihoon catches a glimpse of her, her features beaming with pure joy. Jihoon allows himself to smile back at her, acknowledging her support and momentarily clearing space in his mind.

After the game, a hard-fought victory, the locker room is a mix of exhaustion and elation. Jihoon is toweling off when Jinsol appears, seemingly out of nowhere, her eyes sparkling with what she clearly thinks is triumph. "Oppa, you were amazing! We have to celebrate tonight. My treat." She leans in too close, her perfume filling his nostrils.

Jihoon forces a polite smile, already formulating an excuse while also wondering how she’s managed to get in the locker room. “I’m sorry, Jinsol-ah, but I’m kind of exhausted,” he replies, opting to be as honest as can be, careful to not hurt her feelings. “Are you serious, oppa?” Jinsol asks, her fists planted on her hips, her expression turning sour. “You don’t have even an hour or two for me?”

Jihoon sighs, feeling pressured both by Jinsol’s demanding presence and his teammates’ gaze, trying his best to stay calm and not say anything regrettable. “Please, let me get some rest, sweetie,” he whispers, begging her to understand, using a pet name for good measure. “Oh, erm, o-okay,” Jinsol’s cheeks turn a pink hue, getting butterflies in her stomach at the endearment, “I-I’ll see you tomorrow, oppa.”

Jihoon watches Jinsol retreating, a sense of relief washing over him, quickly replaced by a weary sigh. He hates being rude, especially when someone is clearly trying to be kind, but Jinsol’s brand of affection feels more like a demand; she’s constantly seeking him, looking for ways to be close. He just wants some space, especially now, with the national final looming. He glances at his teammates, some still laughing, others already heading for the showers. Jihoon wants to escape the locker room, find a moment of peace.

Looking for some fresh air, Jihoon heads out of the locker room, dragging his tired, aching legs to find somewhere to sit, and his choice lands on a bench under the lights. “Ugh.” He grunts as his butt settles on the cold steel bars of the bench. It’s not the most comfortable, but this will do for now.

As he closes his eyes to relax, a commotion is heard nearby. When Jihoon opens his eyes again, his gaze lands on Yoona, following behind her the rest of the cheerleading squad. She stops in her tracks and gives him a small nod, immediately looking away after, her cheeks starting to burn from shyness. He chuckles a little, amused by her little gesture, and that chuckle grows into a laugh when some other cheerleaders start teasing Yoona for it.

“I think you guys should leave her alone,” Jihoon says, his voice gentle with no trace of anger, trying to save Yoona from further embarrassment. “Yeah, well, I think you guys should start dating,” one of the girls manages to counter, causing Jihoon to regret intervening.

Jihoon's ears burn, a blush creeping up his neck. "Hey!" he calls out, though his voice lacks any real bite. The cheerleaders just giggle, high fiving each other as they walk away, leaving Yoona still standing there, face a deep crimson. She avoids his gaze, fiddling with the pom-poms in her hands as if they hold all the secrets of the universe. He feels a strange mixture of embarrassment and... something else. An unexpected flutter in his chest. Dating Yoona? The thought is foreign, yet not entirely unpleasant. He's never really considered her in that way, not seriously.

Jihoon rises from the bench, slowly approaching the girl who is rooted to the spot. "Don't listen to them," he says, trying to sound casual, but his voice feels a little too loud in the sudden quiet. "People say stupid things sometimes. There's no reason to be embarrassed." He clears his throat, trying to shake off the lingering awkwardness from the cheerleader’s comment. “My name is Min Jihoon. Can I ask what yours is?”

Yoona finally looks up, her eyes wide, still shy but meeting his. Her nervousness is endearing. He realizes he's never truly looked at her like this before, not really taken in her bright eyes and the way her hair catches the lights of this little park. “I-it’s Yoona. Seol Yoona,” she answers, her whispered voice barely heard. “N-nice seeing you, s-senior.” A warm smile blooms on Jihoon’s face, a similar sense of warmth rising within. “Please, it’s just Jihoon-ie. If you want, you can call me ‘oppa’ instead.”

Yoona's eyes widen, her cheeks flushing even deeper at the suggestion of calling him by “oppa” or even his name. She bites her lip, a shy smile finally breaking through her embarrassment. "Okay... oppa," she manages, testing the name on her lips. The moment stretches, filled with unspoken questions and a newfound awareness. Jihoon finds himself drawn to her quiet vulnerability, a stark contrast to the demanding attention he usually receives. He feels an unexpected urge to protect that shyness, to keep this moment separate from the noise of the tournament.

“Hey, erm, you’re coming next weekend, right?” Jihoon asks, the words leaving his lips before he can think. “I mean, with the rest of the cheerleading team, of course.” Yoona nods, clutching her pom-poms to her chest. “Yes, I am. Erm, there will be a new routine for the finals.” Her voice is still soft, but there’s a spark of excitement in her eyes at the new routine. Jihoon smiles again, genuinely. He realizes he's completely forgotten about Jinsol, about the lingering stress of the game. For the first time all day, his mind feels truly clear, focused only on the girl in front of him. "Good luck with your routine, Yoona-yah. I'll be watching."

A soft blush blooms on Yoona's cheeks at his use of "Yoona-yah.” The way he says it in that calm, steady tone feels rather tender. "Thank you, oppa," she murmurs, her gaze still fixed on him, a quiet warmth emanating from her. The air between them hums, thick with unspoken possibilities. Jihoon finds himself wanting to extend the moment, to simply bask in her serene yet alluring presence. The fatigue in his legs seems to lessen, replaced by a light, hopeful energy. He realizes he's rarely felt this centered, this... simply good.

"I… I should head back to the dorms," Yoona says, finally looking away, her eyes briefly scanning the area around them. "It's getting late." A small pang of disappointment registers in Jihoon's chest. "Right," he says, trying to keep his voice even. "Get some good rest." He watches her as she turns, her steps quick and light as she moves in the other direction. “I’ll see you around, sweetie,” he mutters, his low voice making him confident that he won’t be heard.

-

Upon arriving at her room, Yoona slams the door behind her, the thud echoing through the quiet hallway. “Oh my God, oh my God,” she chants frantically, her chest rising and falling rapidly, still unable to shake off the shock from meeting Jihoon. “What… what just happened?” she asks herself, the furniture in her room offering no clarity.

Yoona jumps onto the mattress, landing on her belly, not concerned about changing out of her cheerleader uniform. “Aaaaah!” she whines, her pillow muffling the sound. “Seol Yoona, you are out of your mind, talking to the captain like that,” she bashes herself, rambling nonsense as her mind races with possibilities. Future encounters, ones where they might actually be open with each other.

Yoona kicks her legs in the air, a giddy laugh bubbling up from her chest, quickly stifled by her hand. "He called me 'Yoona-yah'!" she squeals silently. The tenderness in his voice, the way he looked at her—it was all so much more than she ever dared to dream. She needs to write this down, capture every detail before it fades. She scrambles off the bed, rummaging through her backpack, searching for a small journal bound in a soft, navy-blue cover. This is where her deepest hopes and most embarrassing confessions live.

She clutches it to her chest for a moment, letting the weight of the day settle, before flipping to a fresh page. Her pen hovers for a second, then dances across the paper. “June 1st,” she begins. “The day I actually talked to oppa.” Yoona doesn’t bother writing down his name, her heart already feeling very comfortable about him. “HIS SMILE!” Yoona writes in all uppercase, punctuating the lasting impression with an exclamation mark, her writing untidy because of the giddiness flowing through her.

Yoona’s pen flies across the page, recounting every detail of their brief interaction, filling the page with every little detail she's picked up. It's exhilarating and terrifying, putting these profound feelings into concrete words, etched in a physical medium, making them feel undeniably real. She can't believe it actually happened. Jihoon, the basketball captain, the one everyone looks up to, actually engaged her in a real conversation, a connection far deeper than she'd ever dared to dream.

As Yoona writes, a new determination stirs in her, her mind coming up with ways to get close to him, to get his attention, even if it’s fleeting. “I can use those,” she thinks, her gaze locked on the stack of sticky notes before her. “I can just… leave him notes…” she mumbles.

Yoona picks up a sticky note, her thumb rubbing against its smooth surface. Anonymity is the name of the game. It allows her to say what she's too shy to express face-to-face, to offer the kind of genuine support she knows he needs without making him uncomfortable. He's been distracted by Jinsol, oblivious to the deeper connection he might be craving. Yoona closes her eyes, picturing his face, the subtle lines of stress she'd noticed even through his post-game smile.

“Oppa,” she pens, letting her hand be led by her heart. “I know how hard you work for us, but please stay safe and don’t get injured. I’m rooting for you.” Yoona falls silent as she finishes writing, the radiance dissipating from her face as she feels the pull of something deeper. “Oppa…” she mutters softly. “Please win. For us and everyone who believes in you. I know you can do it.”

Yoona reads the note once more, her fingers tracing the neat, heartfelt script. It's more personal than anything she’s ever done before, imbued with a new kind of urgency. She folds it carefully, tucking it into a small, decorative envelope she keeps for special occasions.

Tomorrow, she'll find the perfect moment. She knows his routine: early morning shots at the gym. She can slip it into his bag or maybe tuck it under his water bottle while pretending to do something else. A nervous excitement flutters in her stomach, pushing away the earlier giddiness. This isn't just a crush anymore; it's a profound wish, a silent promise.

Yoona finally rises from her chair. Her earlier uniform forgotten, she slips into something more comfortable for bed, but sleep feels distant. She climbs back under the covers, but sleep feels distant. As she lies on her side, her stare remains fixed at the note she’s prepared, a fond smile playing on her lips from imagining his reaction to it. She hopes that he will feel the sincerity in the words, the true meaning of the gesture. Tomorrow, when he reads it, she will still be a cheerleader, practicing the new routine for the grand finals, but after that, Jihoon will know that someone is cheering him on from his corner.

-

Yoona approaches the arena carefully, her light steps betraying the heavy pounds of her heart. Pushing the glass door, her ears pick up some familiar noises: the squeaks from shoes that skid against the court, mixed with the subtle thuds from a bouncing basketball. She peeks around a corner, and there he is, pacing along the width of the court, his fingers controlling the ball with ease as if attached to strings.

Yoona watches on as Jihoon stands just beyond the three-point line, his eyes locked on the rim before him. Suddenly, with an explosive burst of energy, he sprints towards it, dribbling the ball with focused intensity. When Jihoon gets close enough, he lifts the ball, letting it bounce softly against the glass backboard—but he misses.

When he turns around, Yoona sees the frown on his face, his own mind admonishing him for his failure to perform a supposedly simple task: to score from that close of a range. Her heart clenches as she starts to grasp the kind of pressure that’s he’s carrying on his shoulders.

Jihoon sighs, running a hand through his damp hair. He retrieves the ball, bouncing it once, twice, then sends it arching towards the hoop again. This time, it swishes cleanly through the net. He nods, but the frown lingers, a testament to his own high expectations. Yoona watches, her resolve firming. This is why he needs her note. She takes a silent breath, pulling the decorative envelope from her pocket. Jihoon heads towards the water cooler, briefly setting the ball down by his gym bag on the sidelines.

This is her chance. Her heart pounds a frantic rhythm against her ribs, but her steps are light, almost soundless, on the polished court. She moves with the practiced stealth of a cheerleader during a surprise routine, gliding towards the sidelines. In a swift, practiced motion, she kneels by his bag, slipping the note inside before he even turns from the cooler. She rises just as quietly, her gaze sweeping the empty gym, and then, with a final, quick glance at Jihoon's back, she sprints away before—a voice, sharp and sudden, cuts through the echoing gym.

“Who is that?”

Yoona’s legs lock, coming to a dead stop. She is stunned by his voice, unable to take even one step away from him. “I-it’s me, oppa. S-Seol Yoona,” she mumbles, not daring to turn around to face him, her stare stuck on the floor. Jihoon drops the ball, letting it roll away, wiping off most of his sweat to make himself presentable. He stops closely behind her, towering over her petite frame. “You’re not even facing me. Is that how you speak to your senior, Seol Yoona?” he asks, his voice gaining quite the sharp edge, a contrast to last night's.

Mustering up the courage, Yoona turns around but still can’t look him in the eyes, her body trembling slightly with fear. “I’m so sorry, Yoona-yah,” he takes a few steps closer towards her, getting down on one knee to get on her eye level, “did I scare you? Was I being too mean?” She manages to shake her head, hiding her shaken heart behind it. “Please forgive me, Yoona-yah. I was just… frustrated.” He pauses, gauging her reaction to his apology. “I mean, that’s no reason to be mean, but please understand where I’m coming from.”

Yoona offers another hesitant shake of her head, still unable to meet his eyes, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Even with him kneeling, his presence feels immense, dominating the quiet space. He's so close, she can smell the lingering scent of his sweat, clean and sharp, mixed with a faint hint of his body wash. The note, now tucked away in his bag, feels like a live wire, burning a hole through the fabric. Did he see? Does he know? The questions scream inside her head, but she can't find her voice.

Jihoon watches her, his brow furrowed with genuine concern. He reaches out a hand, hesitates, then gently brushes it against hers. "Yoona-yah, really, it's okay. I didn't mean to snap. Just... rough practice." He pauses again, his gaze drifting from her downcast face towards his gym bag, then back to her. He takes a deep breath, as if steeling himself. "What are you doing here, anyway? Do you have practice too?" The question hangs in the air, innocent on the surface, yet loaded with unspoken implications.

“I just wanted to see you, oppa,” she answers, not mincing her words. “I… I wanted to see you,” she repeats, this time in a whispered, low tone. Her entire body flushes, burning hot with a potent mix of embarrassment and excitement. “You wanted to see me?” Jihoon confirms, his tone taking on a similar soft tone. “I’m honored, Yoona-yah. Thank you,” he adds.

