#ch sports au

[srxchec]

[🇨🇱🇵🇪🇪🇨] Art [CH; CH Chile & CH Perú & CH Ecuador]

[celestie0]

gojo satoru x reader | college au [18+]

kickoff ch.12 how you get the girl

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 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, romance, jealousy, pining, slow burn, opposites to lovers, friends to lovers, she falls first he falls harder, gojo being an idiot, marijuana use, sexism, sexual harassment (verbal only)

ᰔ chapter. 12/x (probably 18)

ᰔ words. 11.3k

a/n. man the color scheme for this chapter is kinda giving BRAT lolol...i mean gojo IS brat. anywho, i don't have much to say at the beginning of this chapter but i do have a LOT to say at the end of it sooo see y'all at the bottom!! hope u enjoy. also BIG THANK YOU to @whereflowerswenttodie who beta read parts of this chapter for me n convinced me not to scrap it lol

nav. masterlist

☾·̩͙꙳ moodboard no.1 :: ♬.*ﾟplaylist

11:03am you: hi! 11:03am you: good luck today 11:03am you: incase i don’t see you

11:05am Gojo Satoru: Why wouldn’t you? Aren’t you gonna be on the field for your newsletter shots?

11:07am you: i mean yes but idk where i’m gonna be stationed so 11:07am you: it might not be on UTokyo’s side of the field

11:08am Gojo Satoru: Okay then I’ll look for you before the game starts

11:10am you: no pls don’t. coach yaga thinks i distract you. i don’t want to get yelled at again. he scares me :(

11:12am Gojo Satoru: Haha you’re silly 11:13am Gojo Satoru: East side entrance at 2 11:13am Gojo Satoru: Be there

11:14am you: or be square?

11:15am Gojo Satoru: Yea whatever shape you wanna be in is fine cutie

It’s a bright sunny day outside, perfectly blue sky with a scattering of fluffy clouds seen outside the window of your shared room in your apartment, and you realize spring is fully here from the way birds chirp past the glass. You’re stuffing your camera case full of chilled Kodak film rolls, your last stash left, and it’s the last piece of equipment you pack before slinging the strap over your shoulder and heading out the door.

Mina had offered to give you a ride to the stadium since your car’s still at the shop, but you’re happy you opted for the bumpy bus ride and although you come close to low-grade concussions from the bang of your head to the window at every other speed bump, the music in your ears while someone else is operating a public transport vehicle helps you think creatively before shooting shots.

It was surprise enough that Mina of all people was going to this game, and when you questioned her about it in the morning, she looked at you like you were absurd to assume anyone from UTokyo wouldn’t be at this game, and sure enough, it’s all anyone on Instagram has been repping on their stories or talking about in the bustling minutes before lectures. Even Utahime was going to this game, and she hates all intercollegiate sports. You knew the game was a big deal, given the way Coach Yaga was yelled at via email by the Dean of UTokyo to make sure the team wins today because a multimillion dollar Nike sponsorship would be greenlit by the prospect (for some reason you were cc’d in an email chain among divisional higher-ups, but you weren’t opposed to snooping in on conversations that were entirely outside of your tax bracket).

It’s because it’s the second to last home game before the season ends, and apparently this has been statistically the best season the UTokyo D1 Men’s Soccer team has played since the new millenia. No pressure to the players on that fact, but failure wasn’t much of an option for them anymore. 

And you can feel the stakes the second you step inside the stadium. Packed would be an understatement, there were people flooding the aisles, overbooked for the sake of the university pocketing an extra buck no doubt, but spectators could care less since they were able to at least get in on the basis of that irresponsibility in the first place, despite the stadium’s capacity having long been reached before the pregame festivities even start. Banners and signs drape over railings with the school’s striking blue and golden colors, every single replay screen is lit up and brightly pixelated at every north, south, east, and west entrance for inclusive viewing. As you pass VIP security and make it into the lower field-level entry, the scattered chants from the crowd amplify in volume and you almost wince a little to yourself from the noise. The stadium felt like a living, breathing entity, pulsing with the collective heartbeat of everyone inside. 

You’ve never been more overstimulated in your life, except instead of finding it frightening, it was electrifying. And for once, you think you can understand what an athlete must feel when playing on their own home turf surrounded by those that are wholeheartedly rooting for them.

Hana is quick to spot you, panic clear across her face as she regards you with a couple pages with your assigned vantage points, a rushed briefing session, and then she’s darting down the sidelines to make sure equipment is set up appropriately where needed. She’s understaffed, given you told Utahime about Kai’s little intervention last week and she made a nasty point to the university (and possibly a handful of legal threats) and they relented in firing him. So now the three of you were down a photographer, and the extra work shows in the instructions she gave you as you skim the sheets. 

A glance at your phone tells you it’s close to 2pm, and your eyes take in the expanse of green on the field. UTokyo’s players practice kicking shots off to the right goal post, while YCU’s players practice shots off to the left. You can’t spot where Gojo is, but you faithfully head down to the East Side entrance like he asked you to. 

When you round the corner, you almost crash right into an Ichiko mascot, but swiftly dodge, and then you stop in your tracks when you see Gojo standing right at the concrete entrance. He’s leaning back against the adjacent wall, arms crossed at his chest, and he’s stretching his neck side to side with a creased brow, an intense look in his eyes, lost in serious thought, scanning the wall across from him like he’s mapping out plays in his head. 

When you approach him and catch the corner of his eyesight, he leans off the wall and flashes you one of his so extremely charmed to see you grins on reflex, and suddenly there’s nothing your senses seem to pick up on except him. Like everything else around you just disappears.

“Hey, you,” he says when he comes up to you, and you walk him like a dog back to a corner that’s tucked further away from noises and sights. You lean your back against the wall now, the coolness of concrete seeping through the fabric of your shirt, and he stands a step in front of you. Your hands toy with the strap of your camera.

“Are you ready to win today?” you ask him, and look off to the right into the flourishing seats that are still being filled to the brim, “clearly there’s no pressure.”

He breathes in deep, and releases it slowly, like there really was tension to relieve. “We’ve got no choice but to win.”

“Is that something Coach Yaga says to you guys often?” you ask him, because the man recited the same thing about five times in that email chain. “Also, apparently you take years off of his life.” Another thing he recited about five times in that email chain.

Gojo only addresses what he wants to address, as per usual. “Yeah, it’s something he says to us often.” 

“So,” you say, “what did you want to talk about?”

He looks at you puzzled, tilting his head to the side. “Nothing. I just wanted to see you.”

It’s hard to assume that he didn’t have something to talk about with the intention of telling you to meet him here, because this is the same place you confessed to him a few weeks ago, and so is also the place he so painfully rejected you. But maybe he doesn’t think about these kinds of things as much as you do. “I see.”

His tongue pokes to his cheek as he studies your anticipating expression, and then he sighs, his shoulders slumping slightly. “What are we doing? I mean, I like you, and you like me too, at least I hope you still do. Why don’t we—…why don’t we just give it a go already? I don’t see how we can move forward if you won’t at least let me take you out on a date.”

Your hands stop fidgeting with your camera strap from his words, and you lick your lips, suddenly unable to keep eye contact with him so your gaze drifts down to his chest in front of you. His uniform is clean, no smudges of dirt or grass, just pure white fabric underneath heat-pressed blue and golden accents, and of course, that signature number 10. You’re sure he’s all you’ll ever think of when you see that number now for the rest of your life. 

You know when you want something so bad you don’t know what to do once you have it? Because it almost seems too good to be true? 

“I just wanted to let stuff between us breathe for a little bit,” you confess, “it’s just, it was a lot to deal with. Being around you when I thought you didn’t want me the way I wanted you. I don’t know if this is odd to say, and maybe I’m overthinking it, but I just feel like somewhere along the way, I kind of…forgot who you were for a little bit.” This kind of vulnerability would have you running away with your tail between your legs with anyone else, but not with him. Not after everything. 

His expression softens, melting away that confrontational energy he had earlier, and he nods slowly. He opens his mouth to speak, but he can’t seem to find words. The presence of them is there, though, you can feel them. But what good are his thoughts if not voiced? 

“I just wanted to spend a little bit of time getting to know you again, I guess.” You squeeze your arm in reassurance of yourself because he wasn’t giving it to you. You let out an awkward laugh. “I don’t really know what I’m saying right now, to be honest.”

You can tell he’s at a crossroads, and you think back to this week and his efforts to get you to open up to him again. You know how he feels right now, because it’s exactly how you felt when he rejected you. Like when someone is so close, yet so far, you can feel that they’re within arms reach but never truly. And they’re slipping away for some reason that you may never know, but all you can do is assume that it’s a fault of your own. You’re not really sure what he can do to make you feel secure about this whole thing anymore, and you can see the slight panic in his eyes when he realizes that too.

“I don’t mind waiting,” he tells you, rushed with a desperation entirely contrary to his words, “what’s a week or two when I want to spend a lot more of those with you anyways.” But he takes a deep breath, like he’s already mentally preparing himself for an agonizing wait in his head.

There’s a sound over the stadium speakers, something technical and sporty and goes entirely over your head in dismissal, but to Gojo it seems to have a different effect, as he’s suddenly attentive and stands up straighter, that focused expression on his face from earlier resurfacing. You realize he needs to get back to the field. 

“Can we continue this conversation after the game?” he asks you hastily, already turning towards the center of the stadium. And he adds an obligatory, “sorry.”

“Yeah, sure,” you quickly agree, suddenly feeling like you’re taking up his time. 

He gives you a small smile, unsure in its presentation but pure in its intention. But he can only take one step towards the field before you reach out and pinch the fabric of his jersey to keep him still. He feels the tug of it and fully faces you once again. 

“Um. Just a sec,” you say, “I have something to give you before your game.”

“Oh?” he looks at you with interest, “I fucking love things.” 

“You have to close your eyes though.”

“…what is the thing…” He squints at you with a what are you up to expression.

“Just close your eyes!” you snap at him.

“Okay, okay, jeez,” he holds his hands up in front of him in surrender, shaking his head to get his hair out of his face and then he closes his eyes. “You’re scary as hell sometimes. Excuse me for being cautious.”

You roll your eyes, useless because he doesn’t see it, and then take a step towards him. You cup his jaw with the palm of your hand, his cheek twitching slightly from the unexpected contact, and then you raise on your tiptoes to press your lips to his cheek. It’s short and sweet with the sound of a peck.

“For good luck,” you whisper, then you quickly lower yourself back onto your heels, take a step back and tuck some strands of hair behind your ear. The ground suddenly interests you.

He opens his eyes, blinking a few times with shock and his hand comes up to brush the tips of his fingers against the spot you kissed him, and then his gaze goes comically dazed when he reaches out to hold you. “Alright, c’mere you,” he says, closing his eyes and puckering his lips as he leans down to kiss you but you laugh and push his face away.

“No no no, only on the cheek for now,” you say with a small laugh.

He does nothing to restrain his frustrated groan. “You can’t do something that cute and then expect me to be chill about it.”

“If you win, then, maybe I’ll let you kiss me for real.”

“Maybe?”

“Yes. Maybe.”

He’s close, towering over you near this bustling east side entrance that he seems to like so much, and his eyes drop to your lips. “Alright. I like those odds.” 

You give him a smile and slip away from him to get back towards the field, and you feel his eyes on you as you walk away.

The pregame events are a blur, with blaring music accompanied by the sounds of the sports announcers clipping across the speakers, finally quieted down in time for the players to line up on the field for the national anthem which was then followed by UTokyo’s alma mater. 

You’re stationed on the same side of the field as Minato, UTokyo’s side, while Hana is covering the sidelines of the opposite end with the opponents goal post. Minato’s filling up a cup of Gatorade for himself at the athlete’s station and then he comes back around to find you.

“Are you ready to take your shots? I see Hana wanted you to shoot on film today,” he says to you as he sloshes around Glacier Freeze in a flimsy plastic cup.

You twist your aperture dial with your thumb. “Yesss, all set. I’ll try to keep up.” 

He nods at you in approval.

The atmosphere feels nerve wracking. Something felt different about this game, the stakes feeling high. Well, of course they’re high, because if they lose today then they’re out of the tournament. But the stakes feel high for other reasons too, an energy you can pick up on but can’t quite discern. 

Your eyes drift across the field where you can see a referee placing a ball at the center of the field. Off to the right, you can see Gojo standing with a few of his other teammates, including Geto, Nanami, and Choso, and they’re all gesticulating to various corners of the field as they discuss what you can only imagine have to do with their plays for today. And you realize— it’s their last college soccer season. Their second-to-last official home match before the championship, and for those of them that haven’t qualified for the national league, it may be their second-to-last match of this caliber for the rest of their lives. One of the final chances that they have to prove something of themselves. The determination was palpable. 

The chief referee’s whistle cuts through the air with three short chirps, and that gathers the attention of all the players on the field. UTokyo wins the coin toss, choosing to kickoff, and YCU’s players choose to attack the left side goal.

Your stomach churns with anticipation, the crowd hushing too as all the players take their places on the field. If you feel nervous, you can only imagine how the athletes feel. There’s a rhythm that you’ve learned over the past couple of months getting to know the sport, where players stretch out their necks and kick out their feet and take subtle deep breaths as they survey the stands. Idle moments before the start of the match where they have no choice but to look forward and only forward, so they take a moment to stay in the present for as long as they can gather. You’ve never been much of a sports spectator, and perhaps you’ve only recently had some personal interest in the team, but you realize you feel pride in your school as you stand behind chalk sideline and see UTokyo’s colors scattered across the field in uniform. And fuck, you wanted them to win. You wanted them to win with fierceness and wrath, and it’s a desire you share with the crowd. 

Gojo spends a minute talking to the referee before the black and white striped man pats him high on the back in the good sport and urges him towards the center of the field. He lifts his foot up onto the ball, rolling it back and forth underneath the spikes of his cleat, and you can see it in his eyes, even from all the way over here, that he seems to have different ideas in mind for this game too. High stakes. Pre-determined, set with will, evident in the clench of his jaw and the concentrated furrow of his brow as he surveys the field with his eyes, and you’re lost in the sight for what feels like forever because you can hardly register the chirp of the ref’s whistle. 

And then the kickoff starts. 

The ball is tapped to Geto to start the play, and the first few minutes were intense as the ball was passed back and forth between UTokyo’s players, placing pressure on YCU’s defense as they inched closer and closer towards the goal. A pass between UTokyo’s #4 was intercepted by YCU and the ball was rushed down towards the left side, the crowd’s horror evident in the uproar as they raise to their feet in fearful anticipation, and with ruthless offense, YCU’s forward takes a clear sink shot towards the goal, and the crowd holds their breath before they watch Choso lunge for it in air, gloved hands firmly grabbing the ball and then pulling it to his chest with a possessiveness you can only expect to see from a skilled goalie, before he crashes down into the ground and the crowd releases relief in the form of rowdy roars.

Ten minutes in, with everyone on their toes, each team tested each other’s defenses. UTokyo were known for stellar offense, especially within the past few years with players like Gojo Satoru and Takuma Ino joining the league as powerful forwards, but UTokyo’s overall offense was still statistically second to none other than YCU. And the pressure YCU was putting on UTokyo’s defense was wearisome to say the least. You glance to see Nanami, who is UTokyo’s best defensive player, huffing and puffing as he stands between two light-footed YCU players in an attempt to guard, and fails an attempt to steal the ball before it gets to the feet of YCU’s striker #6, passed in a split second off to his teammate, with a fake so seamless that it has Choso just a couple inches away from touching the ball before it’s sent flying into the net. 

The noises from the crowd are still loud, but dampened in spirit. 

With the referees hand signal up in the air, the current score is confirmed. 0-1, YCU. 

Coach Yaga calls for a sub, in which he switches Nanami out for who you believe is a 2nd-year defensive player name Yuta you’ve seen around practice with a promising statistical record for interceptions, and you watch as Nanami takes the bench before he swipes the sweat off his face in exhaustion. God. Just fifteen minutes into the match, and YCU already has UTokyo’s defense winded from play. 

You bring your camera up to your face, forgetting for a moment that there was still a job to do here, and you position the direction of the lens towards the center of the field, where Gojo takes his place at the ball once more. Yuta briefly passes by him, signaling some play to him by holding up a number three, likely something Coach Yaga asked him to pass on to Gojo, and you see him briefly nod, his mouth slightly agape as he breathes slowly and pulls his jersey up to wipe at the sweat at his forehead. 

The referee chirps the whistle, Gojo taps the ball to Yuta, and the play starts. 

YCU immediately puts pressure on UTokyo’s offensive play once more, with eager movements to steal the ball, but it’s passed between UTokyo’s players with ease, more practiced and more sure. The kind of play that you and the rest of the school was used to seeing from them. However, Geto loses the ball on a left-back pass, but right when YCU makes attempts to cover field in a long-shot kick towards the left, Yuta intercepts the ball and swiftly passes it to Gojo.

The crowd immediately rises to their feet in anticipation, watching as Gojo shuffles the ball down the field, dangerously close to off-field boundaries, a signature tactic he uses because he knows there’s not a single player in the league that can match him in precision and control to keep the ball in-field on a steal, and he swiftly passes it towards Geto with a side-swept kick, beelining down towards the goal post, in perfect time for Geto pass-back to meet his feet and when Gojo was this close to a net, there was no stopping him. 

He draws his right foot back, and explosively kicks the ball forward, chipping the grass under it in the motion, and it’s sent flying towards the goal, and then threaded past the goalie right to the back of the net. The cheers that erupt across the stadium rumble the ground beneath you. 

1-1, even match.

UTokyo spends no time celebrating, other than a few pats to Gojo’s back as he nods in acknowledgement, no emotion on his face other than pure concentration and greed. The greed to win, like a righteous sin. He stretches his neck out, panting slightly as he takes his place towards the right side of the field and the referee chirps his whistle to signal YCU to start the kickoff.

They quickly make attempts in moving the ball towards their scoring-end of the field, but face push-back from UTokyo’s defense, unable to make it much further past the midfield line, and you bring your camera up to take a snap of Gojo, who you see is still standing off to the right side of the field. But when you position it and peer through the viewfinder, that space he once stood at was empty. You pull your camera down, and blink at the sight, and then the crowd is picking up in volume once more.

Gojo sprints down the flank, cutting past every defender, and moves towards YCU’s attacking goal, which was a shocking place to be for a center forward, but you could feel his desire and determination to steal this back-and-forth ball, and succeeds when YCU makes an open pass, thinking they were in the clear, only to have Gojo sneak in at the last moment and get the ball at his feet. 

The play moves by in a flash, a blur that you or anyone else in the stadium could hardly keep up with it, movements so fast you were shocked a human being was capable of even running that far in such a short amount of time, and in an almost embarrassingly easy play, Gojo makes a fool out of YCU’s defenders as he slips the ball through the legs of his last obstacle before he struck it with sharp precision, sending it soaring to the corner of the goal, past the outstretched arms of the goalie, and into the net. 

2-1, UTokyo.

It was electrifying, the feeling that strikes through the stadium, one that reaches you in your own blood. You’re shocked, standing here, after witnessing Gojo score two goals within the matter of minutes, against one of the top three teams in the league. It’s a shock that reaches everyone, including Coach Yaga who’s standing about ten feet down the line from you, his arms crossed, and you see his eyes for the first time as he takes his sunglasses off to get a better look at what he’s seeing.

You trail his sight, dragging your gaze across the field until it lands at Gojo, who is barely acknowledging the encouraging pats and shakes and goodhearted shoves that his teammates were giving him, because he was focused. It might sound crazy to say, but you swear his eyes looked like a fiercer shade of blue, like they were lit up, and you’re insanely glad you’re not one of YCU’s defensive players at the moment because you feel fearful of him even just standing on the sidelines. 

Your gaze trails back to Coach Yaga, who slowly puts his sunglasses back on but his brows are narrowed tightly as he crosses his arms over his chest tightly.

The “athletic zone”... You’ve heard of it before. A state of pure focus, of peak performance, where an athlete experiences optimal concentration and a sense of effortless control over their actions. In which they perform at their highest level, where time slows down, any and all distractions fade away, and they’re completely immersed in their sport at hand. At the task at hand.

Coach Yaga seems to pick up on the fact that Gojo was on the edge of tapping into that state. 

YCU makes a substitution, and you watch in anticipation as they begin the kickoff. 

There’s fire in their veins with desperation to even out the score once more, rushing the ball down the off-field line, one of their center forwards mimicking Gojo’s signature attack pattern, and Yuta struggles to keep up with the expert dribbling of a fourth-year player with more experience on him, so much so to where he completely leaves the ball unguarded and there’s an open shot, but Geto places pressure at the last moment, in a fierce battle for the ball, before YCU’s center forward loses the ball over the goal line. 

Choso picks the ball up, tapping on it harshly a few times as he surveys his eyes down the field, and all offensive players begin to shuffle towards their attacking goal in anticipation for the goal kick. He signals his hand down and then holds up two fingers in the air before placing the ball down on the six-yard box. He tightens the strap of one of his gloves, eyes squinting, and you follow his gaze down to a part of the field where you note UTokyo’s best aerial players are located and being guarded by YCU’s defense. And with complete trust in his team, that’s exactly where he kicks the ball. 

Geto makes first contact with the ball, his chest colliding with two other YCU players as his head comes out on top and he headbutts the ball closer towards the inner field, and Gojo immediately gains access to it with a bounce of his knee. The crowd holds their breath, fear that they’ll lose the ball to a steal in the split second it spends floating in the air, but Gojo urges it forward with a bounce off of his chest and then rushes it straight down towards the goal post. 

You wonder what sight he sees right now. Where you’re dead center, at no angle, lunging towards the sight of an open goal with a sole goalie standing in the center, anticipating to block your shot, and three defenders on your tail. There’s no room for error, no time to think, only instincts that you cultivate in the last leading milliseconds. They say that, in sports, athletes channel one hundred hours of practice in just a brief second on the field. A split second success that was years in the making. You can’t even imagine possessing that level of perfection in your body, or possessing that level of confidence that you can follow through with it in a moment as dire as this.

It was unreal, the way Gojo fades away from all the defenders, and faces no fear when confronted with the sight of the goalie in front of him while drawing his foot back to kick the ball. You lift your camera up at the last second, no time to think about aperture or ISO, just like he had no time to second-doubt a single twitch in his muscles, and his foot makes contact with the ball so harshly that you can hear the explosive sound even among the delirious cheers from the crowd, before he hook, line, and sinks it straight past the goalie’s head, rushing by like a scarcely deflected bullet, and into the net behind him. 

3-1, UTokyo.

The whole stadium is momentarily speechless, all players and referees and recruiters and reporters and coaches and employees alike, before the most deafening cheers you’ve ever heard in your life scatter across the stands.

There’s a moment of brief reprieve, where the players can catch their breath while YCU makes yet another substitution, as if they’re just trial-and-erroring it at this point, and the cheers in the stadiums remain idle as you can’t tear your gaze away from Gojo.

It’s one of those moments where you realize that someone who you thought was so familiar to you was actually someone you hardly knew at all. You knew he was a talented soccer player, everyone on campus knows it, potentially one of the best to ever grace the league, and the amount of times you passively watched his plays on a lecture hall projector screen as your professor enthusiastically broke them down during class, even before you met him, was good enough for you to realize that he was insane, a one-in-a-million, a talent you cannot replicate, one you have by divinity. One you were born with. 

And yet, somehow, getting to know him these past couple of months, he just felt so human. For someone so seemingly beyond you, he felt so…close? In those moments where it was just the two of you, it was hard to imagine that he was capable of such greatness, and that so many people were rooting for him with wholehearted tears in their eyes and cheers from their hearts, because most of the time, when he was with you, he was just a dorky idiot. You find that your heart is beating fast in your chest, that feeling of being unsure of what to do with what you’ve been wanting resurfacing powerfully. 

“This is insane,” you hear Minato say from beside you and you jump a little from your thoughts being interrupted.

You twiddle with your camera straps. “I know…almost done with the first half and we’re up 3-1…I thought YCU are number one in offense for the league?”

“Oh, yeah, I mean, yes, that is insane too. But what’s even more insane is that three of the goals so far have been scored by one player.” He tips his chin towards the right sight of the field and you trail his line of sight. “By Gojo Satoru.”

Your brow furrows as you watch Gojo, his hands on his hips and his mouth slightly open as he indulges in a few shallow breaths to gain energy while YCU prepares for kickoff. Three goals, by just one player. Your eyes widen when you realize that is insane, especially for a D1 semi-final qualifying match.

“You know what the divisional record is for most goals scored by a single player during a championship match, y/n?” Minato asks you as he lifts his camera up to take a picture of the area Gojo was standing in. 

You shake your head and wait for his response.

He drops his camera down and glances at the photo on his screen. “Four. During Keio Uni vs. Osaka Uni, near the beginning of the tournament back in 1997 by Osaka’s center forward number 24, Yuji Nakazawa. Meaning no one’s managed to beat that record since the new millenia, for a couple decades. Although a few players came close.”

You blink at him, and Minato is jerking his chin over in the direction of Gojo again.

“I think he’s trying to beat the record.”

You can only widen your eyes at Minato in realization, and then the chirp of the referee’s whistle draws everyone’s attention back to the field. 

The sports announcers go wild on the speakers, the crowd raving all the same, standing to their feet like the team just won the championship match.

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!! We are watching HISTORY in the making!! Gojo Satoru, UTokyo’s very own 3-year consecutive MVP, has scored his 34th goal of the season, highest of any player in this year’s season so far, and is now on the road to beat the league’s long-standing record for most goals scored by a single player in a championship match since 1997!!” And the crowd roars even louder as you stare out at the field in awe.

