#an old moodboard I made ages ago

[mooonbae]

{ 𝔇𝔯𝔞𝔠𝔬 𝔐𝔞𝔩𝔣𝔬𝔶 }

[ashmp3]

THEE new palette btw 🩷🩵🤍

[satorulovebot]

so scarlet it was, maroon | chapter one

✧₊⁺ pairing — satoru gojou x journalist!reader

✧₊⁺ chapter summary — you get the chance to meet the infamous gojou satoru while working on your journalism project at suzuka circuit. what could you possibly want from him?

✧₊⁺ word count — 6.3k

✧₊⁺ warnings — nsfw (minors dni), age gap, alcohol use, mature themes, mentions of cheating, substance abuse, themes of marriage and divorce

✧₊⁺ notes — hello everyone! i asked you awhile ago on a poll which series you would like to see after cursed seas and f1 gojo won the poll and then i posted the masterlist and everyone wants it so you get it now. so here it is. and NO its not happy NEVER expect happiness from me because im allergic to it. also the reader being nosy af is inspired by me and my parents telling me i should be a journalist with how nosy i am.

series masterlist // pinterest moodboard // general masterlist

next chap. (coming soon)

You moved to Tokyo with your family when you were younger.

You grew up in a rural part of the country, surrounded by farmers and people either ready to retire or nearing the end of their lives. Your parents hated living there, and so did you—for one, there were hardly any kids to play with, and two, as your father would say, "too many old fuckers lying around."

When you moved to Tokyo, your family decided to celebrate by taking you to a Formula 1 race. Your dad thought it would be perfect for the two of you since fixing up old cars had always been your daddy-daughter activity.

You didn’t like the idea of racing at first—the noise was too loud, and the idea of people speeding toward a black-and-white checkered line seemed ridiculous. But the moment you heard the roar of the engines and watched the lights go from red to green, you were captivated, a fascination that would stay with you for years.

When you got your first computer, you began looking up videos of F1 drivers. One day, you stumbled across a video titled “The Biggest F1 Scandals in History,” and that was when you decided you wanted to go into journalism.

You were nosy, to say the least. So, it was no surprise to your parents when you announced to them that you wanted to pursue journalism as a career. Your father reminded you how you’d always been curious, listening in on others’ conversations and keeping up with the latest school drama.

When you applied for journalism school, you were accepted into one of the top programs in the world—Sophia University. Your parents were proud that you’d made it into such a highly ranked school for journalism in Japan.

You were now in your fourth and final year at Sophia, and enjoying your journalism class. Recently, your professor assigned a project: write a story about a major pop culture figure of your choice, and for extra credit, get an interview with them. Your professor knew it was damn near impossible, but he was always optimistic that one day, someone would get that interview and he could retire in peace.

That project led you here: Suzuka Circuit, Japan's main Formula 1 track. Your chosen figure was none other than Gojou Satoru—F1's biggest driver in recent years. He was your father's favorite among the new-generation drivers, known for his string of controversies since he started on top of the persistent rumors of his heavy drug use before races.

You had managed to snag a media passs from your professor when you mentioned doing an F1 driver for your project. He was able to pull some strings to get you into the media booth, getting you a closer look at Gojou Satoru in person.

You watched the pre-race preparations closely from the media booth, your fingers hovered above your notepad as you waited for the race to start. You were determined to get a good grade on this project, and that meant adding every single detail to your report about this race.

It was about time for the drivers to gather in their garages, each wearing headsets and ready for the pre-race briefing. The briefing typically covers the race start, various pit stop scenarios, and a detailed weather report. Before each race weekend, they usually spend time in a simulator of the track they'll be racing on, preparing them for the upcoming race.

After about thirty-minutes the racers came out of their garages in their respective cars. They each line up based on the results of a quaifying session that takes place before the race, slowest qualifier in the back, fastest in the front. Gojou Satoru was at the front of the grid, which meant he was one of the qualifiers who had the fastest time.

You waited around for a little while longer turning your attention to what was happening around you. Eventually, you made your way back to the front of the media booth as the race started, ready to report.

The engines revved as each driver began preparing for the start of the race, each car vibrating on the starting grid like a beast straining at its chains. Gojou sat at the front of the lineup, his hands loose on the wheel, fingers tapping in a steady rhythm as he waited for the lights to turn green.

The roar from the grandstands faded, becoming a blur of sound as the lights ticked down: red, red, red, red… green.

He slammed the throttle, feeling the raw force of the car’s engine kick him back into his seat as he tore down the straight. Other cars jostled for position behind him, all fighting to claim the inside line into the first turn.

Through his earpiece, he heard the voice of his race engineer, Shokou, calm as ever. “Clear on turn two, you’ve got five-tenths on Hayashi. Stay tight.”

But Gojou barley heard her. The car was an extension of him, responding to his every thought, every split-second decision. He pushed down the straights, his right foot heavy on the accelerator, taking corners at speeds most drivers wouldn’t dare attempt. The sound of his tires skidding against the asphalt, the blur of the track side barriers, the lights of Tokyo reflecting off his mirrors—it all blended into a single, perfect rush.

Gojou could see the next turn ahead, a tight chicane that could send the best drivers into the barriers if they weren't careful. He braked hard, turning the wheel with perfect precision to angle the car through. He could feel the back end wobbling, but he didn't flinch, drifting perfectly as he swung back onto the racing line, gaining another second on the pack.

He could almost hear the collective gasp of the crowd in his head as he slipped through the chicane. This was his playground. Every race was a chance to remind the world why he was the best.

“Coming up on a DRS zone,” Shoko’s voice crackled in his ear, grounding him, though he was already on it

He waited for the perfect moment, watching the rear-view mirror to see the faint outline of Hayashi's car. He pressed the DRS, and his car shot forward, the drag reduction giving him a temporary speed boost that had him pulling away, putting him in the lead.

The track opened up ahead, the second sector full of wide, sweeping turns. Here was where raw speed mattered more than anything. Gojou pressed down hard on the accelerator, the engine roaring in response. He leaned forward, watching the track fly by, the white lines blurring as he focused entirely on the road ahead.

For a second, the sound in his earpiece went dead, the faint sound of static filling his ears. Then Shokou was back. “You’ve got Yoshida closing in on your tail. He’s pushing hard.”

Gojou glanced up at the mirrors, his eyes catching the bright blue and orange of Yoshida's car looming larger. The familiar thrill sparked in him. So, Yoshida thought he had a chance, did he? Well, he’d show him otherwise.

“Copy,” he muttered into his mic, eyes narrowing as he took the next corner, barley touching the brakes. He felt the tires skid but he managed to control the drift, knowing any slip would open the door for Yoshida to slip past.

He whipped into another straight, his hands steady on the wheel as he hit a top speed.

His foot didn’t so much as twitch as the engine’s roar morphed into a high-pitched scream as the car closed the distance.

The curve ahead was brutal—a tight 90-degree bend that demanded precise timing.

In a split-second decision, he did something no one expected. He braked late, his heart pounding as he cut the turn at a speed that sent the back end skidding. The tires gripped just in time, allowing him to pull out of the corner without losing traction. He could almost feel the shock reverberating as he regained control, his lead still intact.

As the laps wore on, his body moved on instinct, every gear shift, every turn becoming a single, fluid motion. One lap. Two. Three, with two pit stops between. He counted them off one by one, his mind buzzing with the pure rush of speed and the heat inside the car, barely noticing the time passing. The crowd faded into nothing, the world shrinking down to the track and his car.

The final lap. This was it.

“Box this lap if you’re in trouble,” Shokou’s voice crackled again. “Tire degradation is high.”

But Gojou’s grip on the steering wheel only tightened. His front tires were holding out—barely. It would be tight, but he could make it. He’d run this last lap on sheer determination alone if he had to.

“Negative, Shokou. I’m taking it,” he replied, and then turned off the earpiece, tuning out everything except the track and the car in front of him.

He launched into the final lap, throwing caution to the wind. Yoshida was right on his tail now, close enough that he could see the gleam of his headlights in the mirrors. But Gojou didn’t back down. He took each turn aggressively, blocking Yoshida's attempts to pass, forcing him to fall back every time.

The last chicane loomed ahead, his final obstacle before the finish line. He tightened his grip, the wheel trembling under his hands. He took the chicane fast, too fast, almost feeling the wheels lift off the ground as he flew out of the turn. The car rocked, but he held steady, pushing the pedal to the floor.

The finish line was in sight, a faint white line at the end of the straight, and with one last push, he crossed it, the checkered flag waving in his periphery as he tore past.

It was only after he’d crossed over the line that the realization hit him—he’d won.

The cheers erupted in the stands, the roar of the crowd filling his ears as he slowed down, the adrenaline still pumping through his veins. He could hear Shoko’s voice crackling back in as she shouted, “You pulled it off, you insane bastard.”

Gojou grinned, leaning back in his seat, still buzzing. He’d done it again, just as he always did.

The moment he climbed out of the cockpit, Gojou was surrounded by his team. Shokou was the first to reach him, her usually composed face split by a wide grin. She grabbed his helmet and thumped him on the shoulder hard enough so he actually felt it though the layers of his suit.

“You reckless son of a—”

“Language, Shokou,” Gojou interrupted, grinning as he yanked off his gloves, waving to the rest of the Tokyo Jujutsu Racing team that swarmed him.

“Do you know what it’s like to watch you pull stunts like that? I’m gonna need a raise after today’s heart attack,” she muttered.

“Oh, come on, Shokou. That was just a little fun.” He stretched his arms over his head. “Where’s my confetti?”

“Coming right up, your royal highness." Someone handed him a bottle of champagne, still cold and slick, and he twisted the cap, spraying a wild arc of foam that showered his team and nearby fans.

His PR manager, Nanami, clapped him on the back. “You’re insufferable."

“That’s what I’m here for,” he said, lifting the champagne bottle in a mock toast, flashing him a grin. The media’s cameras clicked and flashed, capturing every moment as his crew continued their congratulations.

The crowd pressed close against the barriers, shouting his name, waving homemade banners with scribbled slogans and his number embellished with the colors red and black. He walked closer, one arm raised, acknowledging the fans, letting their cheers fill him up, louder and louder with every step.

But as he continued walking, his gaze caught on something—or rather, someone—just beyond the crowd.

At first it was just a hint curiosity, the way your gaze was fixed on him. A bit removed from the chaos, you leaned against one of the barriers with a media pass hanging around your neck, arms folded as you watched from a distance.

Gojou slightly narrowed his eyes, holding your gaze longer than he'd held any fan's tonight, as if he was daring you to look away first.

“What the hell is that about?” he muttered under his breath, gaze moving back to Shokou for half a second.

“Hm?” Shokou followed his gaze, but her eyes slid right past you, uninterested. “Press. You’ll get used to it. Come on, they’re all waiting.”

He forced himself to break the stare, clearing his throat as Shokou ushered him toward the media pen, where a lineup of journalists waited, all armed with recorders, microphones, and notebooks.

He fielded the usual questions—how did it feel to win, what was his mindset, what was he thinking on that last turn? His answers were always the same practiced ones, words sliding out like clockwork.

“Well, Mr. Gojou, what would you say to those who believe your racing style is a little… aggressive?” one journalist asked, a little smirk on her face as if she thought she was catching him off guard.

He snorted. “They can call it what they want. I call it winning.” He shrugged. “I don’t come out here to play it safe.”

A few reporters laughed at his remark, clearly interested in what else he had to say as a fresh wave of questions started.

Somewhere behind the flashing lights, he saw you again, lingering a few feet behind the crowd of reporters with that calm gaze fixed on him. You didn’t raise a recorder or a camera, didn’t even make an effort to push closer for a question. You just… watched.

It was disconcerting.

“Gojou!” Another journalist waved a microphone his face, snapping his attention back to the current situation. “What’s the next step for you this season?”

He forced a smile, eyes briefly looking back to you before he focused on the question. “The same as always,” he said. “Push harder, get faster, and give everyone something to talk about.”

The crowd laughed again, though, he barely heard them, too focused on the strange woman staring right into his soul. The two of you locked eyes and you have him a small nod, as if acknowledging that you were in fact staring into his soul.

“Well, I think that’s enough,” Shokou said suddenly at his elbow, pulling him out of his thoughts. “They’ll have plenty of time to hound you later.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he murmured, though he let her guide him away. Still, he couldn’t help glancing back over his shoulder, hoping to catch one last glimpse of you.

But you were already gone.

Gojou slipped away from the crowd, weaving through the bustling garage and dodging the congratulatory slaps on his back, the endless rounds of handshakes, and the celebratory shouts. He ducked past a few journalists, ignoring the barrage of questions still hurled his way, his smile slipping as he finally found the door to the bathroom.

Inside, the cool, sterile silence was jarring compared to the noise outside, but he let out a sigh of relief, his heart hammering in his chest. He clicked the lock and leaned against the sink, running his hands over his face, staring at his own reflection in the mirror.

The victory high had worn off, leaving behind a familiar pressure he could not cope with. It settled on his shoulders like an old, unwelcome friend.

He hadn't realized how much tension he was carrying in his shoulders, how deeply it would itself into him when he was alone. The race had been perfect, his win flawless, but he could feel the exhaustion radiating off of him, a pulsing throb being his eyes. He clenched his jaw, glaring at himself in the mirror.

“Pull yourself together,” he muttered, his voice barely audible.

But his words fell flat, swallowed up by the silence. In the mirror, his own eyes stared back at him, tired, almost hollow.

He reached into the pocket of his racing suit, fingers brushing over the small, familiar packet hidden in the inner lining. It was a stupid habit, a reckless one really, but it was one he hadn't been able to shake, no matter how many times he tried to quit. He could practically feel the temporary relief in the palm of his hand.

He closed his eyes, running his thumb along the edge of the packet before pulling it out, setting it on the counter next to the sink. He ripped it open tapping a small line onto the smooth counter top. It was like his fingers had a mind of their own, as if it was part of his routine of suiting up or gripping the wheel.

The powder glinted under the bathroom’s harsh fluorescent lights, almost mocking him with its simplicity. Just a quick escape, just enough to take the edge off. That’s all he needed.

He leaned down, closing one nostril and inhaling sharply, feeling the sting as the powder hit his nose. He straightened his back, blinking hard, the world around him sharpening as his mind cleared. A small, humorless smile tugged at his lips.

He leaned back against the sink, tilting his head up to stare at the ceiling, feeling his heartbeat slow, the tension in his muscles fading away.

But it didn’t take long for the guilt to creep back in, that hollow feeling settling in his chest, a reminder that this wasn't the answer. He knew it. He knew exactly what he was doing to himself, how he was destroying his body from the inside out, how it could all come crashing down. And yet… here he was.

“Fucking pathetic,” he muttered to himself, his voice echoing against the tiles.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door, jolting him back to reality.

“Gojou? You in there?” It was Shokou. “They’re waiting for you out here.”

He stuffed the empty packet back into his pocket, brushed the last of the substance off of the sink, and glanced in the mirror one last time to check his reflection, making sure there was no trace left of his momentary escape.

Taking a deep breath, he squared his shoulders, forced a smirk, and unlocked the door.

Shokou was standing there, arms crossed, her gaze scrutinizing as he stepped out. She didn’t say anything, but her judgmental eye lingered over him for a split second too long.

“You good?”

“Never better."

“Right,” she said, clearly unconvinced, but she dropped it, gesturing for him to follow her.

As the celebrations continued, Gojou weaved his way through fans and team-members alike who were still wrapped up in their post-race celebrations. He scanned the crowd, hoping to find the strange woman from earlier who he noticed had a press pass, thinking you would be here.