Jihoon rises slowly, his gaze still soft, but a flicker of something new—intrigue, perhaps—dances in his eyes. Yoona keeps her eyes fixed on his chest, her cheeks still burning. The weight of his acknowledgment feels both overwhelming and deeply gratifying. She curses her own impulsive words, yet a part of her is also relieved they're finally out. She braces herself for what he might say next, a knot tightening in her stomach.

“Yoona-yah, please listen to me,” he says. Yoona lifts her chin, ready to listen intently, her glassy eyes meeting his. “Thank you for the support, seriously, but… Bae Jinsol won’t take this kindly, and I don’t want to put you in the crossfire.” Tears begin to pool in her eyes, expecting to hear a rejection from the man she admires so. “Oh, sweetie, please don’t,” he hurries before tears begin flowing down her cheeks. “I’m not shutting you out, I promise, but let me figure things out with Jinsol-ie first.”

Yoona swallows hard, the tears receding, replaced by a fresh surge of embarrassment and a quiet understanding. He's not rejecting her, but he's acknowledging the complicated mess Jinsol represents. It's almost worse, knowing he cares enough to protect her from that. "Okay," she murmurs, the word barely audible.

Jihoon reaches out, his fingers hovering over her wrist. "Are you heading back to the dorms now?" he asks, his voice soft, almost hesitant, as if gauging her reaction. "It's still pretty dark. I could walk you back?" His offer is a lifeline, a gentle invitation to extend this charged moment, despite the unspoken barrier. Yoona nods, her lips curving into a small smile. The path forward feels clearer, yet also far more difficult than she'd ever imagined. “Yes, oppa. Please walk with me,” she says.

Jihoon's hand lightly takes her arm, and he steers her gently towards the wide glass doors of the gym. The cool air outside is a stark contrast to the humid warmth of the court, but Yoona barely notices. Her focus is entirely on the man beside her, his presence a comforting anchor. They walk in silence, the rhythm of their footsteps echoing faintly on the deserted pathways. Yoona glances at him from the corner of her eye. He looks tired, the subtle lines of strain still etched around his eyes despite the victory. The urge to help him, to truly be his support, swells within her.

“Oppa…” she calls to him, her tone gentle and careful. “Are you okay? Is there any way I can help?” Jihoon offers a small, tight smile, hiding the depths of his burdens. “I’m okay, Yoona-yah. Just a bit tired and stressed, but that’s nothing new to me.” Yoona sighs, wishing he would open to her more, let her look into his life just a bit more, but her heart insists: such a time will come eventually. “Okay,” she concedes. “But… but please know that I’m here for you, oppa.”

Jihoon nods, his gaze softening further. "I know, sweetie," he replies, the endearment slipping through his lips, his voice carrying a warmth that makes her heart flutter. "I appreciate that, really." His thumb lightly brushes against her arm where his hand rests. It's a small gesture, but to Yoona, it feels monumental, a silent acknowledgment of the comfort she offers. The early morning chill seems less biting now, replaced by the warmth emanating from his touch.

Reaching the big intersection, Jihoon stops, turning towards Yoona, his towering presence more comforting than intimidating. “Yes, oppa? Is everything okay?” she asks, unsure as to why they have stopped here and now. “Seol Yoona, I…” he sighs, the cool air making his breath visible, “I don’t know, I just want to… be with you just a bit more.”

Yoona stares at him, her mind struggling to process his words. "Be with me... just a bit more?" The question hangs in the air, fragile and precious. A slow, undeniable smile spreads across her face, mirroring the hope she sees in his eyes. Her cheeks flush, but this time it's from pure, exhilarating joy. "Okay, oppa," she breathes, a soft confirmation of agreement. "Why don’t we take a seat somewhere and, you know, be with each other just a bit more?"

Jihoon’s shoulders drop, the tension releasing from his body, as Yoona leads him towards a nearby bench, the steel bars cold from the early morning breeze. His gaze drifts to the right, taking in the sight of the female dorm buildings that are standing strong despite their age. “You know, I’ve actually never been to the girls’ dorms,” he admits. Her eyebrows furrow: there’s no way he’s never been there. “You can’t be serious,” she protests. He chuckles, not taking any offense from her counter. “I mean, I’ve never dated anyone in university, so I basically have zero reason to go there.”

Yoona's eyebrows remain furrowed, a thoughtful expression on her face. "So, you've just been... focusing on basketball?" she asks, a genuine curiosity woven in her tone. It's a stark contrast to her own life, where cheerleading is important, but there's still room for friends, for quiet moments, for crushes. Jihoon nods, his gaze fixed on the dorms. "Pretty much. No time for anything else, really." He gestures vaguely, as if explaining a complex play. "It's all consuming. Especially with the finals coming up."

A quiet hum settles between them. Yoona realizes that despite his popularity and his obvious talent, there's a part of him that's incredibly innocent, perhaps even a little lonely, in his relentless pursuit of the game. He's never experienced the awkwardness or the thrill of young love. This thought sparks gentle protectiveness in her. "I’m… willing to take a chance with you, oppa.”

Jihoon turns his head slowly, his gaze shifting from the distant dorms to Yoona's face. Her words hang in the cool morning air, clear and utterly unexpected. His eyes, usually so focused on the court, are wide, reflecting a mix of shock and a dawning comprehension. The easy rhythm of their walk, the comfortable silence, all of it shatters under the weight of her declaration.

“Seol Yoona…” he says her name in this tranquilizing tone. “Look at me, please.” Following his request, Yoona turns her head towards him, holding his gaze despite her burning cheeks. “Are you serious about that? About giving me a chance?” he asks, his eyes searching for signs of dishonesty but finding only the truth. “Yes, but there’s a condition,” she says. “I don’t want to see you hang out with Bae Jinsol.”

Jihoon blinks, processing her words, a subtle shift in his posture suggesting he's moved from surprise to problem-solving mode. He sighs, running a hand through his damp hair. "Bae Jinsol," he murmurs, more to himself than to Yoona. "She's... persistent." He looks back at Yoona, a hint of a wry smile touching his lips. "It won't be easy, Yoona-yah. She's not exactly subtle when she wants something." He pauses, his gaze locking with hers, a serious, determined glint in his eyes. "You're right, though. That's a fair condition."

A wave of relief washes over Yoona, making her almost dizzy. He understands. He's not dismissing her; he's simply acknowledging the difficulty. "So... you'll do it?" she asks, her voice a hopeful whisper. Jihoon nods, a firm, decisive motion. "I will," he promises, his voice low and steady. "Just... give me a little time, sweetheart. I’ll figure it out. For us."

Yoona nods, a slow, happy nod that reflects the profound relief settling in her chest. The early morning chill, which had seemed so sharp just moments ago, now feels irrelevant, replaced by the warmth that blooms from Jihoon's promise. “Thank you, oppa, and I like it when you call me sweetheart.” Jihoon chuckles, shaking his head out of amusement. “I mean, your heart is indeed sweet—ow, what’s that for?” He rubs the spot on his thigh where her fist landed, playing up his reactions. “You’re going to give me diabetes, Min Jihoon,” she quips, her voice laced with playful annoyance.

Jihoon rises from the bench, his relaxed shoulders a proof of his lessening stress. “Come, baby. Let’s get you indoors.” He opens his palm, offering it for Yoona to hold. With a big smile, she takes his hand, her fingers wrapping tightly around his. “Yes, please.”

After the gentle slope of the brick path, they reach the steps to her dorm building. Jihoon stops, still holding her wrist. "I'll see you soon, Yoona-yah," he says, his voice softer now, the teasing gone, replaced by a quiet earnestness. “By then, I hope I will have cut ties with Jinsol-ie.” His thumb brushes gently against her pulse point, adding weight to his promise. Yoona's heart thumps. "See you, oppa, and please be kind to Jinsol-ie" she replies, her voice barely a whisper, already anticipating their next encounter, a future that feels suddenly, beautifully, real.

-

The last day of practice before the finals is here, and according to the wind carrying the rumors, the cheerleading team will be practicing their new routine at the other basketball court, next to the court in which Jihoon’s team will be practicing.

Jihoon stretches at the edge of his team's court, his muscles already protesting the rigorous practice ahead. “Oh, God,” he grunts, bending his back too far backwards, his joints making these popping sounds. As he stretches other parts of his body, music with uplifting, fast beats begin filling the area, the cheerleading girls moving around to find their practiced spots.

“Look,” Siwoo nudges Jihoon’s elbow, “the girl wearing 26 is cute, no?” Jihoon’s eyebrows furrow; 26 is Yoona’s number. “Why, you like her or something?” he asks, covering his irritation with a question. “I mean, who doesn’t?” Siwoo shrugs, thinking it’s simply a fact that Yoona is crush material. “Don’t let me catch you drooling over 26, Siwoo-yah,” Jihoon threatens, the weight of his words not truly reaching Siwoo, who is thinking it’s a normal banter.

Jihoon glares at Siwoo's retreating back, a low growl rumbling in his chest. “No one is drooling over Yoona but me—that’s my Yoona”, he thinks, the possessive thought surprising even himself. His eyes instinctively drift to the adjacent court, finding Yoona among the blur of motion. She's at the front, leading the complex movements, her focus absolute. The new routine is indeed intricate, demanding. He watches her, completely absorbed, warmth spreading through him that makes him forget the protesting muscles and the impending rigorous practice.

The sound of Coach Kang’s whistle breaks his concentration. “Come on, let’s get this started already,” he shouts. Jihoon snaps his attention back to his own team, but the image of Yoona, graceful and vibrant, remains etched in his mind. “Captain, stop ogling those girls, will you?” Jihoon clicks his tongue and shakes his head, downplaying his interest in front of his coach.

Jihoon throws himself into the drills with renewed fervor, the basketball a familiar extension of his will. Unlike other practices, however, his focus isn't solely on the rim or facing the opposing team. Every explosive sprint, every precise pass, every powerful jump feels infused with a new, quiet purpose. He knows Yoona is just meters away, and the thought of her watching, or perhaps even glancing, adds a subtle fire to his movements. He can still hear the faint, rhythmic pulse of the cheerleading music, a comforting counterpoint to the squeak of his shoes.

He pushes himself harder, imagining her new routine, the dedication it must take, comparing her struggles with his own. He promised her he'd figure things out with Jinsol. Watching her now, so full of grace and determination, only solidifies his resolve. This upcoming final isn’t just about the championship anymore; it is about laying the groundwork for them. He glances quickly towards the adjacent court during a water break, catching a glimpse of her laughing with a teammate, and a genuine smile, unbidden, touches his lips.

As he puts down his bottle, Jihoon catches a familiar figure sitting in the empty stands: Bae Jinsol. “Oh, hell no,” he thinks, staring at her blankly. Thinking he’s excited to see her, Jinsol waves at him, grinning ear to ear, seemingly excited to have him notice her presence. Jihoon offers her a small nod, not wanting to be caught reacting too much when Yoona is just meters away from him.

Jinsol rises to her feet, waving at Jihoon with more fervor. “He must be shy around his teammates,” she thinks, clueless to the actual reason of his reservations. Jihoon gives her one last smile before turning around, redirecting his focus back on the practice. As she settles in her seat again, Jinsol’s heart soars with pride, as if she just claimed him before this crowd. On the other hand, Yoona, who has been watching Jinsol’s antics, can only wipe her glassy eyes before the tears spill out.

Yoona quickly turns her head, pretending to adjust her hair, her gaze fixed on the intricate patterns of the gym floor. She blinks rapidly, trying to force the tears back, a bitter lump forming in her throat. “He promised,” she thinks, clinging to the memory of his quiet words on the bench, but seeing Jinsol's brazen claim, Jihoon's subtle nod, and her own hidden tears, the promise feels fragile, easily broken under the harsh light of public display. Her stomach churns with a mix of despair and a fierce, unfamiliar anger. The new routine suddenly feels meaningless, her dedication hollow. All she can do is bite her lip, trying to hold back the sob that threatens to escape.

“Don’t betray me now, my love.”

Yoona forces her head back up, her jaw clenched tight. The music for their routine swells again, the familiar upbeat tempo now feeling like a mocking echo of her own internal turmoil. She blinks once, twice, forcing back the burning wetness from her eyes, and takes her place, ready for the next sequence. Her movements are stiff at first, mechanical, lacking the usual grace. Every synchronized step, every energetic jump, feels like a performance she's putting on for herself, a desperate attempt to ignore the ache in her chest. She glances over at Jihoon's court, but he's a blur of motion, absorbed in his own practice, seemingly oblivious. “He can't betray me,” she repeats, a silent, desperate mantra, pushing through the routine with a newfound, rigid determination.

The minutes fly by, and now, both Jihoon and Yoona are finished with their practices. Jihoon sits down in the middle of the court, leaning backwards and supporting himself with his arms, his legs let straight. Across him, Yoona also sits in the middle of the court, albeit a bit hidden by one of her teammates—Jihoon can only see her face, not the rest of her body. He notices that she’s glaring at him, her burning gaze drilling a hole between his eyes. As an attempt to defuse the situation, Jihoon offers her a tentative smile, hoping that she will calm down.

Jihoon's smile falters under the unwavering intensity of Yoona's glare. It's not just frustration; it's betrayal, raw and painful. He realizes, with a cold jolt, that she must have seen Jinsol, must have misinterpreted his subtle nod. "Oh, hell no." The thought from earlier reverberates in his mind, now tinged with acute regret. He glances quickly towards Jinsol, who is still beaming from the stands, oblivious. He needs to fix this, and fast.

He pushes himself up, his muscles stiff, but his mind is racing. This isn't just about his promise anymore; it's about the trust he's already inadvertently broken. Yoona's gaze never leaves him, a silent, burning challenge. He knows he can't approach her now, not with Jinsol watching. He has to handle the immediate problem. He takes a deep breath, his decision firm, and with a determined set to his jaw, he heads straight for the stands, ignoring the questioning glances from his teammates.

