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rinseis · 4 months

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PLAYING FAVOURITES — GOJO SATORU

❥ gojo satoru is one of the most popular names in japan. when he becomes a judge-slash-leader on a dance show, he takes an abnormal amount of interest in you, making everyone else effectively jealous of you. problem is, if either of you want anything to happen, you have to keep it hidden from public eye. you think it’s best to wait, at least until the show’s over, but unluckily for you—gojo has always been impatient with what he wants.

word count. 5.9k ♱ content warnings: female reader, modern au, celebrity!gojo, dancer!reader, scandals, gojo is kinda a lot unprofessional, nsfw - mdni, porn with plot, mentions of BL, alcohol, gojo eats you out, penetration, fingering, orgasm denial, no condom was used (you kids stay safe, use condoms), pet names (baby, pretty, princess), geto sees you naked, slight action on a motorbike, mentions of masturbation/vibrators. mdni banner by @/cafekitsune :)

Fame, wealth, prestige.

Over three million followers. Everyone either wants him or wants to be him. Always decked out in his sponsors’ clothes—this season it’s Chanel. One of the favourite faces for Vogue. Praised as an all-rounded genius; there’s rarely anything he can’t do, being a model, actor and dancer with hobbies ranging from skateboarding to professional motorcycle racing. There’s nothing that Gojo Satoru seemingly lacks.

Except maybe in the professionalism department. And that’s only because he met you.

Being the judge in a dance competition that’s being broadcasted internationally comes with a set of unspoken responsibilities, namely: you do not sleep with any of the contestants. It’s not his first time on this show, so he already has a reputation built as the strict but kind and professional judge (and also the hottest one to grace everyone’s tv screens). But since week two of knowing you, he’s already crossing boundaries—putting his work ethic to the test.

When the team he has to train celebrates their earlier victory against another, he treats everyone to drinks at one of the most bespoke places in Tokyo, holding it in a private room away from paparazzi eyes. Gojo makes sure you sit right next to him too, because like hell is he letting his favourite be at risk of some other guy’s touchiness.

Not him though. It’s fine if it’s him.

As everyone gets talkative and debating among themselves about who’s the better dancer, Gojo takes the chance to lean closer to you, his hair brushing your face. You stiffen up a little, in that adorable way he likes whenever he’s near (because you’re a fan of him before this, he knows—he can tell), before you ultimately loosen up as he puts a soothing arm around your shoulder.

“Not feeling so well today?” He asks, because you’re particularly quiet tonight, more so than usual, and he’s curious. He’s always curious about you.

You chuckle, taking a swig of your beer. “Just tired out from earlier,” you tell him, and he guesses it’s because of today’s recording. Gojo knows, of course, because he pays special attention to you.

He watches every move you make, every smooth curve, relishes in your movements, especially when you dance to an especially sexy song. Gojo isn’t so subtle either, always cheering after you end your set, always making comments that the editor would probably have to cut out most of the time, praising you with words like i could watch you… dance all day and every time you dance i fall in love all over again. (With dance… of course.)

So much so that every other contestant there is envious of the attention to detail you get when it’s Gojo’s eyes on you. They can only dream of it.

“How’s your legs? Heard they cramped up earlier,” he asks, daring to put a hand on your thigh, gently rubbing up and down, the hem of your skirt reacting to his movements.

You nearly choke on your drink, but you don’t reject him anyway—letting him rest his hand on your inner thigh. By the looks of it, you’re enjoying it too, aren’t you? That smile you’re suppressing isn’t very convincing if you aren’t.

But Gojo likes to be a little piece of shit, he likes to play games first—and he wants to play with you, because he thinks you’re oh so pretty and oh so talented, and you’re kind of fiesty too, during training, making him question all the boring models he’s ever dated just for their bodies.

Are you going to be the same? That’s what he wants to find out.

When the celebration ends, he makes sure he sends everyone on a cab back to the recording building, the residential apartments sponsored by the show being right next door to it. Except for you though. He holds you back from entering the last cab for the group, knocking on it to let the driver know to drive off.

Then, with a devilish grin on his face, he grabs a spare helmet and offers it to you.

“Wanna ride?”

Ten seconds later, you’re riding pillion, holding onto Gojo because you’ve never ridden on a back of a motorcycle that’s going this fast before. You should’ve known, really, because what other speed would an adrenaline-loving professional motorbike racer drive on? Judging by the look of his bike, it’s probably not actually allowed to be usable on the actual roads too—it should only be driven for races.

Not that Gojo cares, because he knows he’s the best and he wouldn’t let you get hurt. You thank god he chose not to drink tonight. You wonder if he drinks at all, now that you think of it. But Gojo accelerates and all your thoughts go out the, well, wind? You hold onto him tighter, and you swear you can almost see a smirk if not for the helmet in your face. He’s not even wearing a helmet, for fucks’ sake. Just how much of a daredevil is he?

To his credit though, he manages to get you to the destination safely, without a hair out of place for him because somehow, no matter what he does, he always looks drop-dead gorgeous. Talk about being born with good looks, good body, good everything. No wonder all the luxury brands are scrambling to be his sponsors. He could probably make trash bags look expensive.

When you get off, you realise that you’re not at the usual building, with grey walls and a shoddy exterior. This time, you’re face to face with a sleek black high-rise hotel, the kind that you think probably only the elites in society can afford. Just when you’re about to question Gojo on his intentions, he cuts you off.

“Do you mind? This place belongs to my friend, just gotta check in on him for a bit,” he tells you, looking at you expectantly, as though he’s daring you to say no. But you gesture for him to go ahead, and that shit-eating smile is back on his face.

Once you’re inside, you’re met with a floral aroma that’s not too pungent, the entire lobby enveloped in a bright warm light, filled with attendants who bow at the sight of Gojo Satoru strolling in, decked head to toe in Chanel (of course), who in turn ignores everyone else and pulls you by the wrist with him.

You sit by the bar as you wait for Gojo to finish conversing with his friend, who’s sat in the far corner of the hotel restaurant, table filled with paper and files that you’re not envious of. The life of the rich seems too complicated for you. You’re happy just being yourself and enjoying trying to make a living out of dancing.

From the corner of your eye, you can faintly make out his fox-like eyes, jet black hair—he’s a stark contrast to Gojo, who seems to be more rainbows and sunshine. You don’t know what his name is, but he gives you a smirk when he catches you staring, and you abruptly turn away, embarrassed from getting caught.

“You here with Gojo Satoru?”

The bartender appears in front of you, looming tall as he looks down at you. He has jet black hair too, but he’s more buff than Gojo and his friend—the type who looks like he can manhandle you if he wants to. That scar on his lip makes him look dangerous. A white rag is slung over his shoulder as he uses it to wipe the glass down.

You nod, trying not to appear too friendly. You never know what these men might be thinking. “Yep, but I’m just a nobody so don’t worry about me,” you tell him once you realise he’s pouring you a shot.

The man scoffs, his voice getting even lower. “Nobody that’s around someone like Gojo Satoru is really a nobody,” he tells you, sliding the shot glass over the counter.

You’ve already drank a lot earlier, but you can hold your own, so you accept it anyway, with the plan of asking to put it on Gojo’s tab if they ask you to pay. You think a single shot here can cost at least three hours of your wage.

“So you know Gojo well, then?”

Admittedly, a part of you is curious to learn more about Gojo. The one every tabloid uses to boost their viewers, and the one who seemingly dates a new girl every other month, and the one everyone somehow either wants to be, or wants to get with. You included, if you’re not being in denial.

“Only as much as I observe,” he tells you bluntly. The only reason he’s talking to you is probably because he’s bored out of his mind since you’re the only one there apart from the other two guys.

So you decide why not? You don’t think you’re about to ask Gojo about himself, so maybe the bartender is the next best thing. “Do you happen to know why he doesn’t drink, uh—”

“Toji.”

“Simple, he’s a lightweight, that’s all,” Toji tells you, rolling his eyes. “Took him two shots to get tipsy and by the time he took the third shot he was all whiny and ended up throwing up in that pot over there,” he nudges his head toward the plant nestled at the corner of the bar, his irritation earning a snort out of you. Judging by his tone, he probably had to be the one to clean it up.

“Hey, are you shitting on me to my student?”

Gojo’s behind you before you know it, an arm slung around you as his friend takes to the other side of you, showing you an interested gaze.

Toji barely pays Gojo any mind, putting away the glasses. “Ah, Satoru, looks like you got a new favourite huh?”

The way he says new favourite implies there’s an old one, and going by the news you’ve seen of him circulating online, there’s not really anyone that qualifies, with every relationship being such a short fling. Is that what Toji means or is he hinting at something else?

It’s like Gojo can sense the gears turning in your head, so he gives you a quick flick on the forehead before turning his attention back to the bartender. A childish grin appears on his face, one that you’ve never seen him show on tv before, or throughout recording. “How about you give us each two shots?”

“No.” Toji’s refusal is quick and crisp clear.

Beside you, Gojo’s friend snickers, amused as he swirls his own liquor of choice in his glass. “Satoru, stop trying to bully my bartender into quitting.”

“Then try to hire a more competent one,” Satoru sneers, Toji’s deadpan expression and Satoru’s childish one on par with each other.

Ignoring them, Gojo’s friend reaches his hand out to you, a friendly smile on his face. “I take it you’re Y/N?” He asks, and you nod politely, shaking his hand. “Geto Suguru,” he introduces himself, and your ears perk up, somehow finding that name familiar.

“Heard of him?” Toji asks you, entirely ignoring Gojo now, who’s pouting as he reluctantly takes a seat beside you. When you struggle to place it, Toji helps you out. “He’s an actor too, played as Satoru’s lover in one of the dramas.”

Your eyes widen as Geto suddenly looks exactly like the character he was acting as, his face growing more familiar by the second. He groans, rolling his eyes, and Satoru’s on your other side faux gagging with his tongue sticking out.

“Don’t remind me,” Geto sighs just thinking about it, “we had that entire fanfiction saga after that ended, too.”

When you turn to Gojo, he only side eyes you and tells you, “don’t even ask.” So you make a mental reminder to google it yourself later.

As much as you like socialising with celebrities that are way above your status, you feel the sleep catching up to you, the exhaustion from earlier creeping its way back in.

“I think I’m just gonna head back first,” you tell Gojo, finishing up your drink and getting up, but Gojo’s big hands find you first, holding you in place. It’s kind of hard not to let your heart flutter when you’re in such close proximity with someone who’s too utterly gorgeous for his own good.

Gojo opens his mouth just briefly before holding himself back and then just offering a smile. “You tired?”

You want to say you’re not, because if you’re being honest, you don’t get opportunities like this often, this being the first time you’ve actually had proper alone time with Gojo outside of your training, and even that you were surrounded by cameras watching your every move.

“Kinda,” you settle for, and it’s like Gojo senses what you’re thinking of that he offers you a cheeky smile.

With his fingers around your wrist, he pulls you with him as he exits the bar, an amused Geto left behind, whispering something you can’t hear to Toji, who shakes his head as though he saw this coming.

“Where are we going?”

When Gojo turns around and winks at you, you can only hope he doesn’t actually feel your pulse racing from where your hands are linked. It’s honestly irritating just how charming he can be.