And then he saw you, leaning against a stack of crates near the garages, observing the current scene with the same judgmental eyes that Shokou had. The media badge hung from your neck, swaying slightly as you shifted your weight, pulling out a notebook and flipping through it, seemingly absorbed in what you were currently doing.

He cleared his throat as he approached, the echo of his footsteps giving his presence away.

You looked up, your brow raised as he came closer, a hint of intrigue flashing in your eyes.

“Looking for something?” you asked, not moving as he stopped in front of you.

“You could say that,” he replied, slipping his hands into his pockets, his gaze darted to the notebook in your hands. “I couldn’t help but notice you earlier, off in the shadows. Didn’t feel like joining the crowd?”

“Not my style.” You shrugged. “I’m not here to cheer. I’m here to report.”

“Journalist, huh?” he drawled, tilting his head. “What’s your angle?”

“The truth,” you said, a little smile pulling at your lips as you studied him. “Not everyone’s a fan of that, I know.”

“Depends on what you call the truth. But I’ve got a feeling you’ve already got your version.”

"How perceptive. I’m doing a piece on your racing career, your achievements, but… the public wants a fuller picture, don’t you think?

“Not sure I follow. Everyone knows what they need to know.”

“Not quite,” you replied, flipping through your notebook. “There’s more than just racing stats when it comes to Gojou Satoru, isn’t there?”

“Care to elaborate?”

“People say you’re… unraveling. Your recent ‘questionable decisions’ are starting to paint a different picture, don’t you think?” you said, tapping your pen against your notebook. “The accidents, the fines, the constant change in pit crews—”

“Is this some kind of witch hunt?” he interrupted. “Because I’d hate to disappoint you, princess, but I’ve heard it all.”

“Maybe so.” You leaned in a bit, meeting his stare. “But what about the whispers that aren’t out yet? The suspicions about you cheating the drug tests, your team shielding you—” You paused. “There’s a lot of money on your success, Mr. Gojou.”

“Money and racing have always gone hand-in-hand, don’t you think? You’d have a hard time finding someone out here who hasn’t bent a rule or two.”

“True enough.” You titled your head slightly. “But even the most golden careers have a way of losing their shine.”

"Tell me—do you enjoy tearing people down for a living?”

“Only if it’s warranted,” you replied unfazed. “People aren’t interested in perfect stories. They want the flaws, the dirt. It makes it all more real. At least that's what my professor believes."

“You’ve got a wicked mind, I’ll give you that. But I hope you realize you’re not the first to come sniffing around for the ‘real story’.”

A pregnant pause settles between you before you asked, “And what about her?”

A beat passed before he answered. “Who?”

“Your wife. She’s been… noticeably absent from the press circuits. And rumor has it things aren’t exactly picture-perfect between you two.”

“Rumor has it,” he repeated. “Guess you know how it is in this business. There’s always some rumor or another.”

“So it’s just a rumor, then? All the time apart, the missed events, her name suddenly missing from every headline. You’re saying there’s nothing to it?”

“People are eager to make stories out of nothing. My private life is just that—private.”

“That’s interesting,” you murmured, not looking away. “Because the most recent stories about you and her—they’re awfully detailed. People are noticing, wondering why she’s suddenly… disappeared from the scene.”

“Let them wonder. Like I said, people will talk. And it seems like you’re more interested in gossip than journalism.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Journalism is about uncovering the truth,” you countered. “But it seems like you’re more comfortable brushing things under the rug than addressing them.”

His smile returned, his carefully crafted facade sliding back into place as he straightened up, glancing away from you, clearly bored of the conversation. "Maybe someday you'll get the truth you're so desperate for, but it's not going to be today."

Before he walked away completely, he gave you one last look, his tone playful but laced with a hint of warning. “Be careful what you dig up, princess. Sometimes the truth’s more trouble than it’s worth.”

And with that, he turned his back to you, disappearing into the crowd.

Gojou returned home after the long night of celebrations had died down, the adrenaline from the race long gone, now replaced by a gnawing emptiness that felt like it might hollow him out. His penthouse was in the hear of Tokyo—a sleek, modern apartment with floor to ceiling windows overlooking the neon-drenched skyline.

As he opened the door, the soft him of the city below was drowned out by the sound of footsteps, His wife, Hana, appeared from the hallway, her arms crossed tightly across her chest, her eyes narrowed. She was dressed in a sleek black outfit, her dark hair pulled back, a looking a frustration etched onto her face.

“You’re late."

“Didn’t realize I was on a curfew,” he replied, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it onto a nearby chair.

“Don’t act like that.” Her eyes flashed as she followed him into the living room. “You missed the dinner with my parents again. They’ve been asking about you, wondering why you’re never around.”

“Hana, I just won a race,” he replied, exasperated. “Sorry if I wasn’t in the mood to play the doting son-in-law tonight.”

She scoffed, crossing her arms tighter. “Of course, it’s always about the race with you. Everything is about that damn career, isn’t it?”

“You knew what you were signing up for when you married me.”

“Maybe I didn’t know it would mean you disappearing for days, weeks sometimes, chasing whatever thrill you think you need to feel alive.”

“What’s your point, Hana? We’ve had this argument a hundred times.”

“The point is, Satoru,” she said, voice trembling with anger, “that you seem to care more about everything else than this marriage. I’m just a fixture in your life, something you come back to whenever you need to check a box or show face. But you’re never really here.”

He let out a harsh laugh, the bitter sound filling the apartment. "Here we go again. Hana, it’s not like you’ve been some shining example of commitment either. You’ve known what this is for months.”

“What this is?” Her voice rose, cracking slightly as she repeated his words. “What exactly is ‘this,’ Satoru? A sham? A partnership for appearances? I thought you loved me…"

“I can’t keep doing this,” she continued softly, her voice breaking. “The lying, the pretending. It’s exhausting.”

“So what do you want me to say, Hana? That I’m some perfect husband?” He gestured to himself, shaking his head with a smirk that looked almost pained. “We’re both guilty here. Let’s not act like this hasn’t been a slow-motion train wreck.”

“Fine. But do me a favor—at least act like you care when people ask. Because every time I hear some story about you, another scandal or rumor, it’s like a slap in the face. My family, my friends—everyone’s talking. They see the headlines too.”

“Fine. But do me a favor—at least act like you care when people ask. Because every time I hear some story about you, another scandal or rumor, it’s like a slap in the face. My family, my friends—everyone’s talking. They see the headlines too.”

“What do you want from me, Hana?” he asked quietly, the fight suddenly draining out of him. “You want me to pretend I’m someone I’m not?”

“I want… I wanted the man I married. The one who cared, who had dreams."

“Then maybe,” he said finally, his voice almost a whisper, “it’s time to stop pretending.”

As Gojou stood there running a hand through his hair. Hana paused, her expression shifting from something resigned to something wounded.

“And there’s one more thing."

He looked at her, brow furrowing. “Fucking Christ Hana, what now?”

“Do you think I’m stupid, Satoru?” she asked, folding her arms tightly across her chest. “I know what’s out there. The rumors. The whispers about who you’re with when you’re not here. Or maybe you think I don’t hear them.”

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Hana, they’re just rumors. You know how the press is—they’ll twist anything for a story.”

“Twist what, exactly? Why do they have something to twist in the first place?”

“They don’t have anything. It’s just the media looking for something to make people read. Speculation sells.”

“Right. Speculation. But funny how it’s always about you, always linked to another woman.”

“That’s because I’m under a microscope. People love to create scandals, especially with someone like me. And you know that better than anyone.”

“It’s not just them, Satoru. People talk, and it’s not just baseless gossip. I’m not naive. I hear things from people close to you, people who actually know you.”

“You really believe them? You think I’m out there, risking everything for some—” He stopped himself, biting his tongue.

“Do I? I don’t even know my own husband anymore. Maybe I should ask them. Or maybe I should ask you directly, Satoru. Are you seeing someone?”

“Why are we even doing this?”

“Because I want the truth. Just once. I deserve that much, don’t I?”

“Believe what you want, Hana. I don’t have anything else to say.”

“Then maybe that’s all I need to know.”

Gojou stormed out of his apartment, his hands clenching and unclenching as he tried to shake off his frustration. He'd had enough for one night. His heart was pounding and the last thing he wanted was to be alone with his thoughts. He needed to get out, to drown the anger with something that could at least help him forget.

The bar he found was tucked away down a dim side street in Shibuya. It wasn't anything fancy–a dark cry from the glitzy nightlife he was used to–but it was dark and quiet which was exactly what he needed. He slid onto a bar stool and motioned for a drink, not bothering to pay attention to what the bartender poured.

He sipped his drink in silence, trying to tune out the night and all the noise in his head. The alcohol burned down his throat, but it was a welcome distraction that numbed his anger and frustration. He was almost on his third drink when he noticed someone sitting in the corner of the room, hunched over a notebook, tapping her pen against her cheek in thought.

She's cute, he thought to himself. He squinted trying to get a better look at the young woman, and he immediately recognized, it was you.

Of all the places he'd expect to see you, this shitty bar wasn't one of them. You looked so absorbed in your work, like you were piecing together something for a story. Satoru's curiosity got the better of him, and he stood up carrying his drink as he made his way over to where you were sitting.

"Well, well," he said, leaning against the back of the chair across from you. “Didn’t peg you for a bar rat, but maybe I was wrong.”

Your head snapped up, and your eyes widened slightly in surprise. “Gojou Satoru. What a surprise.”

“Mind if I sit?” he asked, already taking the seat.

“Didn’t think someone like you would end up in a place like this. Celebrating?”

He gave a dry laugh, swirling the glass in his hand. “Something like that.”

“So, what are you doing here, really? Figured you’d be at a fancy cafe, writing about some important news story.”

“Maybe I am. Research is research, even if it’s in a bar. Maybe it’s you I’m writing about.”

“So I’m your new project, huh?”

“Maybe. It’s part of this little journalism course I’m doing. We’re supposed to pick a public figure and write a profile. Someone who’s got a… colorful public image.”

“Colorful, huh?” He smirked. “Guess I’m your lucky target. Hope I make an interesting subject."

“Interesting is one word for it,” you replied, a faint smirk tugging at your lips. “What’s got you so quiet tonight? I thought you’d be surrounded by fans somewhere.”

He shrugged, taking a long sip of his drink. “Not in the mood for fans tonight.”

“Tough race?”

He laughed humorlessly, shaking his head. “Not the race. Just… life, I guess.”

“So,” he said, leaning in. “tell me about this little journalism course. You planning to make a career out of stalking poor drivers like me?”

“It’s a bit more complicated than that. We’re learning how to ‘uncover the truth’—or at least, that’s what they say. So far, it’s been a lot of digging through archives and learning to ask the right questions.”

“Right questions, huh?” He arched an eyebrow. “Let’s hear one. What would you ask me, if I were your ‘colorful public figure’?”

“Alright, Gojou. How does someone at the top of their game manage to keep it all together? All the races, the publicity, the pressure… don’t you ever feel like it’s too much?”

“Honestly?” He ran a hand through his hair, glancing away. “Sometimes, yeah. It’s not as easy as it looks, being the guy everyone thinks has it all together. But people don’t care about that part. They just want the show.”

“So you put on the show.”

“Guess that’s what it comes down to.” He laughed, but it sounded hollow even to his own ears. “People don’t want to see a guy crack under pressure. They want the image.”

“But what do you want?”

No one ever asked him that, as if what he wanted didn’t matter.

“What do I want?” he repeated, a slight smirk tugging at his lips as he tried to dodge the question. “Maybe another drink.”

I’m serious. Behind all of that… what’s left?”

“Honestly? Sometimes I don’t even know anymore. It’s like I’ve been going so fast for so long, I can’t remember what it was I was chasing in the first place.”

“Maybe that’s what you need to figure out, then.”

He looked at you, and the faintest trace of a genuine smile broke through. “Maybe.”

The two of you sat in silence, and he found himself grateful for it. You didn't press or pry at him and he thought that he could just be himself, even if it was just for a little while.

“Alright,” he said finally, nudging your notebook with his finger. “So, future journalist, you really gonna write all this down? Make me sound like some tortured artist?”

You smirked. “I’ll try to be kind. Maybe I’ll even leave out the part where you go to bars alone and pretend to be mysterious.”

“Ouch,” he chuckled, holding up his drink in mock surrender. “Noted. But I expect a copy when it’s published. Autographed, obviously.”

“Obviously,” you replied, laughing as you clinked your glass against his. “But don’t expect it to be flattering.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

As the conversation continued, Gojou found himself leaning in closer. You both let the drinks keep coming, though it was less about how much alcohol you were consuming and more about the way the words spilled more easily between you two.

“So,” you asked, taking another sip of your drink, “what’s it actually like out there? Everyone sees the fame, the money, the cars, but… what’s it really like?”

He exhaled, tapping his fingers on the edge of his glass. “Honestly? It’s… intense. There’s this high to it, this adrenaline. Nothing like it. You’re pushing yourself and everyone around you to the edge," he tilted his head. “But sometimes, it feels like the line between winning and crashing out isn’t as thick as people think. You cross it once, and that’s it—you’re done.”

“Doesn’t that scare you?”

“A little. But I’m more afraid of what happens if I stop. It’s like… I don’t know what I’d be without it. Guess that sounds stupid.”

“No, it doesn’t. I get it. When something’s all you know… giving it up is like giving up a part of yourself. Scary as hell.”

“Exactly. Guess we all have our addictions, huh?”

Shit. Did he say too much?

You didn’t push, just gave him a quiet nod. “So, what’s Tokyo Jujutsu like? It's one of the toughest team on the grid, right?”

“You know it. They’re tough as hell, no room for error. And they sure as hell won’t give you a second chance if you mess up.”

“Sounds brutal."

“Yeah, maybe. I guess I like the challenge. Or maybe I just like proving people wrong.”

“Enough about me," he continued. What about you? What’s the deal with this journalism project? Are you trying to make a name for yourself by exposing all my secrets?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Believe it or not, my goal in life isn’t to ruin yours. I actually think it’s fascinating, learning what drives people, what keeps them going, even when things get messy.”

“Messy? What makes you think my life is messy?”

“Oh, please. Gojou Satoru’s life is one headline after another. You’re practically the poster boy for drama.”

He feigned a hurt expression, placing a hand over his heart. “You wound me. I’m just a guy trying to make a living, you know?”

“Right,” you said, rolling your eyes. “Just a guy who happens to have a dozen scandals and an equal number of speeding tickets.”

“Hey,” he laughed, leaning back in his chair. “I’m a professional, okay? That’s all part of the job.”

The two of you continued to chat into the night. Gojou found himself relaxing, caught up in the rare comfort of talking with someone who didn’t expect him to play a part. He could just… be.

At some point, the bartender announced last call, and Gojou glanced at you, smirking. “Guess that’s our cue.”

You stretched, gathering your notebook and tucking it under your arm. “Thanks for the, uh, ‘research material.’ It was… enlightening.”

He laughed, standing and grabbing his coat. “Anytime. But don’t go making me look like a complete asshole in your little project, alright?”

“No promises."

Outside, the air was crisp as he faint hum of city traffic the only sound as you stood together on the quiet street. Gojou slid his hands into his pockets, looking at you.

Outside, the air was crisp as the faint him of the city being the only sound as you stood together on the quiet street. Gojou slide his hands into his pockets, looking at you.

“Maybe we’ll run into each other again."

“Only if you’re brave enough to handle more questions.”

“Oh, I’m plenty brave. But we’ll see if you’re as good at digging as you think.”