“Can we talk, Jinsol-ah?” he whispers to Jinsol, urgency lying beneath his question. “Depends,” she says. “Do I or do I not have your attention?” Jihoon exhales deeply, trying to stay calm in front of the difficult girl. “Please, sweetie. Let’s… head somewhere else and talk.” She smirks, satisfied with both the pet name and his soft demand. “Aww, okay. Let’s head out for a bit, yeah?”

Jihoon nods, his jaw still tight, and gestures towards the tunnel leading to the locker rooms, a place where they can have more privacy. Jinsol's smirk widens, and she playfully grabs his arm, a move that makes him inwardly flinch. As they walk away, Jihoon risks a quick glance towards Yoona's court. Yoona is still there, her head now turned away, her posture rigid. He knows she saw—she must have. A fresh wave of urgency washes over him. This conversation with Jinsol will not be easy, but he has to make it clear, once and for all, where he stands at this crossroads of attention.

Meanwhile, back on the cheerleading court, Yoona's eyes burn with unshed tears. She sees them walk away, Jinsol clinging to his arm. It is everything she fears. The promise, about him cutting ties with Jinsol, from this morning feels like a cruel joke now, a false hope offered. She bites her lip, trying to steady her breathing. The new routine, the finals, everything feels overshadowed by this sharp, sudden pain of perceived betrayal. All she can do is hope that Jihoon is indeed "figuring things out" and not just playing into Jinsol's hands.

Jinsol pulls Jihoon towards a curve at the far end of the sports complex, the pillars providing privacy for the pair. He quickly frees his wrist from her grip, not wanting to make physical contact more than needed. “What's wrong, oppa? You look so stressed,” Jinsol wonders, noticing his perceived odd behavior.

Jihoon takes one step forward, closing the distance without being too close. “Look, Jinsol-ah. I appreciate your support for me and the team, but… it's starting to feel…” He trails off momentarily, unable to find the correct word for it. “I don't know, it's distracting, I guess.” Her eyebrows furrow, the joy melting away from her face, her heart flinching with hurt at his choice of adjective. “What is that supposed to mean, oppa?” she protests, her voice laced with irritation. “Just get to the point, please: are you going out with someone else and looking to leave me?”

Jihoon sighs, but unlike when he was with Yoona, it's not out of relief. Rather, it is a product of his tension that is growing heavy. “Sweetheart, please,” he murmurs, hoping that the pet name will reach the soft spot in her heart. “There isn't no one else right now. It's just that I need to focus on the finals, and as much as I'm honored to have your support, I can't afford to be distracted.”

Jinsol's lower lip trembles, and her eyes, which moments ago were sharp, now fill with a wounded glint. "Distracted?" she whispers, her voice quivering, as if deeply hurt. She shakes her head slowly, a tear welling up and tracing a path down her cheek. "I thought... I thought we had something special, oppa. After all this time, all my efforts... you're just going to throw it away because of a game?" She reaches out, her hand gently touching his arm, her gaze pleading. "Don't you care about—mmph…”

Before Jinsol manages to finish her pushing sentence, Jihoon interrupts her, stifling her lips with… with his. She melts into him, reactively putting her hands on his chest, but he's quick to break away. “I'm sorry, but this is for the best. Please remember me by the taste of my lips,” he says, his voice deep with a sense of finality, of closure. “I’ll go back to practice now, and please, go find something else to do. I'm begging you, Jinsol-ah.”

Jinsol falls onto the floor, covering her mouth as sobs begin to flood out, deeply struck by his rejection. The kiss did very little in terms of providing comfort, but it was certainly final. “Oppa…” she mutters between sobs. As her cries grow, Jinsol leans against the pillar, hugging her legs in a ball. “Please don't forget about me,” she pleads.

Heading back inside the gym, Jihoon rushes towards the other court, his steps thumping against the smooth surface. “Where is Seol Yoona?” he asks the crowd of cheerleaders. Surprised by his sudden appearance and demanding voice, one of them simply points at the restroom. “Great. Thank you,” Jihoon says with no tenderness in his tone.

Jihoon turns to make his way towards the restroom, unwavered by the thought of possibly having to enter the female’s section. As luck would have it, however, Yoona is walking out. Her fresh makeup gives him the idea that she likely just finished crying and re-applied it.

Yoona gasps as her gaze lands on him. “Hi there,” he says. “We need to talk.” Unable to say anything else, she simply nods, walking behind Jihoon as he leads her away from the gym.

Jihoon leads Yoona down a quiet corridor, away from the echoing sounds of the gym, stopping at a secluded alcove near a rarely used exit. He turns to face her, his gaze intense. The earlier brusqueness in his demeanor fades, replaced by a deep concern as he sees the lingering hurt in her eyes.

"Yoona-yah," he begins, his voice softening, a stark contrast to moments before. "I saw you. I saw you watching us, and I know what it must have looked like." He pauses, taking a deep breath. "But you have to believe me, it's not what you think. I wasn't... I wasn't trying to be with her. I was cutting ties. Just like I promised you this morning, and I have done exactly that." He searches her face for any sign of understanding, any flicker of the trust they built hours ago.

Yoona’s stare towards the ground, his purple shoes suddenly very attractive. “But… you were kind to her, right?” she asks, more concerned about Jinsol than herself. “What did you say to her, oppa?” Jihoon closes his eyes, the taste of Jinsol’s lips still lingering on his. “I said I couldn't afford to be distracted,” he answers.

“Distracted…” she echoes. “What about me? Am I not distracting you?” Jihoon shakes his head, firm in his stance about her presence in this trying time. “No, you're not. I mean, you never demand my attention, do you, dear?” he answers.

Yoona finally lifts her gaze, her eyes meeting his. The lingering hurt is still there, but a flicker of something else—hope, perhaps—begins to fight through it. "So… you really meant it?" she whispers, her voice fragile. "About… us?"

Jihoon reaches out, his hand gently cupping her cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear she hadn't realized had fallen. "Every word, sweetheart," he says, his voice a low, earnest rumble. "Especially the part about you."

Yoona nods, her resolve gaining strength again, her cheek rubbing against his palm, and that's when Jihoon quickly removes his hand. “Oh my God, I'm so sorry,” he exclaims, only remembering that his hand is dirty after touching basketballs for so long. “Oh, no, your face is dirty, baby,” he adds, guilt rising within him for ruining her fresh makeup. She giggles, smacking his arm lightly. Not out of anger, of course; just… playful frustration. “Don't worry about it, oppa. If anything, that's proof of my belonging to you.”

-

Settling in the front seat of the bus as usual, Jihoon puts on his headphones, tuning in to some piano to clear his mind before the final game. This game means much, much more to him; not only is this his final season as a collegiate player, but he now has Yoona. It is her that has been steadfast by his side, offering comfort and affirmation when he needs them most, a steady beacon for him to cling to.

Leaning against the window with his eyes closed, he doesn’t catch Yoona slipping into the empty seat next to him, taking her rightful spot. “Oppa,” she pokes his shoulder, a grin spreading across her face, “I’m here too, you know.” Seeing the beautiful smile of hers warms Jihoon’s heart, prompting him to smile. “I can see that, sweetie,” he says, his hand snaking around her waist, pulling her close. It’s no secret that the cheerleading team always travels together with the basketball team, but now that they’re more than strangers, it matters more.

Yoona settles comfortably into his side, nestling her head against his shoulder. The soft piano music from his headphones is a gentle hum against her ear, creating a private bubble around them amidst the low chatter of their teammates. "Nervous, oppa?" she whispers, her fingers gently tracing the lines of his arm.

Jihoon nods, a faint smile playing on his lips. He shifts slightly, pulling her even closer. "A little," he admits, his voice low. "But in a good way. Like everything's leading up to this, and... now that you're here, it feels different." He squeezes her gently. "Are you ready for your new routine?" His question is soft, filled with genuine interest, reminding her that his attention is fully on her now, even as the biggest game of his life awaits. Yoona nods against his shoulder, drawing strength from his solid presence. “Yes, and I’m going to make sure you don’t have anyone else to watch but me,” she replies, radiating the confidence that Jihoon loves the most.

The bus starts to roll, and the cabin is filled with the soft rumble of its engine. Jihoon takes a deep breath, collecting himself for the upcoming game, his arm tightening around Yoona’s body. She follows afterwards, taking a deep breath to steel herself before the grand performance, her body melting into him more, seeking comfort that only he can provide. Jihoon takes off his headphones, placing them over Yoona’s ears to help her relax. “Close your eyes, sweetheart,” he whispers. “I’ll wake you when we arrive.” Yoona hums softly, her eyes closing as she drifts to dreamland.

The rhythmic sway of the bus and the comforting warmth of Jihoon's arm around her pull Yoona deeper into sleep. It feels like moments later when a gentle tap rouses her. "We're here, sweetheart," Jihoon's murmurs, soft as the piano music that lulled her to sleep. Yoona blinks her eyes open, feeling refreshed, and straightens up as the bus comes to a complete stop. She glances at Jihoon, whose gaze is already fixed on the massive arena looming outside the window, a blend of intense focus and quiet anticipation on his face.

“Oppa…” she calls to him softly, her gaze following his, taking in the sight of the arena. “We’re going to be okay, right?” Jihoon turns his face towards her, looking at her with a tranquilizing expression. “Yes, we are. I’m going to give this everything I have. For you, and for me.” Yoona presses a gentle peck on his cheek, her heart filled with warmth that is most welcome. "For us, oppa.”

Players and cheerleaders get off the bus in a line, immediately met with a bunch of cameras that are aimed at them, the reality of the national grand final settling in the heart of each person. “It’s called a ‘grand final’ for a reason,” Jihoon thinks, somewhat familiar with the exposure that comes with it. Yoona’s close proximity to him makes him want to hold her hand as they walk towards the arena but doing so before these cameras might do more harm than good.

Jihoon's hand aches with the unspoken desire to reach for hers, but he keeps his arms stiffly at his sides, his jaw tight. He maintains a calm, focused expression for the cameras, accustomed to this kind of scrutiny. Beside him, Yoona walks with a quiet grace, her eyes forward, her steps in perfect sync with his, as if they're still moving as one, even without physical touch. He can sense her awareness of his proximity, a silent understanding passing between them that this public restraint is necessary, for now. The flashes of light, the murmuring crowd, and the sharp questions from reporters attempting to break through the security line are a dizzying blur, but he navigates it all with a singular focus: getting them both safely inside the arena, where their private world could re-establish itself.

After settling their things in the locker room, the players and cheerleaders gather, forming a big circle in the center of it. “Guys, listen to me, please,” Jihoon starts, taking point as both the captain and the senior. “First of all, please remember to stay safe at all times, and I’m talking about you girls,” he adds, his index finger tracing a line across the row of cheerleaders. Yoona bites her bottom lip to stop herself from blushing; even if his attention isn’t focused on her, being addressed by him as a part of a crowd still gives her the butterflies.

"And to my team," Jihoon continues, his gaze sweeping over the basketball players, his voice firming. "We’re here as champions, and everyone has been gunning for us, giving us a run for our money, but we came out on top every single time. So, let's come out on top one last fucking time." He pauses, letting his words sink in, then his gaze softens slightly as he looks back at the cheerleaders. "We couldn't do this without your energy and support. So, let's go out there and show them what we're made of. All of us." A unified roar of agreement ripples through the circle, a powerful surge of collective determination. “Win on three. One, two, three, win!”

The unified roar reverberated off the locker room walls, a tangible wave of shared adrenaline. Jihoon's eyes met Yoona's across the circle, a silent acknowledgment passing between them—a flash of their private promise amidst the collective energy. Then, the huddle breaks, each person taking a spot to form two lines to head out together. With a subtle tilt of head, Jihoon gestures to Yoona to stand at the end of their respective queue.

An event coordinator signals to the cheerleaders to head out first, and as the line begins to move, Yoona gives him one last squeeze of hand, an unspoken promise that she’ll be there, pouring everything she has into supporting him, and by extension, the basketball team. Jihoon watches as she walks away from him, hypnotized by her wiggling ponytail, smiling like a fool in love. Well, he is a fool in love.

Soon, the same coordinator gives the signal for Jihoon’s team to enter the arena, but as he steps closer towards the end of the tunnel, he is stopped. “Captains enter last—you know, for the TV,” he says. Jihoon chuckles, shaking his head in amusement. “It wasn’t like this last year,” he quips. The coordinator chuckles with him. “We’re trying out new things each year, captain.”

The arena announcer’s voice grows louder, more excited, as he calls for the captains of each team to come out. “I guess that’s my cue.” Jihoon straightens his posture, fixing the jacket hanging on his shoulders, only hanging by a small rope connecting each end of the collar. He gets a few taps on his shoulder, confirming that it’s time for him to walk out of the dark tunnel and into the brightly lit court.

Jihoon walks out at the same time as the other team’s captain and a fellow senior, Park Taehyun, offering a nod to acknowledge his presence, the crowd bursting into energetic screams at the sight of the two. As he joins his team, Jihoon’s gaze roams the stands, indicating to those present that he acknowledges their overwhelming presence, offering smiles and nods where he can.

Jihoon's eyes finally land on the cheerleading section, a familiar warmth spreading through him as he spots Yoona. Her bright smile and energetic waves are unmistakable for him, and he feels a subtle surge of confidence that has nothing to do with the roar of the crowd. He gives her a quick, almost imperceptible nod and a private, genuine smile before turning his full attention to the center court. The referee blows the whistle, signaling the start of the coin toss, and the anticipation in the arena becomes a tangible force, ready to erupt with the game's first play.

Jihoon’s team win the tip-off thanks to the center’s quick reaction. The ball gets passed to him right away, music resembling a countdown playing over the speakers as he navigates across the court, the bouncing ball an extension of his controlled will. His calculated passes cause chaos in the defense, creating separation all over the floor. Eventually, the ball finds its way back to Jihoon, right as he’s closing in towards the hoop, and with practiced movement, he scores the first basket of the game, thus earning excited screams from both the crowd and the cheerleaders, not excluding Yoona.