YCU starts the kickoff following the prompt short chirp of the referee’s whistle, and with two minutes remaining on the clock for the first half, make desperate attempts to book it down the field towards their attacking goal, one of their midfielders making a clumsy attempt to strike the ball to the net in the final minutes of the half, and Choso easily catches it in his arms, right before the buzzer of the timer sounds, and the match moves into halftime. 

All of UTokyo’s players immediately flock towards Gojo in sportful glee, finally having a chance to surround him and harass him with harsh pats on his back and ruffles of his hair for his play in the first half. Choso even puts him in a headlock because they all don’t know what else to do with their excitement and adrenaline rushing through their bodies. Their win for today was basically confirmed with the way he was playing. 

You catch a glimpse of him through the crowd of people, and he has a boyish grin on his face, reveling in the embarrassing amount of attention from his teammates, that focused look from before dissolving into his normal self again. But you can see through him, as well enough as you’ve learned to at least, and you can tell he’s not satisfied. He’s thinking it’s not enough. There’s still more to be done, and it’s not time to celebrate yet. 

His eyes scan down the sideline until they find you. 

Your heart jumps a second in your chest. He stands up straighter, despite his teammates still clinging to him, and there’s a twinkle in his eyes when your eyes meet. 

Cheerleaders take their place out onto the field, performing their numbers with loud music blaring, and the recruiters seated at their white tables get up to roam across the sidelines in discussion with referees and with Coach Yaga and with whatever players they can sink their greedy teeth into, as well as sneak at refreshments while they’re at it. You can see off to the right that Hana has reunited with Minato and she’s showing him some of the shots she took over at the opponent's side. 

UTokyo’s players start to make their way to the benches to grab for towels and drinks of water and to sprawl across in rest, and you hear loud familiar laughter approaching as you watch the players sprawl across the benches, so you avert your eyes towards the source of the sound. 

You see Gojo approaching the benches, two of his teammates slung with their arms around him in some type of adrenaline-drunken glee as they talk dramatically and theatrically which Gojo entertains with his own drunk-off-of-adrenaline glee. And you raise an eyebrow at his demeanor when he makes eye contact with you.

“There’s my freaky little photographer,” he says, and he’s standing up straight and—wait, is he puffing his chest out as he makes his way towards you? Oh for fucks sake.

Gojo has always been confident around you, for as long as you can remember, but in the fair few moments he’s been cocky, he’s been a menace. And you can only assume the testosterone-induced high of being on the verge of breaking a league record in front of the entire school then subsequently getting homiesexually praised by his teammates for the better part of the past five minutes, not to mention with the crowd and the reporters feeding his ego with a spoon across the speakers, he’s been transformed into the final boss of cocky.

His teammates surround you too, their hands on their hips as they assess you and Gojo when he meanders right up to you, arms held out to hug you, a sleazy sight you’ve seen probably six times this week, and you feel a rush of warmth in your cheeks as you place a hand on his chest to keep him away.

“You’re sweaty and gross, please stay away from me,” you reprimand him, “this is an expensive lens that is not humidity-proof.” 

“Hey, you’re the girl that Kentaro socked in the face with a ball the other day at practice, right?” one of his teammates asks, leaning in towards you to take a closer look at your face.

“Oh yeahhh, ‘cause Satoru wasn’t paying attention,” another one of his teammates chimes in teasingly, hardly heard over the loud remix playing in the background as the cheerleaders continue to perform on the field. 

You shrink a little from where you stand. Gojo’s got an irritated look on his face and he’s shrugging his teammate’s elbow off of his shoulder.

“I really hope you’re getting my good angles,” his teammate to the left comments before winking at you, and you purse your lips together. 

The one on the right leans in too, looking at your cheek with an assessing look in his eye. “At least it didn’t leave a scar on your cute face—”

Gojo shoves the both of them back and away from you by elbowing them in the chest, and they make deep eugh noises before stepping away and rubbing at their sternums with pouts on their faces.

“Get the fuck away from her,” he grumbles, “she’s mine.”

Your cheeks flush slightly with warmth at the attention, and you watch as his teammates scurry away to adhere to some social hierarchy Gojo seems to possess over them.

You raise an eyebrow at him. “Yours?”

“Yes. Eventually. Whatever, did you see me out there?” he turns his torso towards the field and points behind himself with his thumb, “when I—”

“Oh god, you know what’s soooooooooo super sexy to me?” you interrupt him. “When guys are humble.”

“Oh c’monnn,” he curls his arm around your waist and pulls you to him, to where you stumble a little on grass and he holds you when you fall into him with more clumsiness than grace. “Tell me you aren’t at least impressed by me.”

You pout, because you are, and you’d really like to give him some reassurance and validation, but for some reason his cocky attitude is setting you off. “Satoru,” you sigh, wiggling a little in his hug, but he holds you tighter, “I’m working right now. Cut it out.”

He lets go of you at that, sober enough from the adrenaline to realize you’re being serious, but he steps into your space so only you can hear him. “What? Are you embarrassed?”

“Of what?” Your face twists with confusion.

“Of me. Are you embarrassed of me?” he asks.

“No. Why would I be embarrassed of you?” you ask with sharpness.

“I don’t know, just, sometimes I feel like you’re always annoyed by me,” he says with a sigh. “It’s like, you’re really sweet sometimes, and then kinda rude out of nowhere, and it’s sort of messing with my head.”

You pout. “You were messing with my head for weeks.”

“And I’m sorry about that,” he quickly interjects, like he already knew you were brewing up that counterargument, “but you don’t have to act like you’re all disinterested and indifferent just to get back at me for it.” He places his hands on his hips and wipes his temple on the round part of his shoulder when he feels a drop of sweat trickle down from his hairline. “You don’t have to act embarrassed around me either.”

“I’m not embarrassed,” you deny, and your cheeks feel hot, and for some reason you feel angry. “In fact, I’m the one that should be asking you that question. Because I still very clearly remember that time you said I was just someone you know in front of your friends.”

He groans and tilts his head back with frustration. “Can you just let that go? Things have changed between us since then. Move on.” 

“You kissed me and then pretended I was just a stranger to you in front of your friends,” you grit as you cross your arms. “That’s the level of sincerity that I know from you, Satoru.”

“Oh, okay, so there’s nothing else I’ve done that shows you that I’m serious about you?” he asks rhetorically with incredulity, throwing his hands up in the air in disbelief.

No. That’s not true, not true at all. But he’s pissed you off now and so all logic was to the wind. “Doesn’t matter. If you’re not embarassed of me, and if you’re really serious about me this time, then fucking prove it.” You’re speaking out of spite, and you fear you’ve just set him off too.

“Fine,” he says, and he grabs the microphone straight out from a passing reporter’s hand, replacing it with a gatorade bottle. The reporter stares at the bottle he’s now holding with confusion. “I will.”

“W-Wait—” you squeak out, feeling the hair at the back of your neck bristle in anticipation and a shiver gets sent down your spine. The cheerleaders are making their way off the field at the end of their routine, and you can hear the thumps across the loud boisterous speakers when Gojo whacks his palm to the microphone to make sure the thing was on before he jogs to the center of the field.

The crowd is already cheering, ecstatic to see the afternoon's star player and pride & joy of their school, and Gojo takes a moment to soak in all the glory in comical appreciation with bowing towards all 360 degree angles of the stadium.

“Uhhh,” you hear Choso from beside you, who’s strapping his thick goalie gloves tightly to his wrists, “Why the fuck does Satoru have a microphone while standing in the middle of the field.”

“It can’t be for any publicly decent reason,” Geto muses.

All you can do is watch.

“Hi, uh,” Gojo starts, static blaring slightly across the speakers and the crowd winces with him, “sorry. I’m Satoru, Gojo Satoru, you might know me from—uh, the game you’ve been watching?”

Cheers all around, because as if a single person wouldn’t know who he is. The stands were rowdy and most definitely drunk off of sidestep beers the stadium has been serving all afternoon long. 

Gojo is about to continue speaking, when he catches sight of the table of recruiters in the corner of his eye and he turns to face them out of respect. “Oh, yeah, uh, number 10,” he tugs his jersey up at the shoulder to stretch out the fabric, the 1 and the 0 flattened in view, “division player ID 233-997. Coach Yaga keeps my business cards in his purse if you want one.”

“SAAAAATTOOORRUUUU!!!!!” you hear Coach Yaga yell from somewhere in the distance.

“Anywho,” Gojo continues, and the music dims slightly, so he glances at the stop clock on the screen, which shows him he’s got roughly five minutes left to pull off whatever idiocracy he had in mind before the second half of the game starts. “Just here to say that there’s this girl I really like.”

The crowd gets louder, almost deafening, and sonically mostly feminine in (delusional) hope he’s gonna name call one of them.

Gojo’s voice is crisp and clear through the speakers as he clarifies. “She’s standing over there,” he says as he nonchalantly points to your exact latitude and longitudinal direction, “with the big camera slung around her neck that looks like it could pull her down to the center of the earth. Yeah. She’s super cute and I really like talking to her.”

“Uh-oh,” Geto murmurs from beside you, and you glance at him to try to get a read on the situation but you can’t.

Gojo starts to pace across the center of the field now, like he’s working the crowd. “But get this—she thinks I’m not fuckin’ serious about her!!!”

The crowd groans with him in unison. Yep, most certainly drunk. Or high off of glee. Either way, he’s playing them like a violin.

“Huh?” Gojo’s voice sounds distant now, away from the mic, and you can see on the large pixelated screen that he’s being interrupted by someone that looks like one of the videographers, “oh, what’s that? This is being broadcasted? Uh-huh. Oh. I’m not allowed to cuss? Oh fuck, okay. Er— shit, okay. Wait—shoot, okay.”

Choso’s smirk is heard from beside you, and you catch Geto and Nanami shaking their heads in your periphery.

“LIKE I SAID,” Gojo continues into the mic, “the girl I like thinks I’m just messing around, so. Uh. To show her that I’m serious about her, I’m gonna…” He looks up at the sky to ponder, and you can hear people shouting all sorts of suggestions of nonsense from the crowd. And instead of saying proclaim my undying affection for her through a romantic soliloquy straight from my heart in the presence of the entire school, he says—“I’m gonna strip. Yes. Down to my tighty whities, Imma strip.”

H–

Huh?!?!?

You don’t even have time to be horrified or scared, you’re just bewildered beyond belief that that’s what he came up with.

What the fuck kind of reassurance did you ask for. And what the fuck kind of reassurance were you about to get?

The crowd goes wild, it’s no surprise to say everyone and their mothers wants to see him naked, even the straight dudes would dig it for the gym inspo. And he points straight to you, sleazy look on his face and you’re going to ignore the fact that he just winked at you too as he crosses his arms to hold the hem of his jersey and pulls it up over his head in the most raunchy and slutty way a man can take his shirt off.

The music manager is quick with the bit, and is most definitely a fellow Gen Z college student, because Justin Timberlake’s SexyBack (ft. Timbaland) starts playing across the speakers and the crowd goes ballistic.

“Ayo why’s Satoru Magic Mike’ing the field right now?” one of his other teammates calls out through a mouthful of protein bar, “What the fuck did I miss?”

The cameraman does God’s work in a hella zoom-in of Gojo’s sweat glistened abs, then pans up the naked expanse of the perfect taut skin across his chest, and you can’t help but stare even among all your horror. It’s like when a male bird embarrasses the fuck outta himself to attract a female bird sitting on a perch, except instead of within the context of a NatGeo documentary, this was your real life. Everyone wants him, but he’s making a fool out of himself for you. 

He pretends to stretch his arms up into the air, a cover-up to flex his biceps, and then he kicks his cleats off, and the socks come off too. Entirely unnecessary, as showing one's ankles is simply too slutty, but alas he’s a whore. And when his thumbs dip into the waistband of his shorts, and there’s anticipating screeching from the crowd, he finally gets chased by security. 

Except he’s an intercollegiate D1 athlete, why the fuck wouldn’t he be able to outrun a bunch of dudes in black?

The camerawork on him is phenomenal as he runs across the sidelines of the field, eliciting a wave down the bleachers. So good in fact that you’re pretty sure the camera man could shoot for the Olympic track and field, with the way the stadium’s got a clear sight of Gojo mouthing the lyrics Them other fuckers don’t know how to act from the song still blaring with satirical rage on his face as he makes a fool of the men chasing him around the perimeter of the field.

And then he does it, drops his shorts, discards them with a kick, and he’s down to his tighty whities as promised. Cameraman has got to be displaying some previously undiscovered level of talent as he zeroes in on a shot of said tighty whities, with Gojo’s—forgive me, I need to be crass—huge bulge prominent in Big Dick Energy fashion except his tighty whities have little red hearts in rows across the fabric so do with that duality what you will.

He’s outrun security with a steady grin on his face as he eats up the drunken crowd’s cheers and riots and roars and you feel like you’re the only sane person in this stadium, or maybe you’re just not used to the fanatics of a college sports crowd. You peep the men in black trailed all the way on the left side of the field where they abandoned their pursuit of Gojo.

He taps imaginary pockets at his thighs, very muscular thighs you take indulgence in noticing, as if he expected to find something there, and he looks around when he doesn’t. He shrugs and grabs the microphone of the next passing sports commentator he spots, and then he makes his way back to you.

His breathing is a little shallow, and he inhales deep to catch his breath. “Baby.” The crowd SCREAMS at the way he purrs the word into the mic. “Will you do me the honor,” he’s huffing and puffing, heard across blaring speakers, “of being my lawfully wedded girlfriend?” And then he holds the mic to your lips.

“W-Wha—” you stutter, and there’s chanting across the crowd with words that barely make sense until you finally realize they’ve started to yell say yes! say yes! say yes! “Oh my gosh, okay, yes, fine, now please, for the love of god, put some freaking clothes on!”

The crowd goes wild with cheerful glees, and Gojo shoots fists up in the air in celebration as he runs all the way towards the center of the field with high knees, and you’re gawking at the sight, before he falls backward onto the grass and makes delirious snow angels on the ground. You see Coach Yaga’s vein popping in his neck from pure agitation as he storms off towards the center of the field to knock some sense into Gojo, but you know that Coach Yaga can’t kick him out, because they still have a game to win. The perks of being the most valued player in the league is getting to act like an absolutely insane idiot because you know they still need you in the end to bring it home.

You glance to the right, seeing his teammates nodding slowly then getting back to wrapping athletic tape around ankles and stretching out shoulders, with immediate acceptance of his actions like it wasn’t even out of character for him to do. And you realize again that you don’t know Gojo as well as you think you do.

And then the halftime timer is up.

You see Gojo approach the benches in a quick jog, squeezing some water into his mouth with his green gatorade squirt bottle, and when your eyes flit up to the screens on all four entrances, you see that the cameramen are still all focused on him accompanied by the continued buzz of conversation among the crowd following his public spectacle. But he seems to already be past any semblance of embarrassment as he takes the attention with ease, before he glances up to make eye contact with you and then lightly jogs right up to you.

“Did that prove to you that I’m not embarrassed of you?” he asks you, cocking a brow with a smug look on his face as he gets all up in your personal space. 

“I don’t know, but I’m certainly thoroughly and expeditiously embarrassed of you now,” you say, cheeks feeling flush when he leans forward so he can make eye contact with you at eye level. “I’ll have to move to a different country.”

His grin is relaxed. “Yeah well you asked for it.”

“Maybe. But I underestimated what a lunatic you are.”

“You’re my girlfriend now, you’ve gotta get used to it.”

Your heart skips a beat in your chest. “Satoru–”

“Tomorrow,” he cuts you off, “Hinode pier. I’ll pick you up at six. It’s a date, so wear something cute. And preferably easy to take off.” And then he’s attentive to the chirp of the referee’s whistle in the air before jogging backwards towards the feel and eventually turns on his heel towards the field while you’re left with warm cheeks and a heart that felt like it was moving at a mile a minute.

The timer for the second half refreshes on the screen while you loosely hold your camera in your shaking hands. It occurs to you that you haven’t taken a single photo of him before the start of the kickoff, and so you bring the piece of consolidated metal up to your eyes, peering through the viewfinder and focusing it on the center of the field. And there he was. Your muse.

Gojo lets out a breath, which you can see even from here that it’s shaky and staggered with resistance, and he lifts his jersey up to swipe at the sweat trickling down his face as he eyes the ball underneath YCU’s player’s foot just prior to the start of the second half. There it was—that look again of pure focus. 

3-1, forty-five minutes on the clock. And the referee chirps the whistle to start the second half.

It’s immediately evident that YCU has returned to the field following halftime with renewed energy, pressing high down the flank relentlessly past UTokyo’s defense, so fast it was hard for anybody to even keep a steady eye on the ball with the fluidity of their passes. The persistence pays off in the fake double-pass that slips past Geto’s feet, a moment of hesitation in the broken flow of UTokyo’s defense, and one of YCU’s strikers has the perfect line of shot towards the goal before digging his foot under the ball and sending it flying towards the corner of the goal post, scoring themselves a goal within just the first five minutes of play.

3-2.

The pressure mounts at the next kickoff, and with about seven minutes of solid play, with back-and-forth passes, multiple attempts at both goal posts to no avail on either side, it was clear that exhaustion was bustling in the veins of all the players.

One of YCU’s offensive players seems to capitalize on this, jumping on a defensive lapse of a pass Nanami attempted to make towards Yuta, and the ball is swiftly stolen then raced back towards the goal post. Choso prepared himself at the line, light on his feet paired with a solid stance, but in a millisecond of a moment, YCU’s offense unexpectedly passes the ball to a player racing up the midfield, and the player chips the ball neatly into the exposed corner of the goal despite Choso’s attempt to lunge for it in mid air.

Equalized, 3-3 game, momentary shock across the players’ faces, and the crowd bustles with something that sounds less like glee and more life fear. YCU was prepared to live up to and hold onto their title as the league’s number one offense, and as Minato explained to you during your time working in this job, an offensive team isn’t good at scoring goals, but rather exceptional at breaking down the other team’s defense.

Your eyes zero in on Geto, who stands in the center of the field for kickoff, and he’s huffing and puffing. He's the lead of defense for the team, and you can only imagine the level of pressure he feels right now. He glances around to his players, over to Nanami who seemed to share the same level of exhaustion, and then he glances towards Gojo who stood in front of him off to the right. Except you notice that Gojo looks relaxed, albeit still exhausted, but there’s a composed expression on his face even in the moment of heightened stakes. With locked eyes, Geto nods at Gojo and raises two fingers up into the air to signal a play, of which Gojo seems to respond to by closing more distance between him and the goal post prior to the kickoff, positioning himself almost directly in front of it, to which YCU’s defense immediately begin to guard him in a tight radius. 

The kickoff begins, with Geto making a few passbacks with Nanami as they close distance towards the field before passing it off to UTokyo’s string of offense and then receding back to their defending goal. UTokyo continues to close distance, raising stakes for YCU as their defense begins to falter under pressure, and the ball gets passed to Gojo, who only keeps it in possession for less than three seconds before he passes it back to Yuuji, a risky decision to make in the second half of a semifinal match, but the first-year swiftly unleashes a powerful shot that rockets past YCU’s goalkeeper, up towards the corner, except–

It bounces off the metal of the goal post, shot off with projectile speed back towards the center of the field, but with razor-sharp reflexes, Gojo headbutts the ball in air, twists his torso and strikes the ball with his foot past a dumbfounded goalie who can’t even move an inch to guard the ball that he already knew was going to sink right into the goal, and that’s exactly what it does. 

The stadium erupts with the momentum.

4-3, UTokyo. 

It was a sweet moment, one you manage to capture on camera of Gojo running up to Yuuji and ruffling his hair in reassurance, despite the missed goal. Your heart feels warm in your chest, feeling your own sense of melancholy that this was one of the last times they’ll ever get to play together on a team. 

Your eyes widen when you glance at the scoreboard, realizing that he’s tied. Gojo is tied for the most goals scored during a championship match. There were less than three minutes left on the clock. UTokyo either preserves their lead, or they risk moving into overtime, which, judging by the exhaustion on the UTokyo players’ faces in the wake of YCU’s relentless offense this entire game, moving into overtime would be a hefty, hefty risk. 

YCU’s center forward takes his place in the center of the field, fire evident in his eyes as he glances across the field. YCU are light on their feet, channeling everything in their bodies into these last moments of the game as they prepare to start the kickoff. You glance across UTokyo’s players, and although they look spent, there was a resolute look to all of them. It wasn’t the time to give up or feel at ease even near the end of this grueling battle. Now was the time to play. 

The referee chirped his whistle, and the kickoff began.

YCU immediately presses hard, as all their other plays have been all game, in their desperation to score. You can already see UTokyo’s midfielders move sluggishly in comparison to YCU’s offense, a drag to their feet as YCU pushes past the first layer of defense towards their attacking goal. Geto takes an aggressive approach, making moves to steal the ball while Nanami and Yuta guarded both flanks, and there was a relentless pass-off happening that ate up more than a minute of the remaining time.

Nanami succeeds in stealing the ball, but immediately loses it under his feet by a YCU midfielder, who makes a broad pass down the sidelines to YCU’s star forward who then powerfully kicks the ball towards the unguarded area of their goal, a dangerous shot that was clear towards the crossbar and Choso makes a leap for it, high into the air, his glove brushing against the ball, the entire crowd holding their breath in anticipation–

And the ball lands in the net. 

4-4, tied game. With one minute and seventeen seconds left on the clock. 

There was no time wasted in getting back to center field. No time spent dwelling in the horrific roars of the crowd as they watch with anxiety and fear. No time spent to process or consider or signal any plays. Not even a single second used to catch breath. When there is this much at stake, an athlete thrives on momentum. 

To your surprise, Gojo isn’t the one that takes place at the center of the field to start the kickoff. Yuta stands there instead, and you notice his eyes are erratic as he surveys all corners of the field. 

The referee chirps his whistle. 

Yuta immediately passes it off to the side to UTokyo’s midfielder, who curls it towards their attacking goal with a swift pass to Ino, who closes distance towards the goal, but one of YCU’s defender slips in, undoing any progress they had made in their offense by stealing the ball and sending it back towards mid-field. Forty-three seconds. The crowd’s roars heightened as YCU continued to push forward, thirty yards now from scoring, and UTokyo’s defense was desperate to stop them but their momentum was cracking in the wake of their exhaustion. 

It was a moment you don’t think you could ever fully or truly recall, one that you wish you had focused all your energy and attention to so that you could commit it to memory for the rest of your life. The image of Gojo pushing all the way to ten yards before their defending goal, a place where no center forward should really be at in a game like this, but it was exactly what their defense needed. It was exactly what the team needed. It was exactly what the school needed. For the ball to be in his possession.

With twenty-two seconds left on the clock, he steals the ball from right under YCU’s offensive feet, and then charges towards the opposite side of the field. The crowd rises to their feet, thunderous roaring that overtook any and all senses, as Gojo weaves through forwards, center forwards, midfielders, and defenders, covering the entire span of the field in lightning time. Fifty yards, forty yards, thirty yards, twenty hards, ten yards–

In a moment you couldn’t believe, he digs his foot underneath the ball, and sends it flying out towards the goal. There was not even a margin of an inch in which it slipped past the goalie’s hands, past his head, and swiftly flew right into the net.

With three-two-one seconds, the match was over. 

5-4, UTokyo’s win.

The final whistle blew, and for a moment, there was silence. As if the world paused to catch its breath. Then, all at once, the crowd erupted with glee that shook the entire stadium at its core. Flags waving, scarves held high, toasts of beer held up to the sky, it was deafening, and it almost makes you want to cry. Thousands of voices shouting in unison, celebrating the hard-fought victory of their school’s team. A type of pride that was fostered, and well-deserved, and long-lived.

You quickly glance towards the field again, and see Gojo standing right at the same spot where he had kicked the last and final goal, staring towards the net. You can’t see the expression on his face, but it surprises you how still he is. Like a statue, staring at the goal with the ball tucked into its corner. The very epitome of what it means to succeed in this sport was right in front of him, and it seemed like he wanted to soak the visual in for as long as he could.

His trance is abruptly interrupted when his teammates swarm in, rushing over like a wave of pure adrenaline. They slap him on the back, ruffle his hair, shout his name, the sounds of gleeful disbelief mixed with exhausted sighs of relief swarming into the air. And Gojo finally melts away from the tension of the match and into the celebration as he weakly returns the embraces of his teammates while he catches his breath. 

“IT’S OFFICIAL!! IT’S OFFICIAL!! UTOKYO’S VERY OWN GOJO SATORU HAS OBLITERATED OSAKA UNIVERSITY’S RECORD FOR MOST GOALS SCORED BY A SINGLE PLAYER IN A CHAMPIONSHIP MATCH!!” 

The speakers are blaring the voices of the sports announcers, along with ambient music to match the intensity of the match that everyone had just witnessed. 

You should probably be doing your job. You know, take a picture of the huddle of players on the field as they bask in the glory of a close victory, but instead your feet start moving on their own. Like a magnet drawn to him, you make your way towards Gojo, only a slight hesitation in your step as you stop about ten feet away, suddenly unsure. But when he makes eye contact with you, all that fear melts away.

He hastily pats the backs of some of his teammates, acknowledging their praise at the center of the huddle before tightly squeezing past them to make his way over to you. Your heart is beating fast in your chest, feeling an almost overwhelming sense of pride in your school’s team, but more importantly, in him. What was the acceptable thing to do? Run to him, into his arms, and hug him while he twirls you around? Tackle him to the grassy ground? Kiss him like your life depended on it? You have no clue what the acceptable or sane or normal thing to do is. But he’s made his decision for you when he walks right up to you, his hands holding your waist as he pulls you towards him. He smells earthy, of grass and salt and sweat and of all the hard work he poured into today, the wear and tear of the game evident in the wear and tear of his jersey. He only manages to huff out an exhale at the sight of you, like some relief washing over him just by looking into your eyes. Forget the fact that the crowd was all watching and that all of the screens you could see past his head were focused on the two of you, because all you could hear or see or think was him.