He’s quick on his feet, the light reflecting off of his studded jacket as he drags you with him across the lobby to the lift, swiping a card and then pressing for the rooftop, the glass elevator smoothly bringing the both of you up. You turn around to face the view of the city, and your eyes light up.

It’s not like you’ve never seen the Tokyo skyline before, but to see it like this; undisturbed and in the company of someone you admire—it feels kind of unmatched.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” Gojo’s voice flows through your ears like honey, his eyes piercing even as you look at them through the reflection on the elevator window. You only nod, mesmerised by both the view and the person. “I convinced Suguru to buy this place and make something out of it, used to be just an abandoned building at one point.”

And now it’s one of the most prestigious hotels in all of Tokyo, with a view that’s hard to beat, and a rooftop that’s entirely too beautiful that you wonder how long they spent just on the design alone.

The scenery distracts you from the fact that Gojo’s fingers are intertwined with your own as he brings you onto the rooftop, walking you to a corner where a thick wooden table sits, a single wooden ashtray in the middle.

Gojo lets go of your hand to sit on the table, feet propped up and body leaned back on his palms as he smirks to himself, satisfied that you find the view just as nice as he does.

You’re completely absorbed by the scenery before you, leaning against the edge, wide starry eyes looking at every thing in sight. Gojo wonders if you know how pretty you are, if you know what you do to him. Every single time he sees you, he has to hold himself back from acting out of line thanks to all the cameras surrounding you. That, and the warning given by the producers to keep things professional.

But Gojo thinks fuck being professional, because neither of you are being watched right now, and he knows he’s not the only one out of the two of you that’s aware of the chemistry between you. Your lingering eyes, the way you always look out for him, the way you willingly let him cross the line sometimes.

Slowly, he comes up behind you, mirroring your pose, arms leaning against the edge too, enveloping you in between his body. It’s shameful really, that if you didn’t have restraint, Gojo won’t have it either, but it’s all up to you. His right hand comes up to brush against your cheek, and he can tell by the muscles on your shoulders that you’re stiffening up—he’s been paying attention to your body way too much. He can argue it’s his job, but never when it comes to you.

Even now, when he’s so unashamedly staring at how your top hugs your body so well, how your skirt is at a length tempting enough to hike over your ass. Just imagining what you look like underneath all that is enough to make him hard, his hips instinctively closing the gap between you.

Your head’s been muddled for a while now, and you gasp at the feeling of Gojo against you. You’ve thought of this situation before, of the physical attraction between you and Gojo coming to a head, but you’d always thought to leave these kinds of things until after the show’s over. Seems like Gojo has the opposite thoughts, those same views seeping into your own head, making you reconsider, and it looks like he’ll come out on top.

You can’t help but let out a whine as you feel his big hands on your inner thighs, beckoning you to spread them for him. It’s pitiful how easily you obey, and Gojo is just as desperate, your stomach being pushed further against the edge of the railing.

In spite of it all, Gojo’s trying his best to limit himself to this, his hands squeezing your thighs in frustration. “Fuuuck,” he groans as his fingers sneak up against your underwear, feeling how wet you are already. “If you don’t stop me I don’t know if I can control myself.”

It’s really unfair of him to say that, you think, when he’s the one who’s been coming on to you. Still, you’d be lying if you said you weren’t enjoying this, if you said you didn’t want this too.

“You’re supposed to be the teacher, shouldn’t I be the one following your lead?” You ask back, breathless from how Gojo’s already rubbing circles against your clothed clit, his dick only getting harder as he continues to press himself against your ass.

If you were being completely honest, you’d been waiting for this for a while. An entire month feeling the tension between the two of you without acting on it. An entire month of dancing together, training under him, sometimes with his big hands on your waist and you having to pretend that this doesn’t affect you at all. Your patience is wafer thin by now, and Gojo’s is probably even thinner.

You hear Gojo suck a deep breath before he forcefully turns you around, his half-lidded eyes filled with lust. Your gaze falls to his pants, the outline of his dick way too obvious against the expensive fabric. You swallow the lump in your throat; he’s so big you wonder if you can actually take him.

With a smirk, Gojo sneaks his fingers back up under your skirt, pressing against your clit, “just wanted to see what you look like when you feel good.”

This scene is so surreal that you wonder if you’re dreaming. Renowned celebrity Gojo Satoru who’s famous enough to be a household name with a fairly decent reputation is actually here with you, right now, aching for you so badly that he can’t control himself?

“What are you thinking about, pretty?”

His nicknames are going to be the death of you. He’s been controlling himself until now, so you’re not surprised if he’s pulling out all the stops tonight.

Your own eyes mirror his expression, the desire no longer tolerable to control. Usually you’re fond of playing games but this time you’re way too impatient to wait any longer.

“I think… I want you,” you tell him honestly, and for a brief moment you think you see the pupils in his serene blue eyes dilate before his gestures turn feral, his hunger blatantly obvious in the way his hands grip your waist, firm and strong as he kisses you, hips grinding desperately against you, chasing the friction he so badly needs.

“Fuck this is gonna be so bad if we get caught,” he mumbles in between kisses, both of you entangled with each other, your fingers grasping at his hair, his own hands squeezing your ass as he groans at how perfect this feels.

In the moment, you think you couldn’t care less. “Guess we just have to make sure we don’t get caught,” you tell him, and you feel him smirking against you.

“Knew I liked you for a reason,” he chuckles, lifting you up to sit on the edge. He can tell from the way your body reacts that you’re nervous. “Promise I won’t let you fall. Trust me?”

Do you even have any other choice?

You nod, and his childish grin gives you a whiplash. “Ha, good girl,” he praises you before kissing you silly, his one hand holding you in place while the other slowly slips your underwear off, discarding it to the ground. Gojo looks up at you one last time as though making sure you’re sure about this, and the moment you nod, he’s on his knees, trailing kisses on your thighs.

The only thing you can do is watch as he gets dangerously close to your cunt, beautiful eyes watching your expression as he gets closer. He always likes to look at you. He wants to observe just how insane he can make you feel. He wants to know just how badly you want him too.

His strong hands push you forward slightly, his head completely between your thighs now as he gives your clit a small lick, enjoying the sound of you squealing when he does so. He doesn’t hide his mirth, chuckling as he dares himself to taste more of you, licking a fat stripe up your pussy, groaning from how good you taste. Better than he imagined. Better than when he jerked off to you that one time after rehearsal. Better than anyone.

Your fingers yank at his soft white locks as he loses himself in you, groaning in satisfaction as his tongue flicks in and out of your warm pussy, your thighs locking around his neck, your hips grinding against his lips and begging for more.

“You’re driving me fucking insane, you know that?” Gojo asks, his eyes failing to watch your expression now that he’s busy staring at how wet your pretty little pussy is.

From above, you relish in the way Gojo can’t seem to get enough of you, his lips filled with your slick, cheeks and ears red from whatever he may be feeling. It’s a side you’re sure that’s hidden from public, and call you silly but you think that kind of makes this special somehow.

He doesn’t spare a second in standing up and lifting you off the edge, letting you down gently on the table, flicking the ashtray away. Gojo’s hands slowly hike your skirt up over your stomach, unbuttoning your shirt, the moonlight illuminating you in all the right places. His lips move to your stomach, pressing light kisses on your body, trailing upwards to the valley between your breasts, his free hand unclasping your bra in one swift motion.

“You’re so pretty,” he breathes against your skin, his lips grazing against the goosebumps that form. Your head tilts up, your back arching as you feel his fingers entering you, one first before the second one slowly joins, Gojo’s ever observant eyes watching as you moan from the pleasure, fingers picking up the pace because he decides he likes the way you sound. “Feels that good, huh?” He asks when he feels you clenching around him.

Your eyes fly open as you meet his own, the yearning from your gaze in full display, your whimpers are all you can let out because Gojo doesn’t let you breathe from his kisses now. He thinks you’re fucking addictive, thinks he was doomed from the moment he first saw how you moved, dancing with just the right force, eyes ogling at your body every single second, always looking for you in the crowd of contestants.

“Gojo—”

He immediately shuts you up with a forceful kiss, his fingers stilling inside you. Gojo’s eyes look into yours, a gentle dominance in his sneer. “Satoru,” he corrects you.

First name basis isn’t something you thought you’d ever get to do with him, but it’s not like you don’t like the thought of it.

“Satoru,” you breathe out, earning a peck on your lips as you say his name.

“What is it?” He asks, almost mockingly, because he knows exactly what you want. Gojo’s fingers move achingly slow inside of you, pushing against that spot you like—he’s already familiar with you just from this brief dalliance alone. “Hmm, can’t understand if you don’t use your big girl words.”

The way he sounds so condescending is downright humiliating, and yet your pussy clenches around his fingers that it takes everything in him not to concede so easily.

Thank god you do though.

“Satoru please fuck me,” you plead, tears in your eyes and looking just so absolutely delectable that he gets the flicker of a thought that he doesn’t want anyone else to get to see you in a state like this. Only him.

He plays right into your hands too, letting his pants and boxers pool to the floor, one of his hands pumping his cock, precum leaking from the tip, his mouth falling open as he slowly enters you, eyes rolling to the back of his head as you take him in.

“So fuck—fuckin’ tight,” he grunts, slowly pushing into you, your perfect tits earning a squeeze as you try to adjust to his size. Gojo looks at where you’re connected, praising you with a flurry of good girl and your pussy’s fucking made for me.

You knew he was big, but it’s so much more than you anticipated, even harder with his thumb pressing down on your clit, teasing you and waiting to see your limit. He’s smirking down at you, though your eyes are squeezed shut to see it.

“What? Wanna cum already? That fast, baby?” He mocks, starting to rub your clit. To think, he’s not even all the way in. God, you’re so fucking perfect. Gojo doesn’t think he’s ever felt so much satisfaction from teasing someone before that he wants to tease you even more. Pinching on your nipple with his other hand, he makes you squeal. “Baby baby, be a good girl, okay?” He whispers, pressing a kiss on your cheek, “better not cum until I tell you to.”

“I can’t-can’t hold it in—” You’re already struggling to think, let alone speak, and that’s exactly what Gojo likes. The way you’re so vulnerable for him, completely different from your demeanour when you’re dancing.

Tilting his head, he grins as he thinks of an idea. “If you can’t hold it in, ‘m afraid I’ll have to punish you,” he says, fingers tracing the outline of your jaw, loving how you’re completely at his mercy.

“Wha- how?” You’re quivering, your body so so close to your high, your willpower threatening to break any second now.

Gojo chuckles, low and deep, as his mouth moves to your ear. “If you can’t be a good girl for me tonight, I won’t touch you ever again,” he whispers, smug as he watches you pout, knowing he’s got you figured out. You want this as much as he does. He doesn’t think he can follow through with that at all, but you don’t have to know that.

All he knows is that you’re buying it as you nod, holding it in. He kisses your forehead as he resumes pushing inside you, watching as you struggle not to cum just from him entering.

“Oh god, you feel so f’kin good, baby,” he praises you again, watching as he’s fully inside of you now, tears falling from your eyes.

He starts moving slowly, getting your pussy to adjust to his girth, laughing at how you’re trying so hard not to let yourself go. You might possibly be one of the most amusing girls he’s ever met.