You rolled your eyes, laughing as you turned to leave, throwing him a casual wave. “Goodnight, Mr. Gojou.”

“Goodnight,” he echoed, watching as you disappeared down the empty street.

In that moment he realized, he never did catch your name.

© satorulovebot 2024 please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my work.

[celestie0]

gojo satoru x reader | college au [18+]

kickoff ch.7 to lose someone you love

ᰔ pairing. college au - soccer player! gojo x film major! reader

ᰔ summary. gojo satoru is the most popular guy on your college campus. he's tall, funny, hot, not to mention he's the most talented soccer forward the school has seen in years. but he's also a frat dude, which puts him in a world very different from your own, as he spends most of his nights partying & drinking while you spend most of yours working on your annoying film major assignments. but when he reaches out to you for a favor, you realize that helping him out might have something in it for you too.

ᰔ warnings/tags. 18+, fem reader, fluff, angst, smut, college au, fraternities, sororities, partying, drinking/alcohol, mentions of weed, romance, jealousy, pining, slow burn, opposites to lovers, friends to lovers, she falls first he falls harder, gojo being an idiot

ᰔ chapter. 7/x (probably 12)

ᰔ words. 8.5k

a/n. sighhh i'm rly sorry for the wait. and thank you sooo much to the love for the last chapter omg :') this chapter is gojo pov and it's a bit different than the rest, but i still hope you enjoy and that it was worth the wait. if there are typos, they're not typos they're actually 100% intentional and you are the silly one

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When Gojo was just four years old, he called for the paramedics for the very first time. 

He had wandered around the house, wide and innocent blue eyes searching the room for the landline in the dim light of the evening, his lip quivering in a pout. His small arm reached up to pet around at the top of his parents’ dresser before his fingers wrapped around the phone. He couldn’t remember what the number was at first, the one his mother always told him to call in case of an emergency, but he remembered he scribbled it down somewhere with red crayon in one of his coloring books. By the time Gojo first realized he needed to call for help, located the landline, looked through all of his little portraits of dinosaurs and spaceships sprawled across the carpet of his room, found those three numbers, and then finally dialed them, his father had already been seizing and shaking on the bathroom floor for longer than twenty-four minutes.  

He was just a child. It wasn’t his fault. He didn’t know any better.

Gojo spent the remainder of that night hugging his mom in the hospital’s emergency room, his tears soaking through her shirt as she gently rocked him back and forth in her lap while whispering soothing words in his ear. His father lay motionless on the hospital bed before them, eyes shut, and Gojo will never forget the haunting sounds of the machinery that was keeping his father alive. It was a sudden onset seizure, likely stemming from the traumatic brain injury his father had suffered a few years ago, and the prolonged convulsions he experienced on the bathroom floor that night had resulted in severe brain damage. Gojo could still hear the echo of his mother’s silent cry when the doctors informed them that it’s unlikely his father would ever fully recover from this.

No reasonable adult would ever look a four-year-old in the eyes and say if you had called for help sooner or knew what to do, maybe your father would’ve still had the chance to live a long life. Yet, even at his young age, Gojo was aware of the energy in the room, and that explanation was the only truth his mind could grasp onto to make sense of what he had just witnessed.

After two weeks of clinging to life, his father miraculously woke up from his coma and persevered for the sake of his wife and son. Shortly after the incident, he began to have recurring seizures but fought through them each time. Without fail, he made Gojo breakfast in the mornings, even if it meant having to clean up the spilt orange juice on the counter every now and then because of how his hands could not stop trembling. He always walked Gojo to the bus stop, waving him goodbye, despite how troublesome and embarrassing he found it to use his cane. The love he had for his son was so palpable that it eclipsed the bitterness over how his life had ended up because of the blessing it had brought him.

In his prime, Gojo’s father was a renowned soccer player, so incredibly talented at the sport that he left a lasting mark on the way teams strategized, his presence on the field commanding respect, and he was one of the greatest talents the entire college division had ever seen.

He met Gojo’s mother at one of his freshman year games, a pretty lady in the stands that caught his eye from the sight of her laughter among her friends, her radiance drawing him to her from the field, and that’s how their love began. Exactly one year following that day, he stole one of his grandmother’s thrifted rings from her jewelry collection and that was what he used to propose. Gojo’s mother had accepted it with so many tears and so much snot running down her face, and he had never found her more beautiful. They married young and sweet, like most people back then.

During the thrilling semifinal match between Keio Uni, Gojo’s father’s team, and Yokohama Uni during the end of his senior year, spectators witnessed a game that most college soccer enthusiasts would deem was a once-in-a-lifetime watch. Both teams engaged in relentless offense, and Gojo’s father was on his way to shatter the record of the most goals scored in a single championship match within the history of the league, but when he received a call from his wife during a timeout with the most life-altering news he could have ever heard, he abandoned everything on the field that day to go home and be with her. Grainy footage from the televised broadcast still exists online today—the moment he sprinted across the field, confused players glancing in his direction, amidst the uproar of the crowd. She called to let him know she was pregnant. 

No one knew that would be the last game of soccer he would ever play.  

It was a freak accident, a distracted driver behind the wheel of a gray Chevy on a dark and rainy night, veered straight towards Gojo’s parents car to avoid a branch on the road. In a moment that could only be described as his instinct to protect, he quickly swerved his vehicle, taking the brunt of the impact on his side. His family surrounded him at his hospital bedside as they grappled with the news that he would be unable to play the sport ever again due to his traumatic brain injury that would lead to lifelong motor function loss. According to the doctors and police, had he not swerved to shield his wife and unborn child, the outcome would have been far more disastrous. After months of rehabilitation, he regained enough ability to walk and just enough function in his extremities to welcome his newborn son in his arms.

When Gojo was just six years old, two years after witnessing his father’s first seizure, he stumbled upon a dusty, forgotten soccer ball tucked away in the corner of the garage. When he eagerly presented it to his father, excitement gleaming in his eyes, he was only met with a scowl and the demand to discard it, to never bring such things like that to him ever again. His mother protested, ensuing in an argument, and as Gojo lowered his gaze to the ball in his hands, he noticed his father’s faded signature adorned with a heart and message of love for his mother. The ink, once vibrant, now faded with time.

It wasn’t until Gojo turned seven that his father finally relented to teach him more about the sport, knowing it was all his son wanted for his birthday. With determination in his heart, Gojo pleaded for his father’s guidance, eager to kick around a nearly deflated, weathered ball. His father watched his son, expression morphing from reserved and stoic, softening to surprise, then hopeful, and he found himself cheering on his son’s clumsy endeavors on the field despite how many times he tumbled and fell. Because that was his son, his pride and joy, reminiscent of him embracing the sport that he himself had cherished so many years ago. 

As Gojo grew older and excelled at the sport, securing victory after victory in every youth league, his father’s health steadily declined. The recurring seizures caused by the brain damage from his prolonged convulsions on that fateful night exacerbated over the years and started to take an increasing toll on his body. Yet still, he never missed even a single one of his son’s games. Whenever Gojo swiftly sent the ball flying through the net, the first person his eyes would search for on the field was his father, the joy in his eyes being all he cared about in the world. Gojo lived to make his father proud, because it was the only thing that made him feel like he could make up for what little he had done to protect his father that night.

You were just a child. It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t know any better.

The day following Gojo’s eleventh birthday, his father had his second major seizure, falling into another coma, but this time he never woke up. Two years later, his mother made the tough decision to end his life-support, and then he was gone from their lives. Gojo’s mother was inconsolable, and he knew that his father took a piece of her soul with him to heaven that night. The piece that allowed her to smile. 

one day, you’ll lose someone you love. and everything following will fail to have meaning. 

But why was he remembering all of that now? 

The shrill of Gojo’s alarm clock woke him up from the intrusive memories that were washing through the fore-front of his mind, and he grumbled to himself before whacking at his nightstand haphazardly to shut the thing off. He ran a hand across his face in an attempt to wipe the sleepiness away, features instantly settling into an annoyed scowl as he blinked his eyes open and the filtering sunlight through the windows harassed his vision. 

He laid there for a few seconds, mending to the pounding headache at his temples with his fingers rubbing circles, and then he finally sat up in bed. Blinking at his sheets, the images of last night start to flash through his mind. The heavy music, the dim lighting of the bathroom, the dizzying jealousy, and the taste of you on his tongue–

The memory is supposed to arouse him, and would on any normal day, but because you had left him standing there stunned with no release of his own at all, he instead just feels a pulsing, soul-deep throbbing pain at his crotch that could really only be due to the fact he was left high and dry by you last night. He groans at the sensation, palm pushing down on his lower abdomen to try and relax the torture, which barely helped. It’s either he jerks off or takes a cold shower, and given the former was likely not possible for him right now since his god-forsaken brain decided to push the traumatizing experiences of his childhood to the forefront of his headspace first thing in the morning, meaning it’s unlikely he’ll be able to settle into the memory of you bent over that bathroom counter for him, he decides on the cold shower. And it’s safe to say that today already fucking sucked.

The moment the chill water hits the skin of his body, he recollects the look you had on your face right before you walked out on him. Soft, searching, to him almost seraphic, but you also looked wounded. And something from your anger with him since before he even had you in that bathroom, to the agonizing moment you left him in there by himself, told him he’d messed up big time with you somewhere along the lines. 

He knew he had been a jerk last night. He didn’t really have much of a right to be seethingly possessive of you, but the sight of you kissing another guy had him seeing red and his knuckles turning white. He finds himself clenching his jaw at the unwelcome memory even now. He figured he probably ruined what would’ve otherwise been an enjoyable night for you, and so you decided to get revenge by walking out on him. However, he can’t shake the feeling that things are messy and complicated now, primarily because of him, and he felt like he needed to apologize for dragging you into his weird, confusing emotions.

He gets himself dry and dressed, grateful for the barely sufficient relief he had down south, and sighs as he grabs his phone and taps on your name, thinking about what to say to you, and just settles on typing out Hey, can we talk? and then presses send. He turns the ringer of his phone off, tosses the device onto his bed and then heads out the door. 

Geto was sitting on the couch in the loft, rubbing an ice cube across his forehead as he sprawled on the cushions and let out low and consistent groans to himself. Gojo flopped down on the armchair across from him and assumed a similar position, rubbing at his temples to nurse his own headache. Geto opens an eye to look at him.

“Morning,” he grumbles. 

“I take it I’m not the only one that feels like they’ve been hit by a truck?” Gojo asks.

Geto makes a disgruntled noise and throws his head back on the cushion. “I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking. God knows how much I had last night.” He reaches over to the console table in the center for the bottle of Ibuprofen and tosses it to Gojo, who catches it and stares down at the label. “I didn’t really see you drink that much though. Don’t know why you’re hungover.”

Gojo sighs. He wasn’t hungover. His headache was from the fact that had a lot on his mind. Like the feeling of your skin last night. And then the pain of being blue-balled. And also for some reason his father’s death. Very exhausting to juggle those thoughts at once. 

Gojo twists the cap off the bottle of Ibuprofen and pops two pills, drowning them in his mouth with Geto’s glass of water, then runs a frustrated hand through his hair. The man across from him raises an eyebrow.

“You good?” he asks.

“Super peachy,” Gojo replies.

He sighs. “Well, whatever it is, just make sure it doesn’t affect your play today,” Geto warns him, sinking further down into the couch. Gojo lets out an exhale through his nose. Geto usually pushed further for answers whenever he was in a mood, so the fact that he didn’t this time meant that hangover was bad.

“I’m more worried about you. You think you’ll be fine in a few hours?” Gojo asks. Geto just waves his hand in the air in response as he grabs the hand towel on his chest and drags it up over his face, shielding himself from the light of the room.

“I have no choice but to be fine. We have to win this game,” is all he says through muffling cloth.

Gojo nods, resting his elbows on his knees and looking down at the carpet. It was finally the game of the 28th, arguably the second-most important game of the season. If they take home the win, they’re automatically seeded into top sixteen teams, which means they’ll only have to win four more matches after today to take home the championship. But if they lose, they’re seeded to the bottom, and then four turns into a daunting eight. In the history of the league, not a single team has ever lost their pre-seed game and still continued to win the playoff championship. So Geto was right, they have no choice but to win today. Otherwise, they could kiss goodbye to a 12-year UTokyo championship streak.

“Not going for your run?” Geto asks, interrupting his thoughts.

“Nah, not feeling up for it,” Gojo replies.

He clicks his tongue. “Never skip the pre-game ritual, man.”

Gojo groans, knowing that he’s right, and so he reluctantly gets up off the chair and heads back into his room. His phone lay there on the bed, facing down, and he felt so tragically taunted by it that he weighed the options of whether or not he should check if you replied back before his run or after his run. And then he’s wondering why you affect him this much in the first place.

He resolves to check after his run, and only gets one arm through his shirt before his hands betray him and he snatches his phone, eagerly tapping the screen to turn it on. 

He sees your name at the top, where you had just replied barely a minute ago. Sure, we can talk. He blinks at his phone when he sees the polite period at the end of your message, and the proper capitalization, not to mention a vocative comma? He was starting to feel really nervous.

He didn’t care that you had only replied a minute ago, he quickly typed out his response and sent it.

|| 10:35am Gojo: Do you know how to get onto the stadium field today?

He sees you typing, and he’s holding his breath.

|| 10:36am you: yes, I do. I’m going in w the newsletter journalists. Was this what you wanted to talk about?

What did he want to talk to you about exactly? Something like I’m sorry about being an ass last night, totally not cool for me to be that territorial over you, although I can’t say I wouldn’t do it again because seeing you kiss someone other than me kind of made me want to die. Also, I’m sorry for acting like you’re just someone I know, I don’t know why I did it. I guess it’s because I didn’t know if you thought of me as any more than just someone you know either, and that thought was frightening. Did I mention I hated seeing you kiss someone that wasn’t me?

He’s never really been good with words. Or feelings. 

10:37am Gojo: No, it’s not, it’s something else. I’ll come find you on the field before the game starts

He stands there, gaze fixed on his phone screen for the minute-long pause you took to respond, that for him felt like tortured eons, just for you to send-

10:39am you: k

Gojo finishes getting dressed for his run, anxiety brewing in his stomach drearily, and when he heads out the door of the house, the fresh morning air doesn’t help calm him down like it usually does. Of course, as he’s running, his thoughts wander to you. He’s thinking about the smell of your hair–or was it the perfume on your skin?–either way, it was intoxicating. The curve of your neck, that spot that made you whimper– fuck. Think of other things. Like the sound of your voice, soft and sometimes needy, but he enjoys it that way–makes his head spin. Or when you’re being sweet and thanking him for something you shouldn’t, because to him everything about you was a privilege and never a task. Even in the hot spring sun of the late morning, he finds himself missing the warmth from your body, and that look. That goddamn look in your eyes when you’re peering into his like you want him to–

“I’m sure he’s really proud of you.”

His legs stop him on their own, like they know something about the feelings in his chest that he doesn’t, and he’s standing still on the sidewalk of the neighborhood now. Short puffs of air escape his lips from his blood pumping fast through his body, and he could physically hear the sound of you in his head. Intimate enough to where he turns to the side slightly facing his surroundings, like there was no way it was just a memory and you weren’t actually near. He finds himself swallowing hard and having to consciously keep moving forward.

Gojo makes it back to the house, freshens up for the second time today, and gets dressed into his UTokyo soccer uniform with his signature #10 jersey. He leaves with Geto to campus, where all his teammates gather before eventually boarding the bus to the UTokyo stadium field ten minutes away. Coach Yaga yells their ears off in the locker rooms in an attempt to get their plays for today through their brains, and the exhilarating noises from the stands as they make their formal entrance through to the field fills Gojo’s senses, along with the obnoxiously loud music playing as pre-game rituals settle in. Gojo sets his bag down on the bench and joins the others in warm-ups for about fifteen minutes, before catching a chance to sneak away and look for you across the expansive pristine grass.