“I believe you owe me a kiss,” he says, huffing as he catches his breath but that doesn’t stop the smile that makes its way onto his face.

You nod your head, giving him your own version of a sweet smile as your arms slide up past his shoulders, crossing behind his neck, and he leans down to kiss you.

You hear a swell from the crowd, some teasing comments off in the distance from some of his teammates, you’re pretty sure you hear Coach Yaga yelling at him to get back to the benches, but it all melts away with the feeling of him smiling against your lips as he kisses you at the center of this stadium.

It was a moment so pure, so sweet, so picture perfect, and for once, you’re not the one behind the camera taking the photo. You’re the one that’s in it.

.

.

.

.

.

[end of kickoff ch12]

a/n. aaa thanks a lot for reading!! pls the fucking public stripping scene was so stupid i apologize on behalf of kickoff gojo for his behavior 😂😂 i’ll put him in his cage dw this chapter had some of what i consider to be the most challenging aspects of writing for me (internal conflict, grand public gesture, sports jargon) and so writing it felt like an uphill battle the ENTIRE time i wrote it and edited it. i considered scrapping it sooo many times cuz i just wasn't happy w it...but whatever i can't expect to be 100% happy w every chapter i put out there haha. i think kickoff has become a lil sacred for me since i've been working on it for a while now but likeee...sometimes u just gotta say fuck it we ball (tbh kickoff gojo probably says that to himself before a match) anywho, i am veryy thoroughly excited for what i've got planned for the chapters to follow, especially moving into the last angsty arc before the end of the series!! so i look forward to picking up momentum w this series again :0 honestly chapters 10 through 12 were the most difficult things i've written so far for a lot of reasons, but i have a feeling things will go more smoothly for me creatively going forward since what i've got planned falls well within my writing comfort range oh also there seems to be a little confusion about the number of chapters left, as i know i had originally said 12, but i anticipate that there will be about 18 chapters of kickoff total!! so still around six chapters left before the end :)) much lovee thanks for reading!!

OH WAIT ONE LAST NOTE I'M SORRY i didn’t really have a way of organically incorporating this into the story n i’m not sure if i’ll get a chance to in the upcoming chapters, so i just wanted to share this part of ch7 (gojo’s pov chapter) that is relevant to this chapter:

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. 

the record that gojo broke in this chapter is the same record that his father almost broke before he got the call that he was going to be a dad :0 

➸ you're all caught up!

additional notes. please do not pressure me for updates or ask when i will next update (read rules); taglist is currently closed (consider subscribing to the story on my ao3 for email updates if you'd like! :0)

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[notiddygothgf]

2/2

★ pairings: choso kamo x f!reader

★ synopsis: Yuuji Itadori truly was the best friend a girl like you could ask for, but he wasn't the only reason you came to visit. (His older brother, the devilishly handsome Choso Kamo, had always been the apple of your eye).

★ c.w.: slow burn, friends to lovers, eventual smut, childhood sweethearts, kinda, mutual pining, choso with a tongue piercing, rough sex, cunnilingus, backshots, unprotected sex, regular people au, two year age gap, PWP.

★ a/n: part two! its all smut lol. anyway, like I said, this one shot is finished (just split btw two chaps bc theres 11k words). but if u comment and persuade me who knows! I can always do another. im a whore for ur validation.

★ w.c.; 5k

best friend's brother ; chapter index

YUUJI COOCHIE <3

|  come over tn?

|  i got smth i wanna run by u first

YOU

|  omw.

You stood on Itadori’s porch, finger poised over the doorbell a month after your eighteenth birthday. You had been anticipating to see your best friend, Itadori. But as the door swings open, what you don’t expect is to come face to face with Itadori’s older brother.

Your heart drops, and your breath catches in your throat as you take in his appearance. It felt for a moment as if time had stood still since you last saw him. He had only grown more handsome during your time apart. His dark hair was done back into two messy buns, deep bags residing beneath his deep eyes. 

Choso looked absolutely breathtaking . His fitted black tee clung to his chest and arms, showing off his toned physique, while the baggy black sweats he was sporting gave him an effortlessly cool appearance.

His presence exudes a magnetic charm that takes you back to when you were 17. His half smirk sends a wonton shiver down your spine.

“Hey there,” He says, deep, rich voice sending ripples of familiarity throughout your body.

When his lips pull away from his teeth, forming syllables and words, you couldn’t help but notice a small glint of metal near the tip of his tongue. You realized immediately what had seemed so different about him, and your eyes widened in surprise.

“You pierced your tongue?” You blurt out, unable to hide your shock.

Choso nearly snorts, though his eyes never leave yours. “You’re not surprised to see me?” He teases.

“I am,” You retort quickly, trying to regain your composure. “You’re home for the holidays?”

He nods, gaze still fixed on your red face. “Just came home last night.”

That would explain why I didn’t see you, you thought.

“I’m glad you came, though, I’ve been holding onto your birthday gift for a while now,” He sighed, stepping aside to let you into the house but keeping his arm braced on the doorframe. 

You slide under his muscular arm, doing your best to ignore the way your body bristled with electricity when you brushed up against him.

You set your bag on the ground near the door, kicking off your shoes and neatly pushing them aside while Choso locked the door behind you. 

“It’s in my room,” he said, passing you.

You followed him nervously up the stairs into his bedroom, heart pounding a little louder with every step. This would be the first time you would find yourself alone in Choso’s room, and you couldn’t help but let your mind wander.

As you enter his bedroom, you drank in your surroundings – a rare sight. The room was a reflection of Choso’s personality; band tees all over the walls, sheets laid flat and clean, laundry sitting in a basket in a neat, folded pile – a subtle hint of organized chaos.

It felt both familiar and new at the same time. The air was thick with anticipation, and memories of your whirlwind summer fling with Choso came flooding back.

You brace your hands on the door. “Is Itadori home?” You ask him, hands tracing the doorframe while Choso rummaged through his drawer. You sat on his bed.

“Nah,” he replied casually.

Furrowing your brows, you tried to make sense of the situation. But told me to come over…

“Is he coming?” You tried again, voice tinged with uncertainty.

Choso rose up from the bedside drawer, extending a small box towards you with a slight grin. “Nope,” he said.

The realization hit you like a freight train. This was a fucking setup, and Itadori was the mastermind behind it all.

He wanted you alone with his brother. He knew about your fling with him. 

He didn’t notice when the two of you had disappeared to the pantry for ten minutes. 

Though the moment you returned to see him glancing at you with a curious brow raised, you knew he had finally caught on. Even if he didn’t say anything about it.

He knew.

He had set you up.

Your face was on fire. Still, you took the small box from Choso, an awkward smile on your face, and carefully undid the little bow. As you opened it, you revealed its contents – a tee shirt with Choso’s University crest on it, a glace pendant on a fabric necklace, and a box set of your favorite film saga.

Choso had never given you a gift for your birthday before, at least not anything beyond a card. Briefly, you wondered if it was his way of making up for your 18th birthday party, the one he had missed.

“Choso…” You began, a humorous grin on your lips. “Merch?”

He shrugged playfully, his gaze locked onto yours. “In case you miss me,” he replied, tone teasing yet sincere.

With a genuine smile, you leaned over and hugged him. “I love it,” you had told him.

Choso reached into the box for the necklace, gesturing for you to come closer. You leaned in, allowing him to loop the fabric over your head. His fingers brushed against your skin, your neck as he adjusted it.

He froze. You froze.

For a while, the room was quiet. There was an intense stare-off between you two. Choso cleared his throat, seemingly about to break the moment, but you had other plans. Gently, you gripped his chin between your index finger and your thumb, turning his head back to you. 

Gently, you tugged his lower lip down. He stuck his tongue out to wet the corner of his lips in return.

Your breath hitched as your gazes locked, and the air in the room shifted. Choso’s dark eyes shifted beneath your gaze, and you found yourself drawn closer to him.

You swallowed. “How bad did it hurt?” You asked, eyes fixed on the sliver of metal you had caught a glimpse of inside of his mouth.

Choso raised a finger towards his mouth, bringing your attention back to his tongue. “This?” He asked. “Hurt like a bitch, not gonna lie, but it healed up real nice.”

Wordlessly, he stuck his tongue out so you could see it up close. You examined it carefully – it really had healed up rather nicely. There was a small, silver ball wedged into the pink muscle. You wondered how it would feel on your lips, your neck, your body .

Choso closed his mouth. “I got it the first weekend after move-in day,” He explained.

“Why?” You inquired, curiosity finally getting the better of you.

He shrugged with a smirk, “Thought it would look hot. What do you think?”

“I think it looks like a pain in the ass,” You retorted. “Don’t any of the girls you kiss complain about that thing?”

“Quite the contrary,” he remarked, licking his lips. “Why’d you ask?”

You tried to ignore the jealousy that bubbled up inside of you, deep inside of you at the thought of him kissing other girls. You had to remind yourself who you were talking to here. You would have been naive to expect loyalty from a college freshman.

“Looks cold,” you commented instead. “I don’t imagine that would feel very good.”

And his eyes, those dark, beautiful cesspools of emotion, dropped down to your lips, lingering for a moment too long before returning to meet your gaze. “You wanna find out?” He asked.

“Piss off,” You scoffed, hitting him playfully on the shoulder. But the blush on your cheeks betrayed the effect his words had on you. “Fuckin’ tease.”

He didn’t move back. No, instead, he leaned in a little closer. “You sure?” He whispered, warm breath grazing the shell of your ear. “I can show you how good it feels, if you want.”

And that’s how you wound up here, with his face buried between your legs. He kissed his way up and down the skin of your thighs. You made quick work of his twin buns, tugging the ties out of his hair.

His lips curled into a knowing smirk. He lifted one of your legs onto his broad shoulder, running his tongue along the length of your inner thigh, pressing a kiss right where your ass met your legs. The metal ball on his tongue felt odd against your skin, but not necessarily unpleasurable.

You had never gone this far with him before. You were turned on beyond comprehension, hungry eyes drinking in the rosey hue that dusted his pale complexion while he sucked on your skin – hard enough for it to hurt, hard enough to leave a mark. 

Tenderly, Choso reached for your panties. He appeared to be on the precipice of a decision. 

“Can I…” He panted, trailing his thumb over the thin piece of fabric that separated the two of you. “Can I take these off?”

You nodded quickly, lifting your hips up for him while he guided the panties off of your legs. 

He licked his lips and parted your legs a second time, fully exposing you to his ravenous gaze. 

“You look like heaven,” He breathed out, voice trembling. He took a moment to admire you, smiling at the way you tried to hide your face. “Wanna taste…”

You had never done this before. The one man you had ever dared to hook up with hadn’t bothered. So you swallowed the lump in your throat, watching him get down on all fours and dip his head down between your legs like a man with his head bowed in worship. 

Though you were far from holy, in that moment, you felt like you were God.

His tongue was hot and wet against your skin, licking a stripe from bottom to top. The metal ball of his tongue piercing caught on your puffy clit, eliciting a quiet gasp. 

“Feel good, baby?” He teased, relishing in the way your thighs tensed around his head. His eyes flitted between you and your pussy – spread open for him like a buffet – pupils blown wide with desire. His pink lips parted around his tongue a second time, and this time you watched him.

Watched him press the metal ball against your clit, rolling over it in slow, steady circles.

You felt like you could die here. 

He adjusted his grip on your hips, pulling you down on the bed until you felt his nose pressing in between your folds. He kissed your heat, moaning into you.  Then, without so much as a warning, he began to eat you out like a starved man.

“Fuck, Cho–” You cried out for him, reaching down to tangle your fingers into his inky black tresses. You had never felt so good in your life, like he had been waiting for this as long as you had. You were sensitive, far too sensitive to comprehend the way your body felt, the way his tongue piercing felt as it glided over your hot flesh.

He didn’t slow down. He licked, slurped, and kissed your swollen clit, keeping that unforgiving pace up until your hips began to jump against his tongue.

“Shit,” You hissed,

He moaned into you in response, meeting your gaze with an intense fire burning behind his eyes. His tongue massaged you up to what you know would be the hardest orgasm of your life – that damn piece of metal made for one hell of a stimulant. It felt like it was pressing right up into your pressure points, deeper than his tongue was able to reach.

You felt yourself come apart at the seams, reduced to a moaning mess in a matter of minutes, riding his tongue like your life depended on it. He stopped moving for a moment, letting you grip him by the hair and ride his face. 

You couldn’t look away.

He looked amazing, fire burning behind his eyes, fingertips biting into the skin of your thighs, brows furrowed with concentration. His eyes never left yours, not even once.

You dropped your head onto the pillow, sitting back and allowing him to resume what he had been doing earlier – that thing with his tongue. 

And resume it he did, assuming a more demanding pace this time. It almost made you want to cry – the pace, the ball on his tongue – it was almost too much to bear. It felt so good.

You felt that familiar coil in your abdomen, almost like you were about to cum, then in a moment’s width he had pulled away. 

You struggled to regain your surroundings, vision cloudy and hazy with pleasure. You could hear your rampant heartbeat racing in your own ears. 

Choso leaned back with a stretch, cracking his neck and licking his lips. The entirebottom half of his face was drenched, dripping with an obscene mixture of your slick and his spit. 

He looked gorgeous, even when his face was tinted red. 

“Choso…” You breathed, letting a breathless chuckle slip between your parted lips.

He grinned back at you. “Any complaints?”

You didn’t glorify him with a response, gripping him by the fabric of his shirt and tugging him up and over you. You searched for his lips, locking them between yours in a messy, heated kiss. The taste of you lingered on his tongue, tangy and a little sweet.

“Shut up and fuck me, Kamo,” You panted with a grin of your own.

That was all he needed to push you onto your back, diving back in to ravage your lips again. It was all a rushed, passionate haze – he tugged your tee shirt over your head, you shoved your skirt down to your ankles and kicked it off the side of the bed. He leaned back with a stretch to reach for the back of his shirt, tugging it over his head and flinging it to the side. 

Your mouth nearly watered for him. He was everything you had dreamed of and so much more. Well defined arms, pecs, abs – a few tattoos littered the broad expanse of his chest. His torso tapered down into a thin, slutty waist. You let your hand slide down his abdomen, eliciting a quiet groan from him as your painted fingernails caught on his toned abs, ghosted over the large tent in his sweats that left nothing to the imagination. 

He was big. Bigger than you had anticipated. The last man you were with was about 3 inches (which was probably for the better, because it had been your first time). He felt about three times as big as that. Maybe more.

It didn’t take long for him to flip you onto your stomach, pulling your ass flush against his navel. He reached for a handful of your hair, jerking your head to the side, then uttered against your ear, “G’nna fuck that attitude right out’ta you.”

He left you for a moment while he undid the strings of his sweatpants. You couldn’t watch. You knew if you saw it, you would have doubts. 

But you found yourself looking back anyway, right as he had told you. “Wanna reach into that drawer and grab me a condom?”

“Are you um…” You swallowed. “You don’t have any diseases, do you?”

You knew you were clean because you were so disgusted by the man you had hooked up with before Choso that you’d taken yourself to the planned parenthood in town the day after to be tested. Even if you had used a condom.

Choso’s brow quirked up at that. “No, I don’t have any STDs. I get tested twice a year.”

Oh. Okay.

Again, you didn’t want to think about how many women had taken his dick before you. 

“Never gone raw before, though,” He mused quietly, hand rubbing mindless circles over the skin of your ass. 

“Really?” You asked.

“Is that a surprise?” He retorted, though he didn’t seem very hurt by your comment. “Can’t babytrap me.”

You thought about definitely didn’t think about Choso being a father. 

“Is there any way for you to, like…” You hummed, trailing off. Your inexperience had never been more disgustingly apparent. “Pull out?”

“You’re talking like this is your first time,” he laughed breathily.

You paused. His eyes widened.

“Is… this your first time?” He asked again.

“I had sex with this one guy from my class a while ago,” You said after an awkward silence. “He was small and, like, really bad at it.”

Choso seemed humored by your honest admission, though it came at the expense of your own embarrassment. “Why’d you go through with it, then?”

“I only did it to get back at you,” You turned your head back to the pillowcase below you. With a pout, you admitted, “Thought for some reason that by me having sex, I was proving something. I was younger and stupider, okay?”

“So… you’ve only had sex once?” He asked. You didn’t realize this was an interrogation. 

You nodded embarrasedly. Somehow this was more humiliating than being spread open for him like you were right now.

“You sure you want this?” He hummed, roaching forward to tuck your hair behind your ear. It was strangely intimate. When you nodded, he sighed. “We’ll go slow, then. I don’t wanna hurt you–”

“Don’t treat me like I’m fragile,” You cut him off, finally turning back to look at him. “I can take it, okay? Just answer the damn question.”

Choso leaned down over you, pinning you into the bed, kissing down your spine. “We can… do backshots,” he murmured against your skin. “Want that?”

“Mhm,” You sighed, easing into his touch.

You had waited far too long for this for something like a condom to get in between the two of you. You wanted to feel him. All of him. 

Choso rolled back, slipping his tip between your fold and swiping it through your slick. You watched him, watched the way he bit his lip at the sensation, eyes glued onto the place where you met him . 

He pursed his lips, letting spit fall from his lips. You watched it dribble down, landing right onto your twitching hole. 

That was so fucking hot .

Then, without a word of warning, he pushed the tip in. You gasped at the sudden intrusion, feeling the burn, the stretch of his girth inside of you. He paused for a moment when the tip was the only thing inside of you, brows drawn together, breaths shallow.

It took everything you had not to cry out in pain. You had been waiting your whole life for this.

But, shit, it hurt. He was big. You felt your body struggle to accommodate him.

Maybe some prep should have been in order…

Oh well, gotta see it through.

As if sensing your internal dilemma, Choso reached down, intertwining his fingers with yours. He placed a soft kiss to the back of your neck. 

“You okay?” He asked you.

No . Yes.

“Yeah,” You bit out. “Just… I ‘jus need a minute.”

“Just tell me when,” he pressed another kiss to your hot skin. “You’re doing so good.”

It took you a few more minutes to adjust to him. Every minute, he would slip in a little further, just enough to make your skin hot and flushed. You could feel him throbbing inside of you, throbbing against your spongy walls.

Eventually, you gave him the green light. And, fuck, it was like something inside of him had snapped. He slid the rest of the way in until his hips were flush with your ass. He drew out, slowly, then thrust back in again.

It felt like he was pulling you apart over and over again, snapping his hips against yours in a progressively harder fashion. 

Choso whimpered quitedly, pausing his harsh movements to change pace. You clenched around him in response, something that made him double over. “Ah, fuck,” He gasped. “You feel so fuckin’ good.”

He drew back, thrusting into you once more. You felt your whole body jolt forward with a loud moan of your own.

With wild, passionate eyes, Choso pulled out again, leaving just enough room for the tip. Then, he slammed back into you. Again, again, again – he was relishing in the way you cried into the pillow.

“Fuck, fuck,” You chanted, like some sort of sinful prayer. “ Fuck me, Cho– ”

“Might not last long if you keep callin’ my name like that,” He gasped, tangling a large hand into your messy tresses and gripping it tightly. 

You drew your brows together, allowing yourself to be lost in the pleasure, the attention he was giving you. What would Itadori think, you wondered, if he walked in on you like this – face down ass up in his big brother’s bed?

“Choso ,” You groaned into the pillow. It felt like he was scratching an itch deep inside of you – not your coochie, but your soul. It felt like you were made for this. “ Choso, Fuck. ”

Itadori slipped into his house with a quiet sigh. He kicked his shoes off, set his bag down on the floor, and then reached for his scarf. It had been one long, hellish day. He felt bad making you wait for him, but he didn’t doubt that you would have made yourself right at home in his bedroom by now. You were probably sprawled out over his bed, passed out or playing with his PS5.

He froze when he heard something come from upstairs. It sounded like furniture being moved around, or something like that. There were voices, too.

With knitted brows, he walked hesitantly towards the stairs. Was it coming from up there?

“Fuck, Choso,” He heard a vaguely familiar – albeit very muffled voice – moan. 

It was you. You and another muffled voice.

“Choso, Choso!” 

“Right there?”

“Fuck– yes! Don’t stop!”

He quirked a brow. Then, with a sigh and a dejected shake of his head, he hid away in the kitchen.

“Please!” You gasped, you fumbled around behind you in search of his hand. He grabbed it, pinning your arm behind your back and thrusting into your sore pussy from a new angle – one that made you feel dizzy. You didn’t know how long the two of you had been going at it. All you knew was that you never wanted it to end, that your mind was a blissful haze.

Your body slid up against the bedsheets – up and down, up and down, clenched fingers leaving wrinkles in their wake. 

“Fuck me harder,” You pled.

And fuck you harder he sure did. His chest rolled against your backside, pinning you into the mattress and holding you right where he wanted you. Then he fucked you a little harder.

You were all but screaming his name at that point. “Choso–” 

The head of his cock was bullying into you, beating against that spot deep within you that made your feet fly up, rubbing the back of his thighs as if to tell him ‘ keep going’.You gripped the sheets with unwarranted strength, feeling yourself drip and clench around him – hearing the obscene squelch you made when the two of you met in the middle. 

“ Fu-u-uck ,” You cried, voice high and weak.

“Quit suckin’ me in like that,” He chuckled, though it was cut short by a deep, guttural groan as you did it again. “ Shit , you want kids or somethin’?”

There was a knot in your stomach. A vaguely familiar warmth that seemed to only grow hotter by the second.

“ So perfect, so wet ,” Choso commended you, licking the shell of your ear, peppering butterfly kisses to the back of your neck. Your name fell out of his pretty lips between a cacophony of sinful noises.

You felt yourself get lost in him, craning your head around to take another look at him. His angelic face, scrunched up with pleasure, mouth hanging open just slightly, pale face dusted with pink. Inky black hair plastered to his forehead and neck with sweat. The muscles in his chest and torso rippled.

“I’ve wanted you…” You gasped, trying your best to articulate despite the stimulation he was giving you – it was almost too much. “Since I was young – fuck .”

His hips stuttered. He pulled your hair away from your neck, kissing the junction where your jaw met your neck. 

He gripped your hair to crane your head back, slowing his thrusts to long, deep strokes that had you trembling. 

“The feeling was mutual,” Choso grunted, trying to keep himself together.

You felt your eyes roll almost all the way back into your fucking head, mouth hanging open, drooling shamelessly on his pillow, his sheets.

You were close. So close.

Those deep, lust-filled eyes of him weren’t doing anything to slow the train that was coming. Each thrust, each slide of his cockhead against your g-spot brought you closer and closer to the edge.

“You feel even better than I imagined,” He growled, and you nearly came right then and there. 

He moved his hands so that your hips were up in the air for him, bringing his other arm around your neck to pin you there. When he picked up pace this time, you felt yourself drip – like, actually drip – all over him.

I wanna have his kids .

Your moans and pleas matched the pace of his sloppy thrusts. He was getting close, too. You could hear it. No, seriously, noises like that should have been criminal.

The feeling of being filled by him was driving you up the wall – almost as hard as he was currently driving you into the mattress. You never wanted it to end. 

But, shit, it was about to.

“Choso,” You whimpered. He didn’t slow down. “Think ‘m g’nna cum.”

“Yeah?” he gritted out, breath fanning over your neck and your cheek. He reached a hand down, releasing your neck to rub slow circles on your puffy clit – a speed that felt foreign compared to the harsh strokes he was giving you, but not entirely unwelcome.

That was all it took to have you hurling towards the edge, ass jumping up and down to meet his thrust in the middle, to take as much of him in as you possibly could.

“Yeah, shit,” He gasped. He was trying to hold on for you, but you were making it realhard. “G’nna cum for me, baby? Lemme fuckin’ hear it.”

You were all but throwing it back on him, mindlessly chasing your release like a bitch in heat. The moment you got the green light, your orgasm snapped. You cried out his name one final time, arching your back all the way into the sheets, spasming wildly around him. The shock tore through you in waves.

Your hips jolted with hypersensitivity while he fucked you through it.

Choso’s hips stuttered. He twitched, like he couldn’t take another minute of this, then he remarked, “That was so fuckin’ hot, holy shit – fuck, wait–”

He slid out of you rapidly, leaving you to gasp at the sudden loss of him. The next thing you know, he was stroking himself to completion. He came with a broken whimper of your name, spurting ropes of warm cum all over your back.

You took a moment to catch your breath. He did the same. A few moments, actually.

The silence that followed was deafening. He groaned, running a shaky hand through his hair. You collapsed into the bed.

He had left the bedside at one point, though only for a moment before he returned with a warm wash rag. He cleaned his love paint off of your spine.

Then, tossing the rag into his hamper, he collapsed next to you.

You chuckled breathlessly, throwing your arms around his neck and kissing him with all of the strength you had left in you (not much). “Shit…” 

“Shit,” he agreed, licking his lips. “You were great.”

“You were better,” You said. “I don’t think I’ll be able to walk home tonight, though.”

Choso shrugged. He reached down, pulling the covers over the two of you. “Sleep here, then.”

Sleep here.

You recalled many nights of him walking girls to the door. Choso never let girls stay the night.

He wants me to spend the night with hiim.

You laughed, reveling in the irony of it all. Years and years of pining led you here, to this. “What would Itadori think?”

Choso threw an arm over your waist, pulling you closer to his side. “Fuck what Itadori thinks.”

Your world went black a moment later.

Your eyes fluttered open as you lay in the aftermath of a steamy evening with the man of your dreams. Choso, your best friend’s brother. The one you had fucked.

His lips were pressed into the slightest pout. You watched him snore, taking note of how peaceful he looked while he slept, taking note of the way his tousled black hair fell into his pretty face.