“Hmm, you’re so sensitive… want me that bad, pretty? Want me to fuck you again after tonight, is that it?” His tone has a lilt to it, and even though he’s mocking you for it, truth is, he’s throbbing inside of you, his own seed threatening to spill out at any moment.

Still, he supposes you’re being so obedient, nodding profusely like that, so worried that you won’t get his attention anymore that he guesses he can throw you (and himself) a bone.

“Mmm, maybe I should go easy on you, huh?” He acts as though he’s not completely a gone case, as though he’s not driven insane like you are. “Want that, baby?” Gojo’s fingers pinch on your clit, and god damn it your mewl is too cute to resist. You nod, not even knowing what for but knowing you need it.

“Want me to let you cum?”

You nod again, and Gojo’s chuckling.

“Still want me to fuck you after tonight?”

You nod again, much more, and Gojo’s ego has never been boosted higher. You’re holding it in so bad, clenching around him so tight that it nearly hurts.

“Fine, cum for me.”

Not even a second later, you’re screaming his name and cumming around his cock as he thrusts into you, riding you out, watching as you squirt all around him, using all his energy to keep himself from spilling inside you because that won’t do.

Gojo pulls out, spilling his load all over you—your chest, your stomach, your clit, watching him taint your body and watching as you let him, the sight of you an absolute hot mess as you pant under him.

It’s adorable, really, how you’re seemingly spent just from that. It’s even more adorable how you think he’s already done with you.

But before Gojo can say anything else, you hear a familiar voice cut in.

“Least you guys could do is lock the door, you know?”

Shooting your head to the side, you see Geto there, a mirthful smirk on his face as he waves hello. You’re mortified, already trying to cover yourself up, Satoru’s cum staining your clothes. Satoru himself, on the other hand, appears unfazed as he pulls his pants up, sighing.

“And maybe you shouldn’t be watching other people fuck, Suguru,” he says, completely unbothered still, and you’re wondering why until Geto speaks again.

“Aww, thought we could share this one too,” he sighs, and his disappointment sounds fake, like he knew all along Satoru wouldn’t go for it. But all you can think of is that he added too—so they’ve shared girls before? You can only imagine just how well they know each other.

In one swift motion, Geto is beside you, seemingly admiring all the places where he knows Satoru’s touched, his hand on your back while he kisses your cheek, before he’s pushed back by Satoru himself.

“Don’t touch her,” Satoru snaps, removing his shirt before you realise he’s offering it to you to wear, now that yours is dirty. He covers your body with his own while you change out of it, with Geto continuing his facade.

“Oh? This is a first, Satoru. You, not willing to share with me?”

Despite their words, the atmosphere isn’t tense at all, and you guess that’s just how close they are.

Satoru scoffs. “Told you, this one’s all mine,” he proclaims, a little hint of smugness in his voice. This time, without waiting for Geto to respond, Satoru grabs you by the arm and waves a hurried bye! to his friend before escaping his sight.

As you take the elevator back down, you’re still trying to process what happened, between fucking who’s supposed to be your teacher and judge in a competition to having Geto witness you nearly naked after getting fucked by his best friend.

Is this really your life right now? You’re really not just making this all up in your head?

In front of you, Gojo’s busy typing away on his phone until the elevator dings, snapping you both out of your reverie. He can tell you’re dazed, but to be really honest, he takes that as a good thing so he gleefully takes your hand and pulls you along with him, briefly giving you a once-over, loving how you look in his shirt. Maybe he should give you more shirts from his closet to wear for your performances. He’d definitely get a kick out of it.

When you reach his motorcycle again, you stop short before asking him again, “where are we going, Satoru?”

You’re still calling him Satoru. He grins. He likes that—likes the show of intimacy, even if it can only be in private.

Gojo revs his motorbike, gesturing for you to just get behind him, which you do—like the good girl he knows you are. He waits until he’s driving away before answering you.

“I was thinking my place,” he says, riding faster, his dick growing hard just thinking about fucking you again.

And it’s like the wind against your face knocks some sense into you again, realising that you and him aren’t just two people separated by your statuses in the world; that the Satoru you know is no longer just the Gojo Satoru you’ve read about in countless tabloids and videos. You came on the show, Satoru took an extreme interest in you, and you’re both now probably violating the rules by, well, fucking, and neither of you want to stop now either.

Just like he’s got you wrapped around his finger, he’s at your every command. Because he wants you. And you know that. And it’s fine if it’s just physical, because you doubt it will go anywhere either.

So maybe it’s okay to let loose.

Your fingers drop to the hem of his pants, palming his cock through the fabric, and Gojo grunts from how good it feels, the motorbike swerving a little when Gojo can’t keep control, distracted by your ministrations.

“Hah, you’re a little fucker, aren’t you?” He chuckles, going fast enough that no one can see what you’re doing, not that there’re a lot of people at this time of night anyway.

“Yeah, what can you do about it?” You tease, feeling a little more comfortable now, giving him a taste of his own medicine.

Satoru clicks his tongue, smirking as he looks at your reflection through the mirror. “Careful, pretty, or I’ll make you wear a vibrator the next time we have group rehearsals.”

You fall for it, furrowing your brows. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Satoru laughs out loud, going even faster now, your arms instinctively hugging him round the waist, not daring to tease him anymore—and you should’ve taken that he’s a professional racer before you started teasing him, really.

Daring to turn around to look at you, he smirks. “We’ll see,” he chuckles, “I’m supposed to be your mentor. Can’t let you off the hook that easy, princess.”

Of course, later that night, you’re caught in between Satoru and his inexplicably expensive silk sheets, situated in his all-too-big penthouse suite, moaning his name over and over, his teeth marking your breasts, cock dragging along your gummy walls and fucking you until you can’t think of anything else but him.

As Satoru watches you cum for the fourth time that night, he smirks, watching you writhe underneath him. Yeah, he definitely won’t let you off the hook. Who knows what’ll become of both of you once the show ends? But for now, as long as it’s still going on, he’s going to have his fun with you.

In secret.

#i need him so so so bad </3 #jjk x reader #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo smut #jjk smut #gojo satoru smut #jjk x you #jjk x y/n #gojo x you #gojo x y/n #jujutsu kaisen smut #gojo x reader smut #jujutsu kaisen x y/n #jjk gojo x reader #jjk gojo smut #༊ &.writing

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kingpreciouswrld · 4 months

Note

If you’re still accepting Miranda Priestly x Reader fic ideas i’ve got one!

Miranda and Reader have been married or a long time now secretly of course to prevent a media mishap. The reader is a stylist who sometimes stops to visit and help with a showcase, maybe she comes in casually to have lunch with Miranda and gets stopped by Andrea and Emily who try to get her to leave as they don’t know her(only Nigel does) and they’re both trying to tell Emily and Andrea that she’s allowed back there without exposing the marriage, eventually Miranda just comes out and asks why they’re touching her wife ( or something of the sort???) feel free to branch from this

ask and ye shall receive!

I hope you like it! It's been a while since I've written for anyone but myself :3

Nobody's Gonna Know

It’s an unusually busy day in your office. The clothes you’ve ordered haven’t arrived yet and your workers seem to not know how to conduct themselves in a manner without the very needed materials. You looked on through the glass doors as your workers ran around like headless chickens, trying to come up with something to show you before you needed to leave.

As a well-known stylist, it was your job to come up with new and creative or out-of-the-box looks to those who paid for your help. You mainly helped with showcases that Runway Magazine held and the clothes you needed today were actually from Runway Magazine. Through the grapevine you’ve heard that their workers were just as clueless as yours when it came to the clothes you were seeking.

As you sat in your little office, you thought back to when you first started out. You were a nobody, hell you weren’t even a New York local. No, you came from a small town in the middle of nowhere. Having nothing to your name, you first tried making it in California. You gained some traction which led you to move to New York. At first you were against it. You didn’t like big cities all that much, it just wasn’t your scene but you knew that your talent and job called for being around big things.

A year into the job, you attended a charity event where you were introduced to the one and only, Miranda Priestly. It was hard to read the woman at first but you saw it in her eyes, she liked you or at least, your work. That’s how it all started. You started to come and do jobs at Runway Magazine while also taking some jobs on the side. Not to mention the growing relationship between you and the editor which also included the lives of her rambunctious daughters and her slobbery saint bernard.

3 years passed and Miranda and you kept things underwraps. Heaven knows you’d have a field day for Page Six and their stinging words, so you have kept your relationship from everyone. Well, everyone except those closest to you.

Sighing, you looked at the clock. It was almost lunch time and Miranda didn’t like to be kept waiting.

You grabbed your bag and slung it over your shoulder, “Annie, reschedule the runthrough until this afternoon. I’m sure Runway will do the same due to the circumstances with its clothing gone missing. I’m going out for lunch.” Your assistant nodded and frantically went to work at her computer as you passed her.

Making your way to Elias Clarke, you weaved through the small crowds before entering the building– blending in with the clackers around you. No one knew about your relationship with the fashion queen so you easily blended with crowds and you loved it. No one bothered you.

Until they did.

You had made your way up to Runway’s floors when you passed the front desk and made your way towards Miranda’s inner sanctum. You’ve been to Runway multiple times so no one blinked an eye as you strolled down the halls.

Reaching the outer office of Miranda’s, you haven’t intended to actually be stopped by her assistants.

Andy was the first to notice you as Emily was out.

“Oh! Y/n! I’m sorry but Miranda is in a meeting so you wouldn’t be able to go in right away.”

You looked at the clock above the assistant’s desk. 11:56 am. Knowing your wife, you knew she wouldn’t mind if you interrupted her work. She never minded when you did it at home, so why would her workplace be different?

“Trust me, I think Miranda wouldn’t mind Andy. So I’m just gonna…”

You tried to step past the young woman but Andy just stepped in front of you. The assistant’s eyes widened as you tried to step past her again but she blocked your way through.

There was only so much you could do so you sighed as you looked back at the clock.

11:58 am.

This time, you tried to listen for the soft voices coming from your wife’s office. There were only two that you could pick up on. One was, of course, Miranda’s but the other was a man’s voice. Somewhat…feminine? But not too feminine.

“Is it just Nigel and Miranda in there?”

As you tried stepping past the brunette, again she blocked your path.

“Look Y/n, if you keep this up I’m going to have to call security.”

At this time, Emily walked in and took in the scene in front of her, “Andrea? What’s going on here?”

As Andy was distracted, you tried to step past her again but only to be grabbed by the arm and pulled back, away from Miranda’s office door, “Woah! Okay, no touchy, alright? These cost more than your paycheck alright?”

Emily huffed and rolled her eyes but didn’t release you. Andy looked like she was nervous about losing her job. She knew you were stubborn and wouldn’t stop until you were able to see Miranda.

“Since you already have her, escort her to the lobby Em. She’s been trying to break into Miranda’s office. “ ‘Break into’? I’m just trying to see my– ugh, look, I’ll just wait alright? You guys don’t need to be so touchy about–”

Before you could finish your sentence, the brit was already moving towards the front desk area. You immediately stood your ground so the redhead would have a harder time moving you. You’d show them stubborn.

As the three of you were arguing and you were still struggling against Emily’s hold– you didn’t know how the redhead was this strong– you three failed to notice Miranda’s office door open.