After lightly jogging around the perimeter of the field for a couple of minutes, he finally spots you, his raised eyebrows now flattening under the fringe of his hair as he relaxes. He didn’t realize he was tensing his shoulders until now. You were just beyond the sidelines near a hydration station, fidgeting with something in your camera case, lips pressed together in a frustrated expression, and he saw your body sulk with the sigh you let out as you must’ve realized you had forgotten something. The corner of his mouth twitches upwards into a slight smile, an unconscious reaction to seeing you look so damn cute from your troubled face decorated with a pout. And then he remembered he had been looking for you, and he had found you, and the only thing to do next was to be near you. 

He ambles up to you, and you only catch sight of him when he’s just a few feet away and finally standing in front of you. He sees your eyes widen slightly, lashes blinking once, twice, and then there’s a blush of color to your cheeks as you fidget with the stadium access badge hung around your neck. He noticed there were grass stains on your jeans over your knees when he looked down.

“Hey,” Gojo greets you over the loud music playing on the field.

“Hi,” he sees you say, and he realizes he can barely hear you.

“Let’s go over there,” Gojo yells, jerking his head over to the side.

He leads you over to an area tucked near the east side entrance, a corner slightly underneath one of the sectioned stands where the loud cheers of the stadium somehow reflected off less. It was about as private or silent of a place that the two of you could manage to have a conversation on a soccer field before a match, if you could just ignore the dressed up school mascots rehearsing their walk-ins and walk-outs through the entryway.

You take a few steps backwards until your back hits the concrete slab wall, and he’s in front of you as he watches you study him for a second, taking in the sight of his uniform, before your eyes finally meet his.

“Are you ready to take your photos today?” he asks you, poorly attempting to make small talk despite the images of you with him in that bathroom last night flashing through his memory. Now was seriously not the time to be turned on.

You nod, and respond “I am”, giving him absolutely nothing to work with.

He sighs. “Listen, about last night, I just wanted to apologize. For dragging you into that bathroom with me, although you did ask me to-” He sees you narrow your eyes and cross your arms across your chest. “Sorry,” he sighs, “Seriously, I just…I don’t know what got over me then.”

“You don’t know? Or you just don’t want to tell me?” you prod at him. He briefly considers pretending he doesn’t hear your question over the sound of the stadium, but he knows he wouldn't get away with that, not with the way you’re looking at him like he’s just one more fuck-up away from making you storm off.

He looks at your lips. “I guess the only thing I know is that I didn’t like seeing you kiss someone else.”

You shake your head and close your eyes. “I know you didn’t, Satoru. Otherwise last night wouldn’t have happened. What I’m asking is why.”

He’s struggling now, searching his head for answers, like he’s fighting for his life on a test that he didn’t study for. When he looks down, he notices your foot has been tapping impatiently. And when he looks back up, there’s that wounded expression from last night again. “I don’t know,” is all he can offer.

You uncross your arms from your chest, lips parting slightly as your eyebrows pinch upwards with a disheartened look. He sees your gaze shift slowly across the features of his face, searching, and he wonders if you can see something within him that he can’t. The thought terrifies him. “Fine. It’s my turn to speak.”

He nods slowly. He wasn’t sure what you wanted to say to him. He imagined you would just cuss him out with a few choice words for being a raging asshole last night and then you’d be on your merry way. But he senses sincerity in your voice. Not that he was phenomenal at reading people, though.

He watches as you clench and unclench your fists at your sides nervously, then twiddle with the strap of your camera, then tuck your hair behind your ears, then blink rapidly as you look up at him, then worry your bottom lip between your teeth, then open your mouth to speak just to close it again.

“Do you need me here for any of this?” he says in an attempt at a joke to ease you, but when all you give him is a glare, he’s fearful enough to be serious again.

“I like you.”

He blinks. “Thanks? I like you, too.”

“No, no. I like you as in I have feelings for you,” you clarify. Gojo’s eyes widen at the confession, and he stands up straighter. 

“Oh,” he finally replies when he realizes he hasn’t said anything yet, “I…I wouldn’t have guessed that.” Holy shit, if that was how you felt, then he really has been a raging asshole this entire time. 

You roll your eyes. “I know. You’re a hopelessly dense, menacingly flirty, sleazy frat dude college athlete,” you sigh, “But I still like you. Unfortunately, tragically, annoyingly, much to my dismay, against my better judgment,”

“Okay, I get it-”

“I think it started that night you stayed with me when I was stranded with my flat,” you confess suddenly, your chest rising a little bit faster, and his expression softened. “I just really appreciated you being there for me.”

His voice is gentle when he speaks next. “You don’t have to thank me for that. I would’ve been there if it happened ten times over,” he pauses, “although I’d seriously question your ability to drive if it happened that many times.”

“And I think it started when you walked me out to the practice field for the first time, and you told me you cared about my dreams,” you say with a slight step forwards to him, unable to acknowledge his words at all, as if there was a script you needed to stick to that was the only thing keeping you from falling apart in front of him. 

He finds himself instinctively leaning towards you, close enough to where he notices you’re wearing a different perfume today. “But that was before the night of your car incident,” he reminds you.

“I know,” you nod, and there’s that look in your eyes that he loves, “and I also think it started that first night we met and you looked sad when I said we weren’t friends.”

Gojo’s eyes widen, his heart skipping a beat in his chest, and he finds himself breathing shallowly as he listens to your words. “y/n…I think you’re working backwards here.”

“I’m trying to say I’ve had feelings for you this whole time,” you say to him, “they were tiny at first, I didn’t really see them, but now they’re too big for me to hold all by myself.”

Gojo nods slowly, and he already knows what you’re going to ask of him next.

“I like you in a way that makes me want more from you,” you admit, eyes steadily on his with resolve, “I don’t want to be just someone you know, or someone only for sex-”

“y/n-” he tries to interrupt you.

“And I certainly won’t be someone that sits around to wait for a guy if he doesn’t want me back,” you say, but there’s an apprehensive look in your eyes when you speak next, “so, I need you to answer to my feelings.”

Gojo blinks at you, his heart beating fast in his chest from your confession, and he feels like with every testing second that he fails to answer you back, you slip further and further away from him.

He knew he had affection for you. He always wanted to be close to you, even when he already was, as if he couldn’t get close enough. He wanted to take care of you, and see that softness in your expression when he knew you felt safe and happy. He couldn’t stand the thought of you with someone else, and it took him this damn long to realize as he stood in front of you that he had no interest in being with anyone else either. So then why did his chest feel so tight? And why was he struggling so much to give you an answer?

one day, you’ll lose someone you love. and everything following will fail to have meaning. 

Gojo’s eyes widened as the memories of his life flashed through his mind, a chill running down his spine as they knock the wind from his lungs and he feels that same sense of dread that has been following him like a ghost since that day when he was just four years old, standing in the hallway, wondering why his father was having a nightmare on the bathroom floor when he should’ve known it was something far worse than that.

Gojo blames himself for so much that had gone wrong in his life. And he should know that it’s not his fault, but all of his grief was greedy to breathe and live, desperate to find a reason for why he had to lose someone he loved, and his grief found a home in all of his guilt.

And he was terrified to lose someone close to him again. Even if he decided to see what could become with you, even if he thought for a moment that he was allowed to feel any sort of happiness with you, the thought of falling short and failing frightened him. He was so tired of adding to a long list of regrets in his life. And he knew he wasn’t what you needed— what you deserved.

“I…” he starts, swallowing the lump in his throat, “I’m sorry, but I don’t feel the same way about you.” He knows he sounds convincing enough from the way the light in your eyes dimmed, anticipation faltering and replaced with a sad expression over your features. He needs to take a shaky breath to continue speaking. “It seems I’ve led you on in a lot of ways, and I apologize for that. I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen anymore.”

You’re silent for a long moment, twiddling with your fingers as you look up at him. “I see…” you say, and when he sees your lower lip quiver slightly, he feels sick. His instinct is to reach out for you, pull you closer to him, but he knows that’s not a luxury you would allow for him, and he knew it wasn’t one he deserved either. 

Your voice is trembling when you speak next. “I appreciate you letting me know. And you don’t have to worry about not leading me on anymore, because this will be the last time you see me.”

His entire body runs rigid. 

“Why?” It’s a stupid question, but he asks it anyway.

“So I can get over you.”

All he can do is stand with the feeling of a chill in his bones.

“And I ask that you’ll respect my space while I do,” you add on at the end.

He’s silent for a long moment, then lets out the breath he was holding in. “I will,” he says, the promise leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.

There’s a moment where you both just look at each other, as though the two of you were trying to hold onto the moment, but you’re the one to break out of it first, and he’s the one to wish it would’ve lasted a little longer.

“I really appreciate everything you’ve done for me.” The words already sounded like goodbye. “I’ll make sure you look nice in your photos,” you say with a small smile, holding your camera up slightly, “and good luck today.” 

He wonders if he’ll regret this moment.

“Thanks.”

He steps aside so that you can walk past him and back out to the field. Gojo takes a deep breath, releasing it slowly, and relaxes his shoulders. Well, that was intense. Definitely not the direction he thought that conversation was going to go in at all, but that’s fine. He handled it fine. Totally fine. Things were going to be totally fine. He just has to play the match now.

The first step he takes back towards the field, he feels his uneasiness return, with the second step the feeling of his heart beating becomes violent in his head, with the third step he swears he can’t feel the tips of his fingers, with the fourth he feels severely nauseous, and with his fifth- was he seriously about to throw up?

He barely makes it back onto the grassy field cutting across the obstacles of people at the sidelines, using all his strength to not double over before he reaches a table and grabs one of the water bottles. He sees a group of men, all dressed in suits and loitering near the team manager’s station, perk their heads up at the sight of him and he’s groaning internally. The last thing he wanted to do right now was talk to any damn recruiters, but he sees one of them bold enough to approach him in his periphery. He sighs, taking one last gulp of water, and tries to stand up straight and look like he wasn’t going insane.

“Hi, I’m Jousuke Tsuda, recruiter for Tokyo Metropolitan’s national league team,” he says and stretches his hand out for Gojo to shake. The man looked aged, with thick creases to his forehead that could only mean he’s witnessed a hell of a lot of life and he has the soul to prove it.

Gojo’s eyes widen at the mention of Tokyo-Met’s team, and he grabs onto the man’s hand in as firm of a handshake he could manage. “Gojo Satoru.”

The man laughs. It’s deep with a slight crackle. “I know your name, son. Every recruiter in the country does. You’ve got a lot of eyes on you right now.”

“I’m flattered.”

The man raises an eyebrow at him. “Surely you feel pressured.”

Gojo only hums to himself.

The man glances at his watch. “I know the match starts in a few, but if I could have a moment of your time. Take a walk with me?”

“Sure.”

The two trail down the line of the field. “I’ll get straight to the point, kid. Tokyo-Met’s really keen on scouting you for the national league following your graduation,” he says.

Gojo feels like he should be excited about that news, actually, he should be ecstatic and groveling at this man’s feet, but instead he just feels empty and hollow inside. 

“Forget the fact that you’ll be playing in the nation’s most revered team,” the man continues, “but compensation is high, too.” He pulls his phone out from his front suit pocket, tapping away at his calculator app, then turns the screen towards Gojo. Holy shit. “I’m talking about a 350 million yen per year contract here. I could advocate for higher based on how well you perform the rest of the season.”

“I…I don’t know what to say,” Gojo responds.

The man is silent for a second then sighs. When the two of them reach a somewhat secluded bench near the corner of the field, he sits down on it and expects Gojo to do the same, to which he complies.

“You know, I’m used to much more enthusiastic reactions from players that hear this kind of news, although they’re usually ecstatic for barely a hundred million a year compared to what I’ve just offered you,” the man says.

“I guess it’s the pressure,” Gojo says to him, “it’s got my emotional response circuit all fried up, y’know?” He was pulling excuses out of his ass. 

A small hmph noise is heard beside him before he sees the man pulling a pack of cigarettes out of the pocket of his slacks. “I know your father has left big shoes to fill, kid. I can’t imagine the fear of feeling like you’ll fail, or the anxiety of an injury taking you out any time you’re on the field, not wanting history to repeat itself.”

Gojo’s eye twitches and he narrows his eyes at the man seated beside him. “My dad got injured in a car accident, not while playing the sport.”

“I know,” he responds, finally pulling a cigarette out of the pack, holding it between his two fingers as he rests his wrist on his knee. “The story touched the hearts of everyone in Tokyo, and the entire soccer community in general. I remember reading about it in the school newspaper. Back in the day when they still printed those things out.” Gojo’s surprised, and he’s only given a sideways smile before the man continues. “I knew your father, went to the same college as him.”

“I don’t think he ever mentioned you,” Gojo says.

He lets out a hearty laugh. “He despised me. I was a money-hungry finance major that saw a huge opportunity in mediator sports recruitment agencies. Figured if I could sign a player like your father to my start-up, I’d be set for life. He was a smart man not to sign, regardless of how things turned out.” He shakes his head musingly. “I gave up after that and got a real job. You’ll find a lot of your hopes and dreams die in college.”

“I see,” Gojo says.

The man leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees, and looks over with a serious expression on his face. “Tell me, son, what does this sport mean to you? Why have you dedicated your entire life to playing it?”

Gojo only gives him a cursory glance.

“Is it the fame and attention? The pride? The thrill? The prospect of earning millions and then retiring at thirty, and you get to watch your wife and kids playing in your grand estate’s pool on a sunny summer Sunday while you’re swirling around a glass of ‘90s scotch in your hand?” he asks, tone derisive but luring. “Or does it mean something more to you?”

Gojo looks down at his hands that were clenched tightly into fists. He relaxes them so that his fingers fall open weakly and his palms face the sky. He remembers the feeling of being a kid, the smell of freshly cut grass consuming his senses, the sight of bruises on his knees from how many times he fell on the field chasing after the ball, and the admiration in his father’s eyes every single time he stood back up. “It’s a chance to prove myself,” he finally says.

“Prove yourself of what?” the man pushes.

“That I’m capable of greatness,” Gojo admits, “like my father.”

The man nods slowly in acknowledgment. “Yes, your father was a great man. But not because of how he played the game. He was a great man because he knew which sacrifices were truly important.”

Gojo looks at him wearily. “Are you trying to tell a player you’re attempting to recruit that the sport isn’t important?”

He shakes his head, looking straight ahead. “No, it’s important. But it’s the meaning you give to your life outside of it that gives it importance.”

Gojo raises an eyebrow at him, not really sure what to make of the cryptic sentiment.

The man claps his hands together and stands up. “Alright, I’m sure that’s all the time you’ve got for me. Think about my offer, and if any other recruiters approach you with better ones, just know I’ll push for higher.” He hands Gojo his business card and brings his cigarette to mouth, balancing it between his lips. “Reach out if you have any questions.”

Gojo looks down at the card, his finger tracing the edge of it as he studies the shimmering gold lettering. “Why not just hit me with your best offer and leave? Why bother having this kind of conversation with me?”

The man pulls his cigarette from his mouth, pinching it between his two fingers once again. “We’ve all got regrets we want to make right, kid,” he says. And with his hands in his pockets, he walks away. 

Gojo watches the man as he makes his way down the sidelines back to the cluster of men in suits. When he hears the referee whistle, he shoves the business card in the pocket of his uniform shorts, and makes his way towards the center of the sidelines.