With a contented sigh, you reached for a shirt that lay nearby – his shirt. The one he had taken off yesterday. You slipped out from beneath the covers, padding quietly out of Choso’s bedroom. Your feet were quiet against the wooden steps.

As you entered the living room space, you contemplated sneaking into the kitchen in search of some much-needed sustenance. It had to have been later in the afternoon at that point – you assumed that you and Choso had been sleeping for a few hours, at least. Your stomach grumbled in agreement.

Just as you were about to step into the familiar kitchen, however, you froze. There, sitting at the table, munching on a Kit Kat bar like it was no one’s business, was her best friend. 

Itadori.

“Hey…” You said rather awkwardly, heart racing. “You’re… you’re home.”

Itadori quirked a brow, looking you up and down curiously. His eyes noticeably lingered on your neck, right were you had a sneaking suspicion Choso had marked you with his lips and teeth. 

“Hey,” He finally said. “You two finally done up there?”

“You heard that. Of course you did,” You sighed, dropping your stiff arms and plopping into the stool next to him at the kitchen island. You faceplanted into the cold surface, groaning, “How much did you hear?”

“Enough to know my brother’s good in bed,” Itadori took another bite. He placed a heart over his chest, feigning an exaggerated cry of, “ Choso– oh, Choso, don’t stop, I’m cu–”

“He told me you weren’t coming home,” You groaned, even louder this time. You were glad that Itadori couldn’t see the nasty shade of red that had painted your features.

“He lied,” Your best friend chuckled, crumpling the wrapper of his Kit Kat bar and tossing it in the trash bin. He stood off, dusting his hands on his pants, reaching for his phone. Then, like nothing had happened, he said,  “I’m ordering Chinese. You want?”

You raised your head at that, taking a slow glance at the room around the two of you. “I could go for some beef and broccoli…”

You loved the bond you had with Yuuji. Unbreakable, truly. Sometimes a little toocomfortable. This was, undoubtedly, one of those times.

Itadori dialed a few numbers into his phone. He paused, raising his brow again, “I think you’ve had enough meat tonight, don’t you?”

“Shut the fuck up,” You sighed, though you laughed a bit at his joke. 

Images of Choso flashed through your mind. The image of him spitting on the tip before slipping it in. The image of him tangling a fist in your hair, craning your head back to look at him while he pounded you into the mattress.

With a faint smirk of your own, you remarked. “You’re probably right. I should save room for all of the meat I’m gonna be eatin’ tonight after you go to bed.”

“Please shut up,” Itadori sighed, running the palms of his hands over his exasperated face. With a shake of his head, he held the phone up to his ear. “I really don’t want to think about my brother putting his dick in you. Not while dinner is also in the question.”

You shrugged. Your phone buzzed. Turning it over, you read the new message you had received.

CHOSO    just now

Whered u go beautiful

Your phone chimed a second time.

CHOSO    just now

Steamed dumplings n fried rice plz

You turned the screen over with a grin, telling Itadori. “Your brother wants steamed dumplings and fried rice.”

“I’d say fuck my brother, but tonight’s game night and I don’t want you taking that literally,” Itadori sighed. Still, he unmuted himself, telling the woman on the other side of the phone, “Another order of fried rice and dumplings, too, please.”

Yuuji Itadori really was the best friend a girl like you could ask for.

a/n: hi there my little steamed dumplins <33 lmk what u thought!!! I love reading ur comments and dms. again, this is a one shot, but I would totally drop another part if yall would like -- gotta show papa choso some love. comment and lmk what u think pookiesss

comments + reblogs are greatly appreciated!!

I obviously do not own jjk or anything related to it. please do not reproduce, copy, or translate my works anywhere. dont fk w me im a bruja.

taglist: @missphanosaur18 ,

wanna join the ' choso kamo ' taglist?| bfb; chapter index

[almostempty]

Look at this photograph

(joel miller x f!reader)

The half sequel (Chapter 1.5) to Never made it as a wise man

WC: 3.5k | Part 1 | Other fics | Rating: 18+ 

Summary: you open Joel’s dick pic and (after examination) decide to give him a call

Note: it’s me ya boi (gn), back with more divorceddadrockdilf!joel bc you guys get me. i know y’all want them to fuck, and I want them to fuck too. unfortunately, this flowed through me first, and I am merely a vessel for the spirit of buttrock joel. 

so, until they get their freak nasty on, please enjoy this as a chapter 1.5, with gratuitous dick pic art critique and crankin’ it over the phone <3 don’t worry, he’s still a lil pathetic. mistakes and bad jokes are all on me. 

Tags: au no outbreak modern joel, divorced dad rock dilf joel x f!reader, picks up right where ch.1 ended, dick pic descriptions, alternating pov, dirty talk, phone sex, masturbation, it’s all just phone sex, but edge yourself through it with fond memories of ch. 1, still crackish, but i am still dead serious about it being hot so idc

inspo playlist i found on spotify: Divorced Dad Rock: BANGERZ

thanks: to @hellishjoel for hosting the #hotdilfsummerchallenge and to everyone who enjoyed part 1 

@gothcsz i promise fuckboy!joel is cookin, he’s just in the crockpot rn. he’s gotta tenderize like a white lady’s pinterest recipe for pulled pork. 

* i tried to tag everyone who wanted more, but if you don’t wanna be here i’ll remove it <3 or if i missed you and you want to be tagged next time pls let me know

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” you blurt out after opening the message from Joel. The vulgar dick pic sends a prickly worm of arousal slithering down your spine. 

Without thinking, you tilt the phone down toward your chest, and your eyes shoot up like you’ve got to make sure nobody saw your naughty message. Warmth blooms on your cheeks as the flash of embarrassment starts to dissolve. You don’t need to hide. 

You’re in your bed, in your apartment, wearing Joel’s grubby Creed t-shirt. The one that smells like Degree Sport and a Jiffy Lube break room. You're free to look at all the dick pics your heart desires. And that’s what you’re going to do. 

The wiggle of bashful energy turns into a squirm as you shift your hips, seeking a comfy position in bed. The t-shirt bunches up under your back and you wonder if the unique Joel scent of it will linger on your pillow beneath your shoulders. You knew pilfering the shirt on the way out the door was a good move, and now you get to enjoy your trophy. It makes it feel like the broad-as-a-barn-door DILF himself was still close enough to touch you. 

It gives you another bright shudder when you think about the noises he made when he came in your hand earlier. The disappointed grunts of “fuck, wait” and how he tried to choke down the throaty groan that came from deep in his chest. Fuck. The perverted gremlins that have a permanent residence in your mind have been roused by the digital dick, and now they chitter and squawk at you. More! More! More!  

You reopen the message, and seeing it gives you another rush. You save the picture to your phone storage. For your personal collection. Mine now, big boy. Your chin starts to dip towards your chest. It’s like you’re giving your phone the Kubrick stare with the ghost of a smirk. You’re free to take your time with this one. And you can be as much of a creep as you want. That makes you sigh softly and sink deeper against your pillows. 

Before this afternoon, it was titillating when Joel would pop up in your mind's eye with his slutty slo-mo scenes. The one where he was bent over your car's engine like Megan Fox in that Transformers movie. Or, that damn happy trail tease with the t-shirt-sweat-rag move. You had just enough imagery to let your dirty thoughts take the wheel. 

And, god, you had a good production team in your mind for projects starring Joel. Adding this will give the team a whole lot more to work with. You can hear them crashing around your conscious like the Animaniacs on the Warner Brothers lot. Horny chaos goblin mode activated. 

Now that you have time to study the image, from the luxury of your microfiber sheets and lamplit bedroom, you let it get pervy. It’s your first real, lingering look–earlier today, you were so busy trying to rile him up in his jeans that you didn’t even pull it out.

It had somehow been even more delicious that way. Having him all needy and unable to stop himself from making a mess in your hand. And not just the noises, but the erratic thrusts into your tight fist? The heat of his pulsing length as he forgot himself? Yeah, you’re gonna remember that one. 

But now? Now you need the visual. If the devil is in the details, you have a new neighbor with horns and a tail. 

You zoom in on everything. Holding your phone closer to your face than necessary, like how do we enhance this bitch? 

And holy shit. 

Drool pools in your mouth and between your legs. You have the knee-jerk reaction to lick your phone. 

You can hear Joel’s voice from earlier today. All husky and grumbly, arguing that you really were a slut for him, like, “You are, aren’t you, though? You came all this way in this excuse for a shirt just to see me?”  He might be touch-starved enough to cream his jeans, but you just know he’s got a nasty mouth in bed, and you’ve got to find out firsthand. Soon. There’s no reason not to, right? 

You pause when a flicker of reasoning tickles the back of your neck. 

You’re back to looking in your review mirror in Joel’s driveway. The last-ditch attempt at checking your ego before you marched to his front door like a Halloween hoe bag version of Betty Crocker. 

You had told yourself you weren’t trying to fuck your (almost) friend’s (sort of) dad. Told yourself there was nothing to pursue, and even if there was, you wouldn’t bite. 

You like Ellie. She’s been (mostly) welcoming to you. You told yourself not to fuck anything up with the only person that’s got a single one of your jokes at your new job. 

You were just bringing some food as a friendly gesture. The fresh visuals to add to your spank bank reel were supposed to be a harmless bonus. Okay, maybe it was a stretch to say you had rolled up to Joel’s driveway with pure intentions. 

And it was an even bigger stretch–when he added that third finger while he finger fucked you on the kitchen counter—wait, no. It was an even bigger stretch when you had told yourself you probably weren’t his type anyway. 

Like, that guy? With the fridge full of Coors Banquet? With those ugly Oakley sunglasses that you know are featured in his only picture on social media that isn’t a car or truck? The guy with all the words to Buckcherry’s “Crazy Bitch” and Puddle of Mudd’s “She Hates Me” memorized? 

Nah, deep down, you knew. You knew there was no way that middle-aged bachelor would turn down any action. But you hadn’t planned on actually making a move, especially not a handjob in the middle of the kitchen. 

That’s on Joel for leaving the door open while trying to rub one out to some bimbo on Brazzers. And for barking at you in that sexy, angry voice. And for teasing you with the bulge in his oil-stained jeans. What were you supposed to do? 

Something must be really rotting in the logic department of your brain. 

Hey! The gremlin voice in your head is still shouting at you. Hey!! Why are we not tasting that dick yet?!! You’re back from your daydream and the excuses you crafted for your behavior, back to laying in your bed with Joel’s dick pic emitting a bright glow in your hand. 

You still do want to lick the screen. 

Fortunately for your immune system, you control your tongue. The critical part of you expels a sigh when you zoom out and take in the picture. 

It’s undoubtedly a nice cock, but the image as a whole? Yikes. 

Why do men have to be so fucking thick? And blunt? Wait, now you’re just describing the slightly blurry boner lighting up your face. Thick as in dense. How can men be so dense? 

No imagination or creativity. No patience. 

You shake your head slightly, scoffing. No wonder you caught him hunched over his cracked phone screen. It was probably the first video loaded on the only site he had saved. 

No sweet, sweet, buildup, setting the mood, or getting cozy. Just whippin’ it out midday or snapping a photo in some ratty sweats. 

Like you’ve never been that touch-starved or down bad?

You ignore that voice to continue your art critique. 

The photo you sent is… sexy. 

Sultry. A flirty tease. It says, “Look who has your shirt? Am I wearing it in bed? Do you think I'm wearing anything else?” 

It’s all implied in the look in your eye and the picture's composition. The tease of the soft curves on the underside of your breasts, asking if he remembers what they felt like. Your hand bunching up the shirt, asking if he remembers the slide of that fist around his cock. If he remembers those fingers, the ones you sucked his sticky spend off of. 

Such delicately crafted imagery. Personalized erotic fine art.  

But men are so crude about it. He sees your tasteful, sexy pic, and immediately, the best his caveman brain can come up with is: send her ur dick! STAT!! Hard cock! Now!!

And, of course, he did. Taken in the dark with the flash on, making ominous shadows in the background. His old charcoal gray sweats are pulled down just enough to expose everything he’s offering. 

The color is slightly blown out from the flash, and it’s a touch blurry where his phone didn’t autofocus quickly enough. His hand looks like it’s straight up, just choking the base of his cock. It’s jarring. 

But that’s really the “man” of it all, right? Nothing subtle or demure about a rock-hard erection jutting towards you, reaching like it could get to you on its own if it just could get a little bit harder. No, there’s nothing coy about the raw thoughts of a man with no blood left in his brain who’s just aching to get inside you, either. 

And fuck if that doesn’t start to override your critical analysis. 

The glare from the flash reflects in the beads of precome rolling down his rosy tip. Mouth wateringly delicious. Your blood rushes to your pussy, filling your tender sex with heat and a deep, needy itch. It makes you dopey and silly. Not cock drunk, but like, dick pic buzzed. 

You know it felt sizeable in your hand earlier, but you aren’t an expert at estimating size from a through-the-pants handjob. You try to recreate your own grip around nothing to estimate the size. 

You giggle to yourself when you realize you're just a woman in her bed staring at her hand, jerking an invisible cock. The horny goblins aren’t amused, though. They’re sick of the daydreaming and distractions. They’re picking fights with the rest of your mind. Throwing rocks and sticks, shrieking and hissing. 

The part of your brain that was griping about how men used to write love letters and respect the art of romance is getting quieter and further from your faculty for caring. You can hear its muffled shouts, and you assure that voice that you won’t give it all up this easily. Then, you completely tune it out. 

The last brain cell with a complaint has you rolling your eyes. You have to be ovulating or something because it’s wholly debased the way this guy is doing it for you. 

He’s just shameless with it. 

You sent him tasteful underboob, and he gives you jumpscare dick-in-the-dark! How is this supposed to escalate? He gave it all up immediately! You send another picture, and he sends you his money shot? What’s he gonna do to give you more? Send you an asshole shot? That one makes you snort. You bet he would do it, too, if you asked. 

Oh, that gives you a better idea. He’s not getting another picture from you at all. You tap on his name and tap the call icon. Of course, this horny motherfucker answers immediately. You aren’t sure it even rang before you’re connected to his porny bedroom voice. 

“What are you wearing, dollface?” 

“I already showed you. Call me dollface again, and I’m hanging up.” 

You can hear his breathing like he’s got the mic on his phone in his mouth. That would typically drive you fucking nuts, but right now, you wanna hear his heavy breath against your ear and feel it hot against your skin.

“All right,” he speaks slowly, distracted. You know why. “You wanna be my slut, instead?” 

Fuck. That has you throbbing between your legs, but he doesn’t get to know that yet. 

“I already told you,” you keep your voice low and soft, “you don’t get to call me a slut for you, not with your behavior.” You strain, trying to hear any other noises, but his mic is probably clogged with dust from his shop or lint from the pocket of his sweats. You can just hear his fucking breathing. 

“What behavior, baby?” he rasps.

“You always jump straight to sending a picture of your cock?” 

You hear the soft snort through the phone. Followed by a deeper, throatier noise. A noise that makes you go cross-eyed and has you running a hand down to your naked lower half to tease yourself. 

“You always steal a man’s clothes after you come on his fingers?” 

You don’t really care what he asked. His voice makes your tongue go numb. Your mind goes blank. You start slowly, coating your own fingers in your slick arousal and drawing circles with a light touch. 

You hum a noncommittal response into the phone. 

“You look good in my shirt, baby, fuck,” he trails off breathlessly. The idea of you in his clothes gets him too close. 

You don’t answer, and he’s too far gone to wait and tease. 

He’s been wound up since you took off this afternoon, and it doesn’t feel like a coincidence that you sent him that pic when he had just gotten into bed.

It had taken ages to get his brother out of the shop this afternoon, and then Joel completely fucked up when he mentioned you and the lasagna. He had to begrudgingly host Tommy for dinner when he couldn’t come up with a better excuse than saying, “I’m gonna need you to fuck off so I can deal with the aching balls I’ve got from your surprise visit scaring away the woman I had my fingers knuckle deep inside.”

But when he was finally alone, it was like fate; your text came through right after he flopped onto his bed. His semi-stiff cock had sprung to full mast at the sight of you. The shirt he knew he didn’t fuckin’ lose, your soft curves, and the expression on your face. Like a vixen. Your PG-13 tease would do more for him than any X-rated video. 

Knowing you were thinking about him and that you wanted him to know? That had him throbbing. He already knew from the desire in your eyes earlier today that you wanted more.

He could swear his fingers still hold the lingering flavor of your wet cunt. The visceral memory of you has him on edge. When he wraps his hand around the base of his cock, he has to pause, holding firmly in place. His body screams and aches for release, but he’s determined to keep it in check. He doesn’t want to blow his load until he gets a response from you. 

He fights his urges, trying not to fuck his own fist in a frantic race to come. 

But, fuck, it’s difficult when he can imagine the sounds you’d make as you sank onto his cock for the first time. The face you’d make. Your tight, wet walls hugging him just right. Like, he’s where he’s meant to be. 

And the way you would look, bouncing on top of him. Your tits, your blissed-out face, the way your soft lips would part when you called out his name and cried for more. 

Those lips. 

The way he’d love to see them swollen and slobbering around the base of his cock. Fuck. His hips buck reflexively, and he hisses out a breath through his clenched teeth. When his phone lights up with your name, he answers before it can make a sound. You’re so bold. He likes that. It plasters a saucy grin on his face. 

And now, with your breathy voice crackling through his janky phone speaker, he’s not gonna last long. You've got him losing his composure for the second time in one day. His whole body is rigid. His toes flex and snap unconsciously, and his jaw tenses. He hears your soft moan, and his thoughts are overflowing. He has no filter left. 

“Yeah, baby? You moaning for me?” His hips punch up into his fist, and he gives in, allowing himself firm, severe strokes. “You’ve got me so hard. You moaning for my cock?” 

You are so not gonna answer that one. If the next words out his mouth are, “Yeah, you like that?” you’re gonna block him for that. But it is undeniably hot to hear him already so worked up. You just know he’s gonna be coming all over himself again for you, and that really does make you moan just for him.

Your noises earn you another growly groan from Joel that you’d kill to hear again. The more uninhibited his noises are, the louder you get in response.

“You using your fingers, or you have a toy?” his question is punctuated with a grunt. 

“Mm, just fingers,” you purr, finally granting him an actual response as you roll your hips. Having Joel on the line gives you a heady sense of satisfaction. Wondering what’s going to come out of his filthy mouth next gives you a shiver of anticipation. 

“I know that sweet pussy is just achin’ to be filled again.” Correct. 

“Yes.” 

“S’right, baby, I know.” 

Joel whimpering on the phone for you is absolutely going to get you off. Your hips chase your own fingers. You switch your phone audio to speakerphone and drop it on your pillow so you can use both hands. Pinching at your own nipples as if it were Joel’s big hand under your smuggled shirt. 

“Tell me,” he pants, “who do you need to fill it for you?” 

“You, Joel.” 

“Fuck,” he chokes out, “you wanna ride this cock, huh baby?” 

“Mhmm.” Bingo. Right again. You wish you could feel the pressure of him inside of you, massaging and soothing away the agony. The weight of his body atop of yours, so solid and secure. You can just about feel the pressure of his pelvis grinding into you. The friction from the coarse curls at the base of his cock getting you closer and closer. 

“Know you’d do so good,” he cuts himself off with a low noise, “so damn sexy.” 

“What else would you do with me?” You wanna hear it. For your own fantasy and to know what he’s into.  

“I’d have you taking me down your throat til you’re crying on it for me, fuck,” a primal noise erupts from him.

Face fucking. Of course. You can’t deny that when he says it, your body responds instantaneously. Your pussy floods eagerly at the idea, and your cheeks burn hot from the visual he gives you. You swallow down your moans, and you can imagine the weight of him on your tongue and the strain of trying to swallow around his cock. 

“You wanna come down my throat?” As if that isn’t a fucking siren song that would make him steer a fleet of ships into a cliff? Your salacious words are too much. 

“Shit. Yeah, baby, wanna watch you swallow for me.” You let all your moans and gasps flow freely for him to hear. “I’m so fuckin’ close,” he can’t stop the words from spilling out his mouth, “let me hear it, baby,” he can’t stop his pending bliss either. “Please, baby, I can’t, oh f-fuck,” he cuts himself off with another primitive grunt, and that’s precisely what your cavewoman cunt wanted to hear. 

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” The horny goblins chant out loud this time. You can envision sweaty, pleading Joel lurching toward a reckless, full-body climax. 

You’re far from grace when the crude sounds he lets out turn you into an uncivilized beast. You hear him gasping, growling, and whining for you. It plunges you into a staggering orgasm. Rolling waves of ecstasy leave you panting and sweating.  

You lie in bed, chest rising and falling beneath the Creed logo. You’re left stunned at the intensity. A dreamy smile spreads across your face, and warm contentment, like honey, pours slowly over your muscles. Relaxing you as your tension softens and you turn to pick your phone back up.

Why was it so wholly consuming just to listen to him? Imagining the mess he made again,

because of you. 

Maybe you’re just made for each other. 

You and Joel. 

Oh, god. You should start listening to Alanis Morissette and Evanescence and trade your car for a 1990s-era Toyota 4runner and a pack of Marlboro Smooths. Really lean into matching his freak and the divorced alt-rock vibes.

You laugh softly into your phone before a deep sigh possesses you, and you nearly fall asleep. You stretch and smile, letting your heavy eyelids rest. 

He’s muttering something at you, catching his breath from the stress of being that fucking horned up for you all evening. And the overexertion of lasting long enough to hear your sweet cries of release. 

“You’re unreal,” his smoky voice rings with awe. “Got me shooting loads like a fucking teenager.”

You snort at the juxtaposition of his tender voice and crude comment before ending the call with a whispered, “Goodnight.” 

It shouldn’t make you smile. 

But he’s somehow such an enticing disaster. A cliche lonely bachelor, a cocksure idiot who knows he’s got a big dick and a generous guy who was willing to fix a stranger's car. 

You shouldn’t be trying to justify it, but you know he had you figured out earlier. 

You may be sated tonight, but you won’t be able to rest.

Not until you get your hands on that DILF – or rather, your pussy on that dick. 

divider by @cyberangel-graphics

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[kookslastbutton]

Love's Remedy, On Fire ༓ jjk (m) l ch. I

✑ Summary: Jungkook is a romantic. He comes from a highly intelligent family who wants him to carry out the lineage. Being this way, he goes to college to be a pharmacist but his friends say college isn't just about studying! With a little persuasion, he goes to his first frat party thinking his hat will help him pick up a girl-or woman he means.

Pairing: STEM major!virgin!jungkook x STEM major!hot girl!reader

AU/genre: angst, smut, fluff, s2l, college au, mini-series

Rating: M, 18+

Word Count: 3,027

Warnings: jk is very cute and determined, jk a romantic, oc has philophobia (fear of relationships), oc is not mean here but she teases jk, feat Jackson and Jae-beom, if i missed warning lmk!

Now Playing: seven, summertime sadness, she’s kerosene, angels like you+

A/N: um ok I swear this was supposed to be a pwp crack fic about jk wanting to get laid with a hat on. This turned into a very angsty but fluffy series and I'm sorry 😬 lmk what you think and tysm for reading! 💞 I know title is sucky

ch. lI >> | series masterlist

Over the entirety of his nineteen years, Jungkook was pushed to prepare for one thing—college entrance exams.

It was a huge deal and getting into one of the leading universities in South Korea was a must for him. You see, the Jeons were nobody to laugh at with the bulk of them being high-ranking medical doctors, engineers, and lawyers. Continuing this legacy, therefore, was far from a choice, Jungkook had to follow suit.

When the results of the exams came back Jungkook passed with flying colors. It wasn't a surprise though since he spent all his time studying his ass off until the dawn. Jungkook indeed got accepted into one of the most prestigious universities in Seoul and his parents, teachers, and friends were quick to give their congratulations. He felt good too...no, he felt damn good.

Now he was here he was, standing in the middle of campus with his bag slung over one shoulder and a few orientation papers in his hand. It was still the first week of classes and he desperately needed to get to the science building. (He had chosen to follow his father's footsteps and go into biochem).

"Excuse me," he asks with nervous eyes and a wobbling lip. "Do you happen to know where the science building is? I'm late for class but I can't seem to find it."

The student he walks up to for directions looks about his age. He isn't sure if she's in her first year like him but she looks competent with the way she's standing, feet spread apart and a hand on her hip. The skirt she's sporting is incredibly short but the top is full length. She's smacking on hot pink gum as well, popping bubbles every now and then.

"Keep walking straight until you see the statue of President Kim, then take a right. The science building will be right there." You hardly spare him a glance but you make the mental note that he's cute with his fluffy black hair and big lost eyes. You consider asking his name but you shrug the feeling. He was cute yes, but he was too cute which isn't your type.

Jungkook gives a small thank you and walks off. Your directions are vague, but hopefully finding the statue will help him. After a few steps, he looks over his shoulder to see you laughing with your friend.

You have a gorgeous smile.

Probably the last time he'll see you though, he thinks. Jungkook isn't sure how he'd be with a woman given the fact he's never been with one. Surely he'd do better than half the dumbasses out there but guys like him don't stand a chance with a woman like you.

You look like you go for the experienced type and that wasn't him. He goes back to what he was doing, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

"Hey man, what's your name?" A young guy with bleached blonde hair slides into the seat next to him. Apparently, he wasn't the only one late. "I'm Jackson." The man goes in for a fist bump but stops when it's very obvious it won't be reciprocated.

"I'm Jungkook," he says, more concentrated on what his professor is saying than anything else. Jackson continues talking, however, despite his focused state.

"So, I'm assuming this is your first year?" Jungkook nods. "Me too. Where you from?"

"Busan."