The game intensifies, the scoreboard ticking steadily, yet the tension in the arena only grows. Jihoon is everywhere, a blur of blue and white, orchestrating plays, sinking shots, and denying the opposition. The other team, however, desperate to close the widening gap, pushes back with aggressive drives and tight defense.

Mid-second quarter, the opposing team's power forward, a burly player named Kim Donghwan, drives hard to the basket. Jihoon meets him as he jumps, a fierce battle for the rebound ensuing as the shot clanks off the back board. Donghwan, off-balance from the collision with Jihoon and the sudden shift in momentum, stumbles wildly out of bounds. He trips over the baseline advertising, his massive frame tumbling awkwardly. Before anyone can react, he crashes directly into the cheerleading line, specifically into Yoona.

Panicking at the sight of his girlfriend sprawling, Jihoon quickly rises to his feet, rushing towards her. Jihoon grabs Donghwan by the hips, pulling him to his feet with all his might, more concerned about Yoona than anyone else. “Get out of here,” he snarks, his hand, planted on Donghwan’s chest, pushing him backwards. “Get your fucking hand off me,” Donghwan barks back, slapping his hand away in anger. Nine times out of ten, Jihoon would crash out, but this one time, he doesn’t take the bait; Yoona needs help, and anger isn’t going to help her.

A wave of whistles immediately shrills through the arena, cutting through the sudden, stunned silence that followed the collision. Jihoon ignores them, his gaze fixed on Yoona. She's still on the floor, one hand pressed to the back of her head, her eyes squeezed shut in pain. He drops to his knees beside her, his earlier aggression vanishing, replaced by profound worry.

"Sweetie, are you okay?" he asks, his voice tight with concern, gently cradling her head. Around them, chaos erupts. Teammates from both sides rush forward, referees try to separate the players, and the crowd murmurs anxiously. Donghwan, still seething, is being pulled away by his coach. Jihoon barely registers any of it; his world has shrunk to just Yoona, lying still on the cold, hard court.

“Baby, please say something,” he says, his stomach clenching with worry. Yoona’s free hand scrambles, trying to find him, her anchor in this sea of pain. “It… hurts,” she manages. “I know, I know,” Jihoon hurries, carefully rubbing the back of her head, trying to ease the sting. Realizing he can’t stay for long, he turns to one of her teammates, asking her to call the medics. “You’ll be fine, baby.” With a heavy heart, Jihoon lets go of Yoona, returning to his duties as a basketball player, his mind replaying the scene of the tumble.

Jihoon forces his attention back to the court, the referee's whistle a sharp demand for order. His teammates gather around him, their faces etched with concern, but he waves them off, a grim determination setting his jaw. The game clock has stopped, leaving the arena in a thick, uneasy silence broken only by the distant murmur of the crowd. He glances back quickly, seeing the medical team rushing towards Yoona, a small circle of worried cheerleaders already surrounding her. He has to trust them. He has to play. The adrenaline that had surged with panic now channeled itself into a cold, hard resolve. Every dribble, every pass, every shot in this game would now be for her.

A referee heads to the scoring table, a microphone being brought to him for an announcement. “A technical foul is called for player number twenty from Juwan University. Two free throws for Yeonseo University,” he announces, making appropriate gestures as he does. Jihoon’s teammates choose him to take those free throws, but he declines; his mind is not fully in the game, still distracted by the incident involving she who holds his heart. “Just take it, man,” he says.

Minjun, their shooting guard, steps forward without a word, picking up the ball. He knows Jihoon too well, understands the unspoken weight of his captain's gaze on the medical team. Jihoon watches as Minjun calmly stands in the spot, focuses on the rim, and sinks both free throws with a satisfying swish. The scoreboard shifts, adding two precious points to their tally, but Jihoon barely registers it. His eyes are still fixed on the sideline, where Yoona is now being carefully helped onto a stretcher, a white neck brace stark against her cheerleading uniform. He watches her, his heart clenching with every slow, deliberate movement of the medics. He can't go to her, not yet, but he feels every ounce of her pain as keenly as if it were his own.

Noticing the distracted captain, Coach Kang calls for a substitution, giving someone else, who is more focused on the game, to take Jihoon’s spot on the court. As he’s signing off, Jihoon gets a smack to the back of his head; Kang is expressing his disappointment. “Focus, or you’ll regret it,” he threatens. Jihoon offers a nod, but his mind barely grasps the coach’s words; there’s simply no space in his head for the game.

The whistle signaling the end of the first half blows, the players clearing out of the court to give room for the cheerleaders to perform their routine. Jihoon joins his team, retreating to the locker room for a half-time pep talk, a towel covering his head. Passing through the tunnel with his eyes aimed at the ground, he notices a girl rushing out—those shoes look familiar too.

“Oppa!” Jihoon hears her yell and reactively lifts his head: it’s Yoona, no longer showing signs of being hurt, her energetic form returning as if she didn’t hit her head less than ten minutes ago. A pleasant shiver runs down his spine, opening his arms to welcome her. “Later, oppa,” she declines, zipping past him. “I need to perform first!” His eyes follow her as she disappears into the light. “She’s not giving up, is she?” he thinks, his resolution regaining strength at the face of Yoona’s unwavering spirit.

Jihoon walks into the locker room, his stride now imbued with a different kind of energy. Coach Kang looks at him, a questioning glance, and Jihoon offers a confident nod, the towel still draped over his head but his eyes blazing with renewed focus. The image of Yoona's fierce determination, her confident, steady attitude, burns bright in his mind. He pulls the towel off, wiping his face, and steps into the huddle, ready for whatever the second half throws at them. The championship, and everything Yoona represents, feels within their grasp now.

Jihoon concentrates, putting everything that the coaches are saying into his mind. Their instructions to “find space” and “move the ball around” tell him just enough about his roles in the second half, his basketball mind primed. “And you,” Kang points at him, “are you ready to play, or are you still mourning your girl?” Jihoon chuckles, almost insulted by the question about his readiness. “I am ready,” he answers firmly, leaving no room for misinterpretation. “Put me in, and I’ll do everything you want me to.”

Jihoon and company return to the court, standing in the sidelines as they wait for the cheerleaders to finish. His eyes quickly find Yoona among the crowd, performing with everything she has. Each smile and movement remind him of her promise: “I’m going to make sure you don’t have anyone else to watch but me.” Jihoon’s smile grows bigger, drawing strength from her presence, admiring her strong resolve to always give her best in everything she does. “You’re amazing, Seol Yoona,” he praises her silently.

Soon, the ref's whistle for the start of the second half pierces the arena, and Jihoon explodes from the bench, his feet already moving with a purpose that wasn’t there moments ago. He takes the inbound pass from Minjun and quickly takes the ball over to the other half, already finding the mismatch he wants; the player guarding him is bigger—and therefore slower—and he is about to put him in the wringer.

With a chain of precise dribbles and crosses, Jihoon manages to make his opponent trip on his own feet, creating a mile of separation, and he exploits it right away. With the ball settled in his hands, Jihoon rises to take a shot from beyond the three-point line. The crowd, initially amazed by the ankle-breaker, explodes into deafening cheers. With a cocky smirk, Jihoon puts a finger on his earlobe, riling up the crowd to scream louder for him.

As he returns to his team’s side of the court, Jihoon spots Yoona. She’s cheering him on, bouncing up and down on the spot, her pom-poms skipping along with her, and the sight sends his heart soaring with pride. He points right at her. “For you,” he mouths.

-

When the final horn pierces through the arena, Jihoon drops to his hands and knees, the depths of his exhaustion finally settling in his mind. He tunes out the sound of the erupting crowd, focusing only on the back-to-back championship and what it means for him. The captain, in his last year of competition, signs off with a parting gift that is most sweet.

As he stays on the floor, someone crashes into him, demanding his attention. “Yoona-yah…” he murmurs, pulling the crying girl into his arms. “This one is yours, baby.” Yoona hides her face in the crook of his neck, sobbing out of control in his arms. “This one is yours,” he repeats, punctuating it with a tender peck to the top of her head, smiling in pride at this achievement.

-

Nestling in the front seat of the bus once more, Jihoon immediately pulls Yoona closer to him, closing the little gap between them. “We did it, baby,” he whispers, his voice nearly gone from screaming too much during the celebration. “Yes—yes, we did,” she confirms, her hand finding purchase on his chest, rubbing it tenderly. “Congratulations, my love,” she adds, looking at him with glassy eyes, threatening to break down crying again.

As the bus starts rolling to take them home, Yoona rests her head on his shoulder, her arms wrapped around his like they were hours ago. “Oppa, can we celebrate a little?” she asks, looking for a reason to be with him longer. “Yeah, we can. What are you thinking, Yoona-yah?” Yoona shifts around, positioning her lips right beside his ear. “We can… try having sex.”

Jihoon's breath hitches. The soft rumble of the bus, the distant cheers from outside, all fade into a blur. His grip on Yoona's waist tightens reflexively, his mind reeling from her whispered words. He pulls his head back slightly, just enough to look into her eyes, which are now wide and earnest, reflecting the dim light of the bus cabin. A slow, warm smile spreads across his face, a mix of surprise, tenderness, and an unmistakable excitement.

"Yoona-yah," he murmurs, his voice still hoarse, but now filled with a different kind of intensity. "Are you serious?" He searches her gaze, not for doubt, but for confirmation. Her cheeks flush a delicate pink, but her eyes hold steady, a silent, confident affirmation. "Yes," she whispers, her hand pressing more firmly against his chest. "Be my first, oppa."

Jihoon's smile softens even further, becoming purely tender. He gently moves his hand from her waist to cup her cheek, his thumbs stroking softly. "Yoona-yah," he whispers again, his voice now a low, husky rumble, filled with overwhelming emotion. "You trust me with that?" A smile forms on Yoona’s face as she nods to his question, her trust in him immense. The trust that tells her, in his arms, she will be safe and loved. “Then yes,” he breathes, leaning closer to her. “I will be your first, and I’ll cherish every single moment, my heart.”

Yoona pecks him on the cheek, her heart warm with his promise to cherish the monumental moment they will share. “We’ll be happy, right, oppa?” she asks, hope lying beneath her pleading voice. “Of course, baby. We’ll be happy together.” Jihoon pecks her in return. Not on her cheek, but on her head, his nostrils filled with the subtle scent of her shampoo.

The soft hum of the bus engine became a comforting lullaby as Yoona settles deeper into Jihoon's side. With his arm securely around her, and her head resting on his shoulder, the weight of the championship, the earlier scare, and the boldness of their shared confession all seem to melt away, leaving only a profound sense of rightness. Jihoon looks out the window, watching the city lights blur past, a contented smile playing on his lips. This is more than just a victory; it is a new beginning, a quiet promise of a future he is now more than ready to embrace, hand in hand with his Yoona.

The bus arrives back at the university after what feels like a moment, as Jihoon and Yoona get lost in their own world where peace is the name of the game.  “Yoona-yah…” he taps her shoulder gently, whispering her name as to not startle the exhausted girl. “Wake up, baby. We’re here.” Her eyes flutter open, looking around the bus to find it nearly empty. “W-where’s everyone?” she asks. “Well, they got off moments ago. It’s now our turn,” he says, pressing a light kiss to her forehead to kick-start her body after the slumber.

“Oppa, I can’t walk.” Jihoon’s eyebrows furrow, concern etched in the lines of his forehead. “Are you hurt?” Yoona shakes her head, a playful, teasing smile starting to form. “No, but… I do want to be carried—you know, like you’re abducting me,” she teases. He bursts out laughing, shaking his head simply out of mirth. “Yeah, let’s do that. I hope no one thinks I’m actually abducting you.”

As his laughter dies down, Jihoon gets down on one knee beside her, tapping his shoulder a few times. "Hop on, my little abductee," he jokes, flexing his shoulders playfully. Yoona giggles, getting on his shoulder, her belly pressed firm against it. Even exhausted, Jihoon feels a surge of strength at her light weight. As he stands, adjusting his grip on her back, he looks around the near-empty bus, then out the window at the quiet university grounds. "Ready for your grand abduction?" he whispers, his voice filled with tender amusement. Yoona buries her face in his neck, the soft rumble of his laughter echoing in her ears. "Lead the way—ah, oppa!”

Yoona yelps when Jihoon suddenly runs out of the bus. As if not feeling the weight of the duffel bag in his hand or the girl on his shoulder, Jihoon darts across the parking lot, really getting in the act of pretending to be abducting her. “Oppa, oppa, slow down!” she protests, whacking his back while giggling, not actually scared about any of this. “I can’t slow down. The cops are on me,” he jokes, his voice steady despite running. Yoona laughs even more at his quip, so much so that her saliva drips out of her lips.

Just as Jihoon rounds a corner past the main dormitory, a familiar voice calls out. "Min Jihoon? Is that you?" He skids to a halt, Yoona letting out another surprised yelp. It's Coach Kang, walking briskly with one of the assistant coaches, clearly just leaving a late meeting. Kang's eyes widen, first in surprise, then amusement, as he takes in the sight of his star player carrying the cheerleader captain like a fugitive. Yoona immediately buries her face deeper, trying to become one with Jihoon's back.

"Uh, Coach," Jihoon manages, trying to stifle a laugh and regain some composure. "Just... an emergency escort." Coach Kang simply shakes his head, a wide smile spreading across his face. "Right. Well, try not to get too abducted, Miss Seol—and you, my boy, try not to get a speeding ticket. Well, see you both bright and early for team photos!" He walks past, chuckling, leaving Jihoon and Yoona in a fresh wave of embarrassed laughter.