His teammates instantly come up to him with optimistic smiles and encouraging pats on his chest and back, trying to keep the energy high to manifest a win for today, but Gojo just feels exhausted and like he’s drowning. He has so many thoughts swimming around in his head, he can’t even begin to explain, and he just wants someone to see through him at this moment. 

The teams stand on the field for the national anthem, and then Osaka Uni’s team disperses while UTokyo’s alma mater plays. Coach Yaga yells for all the players to huddle before the coin toss and reminds them of their plays for the afternoon.

Nanami pulls his sweatbands onto his wrists, Geto pulls his hair back up into a bun, Chosou pulls tightly on the straps of his goalie gloves, and Gojo pushes his hair up off his forehead to snap his headband onto his face. He looks around to his other teammates and that sense of pride he feels to be a part of this team swells dully despite his emotions.

UTokyo wins the coin toss, choosing to kick, and Gojo finds his place in the center of the field. The crowd is already cheering preemptively, their pride in their home team evident in the passion of the filled stands, and Gojo peers across the large expanse of the field as he rests his foot on top of the soccer ball. It’s a scene he’s seen a hundred times in his life, but the sight is daunting today. He takes his foot off the ball when he hears the referee signal the start of the match with a short piercing shrill of his whistle, and the second Gojo draws his leg back and his foot makes contact with the ball, sending it flying forward, he can already feel that something feels very off.

Every single time he had the ball in his possession, his footwork felt heavy and delayed. His teammates had set up more than three chances for him to score, and he shot wide every single time. The crowd’s cheers started to diminish, and he could feel the growing discontent and exasperation from all eyes on the field. Ten minutes before halftime, they were down 1-0, and stakes were starting to feel high. 

One of his teammates passes a ball right to Gojo’s favored foot, the crowd instantly erupting with noise and stands to their feet as Gojo shuffles the ball past the penalty line, through Osaka’s defenders, eyes locked with the perfect opportunity to strike. This was good, he had his rhythm back, even if just for a moment, and he can see it, clear as day–the trajectory to the goal. With the feeling of slick sweat on his face and determination in his veins, he withdraws his leg back to kick the ball. The world went silent in his head, the only sound being the beating of his heart, and-

“this will be the last time you see me.”

When he recalls your voice, everything moves in slow-motion as his ankle slips slightly on the grass from his moment of hesitation, and then the ball is swiftly stolen by an opposing team player and maneuvered past him. 

“Fuck!” he hisses, immediately turning his head around as he helplessly watches the opponents players move with fervor in pursuit of another goal. The crowd hushed in horror as Osaka passed the ball through UTokyo’s defense, swiftly steadying down the side and sending the ball flying through Chosou’s outstretched arms. 2-0, and the lead ref calls for halftime. 

“Dude,” one of his teammates comes up to him as they walk back towards the benches and throws his arms up in the air, “what the hell is wrong with you today?”

“Seriously, man, not a single goal in the first half? You know how many times I’ve set up a shot for you?" another one of his teammates chimes in, nudging Gojo’s shoulder way harder than he’d usually warrant, and shortly after, a blaming fest begins among the players.

“Enough!” Coach Yaga yells out. All of the players quiet down and look at him, some grudgingly gulping down water while others just try to regain their breath. Gojo’s arms just hang at his sides in defeat. “We’re pushing everything on offense now, we can’t afford to miss any more shots,” Coach Yaga says, his fear of losing the match evident too despite his rough tone, “Satoru, I’m switching you out. Dai, take his place.”

“What?” Gojo asks incredulously, charging forward so he’s in front of the older man. “I’m not getting benched.”

“You will, because I say so,” Coach Yaga says sternly, “you’re distracted, boy. I can see it all over your face.”

“I’m n-”

“Just sit down,” Coach Yaga lets out a disgruntled noise. “When players are distracted, they get injured. Have faith in your teammates.”

“Coach,” Gojo asks again, this time almost pleading. He hardly ever questioned Coach Yaga’s calls, he had a great deal of respect for the man. But something within him just absolutely refused to get benched today.

Coach Yaga stares at him for a long moment, and it’s only when one of the refs chirps their whistle that he finally exhales and gives him a reluctant jerk of his head towards the field.

Geto sets up the perfect shot for Nanami to sweep for a kick that barely lands through the goalie’s lunge for the ball, and then on the next play, secures another goal himself. The score is tied, 2-2, with eight minutes left on the clock. Gojo manages to steal the ball on a defensive play, and it’s only really a stroke of luck that he manages in one solid pass the entire game, straight to Geto’s foot, crowd roaring, and he watches his best friend shoot and sink within the last minute and a half of the game. 

3-2. UTokyo’s win. 

Gojo sighs, exhausted as he makes his way to the bench, crouching down and zipping open his duffle bag. Spirits are low among the team despite the excitement from the crowd over their win because of how hauntingly close the loss felt during the last moments of the match, disinterested in celebrating at all as they meekly dispersed across the field. Gojo knew he was going to get a massive yelling-to from Coach Yaga and he could feel the searing disappointment from his teammates for not carrying the game more. This was just a bare win, could’ve gone either way, and his performance today wasn’t a good look for any recruiters either. He felt so emotionally and physically drained from this entire day, and he wasn’t sure how the hell he could feel any better.

Shuffling through his bag for a water bottle, his knuckles hit something cold and metallic-sounding tucked away inside. He hums to himself curiously before grabbing it and pulling it out.

strawberry vanilla soda.

Hm. This wasn’t the one you gave him a couple of days ago. He already drank that one. Did you sneak this into his bag? His brow furrows, and he stares at the sparkling smiling sloth on the label. When he turns the can in his hand, he sees a little note messily scribbled in black ink. 

good luck today! u got this :) ur a star

His eyes widened.

And putting his heart through a shredder would’ve hurt less than when he realizes what an idiot he’s been this entire time.

He’s instantly searching the field, peering through crowds of people, mascots, banners, flags, for any sight of you. He’s not sure how or why he goes in the direction that he does, but deep down it’s because he knows you like taking millions of pictures of flowers, and the west side exit has endless blooms of them. And so when he runs out that way, cleats tapping against the concrete pavement that leads out into the courtyard in the front of the stadium, and spots you standing there, he finally lets out the breath of air he feels like he’s been holding in his chest all day.

You’re aiming your camera at teal and orange petals scattered across the decorative florals lining the raised concrete planters, then pull it down from your face and twiddle with the settings, tilting your head to the side. You then pluck at one of the blooms that was spilling over the edges, bringing it to the tip of your nose curiously. And he just watches, chest heaving from the urgency that he rushed to get to you, heart aching from the desperation of wanting to be near you. He wanted to ask you how you were feeling, he wanted to know how your pictures came along, he wanted to know what you were doing after this, and he wanted you to be with him. But most importantly, he wanted to make sure that this wasn’t the last time he ever saw you again. 

It isn’t until a minute after that you seem keen on his presence too, and you swiftly turn your head in his direction, surprised. “Satoru?” you say. He wonders if he’ll melt. He wonders if those ice-cold barriers he’s built over the years could thaw just from the way you say his name.

But when he takes a step forward, you take a step back. And he halts. The expression on your face was unfamiliar to him. Once soft, curious, trusting. Now you looked at him like you were guarding something, keeping it safe from him, and he no longer had the right to intrude. And then he realizes the hell he’s put you through all this time.

He regrets pushing you away.

“I know I said I’d respect the fact that you want space,” he says through bated breath, “but I…I just can’t stand the thought of never seeing you again.”

You’re solemn when you look at him, reading the plea in his eyes, and then slowly shake your head. He feels like he can’t breathe. 

“I’m sorry. Goodbye.”

And then you walk out of his life.

a/n. thank you for reading! i have a few more author notes that explain a few things that i couldn't really find a way to fit into the chapter organically, but wanted to address before moving on, if you're curious you can find them here. hope to see you in the next one! pls lemme know if i missed any tags i'm sorry if i did :')

➸ take me to chapter eight!

taglist: @who-can-touch-my-boob @lost-resonance @foulprincesscycle @purplehallow11 @tsukikourito @getitsatoru @erencvlt @slut-4-gojo @cactisjuice @kissofife @tiredflame132 @cliosunshine @ethereally-lyann @prince-wyiilder @semra4 @gojosimp26 @hojoslutoru @drthymby @ninitoru @btszn @bbyxxm @fvsm4x @sadmonke @zoinks1010 @bakuhoethotski @fvsm4x @colouringfrogssittinginleaves @ri-sa20 @cierocanteat (thank you to everyone <3)

[bobfloydsbabe]

gold rush | eccentric professor!bob floyd x oc

SUMMARY: Everyone knows history professor Bob Floyd is a little eccentric. He only drinks tea steeped for exactly four minutes, his desk is pristine while the rest of his office looks like a bomb went off, he's distrustful of technology, and he definitely doesn't want or need a teaching assistant. Certainly not one who's as aggravating as she is pretty...

WARNINGS: academia au, enemies to lovers (if you squint), age gap (mid-to-late 20s/late 30s), bob being grumpy and rude. strictly 18+/minors dni.

WORD COUNT: ~0.5k

A/N: Eccentric Professor Bob Floyd has been on my mind constantly for the last week, so here we are with a moodboard and a short blurb. This AU will not be a full length series, but a collection of blurbs and drabbles. Special thanks to @ryebecca for raving with me about my new favorite grumpy man. Don't hesitate to send me questions and headcanons!

UPDATE: ADD YOURSELF TO THE TAGLIST

Bob stops dead in his tracks in the doorway to his office, hot tea spilling over the edges of the cup.

Inside, among piles of books and paper, stands a woman with her back turned none the wiser to his presence. She can’t be one of his students–they know not to come to his office unless they have an appointment.

“Who are you?” he asks, not bothered with pleasantries.

She turns around with a startled laugh. “Dr. Floyd, you scared me,” she says with a hand pressed to her heaving chest. “You can’t sneak up on people like that.”

“You’re in my office,” he points out, brushing past her as he walks to his desk in long strides, placing his cup on a coaster to protect the wood.

“Right,” she agrees.

He sits and pulls his books closer to continue preparing for his next lecture, but his eyes drifts back to the young woman. She appears to be in her mid, maybe late twenties. Dark hair falls in loose waves around her face, and she’s looking at him expectantly. “Did you need something?” he asks.

She cocks her head to the side, brows furrowed. “I’m waiting for you to put me to work.”

“Work?”

“Yes,” she answers, incredulous. “What did your old TA do?”

He stares at her, almost convinced he’s hallucinating. “I don’t have a teaching assistant.”

She smiles at him, wide and enthusiastic. “Well, you do now. Would you like me to clean up a bit? It’s a little messy in here.”

Bob suppresses a frustrated groan. Pushing back from his desk, he stands and rounds his desk, stopping in front of her. The scent of her perfume hits his nostrils, something spicy and vaguely floral, and this close, he can see all the colors in her eyes. “I don’t want a TA and I certainly don’t need one. Whoever hired you–”

“Dr. Kazansky,” she interjects. “–made an error. Now, please, leave.”

Walking back around his desk, he ignores the sound of her taking a deep breath and composing herself. She doesn’t speak until he’s fully sat and emerged in his books again.

“You may not want me here, Dr. Floyd,” she begins through clenched teeth, forcing him to look up. She holds his gaze, determination and a hint of defiance in those dark doe eyes. “But you’re stuck with me. So, I’ll be back tomorrow and we can start over. Have a good day.”

The door slams and Bob’s left in the silence of his office, staring at the spot where she stood mere moments ago. Of course, Dr. Kazansky went behind his back to hire a teaching assistant–he’s insisted that Bob needs one for years, but Bob’s always been able to avoid it. Until now, it seems. He wonders how long she’ll last before she realizes he’s too set in his ways to change. But as he imagines the way her nose will scrunch in annoyance, it occurs to him he never even got her name.

likes are nice, comments and reblogs are golden

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[lavendermunson]

enchanted | knight!eddie munson x princess!reader

summary Eddie never saw you again after that night, you both were ten years old and sitting in a piano, just a couple of kids enjoying each others company but since you were a princess with an arranged marriage, you got trapped in a castle. You never saw Eddie again but he did, getting close to your windows to watch you, you grew to be the most beautiful he has ever seen. A re-encounter might change the world, even put upside down two different kingdoms.

tags +18, afab!reader, perv!eddie, mentions of jason craver sorry, best friends to lovers kind of relationship, masturbation reader and eddie, mentions of food in a nsfw way, set in some fairytale, mention of low self-steem. one use of y/n just one i swear it’s you won’t even remember it. i tried to be as inclusive as possible so i didn’t mention anything about the reader’s, no skin color, no hair color, no body type, if i missed something tell me! i want everyone to read this and picture themselves as a princess, although i did used she/her pronouns and the reader was born in autumn. mentions of death eddie’s mom

a/n i pictured a lot of princess from disney and also toon inspiration from bridgerton, it’s the first time i write something so long so forgive me for any mistakes. if you want me to keep writing this story don’t forget to mention it :)

wc 2.4k… i surprised myself

moodboard | next chapter

A few years ago two kingdoms decided to unite, building a wall to protect them both and agreeing on sharing everything. With this agreement also came the rule of “arrange the marriage of their second born children at the age of 20” The two of them being born in the same year made it easier for it to be more under control, thanks to their older siblings being already married or out of town.

Prince Jason, from the Craver family, was born in the light of the summer, and with it came his whole personality. He isn’t much of a charming young man, his soft hair shines under every light, even the fire, what’s supposed to be aggressive and dangerous. The boy used it in his favor, lighting his room every time he got a new girl on his bed from one of his famous parties.

From the second kingdom, Princess Y/N from the Willow family was born in autumn, just in time when the trees start to let go of their orange-colored leaves. She was a quiet girl, always surrounded by books, avoiding parties, and helping her mom grow all kinds of flowers. She’s never had a boyfriend, and always tried to keep herself busy until the day of her wedding, which she named “the end of her life”.

She didn’t like Jason, at family dinners, he always had a girl in his arms, he wasn’t polite and he was irresponsible. Didn’t have what it took to be a good prince, let aside the new king. The princess was about to turn 20, in three weeks exactly, she was scared of her future because she had too much more to learn, to see, to experience.

—

At the start of the cold winter, Eddie was born, the same year as the prince and the princess, his friends always joked about that “If you were born into the Craver family, you would’ve married the princess” he always laughed about that, knowing that only happened in his dreams, one time, after a private Christmas dinner with the Royalty, when his uncle Wayne became the Willow king’s right hand. Eddie was being trained by his uncle, in sword fights, first aid, horse riding, everything to serve as a knight to the Willow kingdom and to keep him close, but the long-haired boy hated it, he wanted to play guitar, play piano, conquer every instrument in existence, he loved music thanks to his mom who unfortunately died when he was a little boy.

Eddie had an innocent crush since that dinner, he was 10 the same as you, and you showed him the piano and started playing with it.

“You should come here and take classes with me, I'm pretty sure you’re going to be better than me. You have talent, Eds” You said.

“She said I can take classes with her, Wayne.” little Eddie begged his uncle to let him go “Pleaaase”

“No way son, you have to start training,” the older man said, with a frown on his face.

Since that day, you never saw Eddie again, but he did, when he gets a little too close to the kingdom and stares at your living room window where you read, every day, at 5 pm. He watches you bite your bottom lip when you flip the pages gently, your fingers rub the words as you furrow your eyebrows, he realizes he is head over heels for you.