"Cool cool, I'm from Hong Kong." Hearing this makes Jungkook shift his eyes over immediately. The last thing he expected was to meet someone from China. Was this Jackson dude just pulling his leg or was he being serious? Nevertheless, it intrigues him.

"I'm an exchange student." Jackson clarifies. "Always wanted to see what South Korea was like and I know Seoul's got a pretty thriving economy so..." He shrugs. "Figured I'd give it a go and my parents support it. As long as I stay on my doctor's track of course."

Well damn. A doctor was not what Jungkook assumed a guy like Jackson would be going for. This was a prestigious school but it's still a gen ed class they're in right now. Anyone from most majors could be taking it. If he had to guess, Jackson would be a businessman.

"Well enough about me though," Jackson quips. "What do you study?"

"Biochem. My dad works as a physician and my mom's a chemical engineer. I'm going for pharmacology."

"Shit bro," Jackson cusses freely. Jungkook doesn't mean to jump in response but he does. Being all formal talk at home, it's unventured territory. "You guys must be a family of geniuses. Wait...what's your last name?"

"Jeon?"

Jackson nearly falls back in his chair when he hears the name fall from Jungkook's lips. He covers his mouth with both hands to keep himself under wraps. "Are you serious? You're from the Jeon family? Fuck, man, I've been hearing about your family since I was a kid that's how influential your family has been in the medical industry."

Jungkook finds himself intertwining his hands. His family is well-established in what they do but it never occurred to him that they were that well-known. Sure his dad's been featured in a couple of magazines for his work and his mom's been given several awards for her research. But he didn't think they'd gone that publicly beyond their own town.

"Oh shit I'm sorry. Am I making you uncomfortable talking about this? Promise you I'm not a creep or anything!" The urgency in Jackson's tone stirs up the classroom, peers looking over at the two of them in annoyance.

"Do you mind shutting up?" A chestnut-haired boy is the first to speak up. He looks thoroughly pissed, to say the least with his cat-like eyes narrowing at the both of them. "Some of us actually want to graduate here."

"Chill out man. We're sorry." Jackson gives Jungkook a small tight-lipped smile. "We'll talk later."

"We will?"

Jackson gives him a slap on the back. "Yeah it's a given. You and I," he gestures between the two of them. "We should stick together. Being that we're both new around here and we both studying med. Also, was going to wait to tell you but I wanna go to this awesome party that goes on that kicks off the year. You'd think I'd be confident to go by myself but if you're free, I could use a buddy."

A party. Some blonde-haired boy who could very likely become the center of attention wants him, Jeon Jungkook, to go to a party? Jungkook spends most of his time playing video games, studying chem tables, and watching p—well he shouldn't say that part out loud.

"If you don't want to then I get it." Jackson scratches his head. "I don't wanna pressure you or anything. We did just meet and I just thought you looked cool so...."

"Okay." Jungkook accepts before giving it much thought. Besides studying, he was told college was a time to also let loose and have fun. Freedom and all that. That's what his friends back home told him at least. They also mentioned getting laid but...who would give him that fat chance?

If anything, maybe he'll get a friend by going to this little party. Jungkook shoots a small smile in return.

"Okay listen," Jackson says, opening the door to his black Lexus. "I heard this party gets crazy so just be smart and don't get into too much punch."

Jungkook hops in the passenger seat. "But I love punch." He straps his seatbelt in, totally unaware of the punch Jackson"s referring to.

"It's spiked Kook. And I'm guessing your alcohol tolerance is pretty low?" Jackson twists the key and pulls out of the campus parking lot. He doesn't mean to be insulting or anything but his new buddy doesn't look like the party-hardy kinda guy.

In fact, Jungkook decided to....well, wear a hat to this gig. It's not a baseball cap, beanie, or even a greasy cowboy hat.

It's a sunhat. Black at least.

"By the way Jungkook. I don't wanna sound like a dick or anything but can you explain the thing on your head? Because the rest of you looks great, black dress shirt and jeans."

"Oh um." Jungkook rubs his hands on his thighs. He's embarrassed to tell Jackson the truth but he's his buddy now, right? Maybe this can be a bonding thing for them. "I thought it was cute? I mean I wanna...ah." Jungkook lets out a nervous chuckle.

"What is it, man? I promise I won't judge."

"I wanna," he starts again. "Uhm you see I heard that if you wear something out of the ordinary that people will like you more or something. Like they'll be interested..."

"Mhm, cute and out of the ordinary things huh? What kind of people are you trying to impress Jungkook?" Jackson gives a knowing smirk. Who knew his buddy schemes these kinds of stuff.

Jungkook speeds through the answer. "Grs."

"Say it properly and slower."

"Wanna get a girl....woman! I mean...a woman." Jungkook sheepishly grins at Jackson. Please don't laugh at me, he begs silently.

"You dog!" Jackson pushes Jungkook's shoulder. "My little buddy is a man, well well well. So are you looking for a girlfriend or something else?"

"Wife!" Jungkook bugs out his eyes, no hesitation at all. Jackson struggles not to give even the slightest snort. Didn't Jungkook know what kind of party this is?

"That's very sweet but this isn't the place you're going to find a wife, Jungkook. That's more like if we were going to a speed dating thing....this, this is a frat party, little bro."

Jackson pulls up to the front of the giant, lit-up house. They could hear electronic music blasting outside and all over the lawn were shirtless guys and scantily-dressed women. Some were off making out while others were drinking in groups.

Jungkook tenses at the sight. He used to fancy black tie parties where everyone is dressed to the hill and drinking is moderate. Jackson is right, he is not finding a wife here. Dammit. But he really doesn't want to give up his hat.

"Yo Jackson," a guy with pitch-black hair greets the man with a fist bump. So that's how it's done, Jungkook observes. "Glad you could make it!"

"Jae-beom, what's good man?! I wouldn't miss this party for the world. I brought a friend." He ushers Jungkook to come forward. "This is Jungkook. He's in my class."

"Nice to meet you Jungkook!" Jae-beom moves in for a fist bump which ends up making contact with Jungkook's fist. It's not as sharp as with Jackson but it's a fist bump. "I used to work with Jackson over the summer. Always stealing my tips this man!"

"Hey, I did not do that!" Jackson gives a hearty laugh and shoves Jae-beom hard enough for him to lose his balance a little. "You kept leaving for a smoke. I had to wait your tables half the time!"

"I wasn't going for a smoke Jack—woah hey baby. What's your name?" The man shifts his focus to the girl walking past them. She has bright red lipstick, a black crop top, and jean shorts.

"Fuck off." She snaps before looking at Jungkook. "Cute hat by the way."

Everyone looks at Jungkook at that moment who's motionless. They hope to god he says something back but he only stares. The girl smirks at him and quirks her head to the side. "What's your name? I gotta friend who'd be all over you in a heartbeat, though she'd never admit it."

Jackson throws a mouth over his hand, eyes wide in amusement. This girl did not just propose Jungkook, his buddy who's looking for a wife, to get off with her friend.

"Um...yeah no. No, it's okay but thanks." Jungkook can barely sound the words. This girl in front of him was really, really hot but intimidating. "Yes thank you but I'm looking for a..."

"Don't-" Jackson lunges forward.

"Wife." Jungkook smiles at the girl a little too angelically. "I'm Jungkook though. What's your name?"

The girl bites her lip. "Well, it's too bad then Jungkook. Because you're so fucking cute and I know you'd like each other. Why don't you meet her? Even if it's just to say hi?"

Jungkook looks at Jackson who only shrugs. "Up to you man."

Jungkook makes his way through the heavy crowd. He bumps into a few people on the way but thankfully he's able to still see the girl, apparently who goes by Crystal.

Jungkook isn't convinced it's her real name but if that's what she wants to be called who is he to dispute?

Once they get to the other side of the room, Jungkook spots a woman with a tight black dress on. It falls mid-thigh and has laced-up sides. When they near the woman Jungkook feels himself sweating bullets.

"__!" Crystal taps on your shoulder. "I brought you, someone, to meet. This is Jungkook!"

You turn around, drink in hand. You look fucking stunning. Jungkook can't believe it's you. He's seeing you again and he wishes he didn't wear this damn hat now! He goes to yank it off but Crystal stops him.

"Hey, the hat's cute. Keep it on!"

"I-but," he looks at you. "But it's making me hot." You're making me hot.

You give a shrug. "Do what you want Jungkook. It's your head at stake." You take a sip of your drink. You really did not expect to see the shy guy from this morning be at a frat party. "Good to see you again."

"Oh, you know each other?"

"We had a slight run in this morning. Baby had to get to the science building." You take a scan at what he's wearing. Black shirt that cuts at the elbows, denim jeans, and sneakers. Not bad compared to the sweater he was wearing this morning.

"I'm—I'm not a baby." Jungkook can't stop himself from feeling offended. Whether you meant it to be condescending or not, he doesn't want to be seen as a baby! Especially not to you. "I'm a man, okay? I go to the gym and stuff."

"Okay I'm sorry," you say. "I just call everyone baby. I didn't mean anything."

That doesn't seem to relax Jungkook. "I can lift a fuck ton of weights too." He stops once he hears himself cuss out loud. Usually, he does that in his head....goddamn it.

"Mmm," you step towards him, careful not to touch him. Usually by now you'd already be in the bathroom getting railed by some punk but not tonight. Jungkook has your attention. "Can you now? I'm not sure if I believe you. You're kind of a twig, not to be rude or anything."

Jungkook's face turns to a darker shade, eyes piercing into yours. "I can show you I'm not lying."

"Go ahead, do what you will." You fake a yawn until you find yourself suddenly in his arms. They're a lot stronger and more muscular than you thought. "Jungkook! Put me down!"

Everyone at the party starts staring over, giggling at each other. Jungkook gives a satisfied grin. "I have you in my arms, what are you gonna do now? Not believe me again?"

"I-" You're certain your face glowing with embarrassment. "Um no, I believe you Jungkook. Please, set me down."

"Not til you say it --." He challenges-brat. "Say I'm not a baby."

"Jungkook I told you I call everyone baby. It wasn't-okay you're not a baby. Obviously, you lift a lot now please put me down."

Finally, he does what you ask, a proud face on. His hat is a little crooked so you reach out and fix it. It's a reflexive response, you don't even know what you're doing let alone Jungkook.

"Oh, sorry your hat was just-"

"Please go out with me. On a date I mean?" He's so terribly timid but he can't help himself now. He had you in his arms and you're just so beautiful and charming. He needs to know more about you. It's a must.

"Well, I-" Everyone waits for your answer, very nosy clearly. You look at Jungkook with his big eyes and pouty lips. You don't wanna say no but relationships aren't your thing. And it seems that is defiantly all he's in for.

Jungkook's shoulders sulk. He isn't expecting a yes but he was hoping that maybe you'd give him a tiny chance.

"Come on __," Crystal whispers. "Look at him. Don't you think he's cute? Like really cute?"

You look at your best friend with weary eyes. He's so cute but, there's that but. That relationship but. He's going to be the type to want to do all the couple things and snuggle and everything. Jungkook needs someone who is willing to do all the stuff and you? You're not good at any of it.

"I'm sorry Jungkook," you start. "I don't know if-"

"One date __. If it's a no I won't bother you again. I just....I just think you're really gorgeous and I wanna get to know you. That's all." He takes the hat off his head, letting his fluffy hair run free. You kinda wanna touch it if it didn't makes things weird.

His words, however, make your heart thump the tiniest amount. The only time you've ever been called gorgeous is when guys try to get in your bed. It's all you've known other than maybe from a relative. Gorgeous is used pretty regularly, you know that, but this time it's used in an entirely different context.

"I'll tell you what," he says, pulling out his phone. "I'll give you my number and if you change your mind text me or call. I won't bug you and you can delete it right after this if you want, I promise."

You end up taking his number and Jungkook leaves to go back to his buddies. "You should go out with him __," Crystal says.

"I don't know." You watch him stride away. "I'll think about it."

A/N: what am i doing? Idk im running away now bye! lmk what you think and tysm for reading! Comment/ask to be on taglist 💞

Masterlist

no reposting, copying, or translating my work– © kookslastbutton

[boiohboii]

The people's sweethearts

Ch II

(Verstappen!reader x tom holland x zendaya)

Soulmate au

YN Verstappen had been through hell, by her own father, for something she didn't even ask for. She grew up learning that she should hate what was given to her, after all it was the reason her father was always angry with her. So what should she do when the one thing she learned to hate is the one thing that brings her love, safe and comfort that not even her older brother can compare.

WARNING: not proof read, Jos Verstappen (worsned like 10 times for this fic) poly relationship, derogatory terms by father, abusive father. If I missed anything else please let me know

Masterlist

ch.I

Faceclaim: kiki hertz

Tom prided himself in never exposing his soulmark, he let a lot of things out that shouldn't be and his soulmark not being one of those is such an achievement. Mostly because from a very young age, when he started acting, his mother would make sure he covered it up with makeup so that no one, not even those behind the scenes would see it.

"So, you're invited to watch cars drive in circles?"

Meeting Zendaya had been a dream, they both felt the need to be closer to each other whenever possible even before they discovered their identical soulmarks. Both of them working and hanging around each other made it so much difficult to conceal their newfound relationship and eventually the whole world knew that both of them were soulmates, and not just that, everyone was now aware that Tom Holland and Zendaya Coleman were fated to have a third lover, a third soul with them to keep them sane from all the chaos their lives bring in the form of fans and crazy paparazzi.

"How can you say that?" Tom looked back at his girlfriend as he poured himself some tea "you literally met Lewis Hamilton not that long ago!"

Tom was painfully aware of the fact that Zendaya isn't that interested in either of the sports he enjoys: formula 1 and golf.

"Oh yeah, at a fashion show," Zendaya recalls as she moves over to hug tom from behind, resting her chin on his head. "He was nice."

"Do you think we'll meet our darling soon?" Zendaya asked, making Tom leave his drink to hold her hand in reassurance.

"I think so," turning around he let go of one of zendaya's hands to let his palm rest on her cheek "I know that I met you when I kept thinking about my soulmate, so I have a feeling that we'll meet darling soon."

The couple had taken to calling their third soulmate Darling, a nickname that they both agreed to reserve for their missing soul.

"Yeah, I feel so too."

Liked by maxverstappen1, F1wags&faves, verstappentruther and 683,519 others

Kellypiquet: a weekend with her was truly missed.

maxverstappen1: ♥️♥️

username: God, yn verstappen is so pretty

username: I wanna be her soulmate so bad

username: LOOK AT HER CHEEKS! I WANNA BITE THEM!

With his work schedule Tom wasn't able to attend much f1 races, but when he could he did, and most of them were the infamous English track, Silverstone.

But here in Monaco, the races were something else, Tom can feel how the people in this country were raised watching these cars from their homes, cheering for their favorite driver and the preparations for the race throughout the entire country are just mind blowing (he promised himself that he would bring Zendaya here for a vacation, this place is amazing).

"Is something wrong?" The voice of Christian Horner stopped Tom dead in his tracks, the team principle of the red bull formula 1 team making him feel like a little child caught with his hand in a cookie jar.

"Oh, um, yeah, yes-" clearing his throat Tom couldn't help still looking around, wanting to see the reason of the all too familiar tugging his heart "just looking around, the race is very different from Silverstone, the atmosphere is just so..."

And there it was, the reason his heart is pulling, the person he hoped he would meet as soon as he felt their presence in this specific garage, his darling; their darling.

"Well, Monaco is the heart of motorsport, especially formula 1, you can't live here without being a fan really."

Christian wasn't an idiot, he had eyes and his observational skills were too good. It wouldn't be the first time he witnessed a celebrity looking at yn verstappen, the girl hooking everyone in with her innocent face and charming smile. It would, however, be the first time he saw someone loose their breath over her and he knew what that meant, he knew that expression; he had went through it when he met his wife, he saw it on Max when he met Kelly and now he is going to see it on yn.

He thought he met an angel when he saw Zendaya, he thought that the feeling he would get when meeting their darling wouldn't be as strong, as intense, but seeing her there, standing next to Adrian Newey with a notebook and a pen in her hands, discussing something that seemed so important, made him unaware of anything else. She was all he could see, hear and feel. She was who they had been missing, and god did she make him want to scream at the top of his lungs.

He felt his chest swell up with emotions as he quickly reached for his phone, calling the one person he knew would calm him down.

"Hey baby, how's the race going?"

"Z, she's here," Tom rushed out as he maneuvered between the never ending sea of people to a quite place- well as quite as it can get in Monaco during a formula 1 race.

"What? Who's here?"

"Darling! She's here!"

"Darling is a she?"

Gathering her thoughts Zendaya left the lounge area of her hotel suite, dismissing the makeup artists and stylists with a smile and wave of her hand before entering the bedroom within the suite.

"Okay, okay, calm down baby," Zendaya spoke as she ran her hand through her hair "how about you go talk to her, yeah?"

"I can't, oh my god, what if she doesn't even feel the same pull- it's a stupid way to describe it but you know that's how I felt when I met you and it's the same but so much worse cause you're not here with me and I can't do this-"

"Honey, calm down, it's okay, let's take it step by step, did you check her wrist?" Being met with silence worried the tall girl, she knew how it might come off to him when she was basically asking him to check actual evidence and not take his feelings too seriously "I know your feelings, I get that, I felt the same with you, but it's better to be safe than sorry."

"Yeah, yeah," shuffling was heard before Tom apologies for, what zendaya assumed, pumping into someone "no, yeah, you're right, stay with me on the line, I'm going to try and see. She's wearing a sleeveless dress so that will make it easier."

Even though she didn't want to spoil it for herself, she wanted to get 100% of the awe and the fondness for herself, Zendaya couldn't help but ask "what does she look like?"

"So beautiful, Z" the way Tom spoke, the breathlessness and amazement in his voice made her want to cry, she wanted to be there, she wanted to be with him when they first saw her, that's how they always envisioned it.

"Okay, so I checked, and oh my god it's there, it's the same Z, what am I supposed to do, oh my god"

"Here's what you're going to do, you're going to tell her right now!"

"There are like 100 people around, how am I supposed to do that!"

"I don't know tom, tell her you wanna speak to her or something, make it up!"

"I can't do this, I can't, I am freaking out!"

"Oh my god, you're an actor, pretend it's a scene"

"Will you be able to pretend?"

"Well no, but I'm not the one that can see her, am I!"

"Okay, okay, deep breaths, I am going to tell her with you on the phone, alright?" Tom said as he started moving towards the blonde, his confidence building up with his taller soulmate cheering him on through the phone

"Holy shit" and there goes the little confidence he had

"What? Tom! Answer me! Is she dating someone, I swear to god if she is-"

"No, no, she's not," looking back at his soulmate "at least I don't think she is. God, there's no way I am telling her shit now."

"Why not?"

"Her brother can literally run me over with his small rocketship of a car! I am not doing anything when he is literally two centimetres away from her!"

What Tom failed to realise was how Christian Horner had joined the pair of siblings, telling Max and Yn of his earlier observations, which made all three of them look at the young brit in sync.

"Um, Z, I think we won't have to worry about me telling her."

CH.III

{taglist: @celesteblack08 @minkyungseokie @woozarts @keii134 @celesteblack08 @sainzluvrr @fangirl125reader}

[tacitoru]

pleaser - gojo satoru ; geto suguru

pairing: gojo satoru/reader/geto suguru

summary: A wedding for an old friend reunites you with a figure from your past. Except now he's famous, successful, and rich - richer, at least. You're not having any of it, but Gojo is determined to show you how much he's grown since you've last seen him.

rating: explicit

tw: basketball!au, enemies to lovers, slight non-con

wc: 5.1k

ch: 1/5

read on ao3

At long last, my attempt at unhinged Satoru and the basketball au that's been rotting in my brain since that damn twitter post. Enjoy!

Now

The wedding is a quiet, modest affair, but that doesn’t stop the paparazzi from finding you.

Or not you, but rather the several high-profile guests rumored to be attending your friend’s big day. You peak out at the gaggle of people and cameras gathered at the front of the venue from the makeshift bride’s dressing room. Anxiety blossoms in your chest.  If this is the turnout for just the rehearsal dinner, you can only imagine what chaos will ensue for the main event. Any other day, you might have been among them - standing among a crowd of sweaty, haranguing men, juggling a Canon with a lens the length of your forearm in the hope that the next picture you snap lands you your next paycheck. Your next meal.

“Don’t worry,” Utahime sidles up behind you just as your stomach growls. She places a gentle hand on your shoulder with a knowing smile, guiding your attention away from the window. “Our vows are short. Dinner is right around the corner.”

Having made the mistake of arriving at the rehearsal dinner on an empty stomach, you’ve kept your hands and stomach occupied with the free-flowing wine and sake offered by the venue up to this point. Placing your glass on the windowsill you pat your stomach with one hand and take her manicured hand in the other, shooting her a grin and shifting the unease from your expression with practiced grace. “As long as you still promise I can take home leftovers.”

You take a step back to take in your former colleague, adorned in a beautiful pink kimono. Even in the fading afternoon light, Utahime is radiant, practically glowing from the inside out at the prospect of marrying her best friend. You give her hand a gentle squeeze and tell her as much.

The clamor outside the venue gets a little louder. The crowd grows restless. Glancing out the window again, you slip out of your friend’s grasp to pocket your hands and ball them into fists in the fabric. You think you spot a few white basketball jerseys among the crowd. “Well, that’s just fucking rude.”

“No, no. Don’t look over there, look at me.” Utahime admonishes, pinching your chin between two fingers to twist your head back in her direction with a grave expression, redirecting you once again with a little less gentleness. 

“But that’s bad luck, don’t they know - the fucking audacity -,”

The bride-to-be shakes your head with her grasp on your chin before releasing you with a scowl.

“Sports fans will be sports fans. Plus, they’re technically not even attending the wedding, so it doesn’t even count, right?”

 Maybe it’s the wine getting to you, but the fact that one person can cause such a hassle before they’ve even arrived grates on your nerves more easily than usual. You make a rebuttal but it dies on your lips at the sight of Utahime’s pleading expression. It’s the night before her wedding day - you should be doing everything in your power not to transfer the bubbling pit of unease manifesting in your chest in light of what awaits you beyond the dressing room doors. 

“I know it’ll be difficult having him here, but he’s important to Shoko, so he’s important to me,” she tells you not unkindly, and not for the first time.

“I’ll be civil.” You promise and mean it. You had practiced your carefully crafted looks of disinterest in the mirror in the nights leading up to tonight. Any word spoken in his direction over the course of this weekend would be laden with well-rehearsed apathy.

Utahime sighs, adjusting the neckline of your dress before moving to return to where the gaggle of her aunts and cousins sit and gossip among themselves. Waiting for the rehearsal to start. “I’m less worried about what you’ll do when you see him, than what Gojo will do when he sees you.”

-

This day isn’t yours, but the days building up to it have been an excruciating crawl. The full picture hadn’t yet registered with you when you first received the wedding invitation. Initially, you had been overjoyed and honored to see the epic conclusion of what had been a long time coming - the marriage of Ms. Shoko Ieiri and Utahime Iori.

You remember scrambling for your phone and screaming, crying. Blubbering your well wishes to an exasperated Utahime and sleep-disheveled Shoko over a video call. The ceremony would take place in less than six months and there was so much to do. What dress would you wear? How would you afford to book a flight to Kyoto so soon? How much tourism could you squeeze in between your arrival and the ceremony? 

The guest list hadn’t exactly been on the forefront of your mind.

Utahime and Shoko had proven themselves to be far from the flashy wedding type. The venue of choice was a tiny art gallery in Kyoto, with just enough space for a selective audience to be present to witness the nuptials. You had anticipated meeting your former colleague’s childhood friends and relatives. You had assumed that, aside from Utahime’s family in the States and an old classmate or two from college, you would be the furthest traveling guests. Reuniting with your ex-college situationship is the last thing you would have expected given your circumstances and his.

And yet when the bride-to-be texts you a photo of Shoko and the man in question looking buddy-buddy at a dive bar captioned with a simple heads up a week before your departure, it’s already too late to refund your flight. Of course, world-famous top-ranking NBA player Satoru Gojo would be best friends - childhood pals, even - with renowned sports medicine physician Shoko Ireri.

Of course.

“So is he, like, a bum in real life or something?” A family friend of Utahime’s whispers to you from where you’re seated at the back of the ceremony space, watching as the wedding coordinator flits about the venue, rearranging furniture and decorations about the altar. She seems young - also a foreigner, maybe early twenties, and looks about as out of place as you feel. You distantly wonder which relative she knows.

“Hm?”

“You know…”

“Who?”

“That basketball player. You’re that journalist, right? I like your dress.”

You furl your lips and do your best to not appear peeved. So much for being a fly on the wall. It appears that feigning ignorance won’t get you out of this one, but you should have known better - this is Japan’s all-star athlete she’s talking about, after all. 

“Thanks. Yeah, yup. That’s me.”

“Yeah, he’s an asshole?”

“What-, no. No, that’s not what I said.” You blunder for the right words, torn between overexplaining yourself and telling her to get the fuck away from you. Taking a sip from your new glass, you glance around the rim and look for one of the brides or a signal that the rehearsal is starting to save you to no avail. At this point, even after all of these years, you’re not used to the questions. The speculations. The envious glances and disdainful side-eyes that follow. “He’s fine, great,” you offer her instead with a noncommittal shrug. “I wouldn’t really know.”

The guest looks surprised to hear this, but then you think back to how she referred to you as that journalist , and figure she assumes that’s still your field of work. Or that maybe you’re still in touch.  It’s not a completely unfair assumption - Gojo was the much-needed catalyst to your career. Or at least, writing about him was. Whether he was just as charitable towards you in other, more illicit ways was always up for debate in the fan circles online whenever your article was brought into question.