Jihoon stands still as Kang and the other coach walks away, his cheeks burning with after getting caught frolicking with Yoona. “God, that’s so embarrassing,” she sighs, her cheeks also burning, “can we… I don’t know, get to our destination soon?” He chuckles once more, getting ready to start running again. “Alright, baby. We’re almost there.”

Jihoon tightens his grip, and then, with a renewed burst of energy, he sprints the last hundred meters. He veers off the main path, cutting through a small, shrub-lined shortcut leading directly to the back entrance of his dormitory. The building lights are mostly out, indicating the late hour and the general quiet. He slows as they reach the door, fumbling for his keycard with one hand while still holding her securely with the other. "Home sweet home, my abductee," he whispers, a hint of something deeper in his tone now. Yoona lifts her head from his shoulder, her eyes sparkling in the dim light.

“Wait, this… doesn’t feel like a regular student’s dormitory,” she blurts, offering the result of her brief observation. “No, not really,” he replies. “Student-athletes don’t live like other students.” Her jaw drops, surprised by the revelation. Yoona never knows that people like Jihoon get special treatments. “You’re joking,” she says, but he just shrugs. “College sports bring in loads of money, and we get our privileges for bringing in that money,” he adds.

Stopping in the middle of the hallway, Jihoon carefully lowers Yoona onto her feet, straightening her crumpled jacket and hair. "Seriously? So, you guys have, like, private rooms and, like, better food?" Yoona asks, her voice still laced with disbelief, momentarily forgetting their playful pretense. "Something like that. Think of it as a thank-you for all the blood, sweat, and tears we put in for the good name of the university."

He reaches a door with a discreet number plaque, tapping his keycard on the scanner. "Anyway, we can discuss the economics of collegiate sports later." He nudges the door open with his elbow, revealing a meticulously kept room, the interior full of shiny furniture. "For now," he whispers, his voice dropping to a tender murmur as he guides her inside. "How about we focus on that celebration you mentioned?"

Yoona steps into the plush carpeted room, her eyes widening slightly at the tasteful, minimalist decor and the sprawling view of the university grounds outside the large window. The door clicks softly shut behind them, muffling the last distant sounds of campus. The air inside is cool and still, a stark contrast to the chaotic energy of the arena and the bus. She turns, her gaze meeting Jihoon's, and the playful teasing from moments before completely vanishes. His eyes, warm and earnest, are fixed solely on her. Without a word, she steps forward, her hands finding his chest, and comes in for a kiss.

Their lips meet softly at first, a gentle exploration filled with the weight of the day's events and the unspoken promise of the night. It's a kiss that speaks of gratitude, relief, and a burgeoning intimacy. Jihoon's hands instinctively land on her waist, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh, holding her with utmost possessiveness. Yoona's arms tighten around his back, pulling him closer, seeking the solid comfort of his presence. The world outside their private sanctuary fades away, leaving only the feel of each other's lips, the warmth of their embrace, and the quiet beating of their hearts.

“Seol Yoona, my heart, I promise to always prioritize us,” he murmurs when they finally break apart. Yoona presses her face against his chest, basking in his manly scent, taking his promise to heart. “Lead us, oppa,” she says, her voice muffled. “Not because I can’t, but because I trust you.” Her words strike deep in his heart, her expectations of him, of their future, crystal clear for him to see. “You promise to always support me, right, baby, because I need you.”

Yoona pulls away, looking up at him, her eyes gleaming with determination. “Of course, oppa,” she says. “I’m giving you my first time as… say, proof of my commitment.” Jihoon inhales sharply at the mention of her innocence, the weight of the moment pressing down on him, but he’s committed to this relationship as much as she is.

“I’m giving you my first time too, baby,” he replies. Yoona nods, remembering his confession about never having a girlfriend, understanding the implications of this encounter. Tonight isn’t just about her giving him the honor of being her first, but she’s also getting the honor of being his first. “You’ll be my first and last, because I don’t want no one else but you,” he adds.

Jihoon's gaze, filled with unwavering devotion, searches her eyes once more, confirming the powerful connection now binding them. He then gently takes her hand, his thumb stroking her knuckles. "Come on, my heart," he whispers, his voice thick with tenderness and anticipation. He doesn't need to ask if she's ready; her presence, her words, everything about her radiates a resolute willingness.

He leads her towards the bed, taking slow steps along with her. “Lie down, please,” he whispers. “I promise you; this bed is far superior to yours.” Yoona giggles as she lies flat on his bed, the mattress sinking slightly at her weight. “It is comfortable,” she confirms. “But… I want you to be with me, oppa, and I’m not talking about lying next to me.” Before joining her, Jihoon takes off his hoodie, revealing his toned physique that she hasn’t seen before. “Goodness me…” she mumbles, her eyes darting around his torso, taking every little detail of him. “No wonder Bae Jinsol fell so hard for you.”

Jihoon places his finger on her lips, bothered by the name she just said. “Please don’t, baby,” he warns her, his voice still soft, only mildly aggravated. “No one else matters like you do.” Yoona closes her eyes, silently scolding herself for saying another name so carelessly. “I’m sorry, my heart,” she says. “That… will never happen again.” He presses a soft, fleeting peck to her lips, as if permanently stifling them from mentioning Jinsol’s name. “You’re forgiven, my love.”

Jihoon's eyes, now clear and focused only on her, move from her lips to her eyes, then down to the simple uniform she still wears. He offers a tender smile, a silent question in his gaze. "Relax, my love," he murmurs, his fingers gently reaching for the zipper of her jacket, beginning to undo it. Yoona takes a shaky breath, a shiver running through her that has nothing to do with cold, but everything to do with anticipation and trust. She watches his hands, then meets his gaze, a silent surrender in her eyes as he slowly, deliberately, begins to strip away the layers that separate them.

“Take me, my love…”

Jihoon's hands tremble slightly as he finishes unzipping her jacket, letting it fall open. Yoona's breath hitches, her chest rising and falling with quickened anticipation. He pushes the jacket from her shoulders, then the thin fabric of her top, revealing the soft curve of her collarbones, then the delicate lace of her bra. His gaze is reverent, taking in every detail as if seeing her for the very first time. He leans in, his lips finding hers in a slow, deep kiss that speaks of awe and unwavering devotion, a silent promise to honor the incredible trust she places in him.

He pulls back just enough to murmur against her lips, "My heart, are you sure?" Yoona's eyes, wide and filled with a luminous trust, meet his. She nods, a silent, resolute affirmation. Her hands find the hem of his joggers, pulling them down with a shaky determination that matches his own. Their clothes fall to the floor in a heap around them, the last barriers between their bodies. He shifts above her, supporting his weight on his forearms, allowing her to adjust, to breathe.

Their skin meets, a rush of warmth and undeniable friction. Jihoon moves slowly, carefully, his eyes never leaving hers, seeking permission in every subtle shift of her expression. Yoona arches into him, a soft gasp escaping her lips as their bodies align, becoming one. He listens to her reactions, to her soft moans, to her pained grunts, guiding their movements with a tenderness that seeks only her pleasure and comfort. The air in the room thickens with their shared breaths, with the growing intensity of their connection.

“My love…” she murmurs, her chest rising and falling quickly, the acute pain subsiding to give way to stellar pleasure. “I’m… I’m yours.” Jihoon presses his lips against the skin of her neck, his hips still moving steadily. “And I’m yours, my heart…” he replies, his gentle voice akin to music to her ears.

The world outside the private dormitory room ceases to exist. There is only the rhythm of their bodies, the whisper of skin against skin, and the profound intimacy of two souls merging for the very first time. Jihoon moves with a deliberate, loving pace, ensuring that each sensation is shared, each moment cherished. Yoona clings to him, her fingers digging into his back, her earlier tension melting into a pure, incandescent pleasure. In this sacred space, amidst the quiet hum of the night, their unspoken promises culminate in a profound act of love, marking a new, indelible beginning for their hearts.

“I… I won’t last long like this, my love,” he murmurs, hoping she will understand his inexperience. Amongst her moans, Yoona nods, acknowledging the quick pace at which this encounter is progressing. “You don’t have to, oppa,” she replies. “Just let go and give me everything you have. Show me your love.”

Jihoon's body tenses, a low groan escaping his throat as he pours every ounce of his being into the moment. Yoona's grip on his back tightens, her fingers digging into his skin as her own pleasure surges, meeting his. The air crackles with their shared intensity, their breaths ragged gasps that mingle in the quiet room. Then, with a final, shuddering release, Jihoon collapses against her, his weight heavy but comforting. He buries his face in the crook of her neck, his body still trembling, their skin slick with sweat.

“I love you, Seol Yoona,” he whispers, his voice rough from his release. “I love you more, oppa—oh, you’re so… warm…” Jihoon chuckles a little, but it’s not amusement; it’s an innocent person’s reaction to someone else’s innocence—or rather, the loss of it. “Let’s lie still and… savor this for now, baby.” Yoona nods, content in the knowledge that she’s loved and cherished, but her eyelids are getting heavy. “You can sleep a little if you want,” he says. Jihoon pecks her forehead, as if pressing a button to send her to sleep.

Yoona's breathing evens out almost immediately, her body relaxing completely against his. Jihoon shifts slightly, pulling the soft blanket up over them, cocooning them in warmth. He closes his eyes, savoring the subtle scent of her hair against his cheek, the steady rhythm of her breath against his chest. The exhaustion from the game, the emotional rollercoaster of the day—the tension, the injury scare, the victorious cheers, and their tender confessions—all melt away, replaced by a profound, peaceful contentment. This quiet intimacy, lying tangled together after such a momentous step, feels like the truest victory of all. Outside the window, the soft glow of the university lights shimmer, a silent witness to the quiet triumph within. The night is still young, but for Jihoon and Yoona, their story is just truly beginning.

[lucky-bucky-boy]

based off a little thought i had in regards to this photo

summary: hitting on bob floyd at the hard deck

tw: questionably written (wanted to get this out of my drafts), military men (in this political climate that deserves a tw)

the lights in the hard deck were almost golden. everything was painted with a sense of warmth and brightness, the smell of salt in the air, and the distant sound of the waves if you listened hard enough past the noise of every aviator in a 50-mile range.

its amazing that you managed to find the one bar littered with military men, both active and retired. it wasn't intentional, having looked up the best-rated beach bar near where you and your friends were staying for the weekend. North Island was known for being on the quiet side of San Diego, and seeing the crowd you now knew why.

the entire place felt more like being at a friend's home than a dive bar. the bartender knew just about everyone, it was obvious by the smile on her face and the teasing banter you caught on occasion, most people keeping to themselves or their small groups as they drink their beers, the pool table pretty much being the only rowdy area within the building. you could hear the hollering of people playing on the sand, but even then, it was just filled with joy.

for the first time wondering off from your friends on a trip, you were damn happy with your choice of where you wondered off to.

even if you were being stared at.

it was obvious people were trying to figure out who you were, glances and murmurs coming your way as you moved around. the boys at the pool table kept catching your attention from the bar, their rowdiness overtaking the scene on more than one instance.

"they're a mostly nice bunch," the bartender, penny as she had introduced herself, explained, "rooster is the one in the hawaiian shirt, hangman is the one with the cap on backwards, phoenix is the girl beating their asses."

that commentary pulled a giggle from you. but, as you continued to watch them you couldn't help but have your gaze pulled to a man sitting behind them, obviously only half paying attention to the game unfolding and the man talking next to him.

he was still in his khakis, hair combed neatly and his glassed fogging up just the slightest whenever he brought his drink to his lips. he looked so out of place, like he belonged in a library or a coffee shop. there was a gentleness you could feel even from halfway across the room. he nodded to his friends words, mindlessly eating peanuts like it was routine, taking a drink every 4th bite.

"here," penny's voice broke your trance, and for a second you worried how long you had been staring, "he doesn't drink. this is the soda he gets every time he's here. why don't you take it over to him."

despite the phrase being a suggestion, it was clear when she walked away that it was more of a command. you hesitated for a moment, pulling your phone out to snap the quickest picture of him to send to your friends with a "wish me luck" text.

you didn't bother waiting for a response. he wasn't exactly your normal type, and you could only hope that stayed true when you talked to him. grabbing the soda, you slipped your way through until you approached to group, ignoring the questions from the two boys at the pool table as you stopped in front of the awkward, confused man.

he looked up at you, bright blue eyes wide behind his frames, a light blush already dusting his features. "c-can I help you?" he asked, voice low and smooth in a way that felt like it shouldn't be legal.

"hi," you said softly, you didn't need to look around to know everyone was watching you two, "saw you were low so i brought you a refill, i'm lucky penny knew your drink."

"o-oh," he reached out, taking from you, his large hand enveloping most of the glass and his fingers just barely brushing yours as he took the cup. "thank you." his eyes met yours again after he set the fresh glass down. "can i ask why you brought me a new soda?"

the giggle that left your lips was involuntary, a mix of baffled and anxiety swirling in you, "needed a reason to come say hi to you," you shrugged.

"oh!" he said, apparently a little too enthusiastic since the men behind you started laughing in response. "h-hi."

"hi," you said again, "aren't you gonna ask me my name?" your words had a lilt to them that had his cheeks heating up even more, shifting in his seat as he glanced down for a moment, quickly brushing peanut shells off of him.

"oh, uh, sorry -" he swallowed hard, looking up at you again, "you're so pretty i'forgot my manners," his words drawled together in a way that made it very clear he wasn't native to the area, maybe midwest, or southern, "what's your name, miss?"

dear god, he was charming. charming in the way you knew there was something more to his boy next door awkwardness. you introduced yourself, soft and syrupy sweet. "and yours?"

"oh um," he rubbed the back of his neck, "bob," he answered, almost wincing like he was waiting for something.

"bob?" you mused, "short for robert?"

he nodded, shifting the slightest under your gaze. "yes, ma'am. robert floyd."

you couldn't help but bite your lip, everything in your body telling you to take this man and protect him at all costs. "bob... mind if i call you bobby?"

his eyes widened, lips parting just slightly as he reached into his pocket. "y'can call me whatever you want, if i can get your number." he sounded almost out of breath, like he couldn't believe what was happening.