—

It was a Sunday, the air was cold and the clouds were getting in the way of the sun making its light a little bit dim. Eddie grabbed a horse and some grapes, to keep him company while he watched you read, it wasn’t weird, right? He wasn't doing anything wrong, just an innocent act of… spying. His uncle stopped him after hearing the loud steps of the horse.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“I’m going for a ride, just to clear my head”

“No, you get back here young man” The voice of his uncle was louder, firmer, Eddie whined at the old man with a frustrated look on his face “Did you forget tomorrow you start working for real? We have to get you ready”

“Ready? I’m ready Wayne I just need a little time to myself”

“Nonsense, get back here you have to clean your armor”

They both get back in the little house, Eddie sighed as his uncle showed him the new armor.

“But it’s clean!” Eddie whined again, Wayne eyed his nephew annoyed, and tossed a cloth into the young boy’s chest.

“It’s not, it has to shine,” he said, Eddie sighed again, defeated. “C’mon”

Eddie stayed home that day, the first day he skipped his little spying routine, and thank god he did because what happened that day at 5 pm would’ve broken his heart.

__

“Just one kiss, please?” Jason said to you, getting the book out of your hands and throwing it aside.

“You are drunk at 5 pm? What is wrong with you?”

“Nothing! Just kiss me” he leaned in closer to your face, fingers touching your jaw “We are getting married, don’t you remember?”

“I do, I think about it every day and it makes me so sick, now I have a migraine because of your little tantrum” You push him away, and with all the strength in your body, gravity played a little turn and betrayed you, making you fall on top of him on the floor.

“Are we going to practice?” Jason had a grin on his face, his hands tightening on your waist. You get up quickly at the feeling of his touch, fixing up your dress you leave the room, not after scoffing at him and his absurd behavior.

—

On Monday, the kingdoms were throwing a celebration in honor of King Craven’s 60th birthday. Everyone in town was celebrating, having a big party for themselves with the excuse of their least-favorite King. The servants were getting the party started, Queen Craven decided to go with a ball instead of a casual dinner, where people from other towns would come to see the castle and have fun with beautiful gowns and expensive jewelry.

After Eddie met with the Willow king and queen, his new job was taking care of their little princess. He was excited about it but also nervous. He’s getting a chance to spend time with you, to watch you for a few more minutes than usual. It was a new sensation for him, some kind of anxiety mixed with enthusiasm, walking around with a heavy metal armor over his body relaxed him a bit, it was making pressure on his chest so his heart wouldn’t burst out, the only ‘bad’ thing was he didn’t have to wear a helmet, he was afraid his grin was too big on his face and decided to look for an empty room to make a little dance of celebration.

Finally one of the doors opens, and thanks to his bad luck he finds your room. You are currently in a large undergarment, looking at yourself in the mirror and making a disgusted face. You didn’t have a corset on because you hated them, but something was off with your self-esteem that day.

“Sorry, sorry i-” he said, stunned to speak at the sight of the beautiful princess. He also dreamed of seeing your body, it was better than his imagination would have pictured. The parts of your naked skin were glowing, he closed his fist trying to keep himself on edge, the desire of touching you, feeling your soft skin with his fingertips, and placing kisses all over you made Eddie turn around quickly, closing his eyes in an attempt to memorize what he just saw.

“Wait! Don’t go!” you said, getting in your dress as quickly as possible as he touched the door handle “Can you tie up my dress? It’s pretty difficult for me since i can’t reach”

Eddie opened his eyes wider, trying to ease his breathing and slowly coming up to you ‘Your wish is my command’ he said to himself.

He nods in your direction and gets closer, you move your hair to one side so Eddie can tie up the dress easier, and with his big fingers, he takes the laces of the dress tightening up a little, and makes a secure knot on your back.

“Please make sure you add a bow, i-it looks better that way” You peek your head over your shoulder for a second, he nods again and tries to make a proper bow, but it turned out nicely than he thought.

He rests his hands on your waist, looking at your reflection in the mirror, you keep checking if the dress looks good and trying to fix some parts of it that look loose. You didn’t mind Eddie’s touch, you knew who he was and what he was doing here (kind of). You were happy inside, you always wanted Eddie as a friend since that night when you were kids, and now you can keep him close, even better, speak to him and get to know him.

“Thank you, Eddie,” you say, getting out of your pool of thoughts.

“You remember me?” he asks, eyebrows crinkled on his face, and you giggle looking at his surprised face.

“How could I forget such a pretty face?” Eddie flushes instantaneously.

“Me? You are the one who looks speechless” you blush, the little flirt game making your heart flutter.

“You think so? I believe this dress has something wrong, do you?”

Eddie takes his time to reply, looking at your reflection again he keeps looking for the mistake you were searching for earlier, but he seems to miss it. He gets brave enough to trace your waist and torso with his fingers, going up from your back and resting his hands on your exposed shoulders, rubbing them delicately. You shiver at his touch, something that you have never felt before, your tummy starts to feel funny and your breath hitches, the boy behind you is quick to notice your little squirm, he laughs at it and gently takes his hands off you, you miss his touch already.

“I don’t think so, it looks… you look really good” he says, giving you a look of reassurance. He misses your skin too, it’s been just a couple of seconds since his fingers ignited with your warm skin and now his hands are too cold for his liking. You turn around in a quick twist, locking eyes with him.

“So… you work here now,” you ask him, getting lost in his chocolate eyes.

“Yes, from now on”

“What do you have to do?” His cheeks feel warm being close to you, now he hates the armor that protects his chest from the warmth of your body.

“I have to take care of you, actually” You are quick to notice he is trying to hide a big smile “Your mom kept talking about your little trips to the outside and she wants someone to protect you”

“You think I need protection?” you cross your arms in front of your chest, Eddie brings his attention to your little act trying to look tough and he gets lost in your cleavage for a minute.

“N-no, I’m sure you are fine” he shakes his head and finds your eyes again “Since you’ve been back without a scratch i know you got everything under control, i mean… she only wants to keep me close to you so she can relax” he curses at himself for feeling so nervous all of a sudden, the fact that he didn’t know about your trips to the woods outside the kingdoms makes his blood boil, he kept tabs on you every day, all day, how did he miss this?

“I’m pretty sure she thinks there are monsters out there” you laugh, covering your mouth with your hand “i only go out to read, sometimes i need to clear my head and be somewhere new, you know?” He nods, he understands perfectly, that’s what he said to his uncle just yesterday.

“Yes, but now I'll be doing my job and watching you” ‘like i used to’ he thinks to himself.

“Alright, i don’t mind you doing your job” You roll your eyes and turn around “I have to keep getting ready, can you wait outside?”

“Yes, of course” he leans his head to the front and you giggle at his movements “I’ll leave you to it”you giggle at his movements “I’ll leave you to it”

“I’ll take a lot of time, you can just go get some food and I’ll find you in the kitchen”

“If you need something i’ll be there, i have to take you to the Craven kingdom in an hour”

“Perfect, i’ll find you there” he leaves your room after listening to your words, you look at him with a soft smile before he closes the door and you run to the bathroom to clear your head.

You quickly realize you miss his touch on your body, the pool on your panties confirms it. You lift your dress and sit on the edge of the bathroom, reaching for your pussy and rubbing your clit over your clothes with your fingers, closing your eyes, and trying to focus on him. His masculine scent comes back to you, remembering his fingers touching you and the way he looked so good in that armor, you made sure to remember he had been working out to get the job. Your imagination takes you far beyond, it was almost as you were listening to his moans, but no, it can be, he is in the kitchen at this moment. Maybe he is eating a tiny cookie with his big hands, crust getting all over his mouth, maybe he is eating a cupcake while he gets frosting over his fingers and he sucks them clean, eating the bottom part while licking at his sugary lips.

But you were wrong, he wasn’t in the kitchen, he came back a couple of seconds after you went into the bathroom. He wanted to ask you something before you had to be in a public space, surrounded by people he didn’t like. But you weren’t there, he got worried for a second until his ears started ringing, recognizing your voice through the bathroom door and your shaky moans. His cock got hard just hearing you breathe in and out with a fast rhythm, he quickly got his hand under his pants and started to rub his dick, moaning at your pretty noises not noticing you could hear him, he managed to run to a bathroom close to your room to release his cum and wash his hands after. You did the same in your bathroom, quickly cleaning your cum so it doesn’t drip onto your clothes.

If that’s how both of you get after seeing each other for less than an hour, it would be worse when you have to be together day and night.

sorry i ended up like this :) if you want more i’ll be happy to write it, leave some ideas of what should happen next i’ll be reading you ♡ feedback is appreciated! don't forget to REBLOG TO SUPPORT THE AUTHOR!

tags: @stephanie-nicks76 ty for commenting luv. join my taglist in the form or comment here

[medusapelagia]

Separate Ways - NSFW -Ch 1/22

Here we are... after 9 months my baby is finally here! This is my fic for the @bigbangharringrove! A huge thanks to my incredible artist @lemonhitsu (without whom I would have probably dropped out ages ago and who made this beautiful moodboard) and thank you so much to @bottombillyapologist for being my beta!

Summary: Steve Harrington is a famous model whose live depends on his manager and (more or less) lover, Tommy Hagan. After a bar fight, he meets Officer William Hargrove, recently transferred to the NY Police Department and with a deep personal experience with a violent environment, who can clearly see the signs of domestic violence in Steve's relationship with Tommy. Determined to help the pretty boy escape from his abusive relationship, Billy gets closer and closer to Steve.

READ ON AO3

A little snippet under the cut

Steve Harrington is the most booked runway model in the world.   His face and his body are everywhere. On billboards, on magazine covers, and plastered  over ads at bus stops.   Steven Joseph Harrington, twenty-fourth years old, is the richest model in the world.  And he is about to celebrate his achievement with Tommy: Tommy Hagan, his high school friend, was the one that pushed him to pursue a modeling career and now, somehow, he owns his life. He is the one that chooses which campaign Steve is going to do a photo shoot for or which fashion show is worthy of his presence. He is the one that chooses every single thing that Steve eats. He books trainers for him when they travel abroad.   Paris, Milan, London, New York— he doesn’t have to worry about anything. Tommy books the flight— always business class— and the hotels, always luxury suites. All Steve has to do is show up and let Tommy take care of him.   It’s not bad, it's just... sometimes Steve would like to do something different from  walking on the runways or training in the gym. He used to play basketball, but Tommy  completely prohibited him from contact sports: they can't risk someone  elbowing him in the face before a fashion show.   He’s not wrong. But Steve loved team sports. He had a lot of friends, but now he feels like he has no friends left.   But he still has Tommy. And Tommy would never leave him.  

[cleveradjacent]

ogata moodboard made from semi old russian memes i've had saved for ages. translations in alt text and under the cut (with context where needed)

"AAAHAAAA I'M AN IDIOT LOOK AT MEEEE!!" "looking."

"drowned in what i have created"

"come on mimick my behavior i'm your mother after all" "i'll be mimicking the behavior of the strange shadowy figures because they're around much more than you mom"

"what am i living for" (alternate translation: "why am i alive") context for this: taken from a post years and years ago that had, i believe, a picture of a yoghurt that said "yoghurt with thoughts" instead of "yoghurt with muesli", because "thoughts" in russian is "misli"

"you're so unique, i wonder what's going on inside you" "nothing" (fucking nothing)" "lol"

"depressed?" (in russian, we say "in depression?") "do i fucking look like i know where i am"

"you're an embarrassment to the prestigious profession of pathetic nobodies" this one was taken from a meme page that posted quotes from russian YTPs edited onto aesthetic photos. and i do believe this is ogata's attitude to fellow soldiers

"go fuck yourself" "wait stay". this is funnier in russian because it literally reads "go to dick" "stay". also both messages use the formal respectful way of addressing someone in russian

the print on the door: "OOO A Path To Yourself" (the "OOO" means it's the title of a business). the sign: "away from yourself" (this is how we mark "push" doors in russian)

[importantchaosgiver]

Update and Sneak Peek

Yes, I am here! I am sorry for not posting 'Where Loyalties Lie' recently, but I will soon, I promise. Now, in honour of HOTD S2, I shall give you a little insight as to what that may look like in later chapters. Got any theories? Feel free to share.

~~~

It was uncalled for. It was horrific. Daemon felt those words reverberate to his bones, Baela and Rhaena looked to their father. They heard stories about this woman and even briefly encountered her. But, this clearly affected everyone, not just Daemon. But Rhaenyra too. Her eyes widened and grew glassy. Even Corlys' jaw dropped, Jacaerys looking shook. First Lucerys... now this? Do the Greens truly have no conscious!

~~~

The dragons cooed softly. Dreamfyre , Sunfyre and Vhagar. Although, Vhagar was the only one who approached. Despite her size and age, she never forgot a face. And this face? Oh, she remembered even as the woman grew older. Vhagar would never forget her courage when saving the young prince all those years ago, or even riding alongside the man titled The Brave when she was only just becoming a woman. To see her like this? It actually hurt. The sword she held with pride, dignity and wisdom, stained and discarded as if it were nothing. Her hand laid on the stone ground, as cold as the Northern winters and as still as the sturdiest tree...

~~~

Dawn arose the next day, and she was still untouched. Not only had she touched the hearts of the people, but of animals and beasts. But one thing the dragons all noted... was a new addition. A necklace of silver and diamond sat upon her chest. A pendant with ancient runes one could only associate with the Old Gods and New. Then... a twitch of the fingers, the rising and falling of her chest and the flutter of her eyelashes as her eyes opened to see the vast ceiling of the Dragonpit. The metal of her sword sung as it was dragged up from the ground, the dried blood flaking off it. She looked at her reflection in the blade and let out a breath. "Beware, Otto Hightower... for you no longer realise what you have doomed yourself to," she muttered hoarsely, her scars shining in the early morning rays...

~~~

I hope you like it. Oh, and I made some moodboards for potential oneshots I may do like (Y/N) takes a different path or just a completely separate story with similar plot.

[diazheartsbuckley]

High school sweethearts?

Hi Ashley! Long time no see, so glad that you’re back 💗

I made a moodboard and an introduction to the story here but I’m posting a snippet as well 👀

Buck’s eyes scanned the crowd, searching for a familiar face or rather - one particular familiar face - at his high school reunion. Life hadn’t been so easy for him back then but now when he had become a public figure, people that he had never spoken to, took a sudden interest in him. But there was only one face that he truly longed to see.

And that’s when he saw him. Eddie Diaz, the man that he had loved since he was 16. And hadn’t seen since he was 19. That was over a decade ago now.

The brown eyed man bore clear signs of aging, small lines starting to form around the corners of his eyes. Yet he hadn’t seem to have changed at all - a big, bright smile plastered on his face as he greeted old classmates and friends.

Buck discreetly slipped his fingers under his shirt, fingers seeking the silver chain that held the promise ring that Eddie gave him back in high school. It rested against his skin, concealed from view but stayed a constant reminder of the chapter of his life that had meant everything. Eddie had been his whole world for years.

Hesitant yet excited, he approached Eddie on unsteady feet and as soon as Eddie’s eyes turned to him, a wave of nostalgia washed over him, setting back time instantly.

“Eddie, is that really you?” He chuckled like he could ever forget the face of a man that he had loved for almost half of his life. Eddie turned to face him and somehow the world seemed to stop spinning, memories of shared laughter and secret glances clear as the summer sky.

“Buck?” Eddie’s voice held a hint of disbelief. The stark blue eyed man in front of him had aged amazingly, standing like the masterpiece that he was in front of him.

It took another moment for the two of them to share an embrace and a laugh of nervousness escaped Buck’s mouth.