Silence falls between you both as you watch the wedding coordinator struggle to carry two chairs across the room by herself. Neither of you stands to offer help. The guest doesn’t let the pause in conversation last for very long. You can practically hear the words buzzing behind her lips before she can even say them. Or maybe your ears are just ringing. “I read your article, I think.”

“Mm. Yeah?”

“Sure. It’s a shame, what happened to those two boys.”

“Mmhmm.”

“And they were so young too.”

“Yes, we all were.”

Your response comes off a little sharper than you intend it to be. The woman jolts a little in her seat, as though it’s just occurred to her that you had to have been a witness to the falling out she’s referring to for you to have published the detailed account that you did. To write the piece that cemented the legacy of your careers together forever, or at least until the athlete’s inevitable downfall. The invisible string that tied you to Gojo Satoru no matter how far you ran or how often you tried to cut it.

The ringing in your ears gets a little bit louder. Your lips bruise under the pressure of your teeth before you take another sip.

Despite it being five years after its publishing, there is no escape from the meteoric impact of your last submission to your alma mater's student newspaper and the events that transpired before it made print. Even if you could somehow stop the memories from resurfacing, the public will do its due diligence to remember for you. To remind you wholeheartedly. Sometimes you wished back then you had learned a lot sooner to say no to some tasks when offered. But back then you had been so eager to please. 

The guest clears her throat and shifts in her seat, effectively chastened. You wonder what the chances are that Shoko is hiding a pack of smokes somewhere in her dressing room, and if anyone would notice if you snuck off for a moment. The wine is slowly creeping up on you like a warm cloak. A drunk cigarette to take the edge off is beginning to sound nice.

“Have you seen him play since he joined the league?” The woman asks in a poor attempt to change the subject. You eye her wearily, facing her directly this time to discern if she’s a fan. She prattles on without waiting for you to answer, nervous in the face of your sudden full attention. “He’s a freak of nature, I swear, and that smile when he-,”

“No, m’fraid not.” You cut her off, finally making to stand. The idea of seeking out Shoko’s cigarettes before the rehearsal starts becomes more and more appealing the longer you sit here. Something in the way the woman scrunches her face at your dismissal tells you you’ll be hearing about this interaction from Utahime later. 

“Really? He’s literally everywhere these days.” She remarks, but you hear the underlying snark loud and clear: I find that hard to believe.

The double doors to the ceremony space are flung open behind the harried wedding coordinator as she suddenly rushes from the room, whispering fervently into the phone pressed to her cheek. Beyond them, the cacophony of paparazzi and fast clicks of camera shutters spill into the space. That’s my cue to leave.

You offer the family friend one last tight-lipped smile before turning to escape in the direction opposite of all the noise.

“Honestly, I’m just not a big sports fan.”

–

You’re purposefully sitting on opposite sides of the room, but that doesn’t stop Gojo Satoru from sweeping the place head to toe in the middle of the rehearsal. 

You try to maintain your tipsy focus on literally anything else. The ceremony altar, the guest next to you breathing a little too hard, the price tag of the dress digging into your back that you’re determined to keep on until you can return it next week.  Anything other than the flagrant way the grown man in a designer button-up and shades twists and turns in his seat to scan the room. 

The pseudo-ceremony plays out before you, as you watch from the Iori family’s side of the room as ceremony officials walk the soon-to-be newlyweds through the process. The couple surprised you with their decision to go the more traditional route, but as you watch the rehearsal, you can appreciate how much more intimate this is compared to the alternative. The lack of a bridal party or audience participation is also a plus.

Wondering how much more different this affair would have been if your former colleague had needed a bridal party and you had been a bridesmaid, you allow your mind to wander. Would Gojo have been a groomsman? Or would he also be considered… a bridesmaid…?

Your wine-addled mind conjures up the image of Gojo and his Herculean figure squeezed into a modest gown, and you can’t help but huff through your nose. Somehow, regrettably, you know he would manage to pull it off. Curiosity getting the better of you, you finally manage to glance in his direction, hoping his attention has returned to your mutual friends as they nervously fumble through the ceremony steps.

Immediately, your eyes lock and you whip around to face forward again, incensed. With little care for discretion or the several other scrutinous pairs of eyes that follow his every move,  Gojo’s head had been fully turned in your direction. Even the dark tint of his Ray-Bans - indoors, of course - couldn’t hide the full weight of his gaze. His megawatt smile turned up to its full effect once he’s got your attention. The athlete wiggles his fingers in a girlish wave.

You fume in your seat for a minute. So much for appearing uncaring. Whatever, you think, it’s not like you wouldn’t have had to face him eventually. In a setting this intimate, it was inevitable that you would run into him at some point. You will just have to do your due diligence and keep your distance.

Despite this, you still manage to cast one final look his way, having mustered up enough confidence to pull together a sneer. If you can’t give off an air of disinterest, then your next best play is disdain. The contempt is not hard to reach for, but your concern grows for the other guests playing audience to two performances, unwillingly. You wonder if that family friend of the Irori’s from earlier, seated a few rows behind you, has her phone out. 

Gojo, whose unwavering stare in your direction at this point could be classified as downright rude for the setting, appears unbothered. More likely amused. His smile is unshakeable. Before you can redirect your attention, he mouths three words that make you go rigid in your seat.

There you are.

The ringing in your ears grows a little louder.

– 

When you finally do find a moment of reprieve to make use of the cigarettes you “borrowed” from Shoko, the damage is already done.

As you pace around the enclosed garden beside the art gallery, away from the warmth of the festivities, panic begins to set in. The cool spring night air is sobering and nips at your cheeks.

All it took was one look to rattle the carefully conducted wall around your emotions and suddenly you’re second-guessing your ability to do this. Your strength to be here.

It feels like you have spent so much of the past few years of your life fighting for your independence from Satoru Gojo. There was a time, even before the article was published when the man had had a hand in every aspect of your life. And you had welcomed it. Directionless, spineless, and eager to make something of yourself. You had become a wayward sailor in the sea of post-graduate opportunities and Satoru Gojo had positioned himself as your North star. 

And there was no doubt about the way your life had flourished when you let him. Not just the parties and the lavish gifts and the recognition. 

The power that came with being associated with Satoru Gojo, even as a young college student and recent graduate, was unimaginable. But what you had been hooked on the most was his recognition, his steadfast attention to you, once earned. His belief in your craft. That kind of rare affection, the feeling of being seen - of belonging - had been his greatest gift to you. And that affection had buried itself so deep into your heart that once it had blossomed, it was nearly impossible to manage, and even more difficult to weed out.

You think of dark hair and amber eyes, and the warning that was afforded to you too little too late. 

The cigarette, slightly bent from your pocket, trembles in your fingers while you dig through the other pocket for a lighter. Silently thanking whoever it was that made the rare decision to stitch pockets onto a dress.  

You seclude yourself to a bench furthest from the garden entrance, take a deep, shaky breath, and flick the lighter to life. More than five years later, he can still get a rise out of you and it hurts .

“You know you can’t return the dress if it smells like smoke.”

Speak of the devil. Gojo's voice, dripping with amusement as he approaches, cuts through the relative peace. He startles you, the unlit cigarette fumbling to the ground from your feeble hold. You don't turn around, the anger simmering in your belly threatening to boil over.

"Still haven't learned to handle your nerves, I see."

"This isn't about nerves," you finally manage, voice tight.

"Oh, come now," he chuckles, leaning against the railing a few feet away. "Don't tell me seeing me doesn't stir a pot or two."

You clench your fists, the cigarette forgotten between them. "It shouldn't."

"No?" He steps closer, resting a hand on the furthest corner of the bench, yet very nearly leaning over you. Stopping a safe enough distance away, but still close enough to impose himself upon you. You don’t have to look to know that he sports that same teasing, knowing smile you’ve seen plastered on magazines and across news headlines for years. Your inability to see his eyes always makes it appear more menacing than not. 

 "I’m glad it’s not a problem then. I wouldn’t want things to become awkward between us.”

Clearing your throat and pocketing the lighter, you fight the urge to kick your aggravator in the shins. Utahime’s words come back to you. I’m less worried about what you’ll do when you see him, than what Gojo will do when he sees you. She should be more worried about me, you think as you finally turn to face him, wearily sizing him up from your seated position. It’s unfair that he’s still gorgeous after all this time. Rumors of enhancement drugs and body modifications chase him constantly, but you know better. Muscles built from years of hard work and relentless discipline flex and strain under the fabric of his dress shirt, smooth skin peeking from the collar of the top two buttons undone. You avert your eyes.

“You clearly still are unable to recognize when somebody wants to be alone,” you chide. “But other than that, no hard feelings, Gojo-san.”

“Gojo- san ?” The young man gasps dramatically, clutching his chest above his heart as though he’s been shot. “Such formalities! I thought we were friends.”

He says your name and it takes everything in you not to shoot off of the bench and break for the door. Torn between your fight or flight instincts as he makes himself comfortable on the bench beside you, folding one long leg over the other.

 “Must’ve been excited to see me again, since you’re learning the language ‘n all. Who’s your teacher?”

You scoff. “Duolingo.”

“Ah. The wretched bird app. The final boss.”

“Need a tutor?” He tests his limits, broad enough to lean over and bump your shoulder with his own without moving too much when you don’t dignify him with a response. You don’t budge either, careful to keep your expression blank, your posture ramrod straight. 

You can do this. You can be civil. 

 “Keeping me at arm’s length I see.”

 You wonder how difficult it would be to knock him out and hide him somewhere in the garden underbrush, this man twice your size in stature, if only to gain some semblance of peace for the rest of the dinner. Your stomach rumbles at the thought of food. You still haven’t eaten.

Taking that as your cue to stand, you brush your clammy palms across the front of your dress and fix Gojo with a steely look. “I would appreciate it if you could keep things professional between us tonight. And tomorrow. As colleagues.”

“Colleagues?” He can hardly hide the laughter in his voice. The condescension in his tone is clear nonetheless.  “Sure, sweetie. Is that what you told them?”

Them as in your mutual friends. As the one who greenlit the finished copy of your infamous undergraduate article, Utahime knows only slightly more than the average weekly paper reader about the months that led up to its printing. Caught glimpses of how your closing chapter in college shaped and broke you, then launched your career into an unimaginable trajectory all within the short period of a spring semester. You had only been able to come partially clean about the nature of your relationship with Satoru Gojo and Suguru Geto in the years that followed, long after you had cut ties with the industry.

The tabloid media and its avid followers had enough to say about you. You didn’t need to hear it from your actual colleagues either.

“I’ve told them enough,” you bristle, spotting your discarded cigarette in your periphery and getting agitated all over again. “And you will tell them nothing-,”

“Relax, relax.” He cajoles. Gojo's laughter hangs heavy in the air, stinging like a mosquito bite. You hold his gaze steady, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you crack.

"Fine," he finally says, a playful glint still lingering in his amber eyes. "Truce it is. For now."

Gojo studies you for a moment, raking you in from head to toe as though trying to commit you to memory. You, arms crossed, hip cocked to one side, avoiding his gaze and flushed with irritation as you try to make a quick and dry escape. He wishes he could somehow reach inside your chest and pull on the loose thread he knows will unravel you.

Instead, he rises with a flourish, the movement sending a tremor through the ground beneath your bench. Having stolen your intention to leave first for the sake of having the last word, you watch him saunter back towards the building, as quietly as he came for someone so lanky, hands shoved casually into his pockets. Before he crosses the threshold, he says your name again, and you hate the way it still sounds perfect coming from his lips.

“It’s good to see you again.”

 As he disappears through the doorway, a sliver of relief washes over you, leaving a cold dread in its wake. You make sure he’s gone for good before you pick up the cigarette again and snatch the price tag off of your dress.

The name cards look back mockingly at you from the dining table, your name typed in a dainty serif script and printed on cardstock too expensive to burst into flames from your glare alone. On the table is a matching one, delicately placed across from the one person you’ve tried your best to avoid all night. Seated at the head of the table with the love of her life, Utahime pointedly avoids your pleading looks, while you do the same to the giant man squeezed between two of Shoko’s aunts in front of you, pouting just as poorly. 

The guests who aren’t a part of his usual entourage (his assistant and PR manager stand stiffly off to the side of the room, as though trying to blend into the wallpaper) are torn between overtly fawning over the new couple and not-so-covertly fawning over the basketball player. Gojo appears all too comfortable appeasing Utahime’s young cousins between heartfelt toasts given by closer friends and family. They gush at the slightest flex of this man’s biceps and find a little too much amusement in his jokes, much to the bride’s chagrin. You resist the urge to gag while you eat. 

Yet as he works the crowd with his little sideshow, he still finds ways to coax your attention back to him whenever it wanders off too long for his liking. Laughing a little too loud. Accidentally kicking your shin under the table. Accidentally scooting forward too abruptly, shoving the surface so that it presses into your ribs, causing you to sputter into your drink. All done with that teasing, unapologetic smile playing on his lips.

Drinking on an empty stomach hasn’t served you well tonight, yet under the weight of Gojo’s constant attention, you grasp your fork in one hand and another wine glass in the other like a lifeline.

Dinner goes by smoothly, for the most part. 

You down the rest of your wine with a grimace, the sweetness doing little to quell the rising tide of nausea threatening to erupt. The world feels pleasantly fuzzy around the edges, but the sharp awareness of Gojo's presence across the table cuts through the haze like a spotlight.

His amusement has morphed into something closer to concern, a flicker in his cerulean eyes that you can't quite decipher from behind the dimness of his shades. You clench the wine glass a little tighter, the condensation slick against your palm.

Suddenly, a wave of dizziness washes over you, accompanied by a horrifying pressure in your bladder. The three glasses of wine you've downed on an empty stomach are starting to make their unwelcome presence known.

Panic claws at your throat. There's no way you can make it through the endless stream of toasts and speeches with this bladder situation. You shoot a desperate glance around the table, hoping for a discreet escape route.

Utahime, bless her oblivious soul, is busy clinking champagne flutes with the Shoko’s parents. Shoko, on the other hand, seems to have noticed your distress. She raises an eyebrow in your direction, a knowing smirk playing on her lips. You mouth a silent plea for help, hoping it doesn't translate to "hold my hair" territory.

Shoko, ever the pragmatist, simply nods and subtly gestures towards the back of the room. Relief floods your system, momentarily pushing the pressure in your bladder to the background. You manage a weak smile of thanks in Shoko's direction before excusing yourself from the table.

"Just need some fresh air," you mumble to Gojo, his presence looming large across the expanse of the table. He raises an eyebrow but thankfully doesn't press the issue. An uncle swoops in before he can address you, eager to grill him on the plays made in his most recent game, on the odds of his team winning the next.

Clutching your stomach, you weave through the maze of tables, the polite murmurs of the guests a distant hum in your ears. The borrowed dress whispers its disapproval with every movement you make. You finally reach the back of the room, a secluded hallway leading to what you hope are the restrooms.

As you stumble towards your salvation, the world tilts precariously on its axis. You grab onto the nearest wall for support, willing the dizziness to subside.

Suddenly, a strong hand shoots out and steadies your arm. You look up to find Gojo standing there. Worry looks foreign etched onto his usually carefree face.

"Are you alright?" His voice is surprisingly gentle, devoid of its usual teasing lilt.

You open your mouth to retort, but all that comes out is a weak groan. The pressure is unbearable now, threatening to become a full-blown disaster.

"Bathroom?" Gojo asks, already guiding you down the hallway with surprising ease.

You nod mutely, following him with the grace of a newborn giraffe.

"Second door on the left," he mutters, his voice a low murmur close to your ear. He pushes open the door and ushers you inside before you can even react.

You stumble into the cool, brightly lit restroom, practically falling onto the nearest stall. But when you turn to close and lock the door, Gojo’s hand is already there, stopping you mid-way.

“Gojo-san,” you startle as he pushes his way into the cramped stall. You back away in a clumsy attempt to make room for yourself, only to nearly fall into the toilet basin when the back of your knees hit the lid. “Gojo, wait -,”

"You know," he says, amusement creeping back into his tone, as he looms over you. You hear rather than see the lock click in place behind him. "There were simpler ways to get me alone."

At this point, your legs are squeezed together with little hope of alleviating the rising pressure in your lower stomach. You want to strangle him. But given your current state, a withering glare is the best you can muster.

"Get out," you croak, collapsing onto the closed toilet seat. He tuts like a disappointed parent as you groan and fend off his growing proximity with weak swats of your arms. 

He chuckles softly. "Take your time. We can wait here when you come out."

"We?" you echo, surprised. Mortified. The ringing in your ears returns, in full force.

"Yeah," comes his breezy reply. "Remember, professional colleagues and all that? Besides, wouldn't want you to collapse on your way back to the table, now would we?"

“Gojo-,”

He sucks his teeth. “C’mon, babe, it’s nothing I haven’t seen before. You saying I lost pissing privileges?”

“Gojo, I’m being serious.”

“So am I,” a slick look of satisfaction crosses his face when he notices you finally drop the formal title, one more barrier of familiarity extinguished. “Now piss.”

All at once, the frustration and anxiety that had been brewing all night wells up inside you at the height of your duress. You launch at him with what little movement you can afford, but Gojo is faster. He’s quick to pin you against the stall, one arm braced across your shoulders, the other splayed against your lower abdomen. Threatening to press right on the growing balloon of pressure that is your bladder. You immediately wrench back in fear. From his vantage point, Gojo admires the way the wine flush that once populated your cheeks now spreads down past your neckline.

“Do I have your attention now?”

next>>

[srxchec]

[🇪🇨] Art [APH & CH & WF; Ecuador]

[sp4ceboo]

CHAPTER 4 ~ PESTILENCE

beneath a crimson sky masterlist | ch 1 | ch 2 | ch 3 | ch 4 | ch 5| ch 6

pairing: stray kids ot8 x afab!reader

genre: apocalypse au, dystopian, dark, adventure, action, thriller, fighting, eventual smut, romance

a/n: words cannot describe how excited i am for the next chapter

chapter warnings: fighting but not violent per se, excuse all the time skips there will be less later on i'm just setting everything up still, fun fact: all the sports facts about the boys are true (i hope),

chapter word count: 2.3k

More weeks pass. It’s almost been two months since the first horseman landed on his ship.

Your leg is healing. Under Minho’s strict commands, you stay in most of the time, which means you have to sit around inside the lab a lot, making conversation with whoever isn’t on a supply run (if that’s what’s happening) and not doing much else. It turns out it is possible to get bored in the middle of an apocalypse.

You can’t get your head around Jeongin. The rest of the boys baby him - he is the youngest, after all - and he is friendly at times, if not a little wary at others, but you see the strength that limns his limbs and wonder why he doesn’t often go on supply runs like Chan, Minho and Seungmin. You suspect he’s been ordered to watch you and make sure you don’t do anything weird while the others are gone and you’re left with whoever is staying back, but while he’s been doing that he’s found a friend in you.

Aside from Jeongin, mainly Jisung, Felix, Hunjin and Changbin stay back. You soon learn that the reason why Changbin stays back is for their protection, and that Hyunjin, Jisung and Felix don’t usually go out because seeing the world as it is takes a toll on them that the others are willing to shoulder in their stead, not because they aren’t lacking in skills.

That’s not to say it doesn’t affect Minho, Chan and Seungmin - you’ve woken up in the night to hear rustling blankets to your left and Minho spilling what’s on his heart to Jisung. You closed your eyes and tried to fall asleep again to grant them their privacy.

Interestingly, the main thing the stay-at-home gang does while supply runs are happening is spar or work out. You suppose there isn’t much to do other than read the small selection of books and comics Jisung dragged back one day, and the working out at least helps rehabilitate your calf as it heals. The sparring provides a surprising amount of entertainment.

Changbin runs a tight ship. It also turns out that Felix somehow managed to amass sixty three taekwondo medals while he was younger, Chan did boxing, and Minho did both. You stick to sparring with Jisung and Jeongin and sometimes Seungmin.

Normally, it’s fun. Normally, you wouldn’t blanch at the sight of Jeongin circling you on the blankets laid out specifically for this purpose, but you are, because there’s a dull throbbing in the back of your head - the beginnings of a headache. Still, you’re not going to back down. Your pride prevents it.

You feint to the right, and Jeongin takes the bait. It allows an opening, and you take it, lunging forward and hooking your foot around the back of his legs. He crashes to the floor - you send him a cheeky grin.

“Ohhh,” Jisung gasps from where he’s sitting on the “sidelines”.

Jeongin twists and rolls, earning a small round of applause from Changbin when he snags your sleeve and brings you down too. Scrabbling for purchase in the blankets, you grapple with him, both of you trying to flip so the other is beneath. You can hear Changbin counting down - once he reaches zero, you’ll be able to try and grab the piece of paper taped on his back and claim your victory.

You need to get the upper hand, and fast. Jeongin’s taller and has longer reach, so it will be easier for him to grab your paper. Locking a leg around his hip, you abruptly change the direction of the roll, just as Changbin reaches zero; both of you gasp, and Jeongin kicks out with his leg, dislodging you and whirling around to sock you in the stomach, knocking the air out of you.

“Quit playing dirty, Yang Jeongin!” Changbin yells.

With a groan, you push yourself to your feet. You can’t tell if somewhere in the whole mess, you hit your head or if it’s just the building pressure at the base of your neck from the headache. Jeongin looks a little concerned. You brush yourself off. You’re not going to let him go easy on you just because he feels guilty for punching you.

Focusing on his centre of mass, you try to predict where he’s going to strike next. You see his gaze flick left, his right shoulder dipping. A low whistle sounds from Seungmin - he can see what Jeongin is going to do.

So do you.

He lurches left and charges. You stand your ground, as, at the last second, Jeongin ducks right and aims for the paper on your back. Leaning to the side, you barely avoid his grasp and stick your leg out, tripping him so he goes sprawling.

Before he can recover, you plant a foot on his back and reach down to swipe his paper. He struggles against you, trying to get up - it’s never over until it’s over, as Jisung said one time when Minho and Changbin sparred for half an hour non stop - but it’s a lost cause. You’re strong enough to keep him down.

Well, you’re strong enough when your head isn’t getting split like a melon.

Because that’s what it feels like - the building pressure from the headache detonating in your skull, ricocheting bolts of pain spearing through your thoughts and whiting out your vision. Your legs turn to jelly. Abruptly, Jeongin surges up, not expecting you to suddenly let up the pressure, let alone topple to the floor.

He snatches the paper off your back, but you barely notice it, battling a swelling nausea that rises like bile in your chest. Frowning, he crouches before you and searches your face. Briefly, you wonder if your calf has gotten infected, but Minho deftly changes the bandages every other morning with his sure hands and assessing gaze, and he reported nothing - in fact, he said you wouldn’t need to wrap it soon.

“Are you okay?” Jeongin asks as he helps you up, that frown of his overflowing with worry.

“Yeah,” you say, wondering why you’re lying. “It’s just my leg.”

He opens his mouth, clearly about to argue, but there’s a kerfuffle outside, and Minho enters the room, triumphantly brandishing a vacuum-packed container of pudding. It’s rare for his smile not to morph into something more threatening when he sees you, but he seems too happy to care about that now, holding the pudding above his head like a trophy as Chan laughs and Hyunjin rolls his eyes with a fond smile.

You really don’t want to interrupt the happy moment. You don’t want to ruin their joy, but you can feel fear bubbling up in your throat and filling your lungs as you realise you’re not tired or dehydrated or hungry. There’s no other explanation for your headache except the one thing you dread: a lone rider, seated on a white horse, with a bow and arrow wielded in its hands.

Pestilence.

As if thinking the name invoked it, a surge of intense vertigo swamps you. Swaying, you flail out a hand, reaching for anything to steady yourself, but there’s nothing nearby, and you stumble one step, two, backwards, before your legs crumple beneath you and you sit down hard. A cough wracks your body, followed by another wave of overwhelming nausea.

Muted pain radiates from your tailbone, but you ignore it. It doesn’t make sense: you haven’t been outside since the dog bite, and that was more than a month ago. Even if you did get it from the dog, it would have shown itself earlier, wouldn’t it?

You guess most things don’t make sense any more.

Unbidden, an image of the first horseman appears in your head - the horse has sprouted wings, and both have shrunk so they’re about the size of your head as they flap around you. You almost feel the sting as the arrow sinks into your back, deep enough that it touches your heart.

With far more effort than it should take, you look up at the boys. They’re already all looking at you, and you feel your hands begin to tremble. Felix is looking at you with this sort of horror that grows and grows, and Minho has stepped in front of Jisung and Hyunjin, gripping his knife so hard that his knuckles are whiter than the pale shade Jeongin’s face has gone. Changbin curses. Seungmin remains silent but stares. Chan looks like he wants to take a step towards you.

You look up at him, imploring. “I - I don’t feel so good.”

Minho speaks first, voice sharp enough to be accusatory. “Yeah, we can tell.”

You bite your lip, fighting to force your words out before you lose it completely. “You have to go. Just leave me behind, or drag me out of here and put me somewhere. You - ” You clutch your head, fighting another pulse of pain. “You need to save yourselves.”

A stunned silence follows, and then the whole room erupts. You wince as they all begin yelling over each other. You can tell it’s serious because Chan is shouting too, not trying to restore order but arguing with Minho.

It occurs that they’re acting like you’re not there. There’s no surprise in that, really, but it means that you can hear Felix, Jisung and Hyunjin sticking up for you, as well as Changbin and Jeongin, which you weren’t expecting. A half laugh slips from you as you see Minho’s still holding the pudding, but it dies on your tongue, leaving a sour taste.

You’ve got the Pestilence. You’re probably going to kill them all.

This is a glimpse, you realise, of what they’re like when they don’t agree. The harmony has dissolved, and it’s your fault. You’ve never seen them so stressed. Chan’s practically tearing out his hair, and for the first time, from your spot on the bucking floor, trying to cling on so it doesn’t tip you off the edge of the world, you notice his deep eye bags.