"i'll give you my number, if you come take a walk with me away from these prying eyes."

bob didn't hesitate in standing up, and the sound of his friends hooting and hollering was heard as you two walked out the door onto the sand.

[iamthatonefangirl]

sensitive - thunderbolts* bucky barnes

disclaimer: mentions of mental health, lots of talk of insecurities, bucky/hydra yk how it is. a lot of this is very close to home for me, so please read at your own discretion.

this came from this thought i posted about yesterday.

*written before the movie came out, no spoilers ahead*

~~~

fuck, you could do this forever. if this was the only thing you could do for the rest of your life, you would die content. 

you wanted to devour him. 

you had him laid out on your bed, finally reciprocating the princess treatment he always gave you. that’s what you deserved, he would always tell you, only the best for you.

but now it’s your turn to do what you will with him. show him that he deserves princess treatment, even if it makes his face flush pink.  

you slowly peel his clothes off, watching like you’ve never done this before, never seen him undressed for you before. it’s been how many hundreds of times, and yet, you feel like you never get the chance to just look. you decide to take that chance now, knowing you have all the time in the world to just be in this moment, with him.

a much needed moment of reprieve to just be together, just the two of you.

his pants come off first, then his shirt, and you trail your mouth from his neck down to your chest. “such pretty tits, baby,” you say to him, partially teasing him, but you mean it with your entire heart. you leave marks all over, not letting an inch of his chest go unkissed.

“shut up,” he responds, his face going pink, but he loves it. he loves when you call him pretty, loves knowing how much you want him, even when you embarrass him with little comments like those. he soaks up every moment of it, of you on top of him, just worshipping him. 

you gently touch over his soft skin, letting him relax into the feeling; you slowly feel the tension in his body start to slip away. you know well enough by now to know that it means the anxieties in his head are calming, so you take it as a sign to keep going. 

you trail your fingers up to the scarred tissue across his shoulder, a brutal reminder of the tortures he once suffered at the hands of the cruel scientists and power-hungry motherfuckers–

your rage can wait. 

your touch is ever so delicate over his skin, cautious that you don’t hurt him in the process. all you want is to make him feel loved, cared for. teach him to associate this part of him not with what was done to him, but with the love and care you have for even the parts of himself he hates the most. 

you bring your mouth to kiss his shoulder and, of course, he tenses. but this time, it’s not as bad, you realize. it’s more of a surprise than a scare. 

joy always fills your heart when you realize that something you’re doing is working. that he’s learning to trust you, blindly. that he wants to trust you, no hesitations and no questions asked.

you card your other hand through his hair, pressing your lips to his temple before bringing them back to his scars. 

he lets you. his hands come gently to your hips, to ground himself that you’re real, that you’re there with him, that he’s not crazy. to tell himself that he’s not still stuck in hydra’s grasp, and he is most certainly not dreaming of a life he’ll never have.

because you’re real. this is the life he gets to live now, with you. 

you’re his. something real, something soft, something he wants more than anything. so he lets himself feel your skin. your lips on his scars. your hips under his hold. 

once he’s well and relaxed, keening into your touch, you keep going, kissing down his stomach. 

he doesn’t miss anything about hydra. he doesn’t miss anything about being the winter soldier. 

but if he’s honest?

he mourns the loss of the chiseled figure he once had. he wonders if you would love him more like that, pure muscle, perfectly toned. 

and then your words come to his head, reminding him that’s not real. that’s the product of the constant physical strain he was under, the lack of proper nourishment. it’s not real. 

but sometimes, that’s not enough to ease his worries of needing to be better, to be perfect for you. 

you don’t think you’ll ever convince him of how perfect he is, but you’ll spend the rest of your life trying to. 

your hands come to his waist, still not letting an inch of his skin go untouched by your soft lips.

he sighs and his hands come to your hair. “baby, stop,” he whispers. he doesn’t mean it, but he can’t stop himself from the doubts taking over in his mind. 

“what’s wrong?” you inquire. you know what’s wrong, and he gives you that look. you both know–it doesn’t need to be said out loud.

“I love you like this, baby,” you promise him with another kiss to his waist. he shifts uncomfortably. 

it breaks your heart. 

“don’t you like my tummy, baby?” you try, voice soft and sweet, voicing your own insecurities to just show him–

“yeah, but it’s sexy on you, baby,” he argues. you shake your head. fuck that.

“then why can’t I think the same about you, baby?” you try, roaming your hands over his soft skin. 

he huffs. 

“you know I’m right…” you say, punctuating it with another kiss. you keep going, and eventually his hands come to your hair, gently stroking your head and silently showing his acceptance of your affections. it makes your heart soar. 

you wish you could express to this man how much you love him, how much you trust him. there’s not a single thing wrong with him. 

for now, you’ll keep reminding him with your words and your lips, because he deserves it. all of it.

~~~

✦ masterlist ~ join a tag list ✦

bucky tag list:

@starfly-nicole @avengersfan25 @thewiselionessss @hextech-bros @a-book-lover-things @ruexj283 @mrsnikstan @sleepysongbirdsings @sapphirebarnes @bananababygirl10 @multiversefanfics @winchestert101

[jellykyunnie]

˗ˏˋ Entry : 065 - Lovesick! Sung Jinwoo x Fem! Reader: Revenge◛⑅·˚ ♡ ˎˊ˗

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚ 𝕊𝕦𝕟𝕘 𝕁𝕚𝕟𝕨𝕠𝕠 ˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅ Part 1 || Part 2 ♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

[ Delulu Jinwoo? How about Delulu E-rank faced Jinwoo? Complete loser awkward Sung Jinwoo. Murder, Bullying, Violence. This is a work of fiction do not imitate. ]

╰┈➤ ❝ [ A Knight Soaked In Blood ] ¡! ❞

Jinwoo since that day where he had a mental breakdown that spring morning— Had become suspiciously more clingy around you. He never left your side in school, its to the point you're convinced if he could he's follow you to the school washroom.

Thankfully he seems sane enough to control himself when you need your own private time? Otherwise? He's now your tail.

Like, your actually tail.

But you can't really say no to him, could you?

With those adorable bright grey eyes twinkling like a meek puppy whenever you look over at his direction, and the fluffy ebony locks bouncing about when he gets a bit excited around you— How can you resist him?

Jinwoo just seemed like he needed more of your attention, and nothing hurts with spoiling him with that. After all, you get to see more of his reactions.

How he would blush to the tip of his ears, his hand rubbing the back of his nape whenever he becomes a bit too bashful, and his voice that cracks a little when talking to you due to how excited he is just interacting with you.

꒰ . . . . ꒱

"Strawberry milk... Banana milk... and some cream bread... Yeah this should be good" Jinwoo mumbles as he holds the items in his arms.

He wanted to share the food with you. It's a habit he developed. He just wanted to stuff you full of yummy treats ever since he regressed.

Nothing matters more than your happiness in his eyes.

"She's such a weirdo isn't she? Always hanging out with Jinwoo even though he's unimpressive." He hears a voice from the other side of the vending machine.

"I guess her type are losers? Pfft... No wonder she barely has any other friends."

"Birds of a feather flock together, no?"

"Anyway, how about we join the other girls later for karaoke?"

"Sure!"

"....Woo..."

"Jinwoo?"

Jinwoo perks up as he finished recalling the memory from just a few minutes earlier. He had it on loop in his head the whole time as you busily munched on the bread he had come back with.

"Yeah? Sorry." He rubs his eyes, taking a deep breath before fondly glancing over your direction. "I'm a little distracted today"

"You're normally not like this" You tilt your head, curious as to why Jinwoo is more out of it than usual.

He reached a finger out, gently removing bread crumbs from the corner of your mouth with a touch that isn't hiding his affection at all, "I just stayed up late last night,"

"Argh, what a hypocrite" You playfully scold him, huffing and puffing as if you're a mother that is upset at her son's misdeeds "You always scold me when I stay up late but here you are playing games all night!"

Well, he isn't about to deny the fact that he is playing games. It's just not games people in this time and age would be playing. No, not at all, who else would be dealing with gates as a hobby?

He often messed around with the monsters as if he were a bored toddler tossing and ripping his playthings limb by limb just to watch. Or maybe he'd purposely watch them struggle all for his own amusement.

Nothing in this age really entertains him minus the cute and adorable expressions you make to him. Whether you're upset, happy, or sad— The faces you make never ceases to make him feel more attached to you than he already is.

Jinwoo couldn't really indulge in you before he regressed, responsibilities were thrust into him out of nowhere. The role of a patriarch he had to fill in when his father disappeared— The burden of carrying his family on his two weary shoulders will always be heavy but a responsibility he would never refuse in any lifetime.

He had neglected you.

The person who filled his youth in blissful joy and innocence.

He spent his summers playing with you by the beach shoreline, running along the path of the waters kissing the golden sands and picking up any amusing trinkets you found on the way.

After school hagwons are often consumed with the both of you on date nights messing around in a samgyupsal restaurant or just hanging out right outside a convenience store, but most often you two are often alone in an empty park for casual talks and unspoken intimacy of two souls yearning for eachother.

In this regression of his, in this second chance—

Jinwoo absolutely refuses to let you go through the brutal bullying you had gone through during this time of your youth.

"Go home early tonight, okay?" He smiles gently, his boyish smile sending your heart jolting at how endearing it was. "You need to rest early tonight so you have energy to be hyper tomorrow."

"What am I, a kid?" You pout at his gentle chiding, hopeless at how he effortlessly diverted the conversation from his hypocrisy to you being told to follow an early sleep curfew. "I'm old enough to have my own sleep schedule."

"Then don't come whining to me tomorrow that you didn't sleep well because you chose to get shut-eye at 2:00 am" He scoffed, pinching your cheek.

"Stupid mushroom head..." You swat his hand away. "Fine, fine! You owe me tteokbokki tomorrow..."

Jinwoo cocks an eyebrow up but decides to humor you, "Anything else?"

"Some shortcakes! Oh and macarons!... Some ice cream too"

"...Don't come crying to me once your belly swells"

"Sung Jinwoo!"

꒰ . . . . ꒱

Class resumed shortly after your bickering with Jinwoo. Of course, the subjects were unbearably painful to listen to. You held back dozing off during the whole afternoon.

Somehow, you had survived long enough until dismissal and of course Jinwoo escorts you back home. He quietly listens to all your rants about the nagging teachers and the unnecessarily hard projects and assignments. Not to mention finals was next month.

He listened on and on until you were both at your doorstep. Of course, you are reluctant to part with him, but with enough reassuranceㅡ You finally go inside somewhere safe and a place where he no linger has to worry about your well-being.

"Bellion." Jinwoo calls out, his voice now flat and devoid of any trace of affection he had talking to you from earlier. "Did you find the brats?"

"Yes, my liege" The undead soldier replies as his floating head hovered over his master's shoulder. "The targets are all located and in a single environment, all six individuals you have been keeping tabs on are together."

"Good" He hums. "Her nightmares will end today"

꒰ . . . . ꒱

Dizzying neon lights, booming speakers, beer and cigarettes teenagers that are illegal to use yet they do it anyway. It’s the peak of teenagehood… In their opinion anyway.

Drugs, sex, drama, only the losers are missing out on enjoying their youth.

Hence why they relished in belittling and destroying everyone else’s days just because they can and are entitled to it. The law doesn’t really apply to them, just slay a pretty penny, agressive parents that can never believe their children can ever do wrong and the typical: “They are too young for this! They have a life ahead of them! Teenagers are just being teenagers!” — Yeah, everyone gets the point.

Jinwoo was lucky enough that those assholes never bothered him in his younger days no matter how wimpy he looks. He just a oided them and never interacted with any of them.

That wasn’t the case for the person he cherishes the most.

While they relished in throwing their life away, the person Jinwoo loved more than life would have an awful breakdown all alone when she experienced one of the most traumatizing bullying ever.

The scars they gave her remained even in her adulthood where she overthinks every little thing and every little conversation that she doubted him no matter how sincere he was. She was as suicidal as she is because she believed no one would actually love her for who she is and giving her life up for the sake others will be the only salvation and worth she’ll ever find in herself.

And Sung Jinwoo absolutely refuses to go down another lifetime of him losing the love of his life.

And as the booming music continues to echo in the karaoke room, the door creaks open to reveal Jinwoo donning his black hoodie over his head to avoid the cameras.

“What the fuck?” Mincheol curses out, groaning as he had to stop kissing his 4th girlfriend for the week.

“Oppa, is that a friend?” Hana asks.

“Friend?” He laughs,

“Oh, it’s Jinyoung? Jinyeok?” Byeong-ho smiles, throwing an arm around Jinwoo’s shoulder. “Hey, buddy, the fuck are you out here for? Shit, is it about the groupings projects? I’m working on it man, so get outta here, yeah?”

“Get that fucker out, argh, ruining my fucking mood” Mincheol cursed, throwing a beer bottle on Jinwoo’s feet that shattered upon impact, “Heym you fucking nutcase! Can’t you fucking see I’m busy trying to get fucking laid? What the hell are you here for, huh?! Are you begging me to fucking kill you?!”

“Kill me?…” A scoff leaves his lips, finding the idea ridiculous. “You think a bastard junkie like you can lay a hand on me?”

His grey eyes look up daringly at Mincheol, hollow and devoid of anything.

“This fucking—“

“There are 7 of you here,” Jinwoo grabs Byeonghoon’s hand around him and crushed it, prompting the teenager to cry out and collapse on the floor, “2 boys that pervertedly touch her when she was in sixth grade, 3 girls that made her elementary life and absolute hellhole for her to live in, and the remaining 2 girls that poured grape juice all over the brand new uniform she got in the weekend.”

“What the hell is he even talking about?” Hana curses, rolling her eyes as she fixed her hair on the reflection of her phone. “Oppa, can you deal with him?”