“Look, if you let me go, i’ll make sure you still have your job at the end of the day, alright?”

Emily scoffed, “As if you’re so important here, you’re just a small town no one who just happened to meet Miranda and kiss her ass all the way till–”

“Is there a reason you’re restraining my wife?”

Both assistant’s straightened their posture at the cool voice before they realized what she said.

Emily gaped, looking like a fish out of water while Andy looked more afraid of losing her job this time.

Miranda’s eyes were still where Emily had a grip on you and she glared at the redhead, “Let. Go. Emily.”

The brit let your arm go as if your arm burned her and you grumbled as you rubbed your arm, trying to soothe the lingering pain of Emily’s grip. Behind the editor, Nigel looked as if he was about to burst out laughing at the girls’ faces.

“Now, how about some lunch my love?”

#miranda priestly x reader #miranda priestly #tdwp

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mtchacffinz · 11 months

Text

to be loved for you

prompt!!! Dan Heng never dealt with jealousy. He learns bitterly that sometimes, he can't deal with it rationally!

content!!! SFW, gn! reader, fluff, mutual pining, hurt/comfort, first kiss, clingy! Dan Heng

note!!! I love him too much. So far, all he's been getting from me is fluff 💔 frankly, i cant muster any freaky-freaky stuff with this man 🤔 got anything? my asks are open 🩷

To be someone who relied on relations by circumstance, you would always cherish each and every one of those who cross your path. May they be old and wise, or young and restless— Greeting them with the brightest smile, they'd always find themselves enamoured by your energy. Maybe this is why you attract so many people? Dan Heng was aware of that. He never spoke up about it, though. After all, he was one of the many who was caught bulls eye with each strum of his heart.

He knew you were capable of fending off threats yourself. He knew you were somebody who could defend someone from harms way.. and he especially knew just how gentle and kind you treat everybody.

Oh, what is he doing? Sulking all by himself in the archives. Dan Heng's thoughts ran rampant the past minutes. This happens when he's alone or sitting idly by. The poor man's thoughts catch up to him leaving him disgruntled. The thing is, you could always see it in his face.

You've been out and about for a while. He misses you, you know. Not that he would admit! Dan Heng's stubborn, just like that. He's definitely not mulling over how you're attention has been elsewhere, either. He doesn't mind. You have the freedom to do what you want! Just leave him sulking here in the archives unattended, it's okay.

The teal eyed prince clicks his tongue. That chatty, flirty, touchy writer. At first, Dan Heng thought that he was quite a man. The writer guy was nice and respectful with a golden gaze for things that were held high. That said, the Author quickly took interest in you.

He was never one to be possessive. Why should he? You're not even in a relationship. But sometimes, as soon as the guys hands find their way towards yours, intertwining in a clasp, something in him dims. Suddenly, his eyes can't leave your figure. It was your smile again, and Dan Heng's not at the receiving end of it.

You're not on the express today, either. A shame. Seriously, that guys been hogging you all week! What's up with that? Don't even get him started on "(Y/n), my muse. Accompany me today?" bullcrap! It's nothing but a sappy excuse to get into your pants so bad! Seriously, the absurdity. Dan Heng shakes off the thoughts before they continue. Did you know? Just by his gaze alone, someone could freeze in their place— like daggers against their back.

"Hmm? Mr. Ferr, are you okay?"

"It's nothing, my sweet, I strangely caught a shiver in my spine.." the author, Ferr, replied calmly.

"Okay. So about your first draft.."

Draft this, draft that, can't he got an editor instead?!

Irk marks basically float up his head just thinking about what they're talking about right now. Can you blame him? He's been neglected.

Dan Heng slaps himself, hard.

Woah. He's getting way ahead of himself. Him? Neglected? In what way? Again, it's not like you're both in a relationship. It's not like he's entitled to your affection in any way. Dan Heng really needs to calm down. Lately, all he's been doing is updating the archives. He's also learned of what you will be traveling for next, and added data with a note addressed to you as well. His calloused hands were flipping through various pages all day, pulling apart scrolls and wiping away holograms.

His thoughts become strangely quiet. His presence was like frost.. constant. A little chilly. He starts to fiddle with his fingers, his gloves, and his nails.

He really misses you a lot.

Can you come back soon?

Dan Heng sighs. He stands up with his impeccable posture as usual. Those arms held scrolls and books, and puts them back where he got them from. At this point, he's zoned out. He exits the Archives, strolling near the parlor car. Light footsteps echo throughout the space with Dan Heng taking in the air of tranquility within the express; It seemed like everyone had their own agenda today.

Well, except for one.

"Dan Heng," Himeko's sweet, gentle voice called out for him. The boy turned towards her, a little surprised. She smiles, and beckons him to sit with her. Her silky locks framing perfectly on her face, she put a stray strand behind her ear. "Come, I have coffee to share."

Dan Heng was indeed in dire need of indulgence. Without hesitation, he walked over to the red head and sat down. He forgot how comfortable the sofa was.. his nerves began to relax. Himeko starts to pour the hot beverages into elegant coffee cups, befitting if her style. It was comfortable silence, the stars glistened into glass windows— reflecting the beauty of life. Himeko seems to have noticed his aloof vibe, joining him to stare at the stars. Opening her lips, Himeko starts.

"You've been busy for a while."

"Being an archivist is a lot of work, huh?"

"I have."

"It's fine." The gentle lady can't help but chuckle. He's so dry. This only confirms her hypothesis. That daunting look on his figure may intimidate some, but not Miss Himeko. Never Miss Himeko. She doesn't want to expose her hidden agenda now, but she just can't wait to run her mouth. After all, Dan Heng's been down the weather and it's very obvious as to why.

"(Y/n) wanted me to prepare these for you. Enjoy them." She takes a sip. His expression softened. Dan Heng can't help but think bitterly. It'd be lovely if they were her to prepare these herself, but the teal eyed prince quickly take back the thought.

"I'm thankful.. but why? Is there an occasion? I don't seem to recall any." He speaks in a cautious manner. The woman only sighs, a palm on her cheek.

"Be honest with me, Dan Heng." Her tone quickly changed. Now her eyes are staring into his. Like it was rummaging through his soul. Dan Heng's feet were cold. He couldn't contest her gaze, so he averts his eyes. Himeko frowns at this, but she doesn't seem to mind.

"Your eyes betray you greatly."

He was a little taken aback. His eyes? He was never expressive. He was sure he'd been called at least poker faced and stoic before.. Dan Heng's brows narrowed. "I beg your pardon?"

Himeko only chuckles, dismissing her last claim. "I'll tell you what. They'll be here soon.. and they're going to leave just as quickly." She adds the last statement with dramatic disdain before the elegant lady takes a sip once again. Dan Heng's stomach drop. Ah.. he's lost the appetite to even finish his mug. Himeko continues. "Ferr is taking them to a space station for one of his projects. Given the current circumstances, they have no reason to refuse."

His face scrunched in annoyance upon hearing the name again. Mr. Ferr this, Mr. Ferr that! He's getting sick of him. Taking (Y/n) on a space ship? How long will that take? Is it some sort of rendevous? A date?

..will you come back?

"i don't think that decision befalls to us. (Y/n) is capable of making decisions.."

"I don't want them to go."

"..on their own because— wait, what?"

Himeko chuckles dryly. "I don't want (Y/n) to go, you know? It's selfish thought, I know. But, it's good to be selfish once and a while now, right?"

That was a half baked lie. First of all, Himeko fully supports what (Y/n) wants. But Ferr.. isn't exactly known for his patience. Himeko knows full well as soon as (Y/n) steps in the spaceship— he'd pull something like a proposal! A profession, a deal! She's not stupid, Himeko is far from dense. The Scientist knows that the Author has a huge thing for you, and it shows. And knowing Dan Heng? He'd just nod along albeit against it. She can't just stand here and let them distance each other! Himeko's seen it.. that prying gaze of a distraught, pining lover.. the watchful eyes of a lovestruck persona. The only way to get a stubborn man to act, is through tremendous pressure!

Dan Heng's lips pursed.

"And you want me to.."

"You don't have to, really."

"But.. if it will benefit them, should we encourage it? After all, they're energetic and knows their way with words. There must be some sort of good reasoning behind his invitation."

"I don't know. Do you want them to go?"

"I.." Dan Heng couldn't finish his sentence. He couldn't form a response at all. Does he want you to go? If you would enjoy yourself, he'd love to allow it.. If you'd return with a smile on your face, tell him all about what happened, he'd love to receive you with utmost sincere..

Even if it took atleast a hundred years for you to return to him.

...Hundred years his ass! You will not spend a hundred years with that man!

"If (Y/n) wants to, I personally don't see why not." Dan Heng's thoughts actively contrasted his responses. A stubborn man.. Himeko sighs, an apologetic smile on her lips. Finally backing away, the lovely lady puts down her mug and sits straight.

"It's okay to be honest. After all, they.. wish for something."

Dan Heng replies quickly in a heart beat. "I will be honest, then. I want their wish fulfilled."

"Then you better greet them in tip-top shape." Himeko winks saying this, standing up to excuse herself. Dan Heng tilts his head in this, not quite sure if what the she's implying. Himeko only had that knowing smirk on her pristine face. The lady excuses herself promptly, leaving Dan Heng all by himself. The man is once again left alone with his thoughts, except this time, he has new material to work with.

"Great..." He huffs bitterly, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Just.. splendid." God, his head hurts. He's tired and he's drowsy. At this point, he doesn't find anything of urgency at the moment— only thinking about grasping that sudden warmth the sofa beneath him exerts. Dan Heng would like to find peace of mind at least once in a while. Both that in mind, his eyes find their way to the Parlor ceiling, half lidded and tired.

Slowly, his breathing calms down.. and slowly, his eyes drift closed, consciousness slipping away from his grasp.

Slowly.. the darkness embraced him, and his body rested in slumber.

You stand a little surprised.

After all, Dan Heng was casually sitting upright— his eyes closed. Is he napping? Is he okay? You're not sure, and you're concerned. Frankly, you were supposed to be here for him— feeling that he deserves at least an apology that you haven't been getting back to his messages in a while. But looking at the sight.. he looks like he's accompanied at the moment.

Such a hard working guard. The guard of the express, the unmatched Archivist of the Nameless.. the one who would always hold your heart gently. You swore if he blew air on your figure, you'd crumble immediately. The only one who'd sway your heart. That's how much power he holds, his whole fingers wrapped around your being with an invisible string keeping you binded to him.

You curb a grin. Strolling near your quarters, you pick up something warm. A blanket. You envelop his stature in a comfortable tuck, pausing for a moment to take in the melancholic state Dan Heng's exhibiting. The handsome prince's eyes fluttered closed, lips slightly apart. If he's sitting upright sleeping, then he must be atleast tired enough to sleep but still be on his feet.

But he doesn't know that, he doesn't need to.

"Ah.." was all Dan Heng could muster. You look back at him in a awe, but quickly recovered. You didn't remove his hands on your wrist, you held onto them instead. The archivists eyes softened, his brows relaxing. You attempt to give him a smile, defusing the tension.