“Wow you look-…”

“Older? Taller? More rugged?” Buck joked, unable to take the situation seriously. As much as he had longed to see Eddie again, it stung. Years had passed, years that Eddie promised that they would spend together and then never did.

“I was going to say good but sure, yeah, that too” Eddie returned the laugh, still able to read Buck’s voice and body language like an open book.

A bit painstakingly awkward, the two of them started to catch up and for a moment, everything seemed to be exactly like it was back then.

The love was never lost, it just wasn’t their time.

Until Eddie raised his hand to comb through his hair - something he did when he was feeling out of place - that Buck saw the wedding ring on Eddie’s finger.

“Married, huh?” He questioned, a bittersweet smile playing on his lips.

Eddie's expression shifted, a mix of emotions crossing his face. "Yeah, I met someone after college. Her name's Shannon, and we have a son called Christopher”

Buck nodded, trying to mask the disappointment that he felt. “That’s great, Eddie. I’m happy for you. Glad to see that you’re doing well” Buck’s words were laced with something that resembled a mix of sarcasm and sadness.

Just as the conversation settled into a slightly awkward silence, a woman approached, wrapping her arm around Eddie's waist. "Eddie, who's this?" she asked, glancing at Buck with a careful smile.

Eddie introduced them, "Shannon, this is Evan. He’s an old friend”

They were never just friends.

Ask me about my wips 💗

Using this as my Tease Tidbit Tuesday cause ya girl is a mess because of exams 😐

Tagged by @daffi-990 @jamespearce9-1-1 @athenagranted mwah mwah mwah 💋

Tagging!! @watchyourbuck @jeeyuns @jesuisici33 @giddyupbuck @fionaswhvre @thewolvesof1998 @theotherbuckley @callmenewbie @cal-daisies-and-briars @honestlydarkprincess @butraura @spotsandsocks @hippolotamus @disasterbuckdiaz 💗 🦋

[elvisabutler]

a love supreme seems far removed

summary: it appears old wounds between you and professor presley die hard after one particularly pleasurable but exhausting incident. fandom: elvis presley | elvis ( 2022 ) rating: m pairing: professor! elvis presley ( big daddy flavor ) x student! female reader ( nicknamed belle ) word count: 2462 warnings: big daddy elvis. elvis using a walking stick/cane. implied praise kink. student and professor relationship ( everyone is of legal age ). use of the derogatory name jezebel,in a negative way toward oneself. caning in a sexual way/sexual punishment way. negative self talk. dom/sub dynamics though not explicitly stated. near use of a safe word. sub drop. mild daddy kink? it's there, belle calls him that once or twice and elvis refers to himself as big daddy once. abandonment issues. author’s note: so this was sort of an accidental fic. once upon a time an anon came into my inbox and mentioned liking my fic about belle and professor presley with belle experiencing sub drop. i had never written that but between my right hand woman for belle and elvis @butlersxbirdy ( seriously, y'all she is the reason this entire series exists ) and my baby girl @stylespresleyhearted going "OKAY BUT CAN YOU DO IT THO I WANT IT." this fic was born. special thanks as always to my discord wives, christi and marina and for kicks also bee who i made love big daddy with these two. as always i love the love this fic series gets and truly i live for comments and questions regarding it or any of my serieses/fics. hell, the reason this series is a series is because y'all keep requesting more stuff from it. pay no mind to the moodboard as far as physicality goes or ethnicity, i just basically fell in love with her face because of daisy jones and she's got the right vibe.

It's funny, you think, how once upon a time the things you do with Elvis were things you shied away from with your other- partners if you could even call them that. There's something to be said about the sheer ease at which Elvis puts you in to make you agree to anything. You figure it's because you know he'll always take care of you. You figure it's because of how he'll stop if you cry out in more than just a pleasurable pain. No, he'll make sure you're alright, make sure his precious Belle, his angel sent from God himself is alright.

Smack.

A low keen leaves your mouth at the sting of his cane against your ass, hitting a spot still a bit tender from a week ago. Elvis had asked if you were alright with this, asked if you were ready to take this on this soon and it had been an easy question to answer. Of course you were alright because you had been the one to ask for it again. It's not that you needed it- craved it every second of the day but you knew very well you had nearly gotten yourself and him in some very hot water. It deserved more than his words of admonishment murmured against your neck and your hair. It deserved the caning that he rarely brings out but that you know tends to set you straight. Tends to keep you in line in a way you'll both never admit or question beyond these moments when he uses it. Your hand starts to move toward your ass, wanting to rub the spot that's sore before—

"Hands on the bed. Ya know better. Keep 'em where they're 'posed t'be," Elvis commands as your hands settle back against the bed. Back to where they ought to be because Elvis- Big Daddy- Professor Presley told you to keep them there.

"Elvis—" you start before another smack of the cane has your ass jiggling and has him chuckling a little as his ringed hand palms the area. You hiss.

"Ya asked for this, 'member? Told me ya needed the lesson, hm? Needed t'be 'minded that ya need t'be good, right? Keep that tongue o'yours in check. Doin' so good, Y/N. Doin' so good. What number we on?"

Your mind, fuzzy as it's becoming can focus on the number, can focus on something, settle on something that allows you to not float completely away. The grounding element of everything that keeps you tied to the Earth, tied to him and your life together. Your mouth opens and one single word falls out, "Three."

"Outta five, that's right, Belle. But ya haven't been countin' 'em out loud, have ya? Been tryin' to keep me from hearin' ya? Hearin' what my cane does to ya?" Elvis allows himself to lean against you, to press his stomach against your burning backside, his own warmth both a balm and an irritant against it. His chest hair scratches at your skin and earns a light whine as some rubs just the wrong way, the friction unwanted for now.

"Yes," you whine, arching your back as if to tease when really you only want to chase after the feel of the cane, of his body against yours in order to float and to feel safe. At your arch, he moves off of you and brings down his cane once more, this time closer to your vagina, in that dip where your thighs and butt meet. The part where his hands would grip and squeeze and slap when you rode his cock or his thighs. The number slides through your brain and into your mouth. "Four!"

You hadn't meant to shout the number but the sting overwhelmed you, the sting almost had you telling Elvis to stop, that this was too much too soon after the last week. It stopped though, the urge to tell him to set down his cane and pull you into his arms stopped. Still, even with your lack of asking, there's a pause with Elvis, a pause that has him leaning against you once more, his hand automatically starting to palm your ass. "Y'alight?"

He expects an honest answer out of you as you expect honest answers out of him when he wants to pretend his body isn't betraying him and hurting him. The bright side of when you do things like this, when you trust him to remind you to be a good girl- a good woman- you'll always tell him the truth.

A nod is what you manage before your body slumps forward just a little, the effort of holding yourself up on your hands against the bed becoming just a bit too much to handle. Elvis ought to stop right there and he knows it, can see an exhaustion settling into your body but a promise is a promise and he allows himself one final smack of the cane, lighter than all the others at the most fleshy and least bruised part of your behind.

"Five," you murmur against the sheets of the bed, your eyes a little glassy as he moves the cane to the side and tries to pull you up to a standing position. He manges it just barely but you lean against his chest, hand snaking up his chest to run your fingers through his chest hair. "Shower?"

You think it's you who asked for a shower but you're not sure, not sure with how your clit throbs and aches as it always does when Elvis does this to you, whenever you do something similar to this. Whenever he disciplines you like you deserve to be, because a simple talking to wouldn't have done, your body needed to know what was at stake. Whoever asked didn't matter as Elvis helped you walk to the bathroom anyway, his hands moving between your legs, playing with your clit, sliding his fingers between your folds gently as you rested your body against his own. It doesn't take long to finish the shower, doesn't take long for Elvis to wrap you in a towel and dry you off, only detaching himself to grab pajamas for both of you. You hadn't been this way last week but it had been earlier in the night, perhaps you were just tired from the day.

The bed sheets and Elvis provide a warmth that finally drags you into the land of sleep willingly and gladly.

It's cold.

It shouldn't be cold, you think. Elvis runs as hot as a furnace and usually makes you so hot that you have to slip from under the covers in the middle of the night. Your eyes blink to try and adjust to your surroundings and you realize it is the middle of the night. Why is it cold in the middle of the night?

Your heart lurches in your chest, moving upward to your throat as your hand moves to Elvis's side of the bed only to feel cool emptiness beside you.

Elvis isn't there. Elvis isn't beside you. You are alone in your shared bed. Was it shared any more? Was this his way of telling you to leave? After everything? Had you finally made him realize you made a mistake?

There's a sliver of your brain, of your mind that knows the thoughts that are swarming your mind are silly and yet you can't listen to that sliver. It's wrong. Elvis isn't here with you. Why hadn't he fucked you to sleep? Why hadn't you woken up with his soft cock inside of you? Had Daddy- Had Elvis taken care of you after he hit you? Where was he? Why wasn't— Why wasn't he here? He left you. He's leaving you. He's going to kick you out when the first rays of sunlight enter through the curtains.

You don't know when you start to sob, don't know when your body starts to shake, the overwhelming lack of warmth settling into your bones, don't know when your stomach threatens to empty onto the bed. All you know is that they happen all at once. All you know is that you've done something to make Elvis abandon you.

Maybe, maybe he was still in the house, maybe you didn't disgust him so much he had to leave the entire house. If you called for him maybe he'd come. Maybe you could find out— maybe you could convince him that it was fine. You were still worthy of his love.

The wail that leaves you would embarrass you in any other context. It would mortify you if your brain could process what was happening.

He hadn't quite registered that the noise he heard was you. Hadn't quite registered that the wail he heard was you. Graceland occasionally made noises that didn't make a whole lot of sense and that hadn't changed in the entire time you've been with him. It's only when he gets closer to your shared room that he hears your wail, your moan of unmitigated distress and anguish and knows it's you. He moves as fast as his body will let him and practically slams open the door, ready to use old karate moves and the gun he's got hidden in his dresser to defend you only to realize there's no one in the room but you.

There's no one in here who could hurt you and yet you're clutching at your stomach, curled in on yourself, looking as if you want to vomit all over everything. When you look up at him he sees your glassy eyes staring back at him, unshed tears in them to go with the ones streaming down your face. He opens his mouth to ask you what's wrong only to hear your whimpers and whispers to yourself.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry D- Elvis. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." It practically sounds like a mantra, a chant you'd only a monk say. It sounds wrong coming from your lips. What did you have to be sorry for? What would make you act this way? In what feels like a flash he moves to sit next to you on the bed and starts to touch you.

For once you shy away from his touch and Elvis's heart falls through his body to the ground. You never do that, even when the two of you hadn't worked through the dumbest set of issues known to man you had never shied away from his touch. Normally you would sink into it, but— what had he done to you. Had earlier been too much? Had he broken something inside you in a way he hadn't before?

"Y/N? Belle? What—" He doesn't get the question out before you whimper.

"You were gonna leave me like I did to you. I— I was alone. You hate— you don't love me anymore. Don't want to be with— you realized what everyone else does."

Tour Guide. Used. Whore. Bel— Jezebel. Not worthy of being with him or anyone else. But especially not him. Not worthy to spend the rest of your life waking up with him. Not worthy to have children with him.

Your hands tighten around your middle even more, as if that's the part of you that needs shielding the most. As if that will make the nausea you feel go away. As if it'll keep your stomach from revolting even as you feel Elvis's hand on your shoulder, tight as it was the first day he met you.

"My— Y/N. My angel from heaven. My Belle. No—" He pulls you into a hug despite your protests and your shaking head. "I couldn't sleep. I was downstairs. You—Belle. I— After everything, I would never do that to you. I could never hate you."

"You did," you whimper, your shoulders shaking even as you feel some form of warmth from him sinking through your pajamas and into your soul. "You did. You— I left you and I deserve— I don't— I made you hate me. You're gonna—"

Elvis shushes you, forcing your body against his, forcing your chest to rub against his, his chest hair brushing against the faintest bit of skin your pajamas show. "No. You're my good girl, Belle. Always have been even when I was so angry with you. I'm here. Your Big Daddy's here." He uses the nickname you had let slip that one time so long ago, knowing he finds it funny. It's supposed to put you at ease and he feels a tension in your shoulders lessen at it.

"For— You won't make me leave?" That's the question you ask, not does he still love you, because the two go hand in hand in your mind. For him to love you, he can't abandon you.

His answer should be silly, it should make you roll your eyes but something deep inside you finally uncurls when you hear him sing one of his own song lyrics acapella. "A team of wild horses couldn't tear us apart."

A sob, stronger than the rest wrenches itself from your throat, finally earning a proper release as he holds you even tighter through the tears, his hands petting your hair, murmuring soft words of comfort. You know the position has to be uncomfortable for him but he doesn't complain, too focused on making sure you're alright. Your tears and shivers finally settle into something manageable after what feels like hours and Elvis moves to lay you down on the bed, his hand still rubbing on your chest, right where your heart is. A whimper escapes your lips in fear only for him to shake his head.

"Let me get on my side of the bed. Then ya can curl up to me," he says and to show you how serious he is, he manages to clamber on top of the bed from the bottom, his hands never leaving your body, the warmth from his touch— his always burning hands allowing embers of warmth to blossom slowly but surely inside of you.

The second he's under the covers, you move to lay on top of him. He can't abandon you, can't leave you without warning if he has to move you from atop his body. Your hands haven't left your stomach as it still continues to roil and twist inside you, the nausea refusing to abate. Elvis looks at you and follows where your hands are before placing the hand that rubbing against your chest onto your stomach. For some strange reason it calms your stomach, allows for your body to settle down, and allows for you to lock your arms around Elvis's middle.

"Stay," you whisper, placing a kiss against his skin.

"Wouldn't dream of doin' anything but."

taglist: @ab4eva, @blurredcolour, @butlersxbirdy, @precious-little-scoundrel, @eliseinmemphis, @prompted-wordsmith, @missmaywemeetagain, @lookingforrainbows, @araxw, @thatbanditqueen, @ellie-24, @austinbutlersgirl67, @heartbrake-hotel, @ccab, @18lkpeters, @slutforsomegoodlettuce, @dkayfixates, @kendralavon7, @chasingwildflowers, @notstefaniepresley, @wanderingelvis, @kxnnxy, @powerofelvis, @stylespresleyhearted y'all know the drill with the taglist by now.

[thiswaycomessomethingwicked]

Vetinari is shot in the leg when he is forty-six years old. In the next five years he will present to the world as both disabled and abled. As ill and healthy. There is a cane—does he need it or is it for show? Both, naturally. He needs it. It is for show. Look at the cane, do not look at the body. The trappings of High Office obscure the individual. Until he is half-undressed, and his doctor is asking in a dreary, melancholic fashion: ‘Have you been doing the stretches I gave you?’ And he is replying: ‘I am fastidious about it.’ Not that it will help in the long run, Vetinari does not add. His doctor is then humming and hawing and muttering beneath his breath about the entirety of the situation. Which is what? Vetinari is five years on from the event that took a goodly portion of flesh out of his thigh. The exit wound was a horror to look at, he heard. He did not see it in much detail, it being on the backside of his thigh and his not being in his right-mind due to blood loss and pain. All of this has meant that Ease of Movement swiftly became a long-term, Ongoing Issue. Lately, Vetinari has found it a little more difficult to work those muscles of his thigh around the part through which the bullet ripped. Still, for all the pain and frustration of impaired mobility that comes with age and catastrophic wounds Vetinari remains grateful that he stood up when he did. That it is just his leg and not his chest. In a morbid mood, six months ago, he made an appointment with Downey and asked him to sketch out the trajectory of the entire event. Name the organs that would have been torn up. Write them as a list of could-be’s that didn’t happen. Downey did, in that cold and ruthless manner he has when he is being cruel to the people around him. It is a manner that Vetinari appreciates for it cauterizes emotions and Vetinari feels the need for great and masterful cauterization.