There’s a flurry of movement, and suddenly Minho has grabbed Jisung’s arm, his gaze glittering with panic as he shakes him a little, like he’s trying to force some sense into him. You can see the veins in his neck begin to stand out, and even with Changbin and Chan snapping at each other, you hear his words clear as day.

“There’s no way she’ll survive,” he seethes. “Do you really want to stay and watch her die? Because I don’t.”

You flinch. Jisung’s eyes are on you. He looks like a cornered rabbit. Chan’s head snaps to glare at them when he hears Minho, and the livid expression on his face strikes you through with sinking fear. You don’t want them to fight, especially not over you, but you can’t raise your voice over a trembling whisper.

Changbin scrubs a frustrated hand over his face, trying to separate Chan and Minho. Felix is trapped between Hyunjin and Seungmin, looking just as cornered as Jisung. You want to fix it, want to get up and yell at them to stop and just go, but all you do is double over and cough. Useless.

All at once, everyone falls silent.

Jeongin is pointing out the window, his lips moving, but you can’t hear over the roaring in your ears. Painfully, you turn your head to see what they’re all staring at, and you choke so hard you begin to cough again. A ship is whizzing upwards. You know that ship, even though it looks like all the others, because only one ship ever landed on the surface.

Pestilence’s ship.

Pestilence is leaving.

As the ship moves up to join the others hanging in the violent red sky, you cough again. The boys’ gazes all fall to you, huddled on the floor, and determination streaks across Chan’s face. He pulls his masks out of his pocket, donning all of them and shaking off Minho when he roughly grabs his shoulder.

Helpless, you look up at him, wanting to cry. You don’t know what this means. You can barely think. There are claws sinking into your brain, razorlike pinpoints of agony, and your ribs ache from coughing.

Gently, he cups your chin and produces a water bottle, helping you drink. “It’s okay,” he soothes. “You’ll be fine here. We’ll make sure you’re comfortable, okay? We’re not leaving you.”

You nod, trying to remember why you wanted them to go before. Consciousness is slipping through your fingers like sand. Shadows swirl and twirl like dancers at the corners of your eyes, and you flap your hand to dismiss them, but they dart out of your way and inch closer, the detail on their faces smudged but for rictus grins matching Pestilence’s.

Chan holds the water bottle up again. You grip his wrist before he can lift it to your lips, stopping him, opening your mouth to ask a question that doesn’t form. The shadows are closing in, and you stare up at him, terrified, as his face transmogrifies into that of the first horseman; you try to scramble backwards, but there are shackles around your feet, and the shadows are holding you down. You can’t get away.

They won’t go.

Why won’t they go?

And then he’s Chan again, and Minho stands at his shoulder, eyes resigned. Someone smooths their hand over your sweaty hair, and there’s the softness of blankets beneath you and a low, calming voice in your ear. You don’t feel calm, though. The shadows are still there, prowling.

They’re hungry.

taglist: @estella-novella@0bticeo@lixies-favorite-cookie@smashleywow@realrintaro @extremechaoswarning @4l17h4 @hyunjinsjeans @insufferablyunbearable @lovemepie67 @needsumcomfypillowstosleep @loumin908 (let me know if you want to be added)

[minus-plus-zer0]

University Days With Bakugou - Ch. 1 - "And They Were Roommates"

| Masterlist | University Days With Bakugou Masterlist | | Next (TBD) | ♡ Genre: Fluff ♡ Pairing: Bakugou x Fem!Reader ♡ Tags: University AU, Quirkless AU, aged up, situationship

Bakugou would rather die than live in a frat house. He wasn’t like Kirishima, he couldn’t stand the constant partying, sleeping around, and other nonsense that idiots around his age got involved with. That wasn’t how he was going to start off his precious university career.

So instead, Bakugou shopped around online for housing options, but no roommates really caught his eye. Nobody he found could meet his impossible standards. Not one person, until he saw you.

Immediately, he knew that this was gonna be a rough time.

Bakugou stood in your soon-to-be-shared small house, while you gave him a short tour around the place. He couldn’t pay attention to the tour. You were just so cute like he’d never seen before. And you were so affectionate and sweet and NOSY that he found it difficult to ignore you, especially when you constantly asked him about his housework routine or how his day went or whatever. It was like he was playing 20 Questions given how often you grilled him for small talk and cleaning plans.

Near the end of the short tour, you stopped by the entrance area and you leaned on one hip. “You’re really quiet, you know that?”

“Huh?” Bakugou wished he had a more clever comeback than that.

“Hello? Earth to Bakugou?” You waved your hand in front of his face and he winced. “Have you been spacing out for the past 10-20 minutes? 

Yes. 

“No. I got everything ya said.”

“Really?” You leaned against a wall. “So what did I say?”

Bakugou sighed. “Clean up after yourself, keep quiet after dark, trash is taken out on Sundays, don’t bring over hookups, alert each other in case of emergencies of suspicious activity–”

“So you really did get it!” You beamed at him.

“Of course I got it! Where did you think my mind was?!” 

Bakugou glared at you, but he didn’t really want an answer to his question, because the correct answer was, “You were thinking about me, right?”

“Maybe you were too busy thinking about me?” you asked, with a small smile. 

Bakugou froze. It’s like you could read minds. 

“Just kidding!” you said. “Who knows what goes on in that fluffy head of yours.”

His face turned pink. “Fluffy?! What–”

“Anyways…” You cut him off as you walked past him. “If you don’t have any other questions, I actually think the tour is over.” You stopped to lean on a couch in the living room. “But you can hang out a little bit if you want. You seem like good company, for such a hothead.”

“‘Hothead’,” Bakugou said, with a discerning frown. “I’m definitely NOT hotheaded. But… are ya sure you don’t mind me hanging around?”

“For a little longer, sure!” you said. “That’s how long my landlord would allow. If we’re gonna be living together, why don’t we get to know each other?” 

Bakugou gulped. Being totally inexperienced with romance, he had no idea how to possibly woo you over. Bakugou was a consummate professional at driving people away, and he prided himself on that. He could only impress you through his sheer skills alone.

“You’re telling me you don’t know who I am?” Bakugou asked, moving to lean on the couch beside you. “I’m fucking famous around my high school.”

“If you’re soooo famous why haven’t I heard of you?” You jutted out your chin at the boy. 

“I’m the fucking star of every sports game!” Bakugou snarled. He felt like he was screwing up every social interaction with you so far, and he sighed. “You gotta come to one of my games when we start playing again. That’s where I show people what I’m really made of.” 

“That sounds fun! You want me to be your little cheerleader?”

Bakugou really liked that idea. He could offer you a cheerleader uniform in your size, if you really wanted. But you were probably joking from your playful grin, and he wouldn’t push an idea like that without knowing for sure.

“Only if you’re willing,” he said, with a slight grin of his own. “But I won’t force ya. Still, you gotta come. You gotta.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll come! Wow, this seems so important to you. It’s so cute!” 

Cute? What did that mean? 

“Don’t call me cute.” Bakugou sneered at you from above. “Where do you get off complimenting random strangers like that? You’re the one that’s cute.”

“What?!” Your flustered reaction made it all worth calling you ‘cute’ to your face. “Bakugou, you’re so forward!”

“You just did the same to me.”

Your adorable eyes dangerously narrowed into slits. “You can try and pin the blame on me all you want, but it won’t work. Didn’t know my roommate would be such a Casanova…”

“It’s fucking true though!”

Bakugou couldn’t tell if he was winning or losing this conversation. All he knew was that his initial impression of you was totally correct: this was gonna be a rough time. 

But when Bakugou got home, he still contacted your landlord and immediately signed the lease.

(Not sure how long this series is gonna be but I've got at least 10 chapters in drafts at varying states of completion. I thought it'd be perfect to release this series now while I'm still a uni student. Look forward to it!)

[zlebooks]

LOVE EQUATION. 𓍯 CHILDE SMAU

PREFACE. embarrassed by your three year (and counting) long crush on zhongli, you suddenly claim you have a boyfriend. there enters childe, your crush's best friend and the one who'll either help with your lie or report you to the police for harassment. or in which caught up in a lie, you had no choice but to kiss the closest person next to you.

FEATURING. childe x she/her!reader, a little bit of zhongli x reader, other genshin impact characters! (they are too many to list)

GENRE. fluff, slight angst, highschool au, fake-dating trope

TAGLIST. please send an ask / message if you wish to be tagged.

AUTHOR’S NOTES. (🧸) means there is a written portion within the chapter. based on ali hazelwood’s the love hypothesis 🫶 one of my fave books and key motivators as a woman in stem!

✹ profiles .𓂃 wonder pets | ass shakers

ch. 01 — three years worth of pining

ch. 02 — eat the rich

ch. 03 — the list

ch. 04 — overpriced coffee and chemical equation 🧸

ch. 05 — overpriced coffee and chemical equation pt. 2 🧸

ch. 06 — hey fake girlfriend *obnoxiously winks*

ch. 07 — terms and conditions

ch. 08 — insufferable pda 🧸

ch. 09 — is this what you call soft launching

ch. 10 — first date

ch. 11 — after school activities 🧸

ch. 12 — childe’s homemade lunch 🧸

ch. 13 — annual sports fest

ch. 14 — volunteer work

ch. 15 — a volleyball player’s WAG 🧸

ch. 16 — after party

ch. 17 — cat whisperers ( literally ) 🧸

ch. 18 — insufferable pda minus the p 🧸

ch. 19 — monthsary

ch. 20 — yoimiya carry fr

[ddeongies]

quiet afternoon crush (ch 13) - exceptions to every rule

ryeji college au, idiots in love, slow burn, fluff & smut, yeji falls first ryujin falls harder | word count: 65.5k/????

And then Yeji is pulling her t-shirt over her head and everything feels a bit less normal. She’s wearing a sports bra, but it’s not long before she sheds that too, and Ryujin is left looking at the expanse of her back, freckles and soft muscle and all. Ryujin tries to not think about the slight curve of her hips or the broad line of her shoulders. She doesn’t think about the fact that she knows exactly how it feels to dig her short nails into that soft skin. She definitely doesn’t think about the way her boxers peek out from the top of her baggy gray sweats before the sight is finally hidden from view by whatever oversized shirt she picked out. Yeji goes to turn the light off, and then she’s stepping out of her pants and sliding into the bed.  “Hi,” she whispers, close enough on the shared pillow that Ryujin can smell the toothpaste on her breath. “Hi.”

🎨 Keep Reading

⚽️ Master Post

[random-thot-generator]

Love Thy Frenemy + Ch. 10

(Frenemies/Tenderness AU)

TEN: Let the Sleeper Awake

SIMON 'GHOST' RILEY x FRENEMY FEM READER

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Summary: Simon returns in time for the May Day celebration, wanting to surprise his doll, but watching her perform has him viewing her in a very different light.

Warnings/Tags: Profanity, Spice- just a pinch, Mention of masturbation, Fluff & Feels, Simon checks out doll, Doll checks out Simon, Idiots in love lust, the 141 have a chat sesh, No use of Y/N

(Notes: Beltane (a.k.a. May Eve/May Day) is a fire and... ahem!... fertility festival. So, I thought, what better time for Simon and his doll to finally realize that there's a little more than friendly feelings between them. Let the sleepers awake. 😏)

Word Count: 2.9K

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Chapter 10

-

“Beltane magick here we sing

Chant the rune and dance the ring

Joy and blessing shall it bring 

Let the sleeper awake!”

― Doreene Valiente, Beltane Chant

-

The village green was a hive of activity, preparations for the May Day celebration in full swing.

Booths, tents and stalls lined the streets, vendors setting up their wares and stocking up for the large crowds expected for the two-day celebration. An abundance of flowers, real and fake, decorated the whole of the village’s heart, garlands and wreaths attached to every available surface, every shop window sporting bright floral displays.

The maypole had been raised at the back of the green, its brightly colored ribbons fluttering in the warm breeze. The volunteers performing this year were gathered off to the side taking a break from their practice, you and Fiona among them.

The two of you had been roped into volunteering, so you both had to learn the performances from scratch. Fi especially was struggling with the interweaving moves, cursing under her breath every time she made a misstep.

“If I’d known it was goin’ t’be this big of a pain in me arse, I would’a hid in the loo when I saw Margie comin’,” she groused, wiping a forearm across her brow. She turned up her bottled water and took a large gulp as she glared at Margie Bartleby, proud owner of the Tea Room and the entertainment director of the festivities this year. “All tha’ woman needs is a bloody whip t’crack over our heads.”

You sniffed in amusement, not bothering to comment. You knew Fi was just venting her frustration and didn’t mean a word of what she said. You and she both adored the older woman, though you had to admit that Margie could be a right task master when she wanted to be.

You sipped at your water as you pulled your cell from your back pocket to check your notifications, drifting under the shade of a tent to see the screen better. You were hoping to see a message from Riley, but you were again disappointed.

He’d been gone since the last week of March, only a week and half after you had moved in with him. There had been no word from him save for a single text around mid-April to tell you if all went according to plan, he might be home by the end of the month. You had really been hoping he would make it back in time for the May Day celebration, but it didn't look like that was going to happen. He always seemed to be deployed during holidays.

“Still no word?” Fi asked, joining you.

You sighed and slipped the phone back in your pocket. “No.”

She nudged your shoulder. “Maybe ye’ll get a May Day miracle an’ he’ll show up dressed like Jack o' the Green.” Her grin turned lewd. “Can’t ya just picture it? Riley wearin’ nothin’ but a patch o’ moss over his dangly bits with oak leaves stuck all in his mask?”

“Fi-ona!” Heat crept up your neck to your cheeks, yet the image she created popped unbidden into your head.

Your face grew hotter as you imagined him dressed as Fi had described, the mental pictures in your head far from chaste. Riley was built like a Norse god, and even with the mask he earned his fair share of appreciative glances. You couldn't help but look, too; you were his friend, but that didn't make you immune to him.

When you heard Fi laughing at you, you blinked out of your daydream and narrowed your eyes. “Shut up,” you hissed at her, but couldn’t hide your wry smirk.

“Come along, lovies! Break's over!” Margie called to the group. “Let’s get back to it. We need to practice the bonfire procession and dance next!”

Fiona groaned, scowling. “God, I’ll be glad when we’re done with this. Never again,” she vowed as the two of you trudged back out to the green together.

-

Simon sat back in his seat, eyes focused out the window of the plane, half-listening to Soap and Gaz arguing about how they were going to spend their first night on leave. His cell phone was in his hand, your last text open. It was an image of the green decorated for May Day.

“Oi, Ghost! Ya should come with us t'night. We’re goin’ to that new pub in Hereford,” Gaz invited.

Simon slanted a glance his way, dark eyes glinting inside his skull mask. “Can’t. Got plans.”

“Ah, c’mon, mate. Readin' in your bunk isn’t plans,” Gaz replied, scoffing.

“Did ye ferget?” Soap spoke up, a mischievous smirk on his face as he bumped the other sergeant's arm. “Ghost has t’get’ home t’see his doll dance. Ain't tha' right, LT?”

Simon scowled at him. The nosy bastard had overheard him tell Price about you performing in the May Day festival, after the captain had asked him how "his doll" was doing. So, of course, Johnny hadn’t shut up about it since, pestering him for intel about his ‘wee doll’.

“Oh, that’s right,” Gaz drawled, his smile spreading wide. “Maybe we should go home with Ghost, then. You can introduce us to your doll.”

“Not happenin',” Simon gruffed. “Ya lot ain’t gettin’ anywhere near ‘er.”

Soap chuckled, puffing out his chest. “Worried I’ll nick yer lass, LT?” He smoothed his hand over his mohawk, flexing his bicep with a cheeky grin. “Canna blame ye. There’s a lot here t’tempt her away,” he teased, making his pecs jump beneath his tight tee. Gaz cackled.

Simon stuck his phone back in his pocket and crossed his arms over his chest, tipping his chin down at the sergeant. “Ain't worried. Dee knows a wanker when she sees one."

"Oh-ho!" Soap crowed. "So, it's Dee, is it? Slipped up an' said her name, LT." He winked at Gaz as Simon muttered a curse. "Dee an' Johnny. Got a nice ring to it, aye?"

“Enough, lads,” Price called from behind his laptop, not even bothering to look up. The two immediately shut their gobs.

As soon as the plane touched down, Simon was up and heading down the ramp as it lowered. Grinning like a devil, Soap was ready to head after him when Price grabbed him by the back of his tac vest and hauled him back. 

“Bloody hell, lad, give it a rest,” he uttered lowly.

Gaz came abreast of them and leaned into whisper, “We just wanna know about her, Cap. I mean— it's Ghost. Kinda hard to imagine him havin' a bird. Has he told ya anything about her? Have ya seen a picture of her?"

Price scrubbed at his beard. “Never met the lass. Ya lads know he likes to keep his personal life private. Now, both of ya, leave it alone.”

“Canna believe yer no' a wee bit curious, sir,” Soap persisted. “Would ye no' like t’meet the lass tha’ caught the Ghost?”

Price wouldn’t lie and say he wasn’t curious, but more than anything, he was just glad to see his lieutenant at ease, for a change. He was still a right broody cunt, but his attitude had definitely improved. “Lads, as long as she makes him happy, that’s all I care 'bout. Now, mind yer bloody business an' leave him alone, yeah?”

“Think he’d show us a picture of her if we asked nice?” Soap wondered aloud, undeterred. "I bet she's a right bonnie lass, aye? Have t'be t'get the LT all hot an' bothered." He waggled his eyebrows.

Price dragged a hand over his face and groaned.

-

Simon ended up parking behind the Dog when he finally made into to the village. Coming through the alley, he could see the crowd milling about the green and vendor booths, the smell of fried food and sweets wafting down the ginnel on the breeze. His stomach growled and he cursed himself for not eating something before leaving the base, but he'd been in a hurry to get home.

He usually stayed on base if he wasn't deployed when events like this were going on in Banfield. He hated dealing with the extra traffic and large crowds that descended on the village, but he could suck it up and deal with it just this once, since it was for you.

Apparently, he'd made it back just in time. Most of the crowd had gathered near the back of the green around the maypole, Margie's familiar voice loud and clear over the PA system as she announced that the maypole dance was about to begin.

Simon pressed through the throng of people, ignoring the looks and startled gasps as they shuffled out of his way. His eyes scanned over the dancers, searching for you, his eyes going a little wide when he spotted you standing with your back to him.

He didn't know what he'd been expecting, but he felt like he'd been poleaxed, his dazed eyes roving over your figure. You were dressed like the other dancers, wearing a pastel satin undress covered in layers of wispy, see-through tulle, but the underdress clung to your breasts and hips, the swell of your bum accentuated by the slippery material. When you shifted your weight to pose in the starting position, a split in the underdress revealed the length of your thigh, the layered tulle separating to expose it.

Simon's mouth fell open under his surgical mask, eyes avid as the music began to play. He watched with rapt attention as you skipped and dipped and twirled, weaving in and out with the other dancers to braid the colored ribbons around the pole. Your hair had been left loose, a crown of flowers on your head, makeup done to give your features an ethereal cast. You looked like a fairy, flitting around, he mused. A really curvaceous, sultry, sexy fairy...

A familiar feeling tingled low in his abdomen and the front of jeans were suddenly too tight. He shook his head, grunting at his base reaction, but now that he'd seen you this way, he knew there was no denying it. You were stunning, the prettiest bird he'd ever seen. His pretty doll. Possessive pride welled up in his chest, straightening his spine and lifting his chin. That was his beautiful doll out there dancing; his.

When the dance ended, all the performers took a bow and then the crowd surrounded them. Simon hung back, waiting, wanting to see your expression when you finally spotted him.

So worth the wait.

It was Fiona that saw him first, nudging your shoulder and whispering at your ear as she pointed him out. The slight frown of confusion on your face transformed into a look of joyous surprise, your smile wide and beaming as you rushed to meet him, crying out, "Oh, my God! Ri!" as you leapt up to wrap your arms around his neck in a tight hug.

It stunned him at first, being greeted that way. Anyone else would have found themselves thrown to the ground with a knee in their back, but you? You he caught up in his arms and held on tight, breathing you in as his hands molded to your back and waist like he had done this a thousand times. It was instinctive and felt so right.

You pulled back to gaze into his eyes, your smile becoming something softer, more intimate. "I'm so glad you made it, Ri. Can't believe you're finally home. I've missed you."

His chest went tight, a pleased flush warming his face. He pressed his forehead to yours. "Missed ya, too, doll. 'S good t'be home."

He had a sudden, intense urge to pull down his mask and kiss you. His fingers twitched on your back, muscles spasming in his arms. He couldn't recall the last time he'd kissed a woman on the lips, but damn if he wasn't gaggin' to bloody do it now. From the soft, hazy look in your eyes, he didn't think you would mind it, either, which only made the temptation worse.

You both turned your heads, startled, when Fiona giggled. She was already lowering her cellphone to look at the pic she had just taken. Simon tensed, his first instinct being to bark at her to delete the photo, but then another idea popped into his head.

He lowered you to the ground, stepping behind you before planting his hands firmly on your hips and pulling you back against his chest. "Take another one, Fi. Want t'send one t'my team."

She dutifully took the picture, smiling as she stepped forward to show you both how well it had turned out. "That one's a keeper."

Simon stared down at the picture, liking the way the two of you looked together. A rush of heat coursed through his veins at the sight of his hands on your hips, your hands covering his. He glanced over at your face as you studied the photo, and he could only describe your expression as incandescent; you were bloody glowing.

His arm snaked around your waist, pulling you into his side as his eyes met yours. "Yeah," he murmured. "Definitely a keeper."

-

Simon ended up with dozens of photos saved on his phone by the time the festival was over. His favorite was the one Fiona had first taken, the one where he was holding you up in his arms, your heads together. He set that one as his screensaver.

However, the one he viewed the most was the one he took at the bonfire the last night of the festival.

He took it during the bonfire dance, you and the other dancers circling the high flames as you swayed and undulated in a jaw-dropping, frenzied dance that had wrecked his world. His heart had been beating as hard as the drums, his eyes fixated on you with a predatory intensity.

Then you had looked at him.

You had seen him in the crowd, a teasing, open-mouthed smile directed his way as your arms lifted over your head and you rolled your hips in a move that punched the air out of his lungs. He had lifted his phone and snapped the photo, capturing the moment.

He captured your sultry smile, that hooded gaze that was meant just for him. Your body's curves stood out in stark relief against the dark, your silken skin aglow from the flames. Every time he looked at it, he ended up in the loo with his cock in his hand, choking back his groans as he desperately fisted himself to completion.

It was bloody torture watching you disappear into your own bedroom later that night, every cell of his body on fire with the need to follow you. He didn't, but he wanted to. It was the fear of losing you that finally had him shuffling off to his own room, settling for your photo and his calloused hand.

It was on Sunday afternoon that he got a notification that the team was in their private group chat. You and Fi were gone to the shops, and he was sitting on the patio, drinking a Stella and enjoying the garden. Might as well join in, he thought; he had nothing better to do at the moment.

As soon as he entered the chat, Soap and Gaz started asking for details about the festival and, of course, you. Feeling a bit sadistic, the first photos he shared were of the green, the bonfire, the pub.

[SOAP]: Come on LT. U ken what we want! Show us a pic of ur doll. 😏 [GHOST]: No [GAZ]: Pleeeeaaaase!!! 🙏🏿🥺 [PRICE]: Bloody hell. Ignore them, lad. [GAZ]: We just want to see her Cap... [SOAP]: Is she ugly? I bet shes ugly. [PRICE]: SOAP! [GHOST]: Far from it johnny [SOAP]: Ur killn us LT! Just 1 pic pls pls pls!!! [PRICE]: Stand down, Sgts! Jesus Christ!

Simon couldn't help himself. He wanted to show you off. There was a smug smile on his face when he forwarded them the photos of you in a zip file.

There was a minute of inactivity, then the messages began to ping in rapid fire succession.

[GAZ]: That's ur doll?! She's bloody gorgeous, m8! 👍🏿 [SOAP]: sTEAMn fUKnJESUS!!!! [SOAP]: Insta-chub 👀🍆 [PRICE]: Well done, lad! She's a beauty. [SOAP]: Shes ded bonnie. U should introduce me 😈 [GAZ]: When can we meet her??? Is her friend single? 😏 [PRICE]: Behave, lads...

Simon huffed in amusement, feeling rather cocky as he began typing.

[GHOST]: Thx cap. [GHOST]: Her friend is single gaz. [GHOST]: U can suck it johnny. She's MY doll [GAZ]: Yeah. Suck it Soap! 😅 [SOAP]: Fair enough but... [SOAP]: Can I keep the pic of her @ the bonfire? [PRICE]: Christ. I need bloody a drink. Congrats, Simon. *(PRICE has left the chat.) [GHOST]: Hm. Just the one pic? [SOAP]: 🙏🥺 PLS??? [GHOST]: LOL [GHOST]: Hell NO [SOAP]: 😭 [GAZ]: 🤣🤣🤣

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[vermillioncrown]

This is going to be a huge post because you've picked up so much of what we put down I'm just 🥰🥹

@sunshinerotting replied to your post “(@rozaceous) dpnf ch 11: housebroken”:

will be rereading immediately but i love your guys’ characters very much and the way you write the canon characters makes so much sense. the way the people in that house interact with each other is so interesting to me because if tim was actually the normal boy he thinks he is the entire balance would be thrown off. no one else could’ve done what he does in that dynamic. they’re like a jigsaw puzzle to me. i have more thoughts give me a sec

thank you so much! roz and i keep joking that this fic is now an au of an au of an au of an au... and on and on, and then it's like. what makes this still a fic and not a fully original setting and work? we had to sell readers on a lot, that these characters (outside of our SIs) were still some flavor of canon. especially, "who is the core of tim drake?" and yeah, he's so not fucking normal. but he's not obviously wacky, either.