Your sightseeing was cut short when Dan Heng started to stir, his eyes fluttering open. It was for a short moment, the first those greyish teal eyes found their way towards yours.. and the way they slightly widened upon meeting gazes with you, Dan Heng's slender, warm fingers slowly snuck their way toward your wrist; apprehending their movements further. Dan Heng held onto you like you were unreal, like you were unbelievable. Oh, he looks stricken. He looks.. almost as surprised as you. Dan Heng doesn't say anything yet, the blanket that was once on him fell off just a little while ago.

"Hey. Sorry. It looks like I woke you up.." You offer an apologetic smile. He quickly shakes his head at this, responding to you in haste.

"No.. no. Don't apologize."

"I have a lot of apologizing to do."

"No, you.." before he could finish, he cuts himself off. Why must he be so accepting? He keeps brushing his feelings aside, and before he knows it, he utters something he doesn't even mean. No, he's not okay. No, it's not fine. You upset him greatly. He couldn't focus on anything because you weren't answering his messages. Your phone was unreachable.

You had Dan Heng worried sick. What if something happened to you? You reckless, Trusting, thick skulled—

"Everything good?"

Your voice immediately snaps him out of his thoughts. Dan Heng let's out a small breath, his hands still clutching yours. He was still sitting down, and you were towering over him. God.. just by your gaze alone, he's already so full. If you could just stay with him a little longer, he feels like this churning in his stomach would go away soon. He wants you so bad, he needs you so bad.. he doesn't want you to let go anytime soon.

To your surprise, Dan Heng himself removed his hold on you. His movements were slow and languid, like a flow of water within the rivers. Moving in chorus, mellifluous.. elegantly. You can't take your eyes off him at all. Dan Heng clung to your waist. His warm body enveloped your lower half, nuzzling deep into your stomach. You let out a surprised yelp.

Suddenly, your face is hot. Your stomach was dancing with abundant butterflies, and you don't know where to put your hands. As if the archivist could read your mind, his hands led yours into his head, fingers entangling itself into those dark locks. They were so soft.. so warm and lovely. Your hands run through his hair gently— cherishing just how close he is to you at this moment. What's up with him? He seems to be a little more laid back.

Dan Heng shifts in his place. That's when he finally looks up at you. His arms around you, eyes looking directly at yours. You could see his expression.. eyes soft. Gentle. A slight pout— face flushed. It looks like he wants to say something, and it's still processing in that pretty head of his.

Dan Heng's hold on you tightens, you didn't fail to notice. He wants to be selfish for once. Let him be selfish for once. Just once. With a small breath and a soft tone, he finally utters.

"Don't go."

It was getting harder and harder to calm your heart down, and that didn't get any better.

Your heart immediately melts, and your knees almost gave out. What? Go where? Has the rumours already spread? Whatever it was, it's not happening. Especially if he asked you, it's already set in stone. "I won't. Not anywhere." You respond tenderly. Dan Heng's eyes lit up. You swore his fingers even twitched just a little bit. A little more after, his face suddenly scrunched. The archivists' frame was decorated with blazing hues of red. Whatever he's thinking seems to strain him so. Not even bothering to give you time to further analyze, he stands up from his seat, arms still around you. This time, you have no idea what'll he do. Dan Heng's eyes averted yours, hesitantly taking a step closer. My.. your palms are starting to sweat. This is the effect of anticipation.

When he pulled back from you, Dan Heng quickly analyzed your expression to see even a tinge of displeasure. Now you.. face decorated with the hue of peony, looked awe struck. Absolutely enchanted.. bewildered, blown. Gathering your nerves to work back up again, your eyes slowly trailed back to his nervous ones: awaiting your reaction.

"..You can hit me after this." Dan Heng suddenly says, making you tilt your head in confusion. So carefully, he cupped your cheeks. Whatever that was you were going to say was caught in your throat. There was a bubbling feeling in your chest, waiting to pop open; and as soon as his lips brushed past yours, it popped so beautifully vibrant it blinded your vision for but a moment. As your eyes fluttered closed and his eyes half lidded, he greedily drank the sight of you from his eyes.

Dan Heng's eyes widened once you grabbed his collar— smashing your lips back to his. The kiss you've given him burned with fervor, impatient, like you've been yearning for more. You were starved of his lips— like a lone hawk hunting for aeons.

Now that the opportunity presented itself, might as well make the most of it.

The archivist had a hard time keeping up with you, keeping the both of you straight by holding the small of your back. Your arms were in Dan Heng's chest— eagerly taking him in yours. By the time you both ran out of air, you were standing in amidst the parlor car— with the stars accompanying the moment being the sole witness. You could hear Dan Heng's heartbeat whilst you rest your head on his chest. Clutching his jacket, it was tempting to go for another one again.

There was silence. A lot of words hung out in the air. The first to cut through the already light air around you was you.

"For how long?"

Dan Heng breathed heavily, burying his nose into your hair. He thinks about it for a long time before finally answering.

"Quite a while."

i went a little overboard sorry! (⁠●⁠´⁠⌓⁠`⁠●⁠) edited it a lil bit

#dan heng fluff #dan heng x reader #dan heng #hsr fluff #hsr #honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader

721 notes · View notes

kvtie444 · 3 months

Text

°•★ SOLO .4

a/n: this took so long omds, i luv this song Summary: reader moves to LA for work and becomes the sturniolos editor, but what happens when she falls for someone unexplected… Warnings: mentions of drinking, swearing, suggestive?

・₊✧⋆⭒˚｡⋆

His words echo relentlessly in my mind.

"What, have you never been fucked senseless before?".

I toss and turn in my bed, desperate to find sleep, but my shameless thoughts make it nearly impossible.

"Well, if you wanna cum so hard you can't walk the next day, you know where to find me."

I groan and reach for my phone, checking the date and time: Friday, 4:18 am. The reminder of the car video I still needed to edit for today weighs heavily on my mind. I groan again, sinking back against my pillows, but as I close my eyes, vivid daydreams of Chris kissing down my body flood my mind. I try to push them away, reminding myself that he's practically my boss. I groan once more and turn over, attempting to banish the tempting thoughts.

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Alone at the dining table, I stare blankly at my laptop screen, feeling the weight of the looming deadline for the car video. Nick had invited me over to make food and chill, providing a change of scenery from the unproductive comfort of my own bed. As he heads off for a shower, I'm left grappling with the hour-long footage I need to edit down for the video scheduled to go up in an hour.

But the task feels insurmountable. I doubt my ability to get the video out on time, and the guilt gnaws at me. One job, and I'm struggling to meet the deadline. I groan, running my hand over my face, pulling at the loose hairs that cover it. Exhaustion clouds my mind, sapping my motivation and focus. The pressure mounts swiftly, and I feel tears welling up against my palms as the overwhelming thoughts consume me. To make things worse, I could hear Chris and some girl he brought over downstairs.

As the door creaks open, I look up to see Matt entering the room, his expression filled with concern once he sees me. “Hey, hey, what’s going on” He walks over to me, his steps measured and gentle. With a comforting hand on my shoulder, he squeezes it reassuringly, his touch a balm to my frayed nerves. Tears threaten to spill from my eyes as I struggle to articulate my overwhelming emotions.

"I don’t know if this video will be ready on time, and it’s my only job, yet I messed it up," I manage to choke out, my voice trembling with suppressed sobs. Matt hushes me with a gentle shush, his hand rubbing soothingly up and down my arm. He murmurs words of reassurance, “You’re okay, everything okay, don’t worry about it”.

In that moment, I realize how fortunate I am to have Matt as a friend. His kindness and genuine concern envelop me, offering solace in the midst of my turmoil. I can't help but feel undeserving of his unwavering support.

My attention shifts to the stairs as I hear the sound of footsteps dragging themselves up them. Chris appears, clad in a black fresh love tracksuit, accompanied by some Instagram model wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt, she walks to the fridge. Our eyes meet briefly through my bloodshot gaze, and I follow his movements as he leans against the counter.

“What’s up with you?” he mumbles, distractedly taking out his phone. Matt's glare intensifies, his jaw visibly clenched in annoyance. “It’s nothing, she’s fine,” he interjects on my behalf. I lower my gaze back to my keyboard, exhaling heavily.

As I focus on my editing, a flicker of movement catches my attention from the periphery of my vision. The girl leans in close to Chris, her lips brushing against his ear as she whispers something indistinct, punctuated by a playful giggle. With a dismissive gesture, she walks away, her hips swaying enticingly. I grit my teeth in frustration, seething at Chris's blatant disregard for boundaries.

Chris, true to form, can't resist one final display of arrogance, delivering a sharp slap to the girl's ass as she departs. I roll my eyes at his juvenile antics, feeling a surge of irritation and jealousy wash over me.

Left alone with Matt and Chris, I attempt to refocus on my editing task, but Chris's immaturity proves to be a persistent distraction. He reaches over and grabs the screen of my laptop, dragging it back to sneak a peek at my progress. I suppress a sigh at his lack of respect for my workspace. I grab the screen back and pull back to its original position.

“You on your period or something?”

The room hangs heavy with the weight of his words, a dense fog of tension settling over us as silence reigns. My gaze rises to meet his, finding his eyes hooded, a smug grin tugging at the corners of his lips.

"Can you go back to fucking your little girlfriend and leave me the fuck alone?" I retort sharply, the words dripping with venom as they escape my lips. Matt's reaction is palpable, his jaw visibly dropping in astonishment at the exchange unfolding before him.

A shift occurs in Chris's demeanor, a subtle transformation that darkens the intensity of his gaze. He leans in closer, his hands pressing down on the by the sides of my laptop, effectively trapping me in his presence. "Why? You jealous princess?" he taunts, his voice laced with arrogance.

I meet his gaze head-on, refusing to back down, and let out a scoff of disbelief. "Didn't seem so against it when we all went out for dinner," He continues. The realization of what he’s just said hits me like a ton of bricks, and I feel a flush of embarrassment creeping up my neck.

"Fuck off," I mutter under my breath, breaking eye contact in a desperate attempt to deflect from the uncomfortable truth. His chuckle washes over me, his breath warm against my skin as he leans in closer, his teasing tone only serving to fuel my simmering anger.

"Don't speak to your boss like that," he teases, the words sending a surge of frustration coursing through me. My jaw clenches with determination, a silent vow forming in my mind as I refuse to allow him to undermine me any further.

"Chris, fuck off, you can’t say shit," Matt's voice cuts through the tension, gaining attention from all of us. They lock eyes for a fleeting moment before Chris releases a chuckle and retreats to his room.

I exhale a breath I didn't even realize I was holding as Matt rises from his seat and begins rummaging through his pantry, likely in search of a snack. Was this job really worth this much stress? Chris was hanging over me like a dark cloud adds another layer of stress I certainly didn't need. Did I even want to continue working under these circumstances?

Before I can entertain the thought further, a muffled sound interrupts our uneasy silence, causing both Matt and me to freeze in place. We exchange a glance, our expressions mirroring a mix of confusion. The sound repeats, growing louder and more distinct with each passing moment. It's unmistakably a moan.

My eyes squeeze shut in frustration and disbelief. Fucking Chris.