“You’ll regret ever being alive” Mincheol spat, aiming at Jinwoo neck but it seemed…

That suddenly he is looking at the ceiling.

“Sure,” Jinwoo said, his heel pressing down on Mincheol’s chest as the teenager cried and struggled. “See if you can make a dent on me, really. I mean it sincerely.”

“Make me suffer something that is more painful than seeing your beloved die over and over all while you’re helpless and watching her demise repeatedly.”

If it weren’t for Jinwoo’s goddamn strength that didn’t go away even with his regression— He wouldn’t hold back. Unfortunately he can’t kill anyone in here because where would the fun be?

Isn’t living itself more painful than death?

Why should he be merciful and give them eternal sleep when they wound the heart of someone absolutely precious?

Mercy is not something these people deserve.

Blood splatters paint the walls, whether it’d be the boys or the girls. Jinwoo didn’t care. He even brought scissors.

Not to stab them with it of course. He grabbed Hana, Yumi, and Eun-yeong’s hairs and snipped them off in uneven chunks. Beating up their faces that laughed and snickered at her is not enough, he has to damage their appearances for the full effect of despair.

He stands in the middle of bloodied and mangled teenagers, blood splatters everywhere but on him. Mincheol could only helplessly watch as he witnessed a man akin to the devil himself.

Because how can you wrap your head around such blatant disregard for life? How could someone be so brutal and emotionless?

He could only stare wide eyed, with what little he can see at least as both of his eyes are swollen while he creates a pool of rancid urine on the floor mixing with the coppery smell of blood.

“Should be enough” Jinwoo hums to himself as he glances up at the bloody faces on the floor and the weeping girls mourning their carefully pampered hair strands scattered on the floor. “Of course, I do so very hope that each and every one of you have a good night’s rest.”

꒰ . . . . ꒱

They had attempted to report Jinwoo to the school, when it didn't work they turned to the police who looked at the parents and kids as if they all grew a third heard.

Jinwoo, who is scrawny and meek, with no record on his papers nor did any classmate would testify against him as an aggressive person. Any attempts of bribing anyone to lie were all met with silence.

After all, can you convict someone who has nothing but goodwill from the people around him?

He came from an ordinary family, his father is a firefighter— Meanwhile the people blaming him are all elites.

So who would believe them?

It was a clear case of the rich stomping on the less fortunate for their own amusement regardless of the truth.

"Madame, I'm sorry, but for the last time Jinwoo is a very good child. He has decent grades and has never gotten into trouble, your son must have been mistaken" The principal pinches the bridge of his nose as Mincheol's mother went off of him, "Your kid must have mistaken him for someone else, students built as scrawny as Jinwoo isn't uncommon amongst their age group."

"This is absurd!" She continues to scream regardless while Mincheol came out of the office for a breather.

He wanted to knock something over— Until he hears a familiar voice beside him.

"I told you, didn't I?" Jinwoo smiles coolly, as if he had been enjoying him and his friends making a fool out of themselves trying to get him to face his crimes, "No one will believe you no matter how much you try"

"You fucking" Mincheol raises his fist, only to be met with the same hollow, empty and dead grey eyes that had been haunting his dreams as of late.

"You haven't learned your lesson yet?" He asks, opting the teenager to falter back onto his back when Jinwoo reached out to him.

He shut his eyes, completely ready to receive another punch but the shorter boy only dusted off his collar while saying, "Kids like you are rotten to the core, you never really change until you experience something near death."

Mincheol was suddenly yanked down, his gaze now forced to meet Jinwoo's lilac eyes that glows eerily, "It's someone's special day today, so I'll give one of her presents through you and your little army of shitheads."

"Jinwoo?"

Your voice cuts through the air, immediately opting Jinwoo to shove Mincheol back onto the wall as his wicked gaze turned gentle and loving the moment he looked at your direction. It was as if he wasn't the same person who had bloodied him and his friends weeks ago and that he would never have such a bloodthirsty gaze like he did earlier.

Duality is dangerous, and Sung Jinwoo was an expert in being two-faced.

"Is he messing with you again, I swear to god—" You were about to approach Mincheol until Jinwoo gently wraps his arm around your waist and drags you away with little strength. "Hey, hey! Let me go! I need to punch that bastard!"

"Not worth it, let's just go" Jinwoo shakes his head as he grabs your bag to sling over his shoulder, "Leave it alone"

"But that bastard and his friends have been messing you for two weeks now!" You cry out, "How dare that bastard accuse you of beating them? They make so many enemies they mistake anyone! And they decided to frame you on top of that!"

"It's your birthday today, you'll get wrinkles this young if you keep going with that temper of yours" He shakes his head, sneaking in a kiss on top of your head as he managed to successfully bring you out to to the park near the school.

"Then I want them dead for my birthday present!" He merely cocks an eyebrow at your bold declaration, "Those bastards are making our lives hard and for what? Just because they got born with diamond spoons shoved up their fucking asses? They should die painfully and slowly!"

"Sure."

Jinwoo then gets down on his knee as he brought up a small cake he packed in his bag earlier in the morning, he fished out a small lighter in his pocket then lit up the candle he stuck on top of it.

"Blow your candle then, birthday girl," He smiles sweetly, "Today is your special day, and I'm sure your wishes will come true."

"What am I, a kid?" You grumble, pouting at his blatant coddling but didn't reject his offer.

Leaning down, you blow on the candle, reciting your wish in your head.

The moment you were done, Jinwoo leans his forehead against yours.

"I hope you don't mind that from now on you'll be sharing all your birthdays with me" He whispers lovingly, "No matter what happens, I'll be by your side."

"And I will do anything you want. You just have to stay by my side safe and sound."

꒰ . . . . ꒱

The news station all reported the case of 7 close-knit friends who were all assaulted whilst on their nightly karaoke outings.

An innocent bonding by teenagers turned bloody as an unknown assailant arrived in their booth and attacked them unprovoked.

Four of the five teenagers sustained injuries that their bones had shattered, opting their limbs to be surgically removed. The girls all had their hair chopped off in large chunks in addition to the cuts on their now mutilated faces.

We had just received news that 4 of the group have passed away in their sleep after going through intense seizures.

Remaining survivors are brought into mental hospitals as they exhibit extremely manic behaviours that are harmful to both themselves and to others. Hence, the doctors have decided to keep them on thorough watch until they are deemed safe for society and to themselves.

Currently, the authorities have no suspect as the cctv cameras were all malfunctioning at the time of the incident.

꒰ 🪼 A/N: Guys it's actually my birthday today!!! April 9th<33!!! So i switched up this very messy fic to be my birthday present to me heheh:DD!!! Have you guys missed lovesick woowoo? I did! Hence why this is a birthday special www!!! Hope you all loved it uueee(⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠)ﾉ⁠*⁠.⁠✧ ꒱

ʚ(੭´͈ ᐜ `͈)੭ .｡✧: ~ —! stories written by kyunnie; translations, reposts, plagiarism are strictly forbidden.

[zzbubblegumbitchzz]

The Manuscript // Luke Hughes

wc: 1.1k

cw: angst, breakup, sad shit man, there’s no happy ending in this.

There was a time where all you could think about was the joy of stepping through the door. The excitement about seeing him. The wonder of what the rest of your day was gonna be like with him.

There was never a time you worried, a time where you ever felt second in his life. You were, and he always said, “will be my number one. I wouldn’t be here without you.”

All that feels so distant. All the love, the spontaneity of him, the kisses in the doorway unafraid if the neighbors saw, the slow dancing in the kitchen.

The late nights he swore he wasn’t tired just so he could have a few more minutes with you. That all seemed so foreign.

Your bed wasn’t a comfort anymore, his pillow wasn’t your safe space while he was gone. He wasn’t yours anymore. No matter how many half hearted “I love you.” he gave as he walked out the door, you knew he wasn’t there. That wasn’t your Luke anymore.

There was a time where you’d wake up to flowers and breakfast in bed. There was a time he’d pick your outfit and give you a time frame to be ready for a date. There weren't any dates anymore. There wasn’t eating dinner together anymore. There was nothing. All you two shared was that stupid apartment that hurt every time you walked into it.

Tears filled your eyes as you packed your last box. Reminders of the words he mumbled as he walked out the door.

“This is my job! You know that! You act like you haven't been around my family and hockey for the last 5 years. This isn't any different. Now I have to go.” All you could do was nod. A silent understanding. He didn't have to understand yet, but you did. It was an understanding that no matter how difficult it was, Luke would always choose the sport over you. And who are you to get in the way of what makes him happiest?

The box that held all the signs of your relationship. All the pictures, all the gifts, the jersey’s, the jewelry. Your neck felt naked, that “L” pendant leaving a burning pain in its wake. You couldn't bother taping it, just left it sitting on the dining table.

One final breath and you were out the door. Dropping your keys with the neighbor and a promise he’ll give them to Luke tomorrow when he returns from the last road trip of the season.

He had wondered why you never responded to his text. You always responded, you always were so excited to see him home. Truthfully? He was excited to be with you again. He missed you so badly. His mind hasn't been right, and he knows he’s been a shitty partner. He’s been eating himself alive with it. Since Jack had his injury he had to pull more weight for the team. He had just hoped you'd understand. You'd be in the kitchen with dinner and he could just talk.

When Luke had finally stepped in front of his door, his shoulder eased. He was met with a dark apartment. An apartment that suddenly didn't feel like your shared home.

As soon as the lights flicked on and he didn't see your shoes or your bag by the front door - his chest felt heavy. His mind runs a mile a minute, the panic setting in the moment he sees the opened box. The folded piece of paper with his name on it, and that necklace he gave you in high school with it is what broke him.

With shaking hands and hot tears slowly falling from his eyes, he grabbed the paper.

Hi Lukey,

I know this is kind of cowardly and for that I apologize, but I didn't know how else to do this. You’ve probably got an idea at this point what’s happening. After you read this, please make sure you listen to the doorbell footage from Tuesday at 5:40pm.

I can’t do this anymore. I can’t keep breaking my own heart hoping you're going to magically be different. And yeah, that’s shitty of me. I tried talking but I was only met with a stupid empty promise of dinner together tomorrow and those dinners never came. I know it’s been hard for you too. I know you've been so busy with the team and I'll never fault you for that, you're doing your job. You're doing what I know you love, what I've watched you do for so many years. You know the difference though.

I need you to think about how long it’s been since you ate a meal with me? When was the last time you kissed me, or even hugged me? Months, its been months Luke. Months I went feeling like the butt of a really bad joke. Months I felt like I wasn't important, wanted, or loved. I hope you understand my hurt, I hope you can understand why I did this. Why I left. Why I couldn't stay in a home, in a partnership that did not value the other anymore, in a partnership where only one side's feelings mattered.

If there’s anything I forgot for some reason, I went home. You can have Jack or Quinn drop them off when you’re all at the lake house in a few weeks.

I'm sorry Luke. Please take care of yourself, and don't forget, the dryer shrinks your uniform. Has to be on delicates. Good luck, Lukey.

No. Fuck, this cant be happening he thought to himself. This has to be some sick joke. His feet moved faster than his brain did. He was running down the hall, fuck the elevator. He can't wait, he needs to get to the airport.

He wasn't paying any attention, too focused on booking the flight on his phone before he bumped into someone. Not just someone, Jack.

“Hey, hey. Luke! What's your problem, why are you crying?” Jack asked.

“Fuck dude, shes gone. I need to go, I can't let her just leave Jack!”

Shaking his head, he ignored his brother's questions. He had one plan, and it was to get to you.

He opened his phone and went straight to the footage you referenced in your letter.

You were stood in the hallway, tears staining your cheeks. God he hated this, he hated knowing how badly he had hurt you. He never wanted to be the reason for your tears and now he was the only reason behind those. You took a deep breath and looked up to the doorbell. I loved you Luke, so much. I’m so sorry. I lived for the hope of it all for so long now, I hope you understand.

He did understand, he understood why. He didn't blame you for it either. He had lost the one person who loved him, all of him. Flaws and all. He lost her.

[clara-a7]

Facetime || OP81

彡PAIRING ; Oscar Piastri x fem!reader

彡WARNINGS ; fluff

彡REQUESTED? ; No~ (requests are open!)

彡WORDS ; 934

彡DISCLAIMER ; Everything written here is FICTITIOUS.

彡AUTHOR'S NOTE ; I just wanted to write something fluffy after Oscar's win. It's not my best writing, but I hope you will like it!

Your phone buzzes the second you settle into bed, still grinning from the race you just finished watching. Oscar’s car crossing the line in P1, the crowd roaring in the background, his voice crackling through team radio, joy and disbelief tangled together.

FaceTime Incoming: Oscar🧡

You swipe to answer, anticipation rushing through you as the screen lights up.

His face fills the frame immediately. He’s still in his race suit, sweaty hair sticking out under a McLaren cap that’s tilted slightly to one side. A towel is draped around his neck from the post-race interviews. He’s exhausted, but there’s an unmistakable glow about him, the one you know so well, the one that only comes after a win.

And when he sees you, his eyes light up, brighter than anything else in the world.

“Hey, Champ” you tease, raising an eyebrow playfully.

He laughs, the sound wrapping around you like a warm hug. It makes your chest ache in the best possible way. “Not Champion yet”

“P1 today. Top of the standings. Sounds like a pretty solid start to me” you grin.

Oscar leans back against a wall in the garage, his eyes flicking over the screen, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he seems to double-check that you’re actually there, that you’re not just a figment of his imagination. “It feels insane” he says, his voice tinged with wonder. “I still can’t believe it”

“I can” you reply easily, letting your smile slip into something warmer. “I’ve believed in you since your Formula 3 days”

He chuckles, his eyes lighting up again. “You’ve been saying that for ages, haven’t you?”

“I knew you were capable of it” you say, giving him a teasing wink.

“You watched the whole race?”