The Vetinari version of the Indulgent Moodboard for the Critter Downey & Whatever the Fuck is Going on With Vetinari story.

[Downey Version]

[Downey/Vetinari version]

[quillkiller]

okay you have officially piqued my curiosity to the utmost about effiebarty…tell me all…please…

omg…… buckle in….

so i’ve talked about them lots and lots and lots so here’s some context:

moodboard i made a million years ago

their dynamic <3

barty as effies kept boy agenda with saints

a lil christmas nsfw au snippet

microfic i wrote for the poolboy!barty and bored!housewife au :~)

ok so i have more than one au for effiebarty… but bottom line is almost always bored housewife effie and 22 year old delinquent barty stumbling into each other. my favorite is the poolboy au (which is the setting on the microfic). one thing about me is that i will always make women worse and greedy and selfish. ENOUGH of perfect mother euphemia potter, the kindness in her heart, her motherly instincts….. let her fuck that freaky 22 year old covered kn tattoos.. let her have the messiest most ill-advised affair behind montys back. something something how women always feel repressed and monstrous because we always have to be good and lovely sugar spice and everything nice. the inherent monstrous feeling of being forced into patriarchal womanhood and always feeling like you’re awful and bad and gross and disgusting just for having feelings and desires…. let euphemia break free from that and have a freaky explicit affair with a guy half her age who’s entirely obsessed with her simply because it makes her feel good. makes her feel alive.. makes her body an okay place to be whenever barty takes her to a disgusting burger joint and they share fries and milkshake before he eats her out at the hood of his shitty car .. repressed housewives i love you forever

its also just sort of an exploration of power dynamics in age gap relationships because theres barely any at all with older woman/younger guy ?? LET OLDER WOMEN BE SEXUAL BEINGS !!! let barty absolutely salivate after euphemia potter in a bathing suit !!!!!!! grey hairs and wrinkles and all <3 i also just personally find the dynamic more interesting when its an older woman/younger guy because like…. the dynamic is different ?? its not an old creepy man wanting to possess a 20 year old girl, instead its an older repressed woman/housewife exploring her own wants and needs and desires . unlearning that sex doesn’t make you dirty at 50 years old from this 22 year old looking at you like you hung the moon and stars .. <- not saying this is a healthy relationship just because shes the older one/hes the younger one, but i AM saying it’s different from m/f age gap relationships between older men/younger women. here on quillkiller dot tumblr dot come we believe in womens rights to be depraved and fucked up from patriarchal violence and/or patriarchal ideals

then there’s the toxic foursome au…… which i have a tag for (/toxic foursome) which is really mostly about bartylus….. they’re both scheming to seduce monty and effie literally. just because. reg is going to seduce monty and barty is going to seduce effie and then bartylus fuck nasty about it on the daily… like the entire thing is just foreplay to them :/……. more about that here …. <3 (<- also i read that ask wrong so sorry to that anon for taking you ask and running with it in the other direction…💗)

[cupidspup]

question 15 from the agere questions !! :D

Hello anon! :D Thank you so much for asking!^^

Today's question is:

"What platforms do you usually go to for agere content? (Tumblr, Pinterest, Instagram, ect)"

To answer your question yes I do go to different platforms for agere content :3

When I first started out as a regressor I always went to instagram because it's honestly all I knew at the time as a 12-13 year old kid :> I mainly went there to see thise cute lil text post scripts of cgs and their littles and it made me so small!

Buuuut then many years later I made a friend who isn't in the community but said they read fics on Tumblr! And I was like "omg?? Wait??? I never thought of fics on other websites other than wattpad" (which I'll get to later) so! I went onto here maybe 1 or 2 years ago and I started reading! And I saw how a bunch of blogs would post a bunch of other things and just ✨️🎀✨️

Tumblr is definitely my main and holy grail for agere content

AND I BUILT THIS FYP FROM THE GROUND U P, BRICK BY BRICK

I know a lot of people make moodboards and all that stuff as content but I wanted more agere content for everyone! Which inspired me to make more and more fics! (Since I already post other fics on Twitter x]) I love that I post fics and I love that people enjoy them so much it warms my heart so greatly that people enjoy me and my content QwQ🩷

Now, speaking of fics I know it's probably not necessarily on the list BUT

I do go on wattpad for this one mha agere series and it's so so good and I love it it's been with me for like 2 or 3 years and it's EVERYTHING (I'll drop links if anyone asks I promise)

I also love to read the agere fic of a close friend of mine on AO3 too!

As for Instagram, I do still use it and have it!! Although I usually just use it to either look at art or shop for little gear! I am happy to say that at my grown age I have managed to build up a collection and have favorite shops to buy from x) BUT!! My cg and I are starting up our own Instagram profile together soon!! And I'm so excited!! ^^

I hope this answered your question anon and I hope it wasn't too long either 🧍💀

Tysm again for asking and please do ask some more!! I love doing these and I love talking to people so please flood my inbox with stuff :3🩷

On a different note, for anyone who would like to interact often but wants to stay anon, would you guys like a emoji tag thing so I know who's who (to an extent?) Please let me know in the comments! ^^

[late-to-the-party-81]

I feel the rush, addicted to your touch

AN: sorry, not sorry - Have some brain rot filth courtesy of that scene from Crowded Room and Tom Holland’s slut era….As always an aged up Peter Parker…

Beta’d by no-one, bwahahahaha, but enabled by @buckyismybicycle

Dividers by @firefly-graphics and moodboard by me, with images from The Crowded Room courtesy of www.TomHolland.org

Master list

Summary: Peter’s on a mission. Whether he gets what he’s expecting is a different matter.

Relationship: Peter Parker x Sam Wilson - No powers au

WC: 1.4k

CW: Disaster Gay Peter Parker, Strangers to lovers, drug use, unsafe sex, unhealthy coping mechanisms, implied previous SA, hooking up, anal sex, spit as lube, daddy kink, oral sex, face slapping (once) being shared, angst. This is messed up - you have been warned.

I’m so fucked up right now!

As the thought crossed Peter’s mind he giggled to himself at the dual meaning. Because he was fucked up - his life so far had seen to that, but he was also high as kite, tripping his balls off after the two lines he’d done at home before heading out, so doubly fucked up.

He supposed he’d been a normal kid once. It was so long ago that he didn’t remember much. He got flashes now and then, memories of his mom singing to him, his dad reading him a story. But that part of his life hadn’t lasted long, courtesy of a drunk driver. He remembered being scared and confused when he went to live with Uncle Ben and Aunt May. Things had settled down, at least for a bit, and he’d had some semblance of happiness. 

However, the universe decided that it hadn’t tortured him enough, so it sent a mugger who accosted and killed Uncle Ben over the $47.32 cents in his wallet. That’s when things really went downhill. The reduced income, the cost of the funeral. To say he and May had struggled financially was an understatement.

Peter had had prospects before then. He was smart, capable, excelling at school, but he’d had to get a job to help out, and his school work suffered. He got angry at everything and everyone around him and made bad choices. Choices which lead him to trust people he shouldn’t have trusted. People who gave him things, did things…

Peter shook his head. Tonight wasn’t about being maudlin. Tonight was about having fun. He might be fucked up, but he was planning on just being fucked too. 

Black eye liner rimmed his dark hazel eyes, smokey eyeshadow spread across his eyelids. He’d tried to tame his milk chocolate curls by slicking it back - there was still a cowlick at the front - and it curled at the nape of his neck.

He sashayed into the club, hips swinging as he pushed through the crowd, so obvious in what he was after that the only way to be clearer would to have a light-up sign over his head like a cab. His black jeans were so tight they were almost painted on, moulding his pert ass and highlighting his slim waist. His matching black shirt was almost sheer and barely buttoned, giving a full on view of his toned abs and pebbled nipples. 

With the bass thumping and the red lights pulsing, Peter shucked his leather jacket, slinging it over his shoulder and making his way to the bar. He straddled a stool, and started to look around, peering out from under his long dark lashes, and chewing on his thumb. He wasn’t exactly sure what - who - he was looking for, but he knew he’d know it when he saw it, or rather, him.

A-ha!

Eye contact was made and not broken. Two knowing gazes locked together, assessing each other. The man walked over, dark skin shining like mahogany under the club lights, and leant over, lips close to Peter’s ear.

“You want a drink, sweet thing?”

A large hand rested on Peter’s thigh, squeezing gently.

“Whisky please, daddy…”

A shudder running through the body next to him let Peter know he’d played it right.

“You old enough for the hard stuff, sugar?”

Peter turned on his stool, even as the man signalled the bartender. He hooked his calf around the back of the man’s thigh, pulling him between his legs.

“I’m old enough for all the hard stuff.”

A raised eyebrow, and then the hand on his thigh was tightening.

“Good to know.”

Two whiskeys were ordered and quickly knocked back. Peter slid down from the stool, letting his body rub up against the one in front of him. Now he was on his feet he could fully appreciate the height and breadth of the man, and he could feel the lust rushing through his veins alongside the coke. With his hand fisted in the man’s shirt, Peter walked backwards onto the dance floor, wholly enraptured by the sparkling eyes and knowing smirk aimed in his direction.

Once he’d got into the middle of the throng, the press of bodies almost as intoxicating as the whiskey, Peter turned his body, pressing his back to the stranger’s front. Two large hands grasped at his hips, grinding them back, and Peter let his own arms raise up over his head, so his hands could rub over the cropped dark hair of his soon-to-be lover.

Peter felt dizzy, beautifully out of control, as he gyrated, letting the music flow through him. The hands left his hips to rub over his abs, sneaking under his shirt to feel his heated skin and to skim over the front of his pants. He arched up into the touch, sucking in air and rolling his body.

It was only a few minutes later when Peter found himself pressed face first against the wall of a stall in the men’s room. The music from the dancefloor, although muted slightly, was still loud. His pants were pulled down, and rough fingers, only lubed with spit, were rubbing at his tight hole. He gasped as one, then two, were harshly pushed inside him, a mere nod to prep, and then oh! 

His lover’s hands covered his, fingers linked, and Peter cried out unabashed as his body was thrust up against the thin wall. He was so full! The stranger flexed his hips, thrusting his cock in and out, hitting that spot that made Peter whimper and clench in pleasure.

It felt so fucking good! He could almost forget everything.

It was over too soon, their fervour, their feral lust, pushing both of them over the edge, and Peter gulped in air, head still resting against the side of the stall.

“Come home with me, sweet thing. I got some more sugar for you, Sugar.”

Peter inhaled through his nose and threw down the rolled $20, before falling backwards onto his ass. What day was it? How long had it been since he left the club? Did he even care? He was high again - or was it still? - and he’d been fucked seven ways from Sunday. He giggled, rolling over and getting to his feet, to bop around to the music playing through the stereo. He only had on his underpants and a t-shirt given to him by his lover, but he didn’t care. For once the voices in his head were quiet and he felt so fucking happy. 

He put on a flirty little show for the man in the chair, but after spinning too fast, he fell back over onto the floor. Laughing again, he came up onto his knees and crawled over towards his lover.

The sun coming in through the thin curtains made the man’s skin glow golden as he slouched, relaxed in an easy chair, smoking a joint and puffing perfect rings into the air, watching Peter dance. As the young man got closer, he spread his legs.

Kneeling between them, Peter undid the belt that was stopping him from getting to his prize. That damn knowing smirk had returned, and Peter smiled back before ducking his head and taking the thick, cut cock into his mouth. Fingers tangled into his curls, holding him in place as he swirled his tongue and hollowed his cheeks.

Somewhere, on the periphery of his consciousness, Peter heard a knock on the apartment door, and noticed it opening from the corner of his eye, but he was too caught up in own blissed out state to pay it much attention. That was until an enquiring voice broke through the fog swirling in his brain.

“What you got there, Sam?”

A grunt, and a flex of hips made Peter gag for a moment, but it didn’t deter him.

“Got me a sweet little thing.” A sharp tug  on his hair made Peter lift his head up, and he looked around, mouth agape and eyes wide. A tall, dark haired man was leaning against the shelving unit. His arms were crossed and he was observing Peter with his crystal blue eyes.

A light slap across his face brought his attention back to his lover.

“You listening, Sugar? This is my main man, Bucky. He’s a good friend and I share all my shit with him, sometimes while I’m still using it, so just relax, honey. We’re gonna send you sky high…”

Tag list: @doasyoudesireandlive @chemtrails-club @talia-rumlow @peaches1958 @pono-pura-vida @writing-for-marvel @kmc1989 @mrsmischief209 @sebstanwhore @preciousbarnes @jobean12-blog

[huntingingoodwill]

I NEED more travel journalist Emmett thoughts. I'm obsessed with this idea and I literally can't stop thinking about him. 💓

AW thanks babe 💕 this is lowkey a blast from the past i kinda forgot about this but it got me to look at my angsty travel journalist emmett moodboard i made ages ago…

i’ll just word vomit some emmett travel journalist angst under the cut

- emmett is almost painfully alone. he can’t really be any other way. half his life is spent on planes, flying over vast oceans, travelling across borders on trains and buses, staving off sleep as he drives a rented car or rides a motorbike through new terrains. as soon as he hits the ground in a new city, he’s off exploring, organising interviews, focusing on the grittier sides of every place he goes to, even if it means trekking through miles or jungle or desert, trying out unorthodox foods and customs or diving straight into danger and conflict.

- when he’s on assignment, he spends his days exploring his assigned location, and his nights writing by the spotty lighting of whatever hostel or homestead he’s in (or by candlelight in a tent, if he really has to rough it out)

- he feels like he’s walked the whole world in his beat up old boots. he’s exhausted. his eyes have that world weary look of someone who’s seen it all, but he thinks he could never give it up. it’s something he needs to do. he’s used to never being in the same place for more than a couple months. he’s used to having his bag packed and ready, no matter what.

- but it’s lonely. his travels have allowed him to make connections all over the world, but they’re tenuous. he can’t cultivate any relationship when he’s got to be on the road all the time. but he’s used to it.

- he’s in between assignments and he needs a place to crash for a week or two while waiting for the magazine he works for to send him his next location. he calls up a friend in the city he happens to be in and asks to crash for a little. he agrees, but warns emm that he has another guest staying in the guestroom, so emm will have to crash on the couch. emm agrees. he’s used to making do. he meets you, the other guest, when he comes to stay.

- i wrote about how reader and him get closer here

- he doesn’t like how quickly he gets attached. you’d think that nothing could scare him after everything he’s been through, but he’s scared about how much you feel like home after spending all his life treating”home” as a foreign concept, running from place to place with no strings attached.

- after two weeks of falling too hard and too fast for you, he gets the call. either he gets on a plane within the next couple of days and forgets all about you, or he makes the commitment to stay.

- he’s too used to running. you’re off into town for the day, and you had invited him, but he had declined, lying that he had some writing to do. right before you get into the car, you looked up to wave and smile at him as he watched you from the window above. it took everything in him to plaster a smile on his face and wave back, like everything was normal. then you were gone.

- he’s gone soon after, leaving while you’re still in town without telling you. you come back, excited to tell him all about the day you had, but the room is empty, all of his stuff packed and gone.

:((( bummer ANYWAY sorry it took me so long to respond to this i have more journalist emmett thoughts about when he’s travelling after this series of events and the reader and his eventual reunion… but that post would literally be a million years long but im willing to share if you’re interested hehe 🥰 thanks for the ask babe