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

It had been a day since the whole kitchen incident, and while I managed to get the video uploaded only five minutes late, the lingering tension still weighed on my mind. As I walked home with my coffee in hand, a sudden ring in my pocket caught my attention. Pulling out my phone, I saw that it was Laura calling. My stomach churned slightly with anxiety. What if Chris had said something petty about me that could jeopardize my job? I bit the inside of my cheek nervously before answering.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Y/N! I'm in a rush right now, but I wanted to let you know that at the end of the month, I've booked tickets for Hawaii for you, Madi, and the boys. Obviously, this is a great opportunity for the boys to do some sort of vlog, but you deserve a trip like this," Laura's voice came through the phone, her excitement palpable. I couldn't help but smile at the thought of a trip to Hawaii, but the smile faded as the reality of potentially spending time with Chris sank in.

"Yeah, that's amazing! Thank you! I'll definitely be there," I replied, masking my hesitation with forced enthusiasm.

・₊✧⋆⭒˚｡⋆

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soundspeachytome · 4 months

Text

7 minutes in heaven - shohei ohtani au

summary: Y/N snoops around famous football player Shohei Ohtani’s locker in search for a scandal against his clean record but ends up in one herself.

tropes: friends with benefits, friends to lovers(?)

tw: *slight* smut, mentions of sex, oral (f receiving)

word count: 30,033K words (i'm SO sorry in advance holy shit)

hi! it's been a while. when i made this account, i vowed to write at least once a week but it had been so difficult this month juggling work, my chronic migraines, and seasonal depression (lol).

please note i did not proofread this so plsssss i apologize for grammar mistakes and inconsistencies!!

posting this on the last day of 2023, hoping to give everyone a good read before we welcome the new year. so thankful for this small space to try, linger and reset all over again. hope you had a very merry holidays with your loved ones.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

==================================

Locker Lockdown

At around thirty minutes past four in the afternoon, I skimmed the clubhouse for any signs of life. It was only the quiet that prevailed. Clear.

I tiptoed my way towards the player locker room. I only had around ten minutes to locate the correct locker and take whatever I could find. Discovering the locker area to be empty and unguarded, I felt a surge of excitement.

Six years later, I couldn’t get my big break and decided sports journalism could catapult me into somewhere big in the industry. This is my last chance to prove myself, otherwise I’d have to reconsider going back home and write Hallmark greeting card messages again.

Shohei Ohtani’s jersey number is the number 17. Lucky bastard, after all these years and even after going through free agency, he got to keep his famous number, even at the cost of having their senior player give it up for him when he joined the football team.

And here you might be wondering why I’m doing this aside from my sheer desperation to get an official spot in the workplace and not eat scraps of topics editors discarded for themselves.

Some people are privileged to a fault.

And I hate seeing him on TV. Or on social media. Or his Colgate-white smile plastered all over my favorite beer and skincare brands.

Some would say this is the TMZ tabloid level of writing. I say this is investigative journalism. Find out if the famous favorite son-in-law has any flaws of his own and wrap around a bowtie of hidden horrors of sports documentaries.

And where else can we find this but in the athlete hotpot: their locker room.

I found Shohei’s locker right away as it was the tidiest locker among all on display, with nothing but brand-sponsored clothing hung neatly on the rack. He also donned the top shelf with some dog-eared self-help titles and vitamin bottles. While the rest of the athletes have pictures of their girlfriends, wives and their kids, Shohei has an unreleased polaroid selfie with his dog, Dekopin, just right beside his perfume bottles. Dekopin was looking away, captured in mid-yawn, with his ears raised, and Shohei, smiling into the camera with pursed lips and a snapback on.

I got so immersed into reading the ingredients of his vitamin bottles, trying to find anything remotely related to steroids, or any form of illegal bodily enhancements, that I didn’t notice footsteps from outside the hall.

“What are you doing here?” a voice loomed behind me and I dropped the diet supplement bottle in panic.

Only the sound of the bottle rattling could be heard as I locked eyes with Shohei Ohtani, tall and all muscular. His hair was sweaty and unkempt and his eyes held mild anger and confusion. After the bottle stopped rolling and settled somewhere on the floor between us, there was only silence and the cold sweat building up at my back.

I swallowed hard. I planned everything from studying the stadium’s entrance and exit doors but I didn’t plan on bumping into him. Not like this. Not when I’m at the lowest level of the social hierarchy right now.

I could only be ashamed.

Brain still befuddled at the thought of getting caught, I urged my limbs and picked up the vitamin bottle and returned it back to Shohei’s locker. The plan was not to respond at all and run as fast as I could before the rest of his team arrived. That was the only way to keep whatever dignity I have left.

“I said, what are you doing here?” He caught my arm mid-exit and pulled me back, tightening his grip.

“Let go of me.” I struggled to keep my balance and the way my voice wavered was no help at all.

Shohei saw the camera slung over my shoulder and looked back at me, realization hitting him.

“Y/N, are you a sports journalist now? And were you looking through my stuff?” he said, sounding almost disappointed.

“That’s none of your business. Let go of me.” I kept my voice steady but his grip only tightened. The sides of my eyes slowly formed tears.

“What tabloid media do you work for? I should report you. Would you like that? What a shame you’ll be banned from all the games now, right? You nasty journalists just won’t keep your noses away from my business.” he took my camera and deleted all the photos I took of the contents of his locker. I tried to leap for it but he was obviously inches taller than I was and I was no match for that.

“I don’t write tabloid news. If I was, my name would have been all over TV by now.” I grabbed the camera from him and sighed morosely at the lost media. A day’s work is all lost.

“My boss gave me a green light to do a documentary about the team. And the star player.” I wiggled my fingers in front of him, as if to emphasize the word “star” in front of him.

“I came here assuming you and the other players would be here for an interview but no one was around yet. So I hung around a bit and took interest in your nutritional supplements.” Lie after lie after lie. I gritted my teeth and faked a smile. The most convincing lie I’ve learned on almost all my failed dates and relationships was to stroke a man’s ego and have him talk about all the things he is interested in, making him divert his attention to something else.

“You’ve got really good, um, vitamins for muscle recovery there. Maybe that’s why you got so big and strong, right?.” He looked at me dubiously, nodding responsively to be polite. If he took the bait, then he is obviously just like any other guy I’ve ever met.

“I mean, I guess? I’ve been doing deadlifts so–”

Approaching footsteps and faint voices were heard from the hall. Shohei pushed me toward the opposite end of the hall, where the showers were located.

“Wha–” I started but was shut up when he pushed me further into the back of the shower room, swiping the doors closed.

“Shut up if you don’t want to be caught.” He growled and I recoiled back into the tiled corner. On top of me was the almost rusting shower head who had seen better days, and two bottle pumps for shampoo and body wash.

Voices and conversations were starting to fill in the locker room that was empty only a few seconds ago. The voices of men echoed through the shower rooms. You could hear the sound of water turning on from neighboring shower stalls, laughter and tired conversation in the locker area. We were surrounded.

Shohei could be heard laughing with his mates while blocking the door to the shower room I was hiding in.

“Are you using that, Sho? I could use a hot shower right now.” one of his teammates said.

“Uh, no, I was just about to use this room, sorry.” he said, almost hesitating. After a few seconds, he entered the shower room and started undressing.

I widened my eyes and shot him daggers. When he unhooked his shirt from his armholes, I was rendered speechless.

He had the body sculpted by the gods with his wide shoulders and large pecs that glinted under the light. How could someone look handsome and beautiful at the same time?

So when Shohei reached for the waist belt of his pants down, I didn’t know why I had choked on a silent scream. I looked away, embarrassed to have reacted like an inexperienced teenager. I have seen and have been with naked men before. This should be nothing new to me and my level. Or so I thought.

I stole a glance at Shohei, who was slowly walking towards me (or to the showerhead, where I stood under, obviously) in only his boxers on, gazing at me in wild amusement.

We were almost inches apart from each other, foreheads almost touching, breaths almost converging, if you may. If I stand on my tiptoes, I would be almost at his eye-level and I could peck him on the lips if I wanted to.

If I wanted to.

“Sorry, but I need to shower or someone else will try to take this stall.” His voice broke my salacious thoughts. He looked at me and turned the shower on.

“Are you serious?”

“Yes, I’m supposed to. Aren’t I? I just got off practice and I stink.” He said almost sarcastically.

“So I’m supposed to just watch you bathe and hope I get out here alive?” Water slowly dripped into my shirt, soaking my chest and exposing a bit of my underwear.

“If you didn’t sneak in here, we wouldn’t have this problem.” He concluded and pursed his lips, not looking at me.

“Shohei? You okay? You sound like you’re talking to someone.” a familiar voice floated into the shower room.

“It was a video on my phone that I forgot to pause, Ippei-san.” Shohei’s face turned red but recovered quickly, glaring at me.

“Oh, well then, I thought you finally had a girl in there. I was wrong.” Ippei laughed.

Shohei started lathering body wash on his body at the slowest pace possible. His hands glided through his chest, stomach, and into the dick he’s restraining inside his boxers. Simply having this view had me almost whimpering. If it had been another day, I would have obviously enjoyed this, having a sexy man bathe in front of me, because who wouldn’t? But under my circumstances, I’m only fairly annoyed at being a flustered, hot mess and I couldn’t do anything about it.

“Oh, fuck, now you got me wet.” I blurted a little loudly as the water splashed and got into my socks.

Shohei’s widened and panicked eyes shot at me.

In between those short seconds, Shohei was able to respond quicker than my brain could. He had faked a laugh and said loudly, “Well, that’s awkward, the video keeps on playing on its own. Let me turn my phone off instead.” gaining laughter from outside the shower area and then reaching for the small of my neck and closed whatever space was seen between us.

Based on what I had learned in self-defense training, my initial bodily reaction should have been this: If someone is coming at you from the front, a groin kick may deliver enough force to paralyze your attacker, making your escape possible. 1. Stabilize yourself as best you can. 2. Lift your dominant leg off the ground and begin to drive your knee upward. 3. Extend your dominant leg, drive hips forward, slightly lean back, and kick forcefully, making contact between your lower shin or ball of your foot and the attacker’s groin area.

Instead, when his lips touched mine, I felt my arms throw around his neck and pulled him closer. They say we’re all beggars for something, and this indulgence I had let myself be greedy for.

When his lips reached mine, I parted like the Red Sea almost immediately, welcoming him and everything that he could offer: the taste of his tongue on my mouth, the smell of honey orange and apricot from his body wash seeping through my nose as I peppered kisses on his chest, and his obviously hard dick grinding against my stomach. When I palmed him, he managed a low growl and caught my wrists.

“Not here.” he groaned.

I pushed my head back inquiringly, both of us breathing too hard.

“I have no condom,” he tucked a wet strand of hair behind my ear. Under the dim bathroom light, I could see his face and chest were flushed. “Next time?”

“Well, usually when two old friends meet after a fall out in college, they just catch up and have coffee.” I said.

He laughed and said quietly, “Okay, so I owe you.”

“The coffee or the protected sex?”

“Uh, it could go a lot of ways.” Before he could say more, I palmed him through his boxer shorts and looked up at him, trying to find his limit.

Shohei bit his own lip and tugged the roots of my hair in a bundle, pulling and tugging from the pleasure. To keep himself from making such ungodly hot sounds, he pushed his tongue down my throat and thrusted his hips back and forth against my hand.

As if to make it even, he unclasped my bra and sucked on my already soaked breasts, a satisfied groan slipped from me. We both pulled and pushed and sucked and kissed each other in the crevices the shower splatters couldn’t reach, silencing the moans before it could escape us.