​out of order now i don’t remember chapter numbers: when jason showed up like a huge asshole i texted my friend about it. very much “he WOULD fucking do that but by god is it PISSING ME OFF” and it was!! love that genuinely. might not be what was intended but i do think he IS odd and sad and unable to move through the cycle of grief fully enough to show back up like a haunting and not expect it to get to allie like that. zero ability to understand how loved he is. 10/10 more...

GAH to know you texted abt our fic!!!! 🥹🥹🥹 best praise tbh. and the second sell: how is jason an asshole but worth rooting for later? or at least, allowed into the enclosure lol. we might not have had it summarized as neatly as you did, but roz and i are in full agreement you Read jason here. that's exactly what we wanted, that's so much of what we take from his character in various canons.

allie reminds me of a bobcat which feels weird to say but she’s so nonthreatening outwardly and she minds her business but the second someone steps in on her people it’s like Oh. oh right. teeth and claws. when jason showed back up i felt so much for her. there was no way for her to move. korvin acts in ways similar to me, which i will examine on my own time and not in your comments. i do love how everyone in this house has their own preferred flavor of Avoidance

you also have such a read on allie, i love it. i'll leave her to roz but i'll say my piece that i sometimes get bummed that korvin's so obviously wacky + a lot of gender stuff at play (the audience/demographic of ff readers, we live in a society and all that) that make more ppl focus on korvin over allie whereas they're both equally wack. and korvin's behavior makes the most sense when taken as a convoluted male re-socialization of someone initially female-socialized but rewarded in a male-dominated space. AND both of them are AuDHD, word of god putting that out there. add on the isekai brainworms, and yeah, isekai is just an extended analogy for masking → hence the different flavors of avoidance

tim is somehow the most well-adjusted in this regard, before jason shows up maybe, and thats so crazy. tim drake. Tim Drake ????comparatively well-adjusted to anyone ??? i know i’m forgetting something so i’ll come back but writing that down genuinely through me off a little bit. lol

you also recognize that jason ranks above tim in "well-adjusted" here, god, how does it feel to be so correct. and tim is well-adjusted here! he's never had to be a vigilante! but he's also much lonelier than in canon. something that made retrospective sense while we were writing is that he fell out of liking ball sports (despite not being a desk nerd) is that...who does he have to enjoy them with in this au?

threw not through. anyway I FORGOT ABOUT RUTABAGA. I AM SO SORRY RUTABAGA. the amount of love between the characters is so important to me bc it’s always there no matter how fucked the bats are about showing it normally. the brownstone does end up feeling like a safe space like it somehow feels so easy most of the time and then when tangential forces (sorry dick) show up it’s like the air changes. but allie and korvin and tim all have such Personalities its insane it works out like that.

RUTIE BEST GIRL, forgiven lol. YES YES YES there is so much love and it's like, the love doesn't stop you from doing the work. the bats are so fucked up, and we only get a glimpse of dick and korvin's relationship where you can see the maladapted consequences on both of their parts, dick not being fully equipped to "raise" korvin and korvin wanting to be easy/convenient for dick. and korvin's deep-seated not-abandonment issues tied with family and cultural trauma/burden.

(i still stand by the "good older brother dick grayson" tag, he's just. oh there's a lot. if you read between the lines there's so much being implied for TPAC)

but having allie in this 'verse, allie and korvin together ground each other. that's why they're so co-dependent in the beginning (it's healthier at the end), that's why they still had the wherewithal to seek an outside friend, and yes, that is why the brownstone is like that. their place that they made with their own hands.

obviously jason was an issue initially (it felt redundant to write that sentence) but he’s such a necessary part of them by being 1) necessary to allie and 2) the catalyst allie and korvin needed to end up where they are. i do think ppl that important to each other need one big unavoidable conflict to avoid stagnation like obviously he was a necessary part of the story but he was a Necessary Part Of The Story. does this make sense?? four strand braid.

AND YES DUDE you literally. we were writing this and we had the vibe, but we literally did not articulate it to each other until the very end that jason's actually necessary to make all of them normal. i love everything you're saying about needing one unavoidable conflict to resolve. he is part of a four strand braid. it's so strong. it's critical. korvin still finds jason annoying and vice versa. and yet they'd both say the household contains all of them by the end.

i just like that they start off alone and end up together. that’s my thing. jigsaw puzzle. polycule of all time. i can’t think of a way in which another person would ever get that close to them the dynamics are so perfect to me. every need is accounted for. its like a perfect little box in my mind. i think thats it for now lol i’m happy you guys write together. not just bc i love it but also bc it’s so clear u guys have fun doing it and that makes me happy <3

WE MADE IT. it's one thing to prescribe "hey guys this is a polycule" but selling it? the logistics of a polycule? not so easy, and it has to be tailored to the situation and characters. not all of them are romantically/sexually involved, nor do they have straight-forward relationships (hence, qpr), so having you say it fits and they seem seamless is like. top tier praise. coherence, it's everything we've aimed for.

thank you for all of your thoughts! we do have tons of fun and that's why we love sharing what we have! and we hope to keep doing projects like this, or we'll just be at each other's side while we work on our individual fics.

[lillaluna]

back door ch.1

Pairing: Wriothesley x f!Reader

Summary: will he heip you find your way out or will he destroy you to the end?

Tags: modern au, heavy family relationships, references to beatings and physical violence, references to blood, deviations from canon, relationship hints, romance, dramma, everyday life, hurt\comfort, deth of minor characters

Heavily slinging his gym bag over his shoulder, Wriothesley leaned his hand against the loose wall. He looked down at his battered knuckles and smirked. The last fight had been surprisingly easy on him in terms of technique, but even through the sports bandages, his knuckles had hurt and were now slightly baked. But it was a small thing, because the pocket of his black trousers was warmed by the cash, which was much more than for the last fight.

Wriothesley looked at himself in the dirty mirror that hung on the wall of the room that was called the locker room, but in fact it was just a room, with an old bunk, a rickety chair and a sink with a dirty mirror.

The boy's face was lit only by a dim yellowish light, which made the black eye and busted lip look worse than it really was. Wriothesley ruffled his dark, grey hair with a healthy hand, smirked at his reflection in the mirror, and left the room, which greeted him with the creak of the door.

Stepping out into the fresh night air, the guy shoved his hands into the pockets of his lightweight jacket. The weather was abominable, and judging by the fact that there were puddles on the ground, it had recently rained. Its last drops still glistened on the asphalt, creating mirror-like reflections of the streetlights.

As usual after a fight, Wriothesley began to think that he was lucky for the time being and that he should quit underground fighting as soon as possible. But it seemed like he was about to save up enough money to get out of this small, musty town, but every time that "about time" slipped through his fingers and Wriothesley went into the cage on Sunday for the umpteenth time, risking everything. But there was also a different fear from that of his enemies in the ring. He was afraid of losing himself in indifference. To become a monster, unable to feel joy, tenderness, love. His fighting spirit, his frantic thirst for victory, began to permeate every cell of his being, breaking down the lines between a winner and a regular guy.

He stayed there, standing on the edge between the destruction of a crushed opponent and himself, between light and dark. In his soul, the typhoon seemed to warp reality, cutting him off from communicating with the rest of the world, pulling him into his own abyss.

…

You ran down the street, panting. Your quick steps were lost in the deserted space, and the streetlights flickering overhead were like fireflies telling you where to go. Your lungs burned, but you couldn't stop, not now that you'd dared to run, when you had the chance. Your eyes filled with tears that rolled down your cheeks, seemingly against your will and you couldn't even explain why. Was it resentment at your stepfather for beating you? At your mother for not protecting you? From happiness that you would never come back to this house you called your own again? But salty drops rolled from your eyes in hail, covering your vision with a veil.

Your side stabbed, and you stopped, breathing hard. With your hands on your knees, you gulped for air, glancing around warily and straining to hear. You were like a hunted animal, ready to bolt at any moment.

The air was soaked with the scents of your surroundings, becoming more and more stifling. The smells of rubbish bins, mustiness and dampness wafted in. It all blended into one foul-smelling mass that haunted you like an insistent ghost.

Somewhere in the distance you heard the howling of police sirens, and you levelled yourself and held your breath, staring into the distance, trying to understand where the sound was coming from. It was unclear, but you didn't need to, you were already off and running, hoping to put the past behind you.

The unfamiliar streets changed one after another, not that you were watching where you were running, but even so you knew it was a completely unfamiliar neighbourhood.

The sounds of sirens drove you forward, adrenaline fuelling your heart rate and making you run faster and faster. You turned back while your legs carried you forward, and the moment you wanted to turn around, you crashed.

At first you felt like you hit a wall, but considering you didn't smash your forehead or break your nose, it was something much softer, but dense enough.

And then the 'wall' spoke.

"Hey, watch out…" A gruff male voice sharply bellowed.

You sitting on the pavement rubbed the spot on your face that you had hit the guy with, then looked up at him with a startled look. You blinked confusedly, like a doe in the headlight looking up at the figure far above you.

Wriothesley was standing at his bike, half-turned toward you, holding his black motorbike helmet in his hands, apparently ready to put it on, just until you slammed into him. His scowl and sharp look immediately softened as he realised who had made the attempt to knock him down.

Looking down at you, almost sitting in a puddle on the pavement, the guy stomped uncertainly from foot to foot. You were breathing heavily, staring unwaveringly at the guy in front of you. Worst-case scenarios were forming in your head despite the fact that despite his looks the guy didn't look like someone who could hurt you. Especially now that his gaze was noticeably softer.

Wriothesley silently put his helmet on the motorbike and bent over, silently offering you his hand. After a second's hesitation, you hesitantly reached out your wet palm toward the guy, and felt the gentle touch of his massive palm, which gripped yours tightly. Pulling you towards him, the guy almost brought you to your feet in one motion.

"You okay?" Wriothesley asked, looking at you carefully with his piercing blue eyes. His gaze lingered on the scar on your upper lip, then slid over the bruise that had just begun to fade, spreading from temple to eye. The boy returned to your frightened eyes, tactfully not mentioning the beating.

You wiped your palms of sweat and dirt on the back pockets of your jeans and shook your hair out of habit to at least hide a little of what your stepfather had adorned your face with.

"Fine," you muttered to yourself and in the silence that ensued, your stomach rumbled shrilly. You couldn't really remember the last time you'd eaten. I think it was… Friday? You'd visited a friend, where she'd treated you to pizza.

"Hungry?" Wriothesley cast a questioning look at you, picking up his helmet again. He had no intention of lingering any longer than this ridiculous situation demanded.

"No," you lied, wrapping your arms around yourself. Your stomach made a shrill sound again, actively protesting your lie. You awkwardly averted your eyes, away from the tall, and not to be hidden, handsome guy who was smirking.

"Suit yourself," Wriothesley shrugged, "I was going to take you to a roadside diner, but it's far enough away, but they make some great chops I'd sell my soul for," he tossed his head back dreamily, covering his eyes and smiling at the night sky, but then returned to his original position, "but I don't insist."

At the mere mention of food, your mouth filled with saliva, and you felt with every fibre of your soul that your stomach was about to explode with noise if you thought of refusing the invitation. Plus, the guy had mentioned that the place where you'd be eating was far enough away, which was exactly what you needed.

"You're not a serial killer, are you?" you raised an eyebrow and squinted your eyes.

"Depending on how many people you have to kill to be a serial?" the guy spoke with a frown on his eyebrows, giving his face as serious a look as possible. He was already pulling out a spare helmet before holding it out to you.

"Five times?" you surmised, accepting the item from the stranger's hands.

"Oh, no then," Wriothesley smiled a charming smile, after which he pulled on his helmet. You almost smiled, but quickly restrained yourself from the idea, after all that wasn't why you were here. Since that was the circumstances you could eat and get away, flirting didn't fit into that plan.

You put on your helmet, to which Wriothesley shook his head disapprovingly. He took a small step towards you, keeping his distance. His hands reached for the strap, which appeared to need tightening to make the helmet fit snugly on your head. Rough and strong, the guy's hands seemed almost made for destruction, but surprisingly Wriothesley's fingers, deftly and gently made a couple of quick manipulations tightening the strap just right. His every movement was precise and extremely careful not to damage anything. Your gaze caught a glimpse of battered knuckles with fresh bruises.

Not at all like a gentleman, Wriothesley acted purely masculine, offering you his hand and taking you onto his bike before getting on it himself.

"Hold on to me tight," the guy commanded as he put the key in the ignition.

In defiance, you moved further away from your unexpected driver. Then Wriothesley himself found your hands behind his back and put them around his waist.

"Hold on, I wasn't planning on scraping anyone off the pavement today."

After those words, only afterwards did you realise how much of a terrible and reckless venture this was.

…

As the waitress put the dishes you and Wriothesley had ordered earlier on the table, she glanced frowningly at you and the massive figure of the guy sitting on the other side of the table. You almost chuckled loudly, imagining what you looked like from the outside. A huge, compared to you guy with bloody knuckles and an obviously smashed face, and you, with a large bruise on the right side of your face.

"Is that it?" A full-bodied, stocky woman asked, placing a glass of juice in front of you.

Wriothesley threw you a questioning look, which you willfully ignored, waiting for you to start eating. Nodding to the woman the guy picked up the utensils and moved closer to the table.

A few minutes passed in silence. The space around you was filled with the sounds of the kitchen, the muffled singing of the radio, the occasional chatter of people sitting around you and the clinking of utensils on plates.

"Well," Wriothesley said, leaning back on the soft surface of the worn sofa. The boy watched intently as you happily devoured the chop you'd brought, which, by the way, tasted truly divine. "What would make such a young person go with a strange guy, not the most disposable looking, to the outskirts of town to eat at a roadside diner?"

You stopped chewing abruptly, almost choking on the meat that was still in your mouth. You sucked in air noisily through your nose, and with a loud clinking sound, you put the cutlery down on the white plate, which was smeared with the remnants of ketchup.

"Nothing," you snapped back sharply, taking your gaze away from the piercing eyes of the guy across from you, who was nonchalantly sipping the tea you'd just brought.

"Hmm," Wriothesley stretched out deep in thought, raising his bushy eyebrows, "let it be nothing, it's none of my business after all. And I think if I'd asked you what was wrong with your face, you'd have said you'd fallen."

"Yes," you said simply, throwing your hair forward deliberately, trying to hide your bruise.

Seeing how nervous you were, so as not to embarrass you any further Risley turned away to the large window that overlooked the road and was on the guy's left hand.

"Eat," Wriothesley commanded.

You would have liked to protest now, to throw the utensils away and defiantly refuse to eat, but you realised that you were in the wrong position now, and there was no telling when you would next be able to eat properly. So, a moment later, you took up your meal.

…

Standing on the porch of a roadside café you turned around for the tinkle of a bell, which jingled softly as Wriothesley stepped outside. He was walking towards you carrying a small box in front of him and as he neared you, the guy held it out to you.

"What's this?" You asked, looking sceptically at what the guy was holding out to you.

"It's a pie," Wriothesley replied simply, but with a smile, "thought you should try it." And after saying that, the guy forcefully shoved the box into your hesitantly unclenched fingers, and then went to his bike.

"Why are you doing this?" you blurted out, staring at Wriothesley 's broad back, covered in a leather jacket.

The guy was fiddling with something by his bike when he turned to you in surprise and gave you a strange look, examining you from head to toe. Turning back around, Wriothesley silently threw one of his legs over the bike and removed the footrest that the bike was leaning on so he wouldn't fall over. For a moment you thought you weren't going to get an answer, but the guy spoke up:

"I've been in tough situations," the guy put the key in the ignition, "but my advice to you is don't trust people just like that, they may have very different intentions."

The guy took his helmet and put it on his head before turning the key and the motorbike came to life, filling the quiet night street with noise.

"Thank you," you said loudly, trying to shout over the noise of the running engine, "for the pie," you shook the box you were holding, trying to squeeze out a pathetic semblance of a smile.

Because of the noise of the motorbike and the helmet, you couldn't make out the sound Wriothesley made, but from the slight shake of his shoulders and the way he shook his head from side to side, you assumed it was a chuckle.

Wriothesley stalled the bike again and took off his helmet.

"Do you have somewhere to go today?" The guy asked.

"I'll figure it out," you said, a little too playfully cheerful, "I've got this," you twirled the pie box in your hands again and twitched your eyebrows meaningfully. In truth, you didn't even have a rough plan of action and fear was spreading inside you. Your dream of leaving your home had come true, but as it turned out, you were completely unprepared for it.

"Sit down," the guy commanded, patting the seat behind you with his large palm.

You blinked in surprise and frowned.

"You just said not to trust people," you repeated, Wriothesley's words.

"Oh, sure, you can distrust me and stay in this lovely place. I think one of the helpful truckers will be sure to help you out," and without further hesitation, Wriothesley slipped his helmet on, preparing to turn the key in the ignition.

When you realised it, you took a quick step towards the bike, and a moment later you clumsily jumped on it, this time wrapping your arms around your boyfriend's waist more tightly.

…

As soon as you entered Wriothesley's flat, you had an immediate sense of comfort and ease. The studio flat of a typical bachelor is a small but cosy space where every detail reflects his personality and lifestyle. There were posters of bikes and bike parts hanging on one wall, fingerless biker gloves on a small table near the entrance and a worn helmet on the floor below that had clearly been in an accident.

The main room, which was the living room and bedroom at the same time, had an atmosphere of relaxation and freedom. A modern, large-screen TV took centre stage on the wall, with a PS 5 resting underneath. A comfortable sofa invited you to relax.

Noticing you looking round the room Wriothesley said:

"The curtains better not be open," the guy glanced sadly at the spot where in all likelihood there should have been a window, "the view is awful."

"It can't be worse than what I've seen every day," she mumbled peering into the small kitchen. You weren't at all surprised to see there, a mountain of dirty dishes, and a few fast food boxes that stood on the table.

"Here," you heard behind you and turned around. The guy stood holding out what appeared to be his own black t-shirt to you, "you can change in the bathroom," Wriothesley pointed to a room you hadn't even noticed initially.

You took the t-shirt from Wriothesley and went into the bathroom. It was small and narrow, but clean and tidy. After changing quickly you went out into the living room. Wriothesley was sitting on the sofa staring at the TV, he turned to you as soon as you spoke.

"Thanks," you said, "I feel much better."

The guy nodded and leaned back on the back of the couch and covered his eyes. You tightened your lips as you looked around the room, shifting from heel to toe in indecision. Biting the inside of your cheek, you softly treaded the cool floor with your bare feet and moved towards the boy.

Wriothesley sat in silence with his legs spread wide. From the outside you might have thought he was dozing. His chest rose and fell with his breathing, and his manly face remained impenetrable and peaceful.

You slowly approached the guy who was sprawled serenely on the couch. Your heart was beating hot rhythms, doubt and indecision enveloped your thoughts. Finally, you made up your mind and sat down on his attractive thighs, resting your palms on Wriothesley's firm breasts, the relief of which could be easily felt through the thin fabric of the burgundy longsleeve. A moment, full of tension, hung in the air as you leaned forward awkwardly, aiming for the guy's neck, emitting a pleasant and seductive male scent. Your breath shook and trembled as you touched your lips to Wriothesley's skin boldly kissing him.

He, feeling pleasantly confused, spoke in an unexpectedly soft voice without moving or opening his eyes.

"What exactly are you doing right now?"

You moved away from the guy's neck, and sat up straight dropping your gaze to your hands, which you rubbed your fingers with in embarrassment. Wriothesley returned his head to its normal position, he looked at you with an expressionless stare waiting for your answer.

"I… I…" you mumbled, picking at your fingernail, "I have nothing to repay you for your kindness except… Well, except," you sighed hesitantly raising your gaze to the ice-coloured eyes that were studying you, "well, you know."

"Thank you, that was enough," Wriothesley replied tilting his head to the side. He frowned, and then jerked forwards, and you almost fell backwards away from him, but Wriothesley swiftly picked you up under the armpits and set you on the floor as if you weighed nothing. "You can take my bed," the guy nodded towards the large, and seemingly soft bed.

"I'm not comfortable…" You started, but the guy shook his head.

"I often get insomnia," Wriothesley explained, "and the TV lulls me to sleep quite well, I don't use the bed much for sleeping."

"Oh…" You said grimacing and casting a wary glance at the bed.

"God," Wriothesley rolled his eyes towards the ceiling, "I wasn't talking about what you were thinking, I…", but after a half-word, the boy exhaled tiredly, "I've had a hell of a day and a hell of an evening, so lie on the floor, I don't care, I'm taking the couch."

With those words Wriothesley walked around you and made his way to the bathroom, from where the sound of the shower running could be heard a few minutes later. You took another look around the guy's small but cosy flat. And it clicked in your head how much had happened tonight and how you'd ended up here. Fed, clean, wearing a stranger's nice-smelling T-shirt that reached almost to your knees, and you were going to spend the night in a soft, big bed, in which you would be alone! Where did you get your karma so cleansed that you were so lucky? Even if it was just for one night.

You almost jumped on the spot, clenching your fists and opening your mouth in a silent squeal of joy, shaking your head a few times, then glancing around warily to see if Wriothesley had noticed. But the water in the bathroom continued to rumble, and with that accompaniment you walked towards the bed.

…

You were mindlessly flipping through the news feed on your phone, completely immersed in the virtual world. Completely confused in your thoughts and absorbing every line, you did not notice anything around you.

Opening the door of the cramped bathroom, a tall and exceptionally athletic guy in only black boxers walked into the living room. Visibly trim, with an engaging physique, Wriothesley walked over to the wardrobe. Of course you couldn't help but pay attention to what was happening right in front of you, and as the guy got ready for bed, you studied his body from a distance.

The scars. How many were there. You were creepily curious about where they came from, but you couldn't afford to ask about anything in person, despite the fact that technically, you were now lying in Wriothesley 's bed.

He was silently getting ready for bed, ready to fall asleep on the cosy couch. The determination was readable on the guy's face, in his eyes, in every muscle tense from being trained. You couldn't take your eyes off this manly sight, watching Wriothesley 's every move with a sense of awe.

"I'll charge you," the guy said with a cheerful note, tossing a pillow, and a blanket onto the couch.

"What?" You asked, coming out of your trance.

"If you keep staring like that, I'm going to charge you for such a barbaric use of my gorgeous body."

You opened your mouth silently, not knowing how to respond to this ridiculous accusation. Did you really stare that hard?

Wriothesley smirked at your reaction, and noisily collapsed onto the couch, making himself comfortable. After a moment, he switched on the TV and turned the sound as quietly as possible, so he could hear you without disturbing you. You put the phone away, and seemed to fall asleep almost immediately.

[inevitably-johnlocked]

Hi!!! Big fan of your recs lists! I hope you are doing well! I saw on your taking a break post that you still are open for fic request list. I wonder if you have fics that feature alternate ways that John and Sherlock meet for the first time. It's really fun to read aus like that. The one where John was a professional cuddler was an especially fun one ^-^

Hey Lovely!!

OMG I have no idea how I missed this one!!! I have lots of fics you'll like, check these out:

Alternate First Meetings (Canon-Feeling)

Alternate First Meetings Pt 2

Alternate Professions (updated March 2023)

And HEY, if you love AUs, I'm your gal! :D Here are some more from PAGE 5 of my Masterpost (where you can find EVEN MORE!!):

Teacher AU

Lumberjack John / Botanist Sherlock

WWII AU’s

Pirates

School Fics

Kidlock

Spy John

Dear John AU

Omegaverse

Omegaverse Pt. 1.5: O!Sherlock

Sports AU (Updated Aug 2023)

Olympics AU

Actor AU

Historical AU

Client AU

Prostitution / Escorts (TO READ)

American AU (TO READ) [Updated July 2024]

Bodyguards, Assistants, & Guardians

Regency AU (TO READ)

Animal AU

Coffee Shop AU

Sherlock x  Good Omens Crossovers (Updated Apr 2022)

Farm and Ranch AUs (MFLs)

Royalty AUs (MFLs)

Ballet Dancer AU (MFLs)

School / Student AU (MFLs)

Sherlock AUs Under 25K

Serial Killer Case Fics/ Serial Killer AU

Teen/Unilock with Rugby John (MFLs)

Clones / Multiple Universes (READ and MFLs)

Hogwarts / Wizarding World AU (MFLs) (Potterlock)

Sugar Daddy Fics (MFLs)

And the AWESOME cuddling fic you're talking about is this one!! I love it too!!

Just To Hold You Close by sussexbound (E, 70,841 w., 18 Ch. || Alternate First Meeting, Sherlock POV, ASD Sherlock, PTSD John, Demisexual Sherlock, Bisexual John, Cuddling/Snuggling, Platonic Cuddling, Enthusiastic Consent, Bed Sharing, Love Confessions, Sexual Tension, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Cuddle Negotiations, For a Case Until It Isn’t, Hair Petting, Sexual Negotiation, Anxiety, Trust Issues, Slow Burn, Panic Attacks, Frottage, Hand/Blow Jobs, Referenced Self Harm / Abuse / Suicidal Ideation, First Kiss/Time, Anal, Autistic Sherlock) – When a woman is murdered and the last person to see her alive is recently invalided army vet turned reluctant (and prickly) professional cuddler, John Watson, Sherlock Holmes is pulled into a world of intimacy and intrigue he never could have imagined. John is a conundrum and mystery: frank yet reserved, tender yet angry, open yet afraid. Sherlock is instantly drawn into his orbit, and begins to feel and desire things he never has before.

=====

SO SORRY AGAIN, Erik!! I totally didn't mean to skip this ask

I hope this reply pleases you in compensation. 💜🖤