“Obviously” you say, feigning offense. “I screamed when you took the lead. I’m pretty sure I woke up half the street”

He laughs, that deep, boyish laugh that always makes you feel like everything is going to be okay. “That explains the noise I heard from the car”

There’s a moment of silence, but it’s comfortable. The kind of silence you two share, where words aren’t necessary, and yet everything feels a little more profound because you’re both there connected, even through a screen.

He shifts the phone slightly, as if trying to get a better look at you, like you’re the calm after the storm, the one person he can lean on after everything.

“You know” he says, more quietly now, “every time I win, I think it’s gonna start to feel... normal. But it never does”

You nod slowly, your heart squeezing a little at the vulnerability in his voice. “That’s because you’re not just racing anymore. You’re fighting for the whole thing now”

Oscar exhales softly, and you can almost feel the weight of everything he’s been carrying. “Yeah. I guess I am” His gaze never leaves yours.

You can hear the pride in his voice, but there’s something softer underneath it, too. Not doubt, but the quiet realization of how far he’s come and the responsibility that comes with it.

“And I’m not gonna lie” he adds, his voice lowering slightly, “being up here, top of the board, after everything... I kinda wish you were the first person I saw when I got out of the car”

Your chest tightens, the words hitting you harder than you expected. It’s not just about a race win. It’s about everything they’ve been through together, every moment where he’s pushed forward, every time he’s crossed a finish line with her in his thoughts. It’s about his journey and the way it always circles back to you.

“I wish that too” you whisper, your voice soft but full of meaning.

“I heard the cheers, saw all the orange in the stands, the fireworks... but it still didn’t feel real until I saw you” he says, his voice full of emotion, the weight of the moment obvious.

Your heart swells, and you can’t help but smile, even though the lump in your throat threatens to choke you up. “Oscar—”

“I know,” he interrupts, smiling sheepishly. “I’m getting sappy.”

“You’ve earned it” you say, your voice light but full of affection. “Go ahead. You’ve got every right to be”

“I will” he says, a playful glint returning to his eyes, but it doesn’t quite mask the warmth that still lingers there. “But next time, I really need you trackside, okay? No more excuses”

“I’ll buy my own ticket” you joke. “Just tell me when and where.”

He laughs, that deep, genuine laugh that always makes you feel like he’s just here with you, no matter how far away he actually is. “Deal. We’ll make it official”

Another voice calls out in the background, muffled and distant, but Oscar doesn’t look away from the screen. He lets the moment stretch for just a few seconds longer, as if savoring it. Then, with a reluctant glance toward the chaos behind him, he sighs.

“I’ll call you later tonight” he promises.

“I’ll be waiting” you say, your heart light and full. There’s something about the way he says it like he’s already thinking of how he’ll make up for the distance, how he’ll carve out time just for you.

“Love you”

“Love you more”

He doesn’t say goodbye. Instead, he gives you one last look the kind that says more than any podium interview ever could, more than words could ever capture. And then the screen goes dark.

The call ends, but the warmth stays, like he never really put the phone down.

✿彡did you enjoy this? comments, likes, and reblogs are immensely appreciatedミ✿

© clara-a7 - all rights reserved.

[melwnst]

────── ⋆⋅☆ BOURBON KISSES, DEAN WINCHESTER

summary. Dean blurs out that he wants to marry you after a crazy night.

⭑.ᐟthis was half written so I just finished it in a hurry because I wanted to force myself to post, so can’t promise i wrote a good one here but I have SO MUCH cool stuff coming :) please interact and send requests<3

Word count. 830

my supernatural masterlist/full masterlist/support my work!

──────────୨ৎ──────────

It’s late. The room is dimly lit, the only sound is the one of Dean’s breathing. You lay on his chest, his heart beats fast. His heart beats like this is his first time. His heart beats so loud, that you wonder what could possibly make it beat that way.

Dean feels it. He feels like his heart is about to give out right then and there. He’s happy- he’s filled with a sense of joy and happiness he never thought he would feel- or deserved to feel. His mind is a mess. You’re both tangled up in the soft sheets of the bunker. The sheets smell like lavender, and Dean smells like bourbon. You’re not really sure what led to that. You know that the bar down the street was packed, it was loud and Dean looked like most beautiful thing you’d ever seen. You were used to it- feeling this way about him. Growing hot at the thought or sight of him. After too many drinks, the moment you stumbled into the room, he was all over you. His hands, his mouth, everything.

It feels as though you could do this for the rest of your life. Tangled in bed with him, in his embrace after spending countless hours making love to each other.

Dean’s never quite felt this way. Dean’s never blushed before. Dean’s heart has never skipped a beat anytime a cute girl walked into the room- but it does for you. His heart does skip a beat. His heart jumps out of his chest anytime you’re close to getting hurt. His heart aches at the thought of being away from you for even just a second. So he lays here, with you in his arms after making him feel like he’s so loved, and like he can’t spend another day calling you his girlfriend.

This is the last thing he ever thought he’d do.

But he speaks up.

‘Marry me.’

Your head perks up, and you wonder if you heard him correctly.

‘What?’ You lay on your elbow, starring at him because surely you misheard him. Right?

‘Marry me.’ Dean doesn’t smile. He doesn’t know what came over him either- he means it. He wants to marry you. He wants to spend the rest of his life with you. But he didn’t except to blur it out, that’s not how he’d planned it.

Dean doesn’t smile but you do. You do- and your heart races. It’s like a competition between you two, like whose heart beats faster.

‘You mean that?’ Your voice is low, like it’s only for his ears. Your hand slightly trembles as it goes to lay on his bicep. God that bicep.

‘I mean it. I wanna marry you. But I don’t wanna pressure you.’ Dean wants to take it back now. He’s not the type to feel ashamed, or to even pull back from anything, but it’s like he feels self conscious all of a sudden.

‘No! No pressure here. I just didn’t except this, that’s all. Are you sure that’s what you want?’ You ask, because you know it is. You know Dean doesn’t take this slightly, and he must’ve kept that thought in his head for a while. But you’re still processing- and your heart is still racing.

‘It really is.’

‘Okay. Screw it.’ You say as Dean suddenly sits up in the bed.

‘What?’ He doesn’t know why- it’s not like he expected you to say no, but a part of him is surprised.

‘Screw it. Neither of us wants a big white wedding right? Let’s just go to the courthouse tomorrow or whatever, and get married. I don’t wanna wait another day to call you my husband.’ You finish all while laughing- realizing what’s happening.

‘Holy shit.’ Dean can only say that- he doesn’t know what else to say. He knew you were the one on the first day you met. He used to make fun of people who met and said it was love at first sight, until it eventually happened to him. Dean joins in, and he laughs with you.

Next thing you know, you’re on your back and Dean is on top of you, you don’t think you’ve ever seen him smile this big. A genuine smile worth a million words.

‘I can’t believe you’re gonna be my wife.’ He laughs, and suddenly it hits him. It’s not like he’s gonna cry- but he’s so grateful that he might.

‘Better believe it babe, cuz it’s happening.’

Dean then kisses you. He kisses you and it’s like fireworks everywhere. Your stomach is a mess- your hands claw on his back like they belong there. His lips fit with yours like perfect pieces of a puzzle.

It’s like it’s meant to be.

And starting tomorrow, your new life together begins.

Who would’ve thought that Dean Winchester was one day gonna be up for marriage when he barely did relationships.

[satellite-evans]

Home at last

Pairing: Lewis Hamilton x wife!reader

Summary: Lewis spending hiw morning with his wife and daughter <3

Word count: 1.3k

Warnings: fluff, making out

A/N:

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

When Lewis woke up that morning, he felt the familiar warmth of peace settle over him. It wasn’t always this way. Mornings used to be quiet—too quiet. Even with his booming career, a circle of friends, and fans cheering his name, coming home to an empty house had been a stark reminder of what was missing.

Loneliness had been a constant companion then, a heavy weight that settled on his chest every time he crossed the threshold of his home. The silence would press in on him, making the space feel cavernous and cold despite its luxurious trappings. He’d sit in the living room, scrolling aimlessly through his phone or staring at the walls, wondering if all the success in the world was worth it when there was no one to share it with. The ache wasn’t just about being alone—it was the absence of connection, of love, of the warmth only a family could bring. He’d envied the simple joys he saw in others’ lives: a partner’s laugh, a child’s hug, the quiet hum of a life shared.

But now, things were different. No, better. Perfect, even. The moment he opened his eyes, the quiet was replaced by the sound of soft breathing beside him. He turned his head to see you, his wife, still lost in the tranquility of sleep. The morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a golden hue over your features. It struck him again just how beautiful you were, even with your hair slightly mussed and your cheek pressed into the pillow.

Gratitude washed over him like a wave, so strong it almost took his breath away. You and your daughter, Rana, had filled the void in his heart, replacing the silence with laughter and the ache with a profound sense of belonging. He didn’t just love you; he adored you, cherished you. You were his anchor, his light, and every day he woke up thankful that fate had brought you into his life.

Lewis’s lips curled into a soft smile as he brushed a stray strand of hair from your face. He could never resist touching you—a grounding force in a world that constantly spun too fast. His hand found its way to your waist, and he pulled you closer, resting his forehead against the back of your neck. This was his favorite place in the world: right here, with you.

“Good morning, love,” he murmured, his voice still husky with sleep.

You stirred slightly, your eyelids fluttering open. A soft groan escaped your lips as you stretched. “Morning, handsome,” you replied, your voice gravelly but endearing. You turned to face him, a sleepy smile spreading across your face. “What time is it?”

Lewis glanced at the clock on the bedside table. “Just gone 8. Rana’s probably about to wake up.”

The mere mention of your daughter brought an automatic smile to both your faces. But as you moved to get out of bed, Lewis tightened his arms around you.

“Not yet,” he whined playfully. “Stay a bit longer. I’m not ready to let you go.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Lewis, I have to get up. Rana’s going to need breakfast, and so will you.”

“I can survive,” he protested, nuzzling into your neck. “Can’t say the same for my heart if you leave me now.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress the grin on your face. “Alright, Mr. Hamilton, stop with the dramatics. How about you make the bed, brush your teeth, and then come help me downstairs? Chop, chop!”

Lewis groaned in mock defeat, flopping back against the pillows as you slipped out of his grasp. “Yes, ma’am,” he called after you, his tone laced with amusement.

Your laughter echoed from the hallway, a sound that warmed his heart and left him grinning like a fool.

When you stepped into Rana’s room, you were greeted by the sight of your daughter standing in her crib, her tiny hands gripping the bars as she bounced excitedly. Her dark curls were a chaotic halo around her face, and her giggle filled the room as soon as she saw you.

“Good morning, my little sunshine!” you cooed, scooping her up in your arms. “Oh, aren’t you the cutest thing?”

Rana’s only response was more laughter, her chubby arms wrapping around your neck in a hug that made your heart swell. After a quick diaper change, you carried her downstairs, placing her in her highchair before heading to the kitchen to prepare breakfast.

The smell of coffee brewing filled the air as you worked, humming softly to yourself. Rana was occupied with her favorite picture book, occasionally babbling to herself in a language only she understood. The peaceful morning scene was interrupted by the sound of Lewis’s footsteps coming down the stairs.

“There’s my favorite little girl!” he exclaimed, leaning down to press a kiss to Rana’s forehead. She squealed in delight, reaching out for him, but he turned his attention to you before picking her up.

“And there’s my favorite big girl,” he added, sliding his arms around your waist from behind. You jumped slightly as his lips found the curve of your neck.

“Lewis, stop! I’m trying to cook,” you protested, though your laughter betrayed you.

“I’ve done everything you asked,” he teased, his fingers grazing your sides in a way that made you squirm. “Now I’m asking for a little something in return.”

“Oh, really?” you asked, turning in his arms to face him. “And what exactly do you want, Mr. Hamilton?”

His grin turned mischievous. “Just this,” he said, capturing your lips in a kiss that left you momentarily breathless.

It started slow, his lips moving softly against yours, as if savoring the taste of you. One hand stayed firm on your waist, anchoring you to him, while the other gently cupped your cheek. His thumb brushed your skin, sending a ripple of warmth through you. When he tilted his head slightly, deepening the kiss, you felt your knees weaken. His tongue traced the seam of your lips, coaxing you to open for him, and when you did, a soft groan escaped his throat—a sound that sent shivers down your spine.

Your hands found their way to his shoulders, clutching at him as if he were the only thing keeping you standing. His kisses became more urgent, more insistent, and you could feel his need for you in every movement. When his hand slid from your waist to the small of your back, pressing you closer until there wasn’t an inch of space between you, your heart raced in tandem with his.

Eventually, the need for air forced you to break apart, but he didn’t let you go far. He rested his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your lips as both of you tried to catch your breath.

“You drive me crazy, you know that?” he murmured, his voice low and rough. His eyes searched yours, filled with so much love it made your chest ache.

“And you make it impossible to think,” you replied, your cheeks flushed and your lips tingling from the intensity of the kiss.

Lewis chuckled, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. “Good. You’re not supposed to think. You’re supposed to be here, with me.”

Your playful retort was interrupted by Rana’s voice. “Daddy! Up!”

Lewis turned to see her waving her little arms, her bright eyes locked on him. He chuckled, kissing your forehead before stepping away. “Duty calls,” he said, lifting Rana out of her chair and spinning her around until her giggles filled the room.

You watched them from the kitchen, a smile spreading across your face. It was in moments like these that you were reminded just how lucky you were. Lewis’s love wasn’t just something he said; it was something he showed every single day—in the way he looked at you, the way he played with Rana, the way he filled your home with joy.

Lewis caught your eye over Rana’s shoulder and grinned. “You’re staring, love.”

“Can you blame me?” you shot back, your tone dripping with affection.

And just like that, another ordinary day became extraordinary—filled with laughter, love, and the quiet certainty that this was exactly where you were meant to be.