In that brief and elating moment, while we muted the noise from unsuspecting people, we smothered each other’s groans and reached our highs in the quietest, most pleasurable way possible.

=========================================

7 minutes of heaven

It’s strange how I always find myself in the most ridiculous situations.

The next few occasions that I’d meet Shohei would be wordless and timed interactions in enclosed spaces. We’d see each other in public and pretend we didn’t know each other but slip each other notes of the next place we’d secretly meet. It all felt strangely exhilarating to keep a secret like a fifteen year old would, with all the sneaking and running.

We’ve explored almost every nook and cranny of the stadium, discovering hidden spots of our rendezvous. We’d meet up in a different bathroom and he’d push me on my back while he fucks me repeatedly on the bathroom sink. Pre-game preps meant I gave him blowjobs in his manager’s office hours and hours before everyone even arrived.

Of course, when we ran out of places to hide, we’d go as far as looking for the next empty parking lot and tried to fuck each other noiselessly.

“So when can I take you out for dinner?” he had asked one day, when he dragged me out to meet with him around after midnight. I wouldn’t let him inside my apartment and I refused to do the deed in his either, so he’d bring me to places that only us knew, to fuck, to kiss, sometimes to talk, but more often, to drive each other’s pleasure and only that.

Because god forbid we both catch feelings and lose the fun, right?

So no talking, no sharing of personal details, no anything.

We were in an empty parking lot, away from the lampposts and streetlights. Shohei had made sure that we were well hidden in the dark.

He had his legs spread while sitting on the driver’s seat. His hands, warm and wide, rested on my hips and thighs, lightly urging me to ride him slowly.

Soft RNB music played on the stereo, it was a quiet, still night. It was both our day off so he had wanted us to chill and take the sex slowly.

Slow meant gazing at each other’s eyes–gaze, not look–with endearment or adoration, not lust or pleasure. Slow meant thinking the unthinkable thoughts. Slow meant being vulnerable while coming undone.

And I don’t want the slow and quiet moments. I wanted the fast and rough with no time to talk, gaze or even think, just one hundred percent fun and debauchery.

“Mmm. Maybe when you show me your photos,” I avoided the question but I also knew Shohei would never show me the photos he had taken–past and present. Even when we had been buddies for an entire semester, he had, not once, shown me his portfolio.

“So probably never, right?” he gazed up at me with his creamy brown eyes, hands caressing my stomach lightly.

“Probably,” I muttered and with that he had gripped my thighs tightly and moved his hips upwards to meet me. I moaned when he hit me in the right spots. Any sign of softness he had shown a few moments ago was gone, and only the roughness and unsettling disconnection remained.

This particularly fine day, I would be standing at the mercy of his mouth. He had dragged me to an empty storage room in the east wing of the stadium, hours after practice. According to him, the area stands the exact opposite from the lockers so most people hardly come by. How he had found out about this, I had no idea.

He was kneeling in between me, my right leg hooked on his shoulder, giving him more access and my hands tugged at the strands of his hair every time he licked my sensitive clit.

Shohei’s tongue grazing against me had left me quivering in delight. He stands up and kisses me, giving me a taste. My fingers started unbuckling his belt when he felt his phone vibrate.

“Oops, Ippei’s looking for me.” He pockets his phone, looking forlorn, as if telling me he didn’t really want to go yet. “See you again next time?”

“Yours or mine?” I had asked, brushing up and straightening my wrinkled dress. And when I realized what I had done, Shohei’s eyes shot up and he beamed widely.

“I just– I- I want a proper night with sex, you know.” I explained, trying to sound nonchalant. “It’s so uncomfortable having to go commando at work after you had just literally sucked the life out of my vagina, Sho.”

“Mmm-hmm.” He smiled even more.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“What? Fuck off.” By this time, my face felt hot and had probably looked red like a tomato, which probably amused Shohei even more.

“Your place, then. I’ll call you.” he gives me one last kiss then heads out first, leaving me a dazed and pulsating mess.

A shrill sound knocked me awake. It felt like seven thousand screaming hungry babies in my ear, bouncing off around my brain like a pinball.

I looked at the digital clock on the bedside table and saw the time glinting behind the glass: 8:41 PM. I must've fallen asleep after taking a half day off from work, feeling nauseous and slightly feverish. It seemed that whatever body malaise that I have been carrying inside me earlier had sprung into a full-blown ailment.

I pushed my body up and walked groggily to the source of my misery.

Someone was buzzing the doorbell and repeatedly pounding on the door. Great.

“If you’re not dead or dying behind this door, you’re about to be.” I croaked harshly, throat burning; putting all my remaining energy in pulling the door open. I was greeted by an extremely tall man with frantic brown eyes, searching my face.

“Oh, thank fucking god. I’ve been knocking for half an hour.” he wrapped me in a tight hug, I almost collapsed. Partly because of the throbbing headache and overall discomfort that I already felt, but hugely because of the warm minty scent of Shohei Ohtani.

“Jesus, you’re burning up!”

“What are you doing here?” I said, struggling in his grip, his face resting on the curve of my neck. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“You don’t text someone ‘at least i’ll die happy today knowing that my last meal was shoyu ramen’ and then not fucking reply after.” We were still standing by the entrance, his face now angled towards me, a look of concern or anger mixed in his face, I couldn’t tell. My cerebral cortex functions seemed to have shut down after witnessing this unexpected tenderness.

“Medicine knocked me down cold.” I shrugged weakly.

Shohei pulled me into the bedroom and tucked me back in, apologizing for his intrusion, putting down plastic bags of what seemed to be groceries on the kitchen counter, and went back to lightly scolding me for proper texting etiquette to family and friends, to anyone really. That my dark humor doesn’t translate well in messages and that I could have really died and people would think I’m joking but really, he got so scared that he went here as fast as he could.

I don’t remember much but in between fever dreams and my ibuprofen haze, I faintly remember the savory taste of rice porridge exploding in my mouth, the constant dabbing of a cold towel on my face, neck and chest, sometimes, my back, too; the smell of rubbing alcohol and a large, gentle, almost loving touch.

I don’t remember much but in between waking up in the darkness and stone-cold silence, I remember soft forehead kisses until I drifted back to sleep; of big strong arms enclosing me into a big embrace, as if to tell me, you can put your guard down now. you are safe here.

I don’t remember much from coming in and out of slumber, but I remember thinking: wouldn’t it be nice if this wasn’t a dream?

======================================

Reset

In the end, I quit sports media on my own volition and got into a friend’s ceramics house. I have always had a thing for ceramics and sculpting as early as college, where I had met my then-professor and now friend–who happens to be the owner of mentioned ceramics house. She had always praised me and encouraged me to join her when she first opened the shop, but as someone who had musings for writing at the time, I politely declined and pursued, you guessed it, journalism.

I’ve always been good at writing, no doubt, from the way professors always had a good word for me, but I always seem to get into the wrong places every time. Time moves fast if you’re a journo, if you’re slow, then the news is rehashed news, it would just be a late-night recap at a midnight slot that no one is ever awake to watch.

Here, inside her shop, it was quiet, and time moved slowly. I can get into my laziest clothes and no one bats an eye. I can finally retire my stilettos and straight cut blazers.

It was all so going well. The customers were always mid-twenties who got interested in our social media marketing of creating your own mugs and other ceramics and always came in in groups, duos, and solos.

Slowly, I realized that not everyone gets to the places they want. Even when you work blood and sweat for it. Not all were built like, say, Shohei Ohtani, whose talent was recognized early and afforded him an automatic slot in the big leagues.

Some are born to be big icons and some, like the rest of us, are meant for smaller, softer spaces. I get that now. It finally felt like I was in the right place and pace.

All this positivity and good timing felt all too good to be true and been proven accurate when the scandal blew up.

Shohei Ohtani photographed exiting his LA apartment with a woman in his arms.

Shohei Ohtani’s rumored girlfriend receives backlash from fans: READ MORE

EXCLUSIVE: More photographs of Shohei Ohtani and rumored girlfriend driving away in his Porsche

Rumored girlfriend of Shohei Ohtani: Who is She?

When I say it was everywhere, I meant it exploded right in front of our faces like a million confetti, falling and twirling fast. It was unstoppable. It was inevitable.

I felt my limbs go numb when I read the morning news. There in bold and black letters was the headline, my name and a clear photo of me holding Shohei’s arm, smiling. A certain news outlet had gotten juice of us and our secret hideouts and had spread all over social media like wildfire. You know what’s funnier? The media outlet that released this was my previous employer. The same company that asked me to snuff out a controversy. While I had failed to give them the news they wanted, I had unintentionally brought them an exclusive that wrote my entire name–and face–off the map and potentially ruined Shohei Ohtani’s clean record.

Shohei Ohtani, despite his happy-go-lucky and passive demeanor, was a very serious and straight-laced person. I already knew this in university but I got to see more of this side of him when we had started the fucking thing. Even though I had clearly told him that I didn’t want any strings attached, it was unavoidable to give and receive bits and pieces of each other when we’re not naked.

I did enjoy talking to Shohei under the sheets. His ingenious ideas and the way he talked about the things he adored spilled all over him, like afternoon sunlight streaming in between curtains, making way even through the small spaces to cast his light. I basked into this warmth as much time allowed me, because who knows when I can experience the glow of his presence again after all the chaos.

He was exactly like the golden hour: a warm afternoon orange luminescence that usually only stays for ten to fifteen minutes a day. If you wait too long to look up, he disappears quickly as he goes, leaving only the faint orange, yellow and pink hues chasing after him before the black of the night takes over you.

Well, now the fairytale has run its course and the sun has set to announce that golden hour is over. Night has finally fallen on me and I’m feeling scared and alone.

The first thing I did was to grab as much stuff as I could and put them all in my luggage and filed for an indefinite leave.

As if like clockwork, my phone rang and saw Shohei’s name on the caller ID. I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. What could I possibly say to him? That I used him just for the clicks and the views? That after all this time we spent together, he would realize that I am still the same despicable, scathing piece of garbage who’d trample on anyone just for a few cents?

So I don’t answer. Even when he calls back again and again and leaves me twenty or more messages by the hour. I turned my phone off. The latest message from Ohtani coming up on the notifications bar read, “Where are you?” before the screen flashed to black.

I have nothing but my pride left. I’d like to keep it that way. In such a way, I was embarrassed, too. I thought I finally had something to brag about. A job that I actually liked and enjoyed, a peaceful mind, and the possibility of liking a guy who had shown me nothing but kindness.

And because I couldn’t handle all of this, I handled it like I have always handled things: I ran away like a coward.

I rode a bus without reading its destination card and let it drive me away as far as it could, to someplace where no one knew me or Shohei Ohtani, or had any idea about the news.

The bus drove away and I never looked back.

================================

Waiting Until My Spring Comes Again: Shohei’s POV

Just like that I lost her. She wasn’t even mine to begin with.

When the news broke out, I was so furious that I wanted to drive to the news outlet that published the article and give them a piece of my mind. I knew my blind rage would have done more damage so I didn’t.

Instead, I looked for her and wanted to let her know that whatever happens, I won’t drop her just like that. That I’m willing to acknowledge the rumors and make it official, if she wanted to.

I’ve always been open to the idea of taking it to the next level with her but every time I broached the subject, she would change the topic, get into a foul mood, or try to pick a fight with me. Which I found endearing. She’s so adorable when she pouts. And when she pushes her luck thinking a five foot four girl like her can withstand someone as tall as me.

I just can’t help but laugh and feel a flutter in my stomach. She’s someone who has been adorable and held a special corner in my heart.

Y/N’s face was so expressive and whatever emotion she was in it would always be evident on her face. When she’s happy, a dimple on her cheek shows up. When she’s feeling sad or down, she’d look downcast and would prefer that you leave her alone. When she’s thinking about something deep, she would chew on her lower lip and always had a blank almost unfocused stare. Despite her many faces, I’m sure as hell that I love all of them. I wanted to be by her side when all this shit happened, I wanted to see which face she was making. Is she pissed like I was? Is she sad? I wouldn’t know. The moment her number didn’t connect after I had tried reaching her, I already knew that she was avoiding me.

I lost count of how many messages I had sent her, of how many missed calls and voicemails I left her. She was unreachable. She gave me her spare key so when I tried visiting her apartment, it was empty.

She was gone.

And only the traces of her lingered in her apartment. Her unwashed mug with leftover stale coffee was on the kitchen counter, specks of lipstick staining the mouth. Dirty clothes hanging on her bathroom door, forgotten and unwashed. The peachy scent of her purifier that always latches on to her clothes whenever we go out. Her unread books on her coffee table, some dog eared and annotated.

Everything that I love about her is here except for her and I miss her.

For the next couple of days, I dodged the media and focused on training, playing and practicing. Those three over and over again. I tried to not think about her and lose sleep because of her. An athlete’s wellbeing is connected to quality sleep.

But she was everywhere I went. Pieces of her were scattered all over the places I avoided, and it was my fault really, for bringing her to places we usually hid. For hoping that someday, the secrets we hid would be our stories to tell. Now I just let her memories rot inside my heart, where she should be.

I thought it would be easier when you just let it slip by but the more days that passed without seeing her, the more I feel a gnawing pain in my heart. She had sucked all my sunlight and took it all away with her.

I want her back.

=====================================

My Answer is You

Eleven days. It took me nine days to realize running away was a bad idea.

When I first got off the bus, I thought the place looked familiar. Turns out, I rode the bus to my hometown, to the very south and the last bus stop until it turned around to go back to the city.

When I appeared in front of my mom–the first time in a long time–she had immediately said, “Did something in the city?”

The moment she asked, I broke down in tears. She shushed and consoled me while I cried like a little kid. Like the way I had bawled to her when my first boyfriend broke up with me, or when my love birds died from illness, the other from loneliness.

It feels like I would die of loneliness, Mom. I had said.

Did he really say that? Did he tell you that it’s over? She cooed.

I was embarrassed to admit to my mom that no, Shohei had never told me anything because I had shut him out even before I could give him the chance. But what if that call was already the end of it all? What if answering his call meant exactly what I had thought. That would shatter me more.

So, no, Mom, you can call your daughter a coward but in her heart, it’s all over.

The next forty-eight hours at home was a blur. After feeding me with what feels like a day’s worth of homemade dishes, she made me wash the dishes, clean my old room, and the living room as well. And when that wasn’t enough, she made me go with her to the night market and bought whatever seafood she could find to feed me.

Is this what you did when Dad left? I wanted to ask her. Did you go around acting as normal while nursing a wounded heart? Did you go all through that facade just to show me that you were strong for the both of us?

She had her back to me, her hands pale and creased with age, showing signs of passage of time and her hardwork to put me to school. I know she was trying to make me busy to keep my mind off of Shohei. I’m not sure if she fully understands the scandal but she was trying her best to keep my head above the water. Probably just like how she always did.

I wish I was strong like you, Mom.

On the fourth and fifth day, she had let me work under the sun harvesting corn. Which I absolutely despised. I had to wear sun hats and these jumpers to cover myself from the heat.

“It’s cheap labor for letting you stay and eat my food,” she said when I complained. “Tomorrow, you’ll help me sell these at the market.”

As the days grew idly by, I’ve grown more accustomed to rising early and eating less meat and more vegetables. I willingly went out of the sun more to do housework, like hanging clothes, watering Mom’s plants, however, I was still not willing to harvest her vegetables, which she made me do a lot. When I say a lot, it means everyday since then.

On the eleventh morning, I woke up earlier than usual and found my mom already awake. She busied herself with a cup of coffee.

“Good morning, mom.” I yawned, grabbing my own mug.

“After breakfast, pack your things and go back to the city.” She said quietly.

“Huh?” I’m not sure I heard her right. Is she kicking me out?

She pushed today’s newspaper into my hands and pointed at an article. An article shows a picture of Shohei smiling at the camera, behind him was a framed candid photo of me turning my head just in time when the camera clicked, I was wearing a sleeveless shirt, a shawl draped over my shoulders, and the wind blowing my hair and covering my face slightly. Just by looking at the photo, it looked like a time when Shohei and I drove to the beach. He had brought his camera and took a lot of photos.

The article said, “Portfolio on Love: Shohei Ohtani’s Photographs Displayed for A Cause.”

“....and when the powerhouse athlete gets a day off, he plays around his camera and takes photos of anything, everywhere. He reveals Insider Today that for the first time ever, he is displaying his portfolio to the public at the Grand City Museum starting today until the 31st of the month, with the theme of “hello, love, are you there?”

“...’I don’t know how else to define love but this. I hope when the public sees this, they will instantly know that my photographs are a reflection of my love,’ he said.

“When asked if this was a confirmation to the rumors flying around recently, he just smiled sadly and said, "I'm hoping that this answers everyone’s questions, especially hers.”

“If your face is plastered on all of the newspapers, it wouldn’t make sense to stay here longer.” Mom said after a while. She had finished her breakfast and took them away to the sink.

“It doesn’t end well if you’re too afraid, my darling.” she said, not looking at me. “To love and to be hurt is to be brave. If it doesn’t work out after facing him, then by all means. Come home. My doors are always open for you. And I will feed you rice cakes while you harvest my corn.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. She wasn’t a hugger but welcomed my hug and patted me on the shoulders. “Now go, before all the chismosas wake up and corners you.”

I packed my bags and left home, my heart pieced back together. It was not wrong to go home and seek shelter. What I did wrong was leaving Shohei all alone when he took most of the fall.

Five hours, one taxi ride, and a ten minute walk later, I arrived at the city museum, nervous, anxious, feeling a little lightheaded and hesitant. I wiped my sweaty palms and got inside.

It was not as packed as I had expected, probably because it was a little over after lunch, though there was still a relatively big crowd overall.

When I stepped into the hall featuring Shohei’s displays, I felt a surge of emotion. It was a collection of all the photographs of his loved ones. In a black and white collection, he had photographed his parents holding hands while walking in the snow, a photo of his dog sleeping idly on his couch, a photo of the football stadium in a wide angle shot, showing Ippei and the rest of his teammates playing a warm up game before practice.

When I turned to a corner, that’s when I saw it. There were multiple frames hanging intricately on one side, showing all of the photos he took of me. One during university days, where I was showing him a strangely large eggplant during our photo walks at the market. There was another with me looking at him angrily for reasons I couldn’t remember, and a more recent one, in the middle, where he was holding my hand while I walked forward, back facing the camera.

On the metal plate below were words that read in cursive: “2009–present. Moments of love that I hold dear.”

At that moment, tears had started rolling down my cheek and I couldn’t help but sob. The onlookers nearby started moving away, probably weirded out by the sudden burst of emotion over some piece of art.

They weren’t just pieces of art. These were moments when Shohei and I were together and maybe realized that it was love.

By then, someone on my left offered a handkerchief and I gingerly took it, wiping my tears-strewn face. I muttered an apology for ruining the fabric.

“This is not the first time someone cried in front of my photographs. Some were absolutely heartbroken after seeing them.” a man’s voice said. And that reeled me back as I turned around and saw Shohei standing in front me.

“I knew this would lure you back,” he said, smiling.

His face was a little gaunt and tired. He had dark circles around his eyes that I’ve never seen before. I could only look at him and he looked back. I had so many things I wanted to say to him, so many things I wanted to explain but he spoke first and said:

“Did you get a tan?” he started, raising an eyebrow.

“I-I was harvesting corn!” I said, covering my face with both hands. I didn’t even have the time to put on makeup or a swab of lipstick and that’s the first thing he notices.

He took my hands and held them tightly against his chest. “No one looks this beautiful even after harvesting corn.”

“Shut up,” I said looking away.

He tipped my chin and held my face. “Let’s start again, shall we?”

I raised an eyebrow in question.

“Hi, my name is Shohei Ohtani. I’m an athlete and an amateur photographer sometimes. I’ve been in love with the girl in the photographs since forever.”

I managed a smile and laced my hands around his neck. “Hi, I’m a ceramics maker and sometimes, a farmer, you should see the corn I harvest. You look so familiar. I think you look like my future boyfriend.”

His eyes perked up and laughed at our silly little game. He went in for a kiss and I obliged, feeling safe and brave in his arms.

Let them take the damn photographs and write the articles all they want, but they could never take my sunshine away ever again.

#shohei ohtani au #shohei ohtani imagines #shohei ohtani #shohei ohtani pov #shohei ohtani fluff #shohei ohtani smut

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savemebeel · 2 months

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Hello everyone,

I wanted to let you know that I will continue to edit, probably not as frequently as before, but I wish to continue doing what I love. I appreciate all the support I’ve received from the fandom for all the work I’ve done for you all.

I will most definitely switch up how I edit things to avoid getting in trouble but I would like to clarify some things. Never have I ever claimed any of the art was mine, let alone data mine for content. (I legit have no idea how to do that)

Some of my edits were used by other editors who are much more talented then me when it comes to editing. But every icon, wallpaper, and banner was edited by me thru ibisPaint. I wish to make that clear since my intention was never to pass that art off as my own.

One individual has gone on to report my account and tipped off Solmare of my presence on tumblr. They know who they are as they’ve been constantly tweeting abt me & are known to heavily support Solmare. I am not upset at Solmare as they are business & I respect their decision.

But as for this individual, their actions were not done in the best interest of that company, but more for themselves as they have a vendetta against me. All I’d like to say to them is, I’m over them. I have not spoken abt them or their friends in a long time.

Nor do I have any interest in doing so ever again as this beef has been going on for far too long. This will be the last time I ever address you Maon.

If you hate me then fair enough the feeling is mutual but to deny my influence to the fandom would be an understatement.

You of all people know what it means to share stuff like translations to the fandom so they can better understand the content from the game we both like. I am doing the same thing by sharing edits to hype others up into playing it.

I don’t gain anything from posting edits as I’m using my time & labor to do what I do. I gain no money or recognition for my work (just look at Pinterest) but I make edits bc I adore Obey Me, as flawed as it is, I’m still passionate about it.

The last thing I wish to say to you is leave me alone. As mentioned before I want nothing to do with you anymore. It’s clear you dislike me and I’m fine with that but all I ask is for you to let me do what I enjoy in my own corner of the fandom.

#obey me

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wendynerdwrites · 4 months

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If I didn't think Somerton was a scumbag before...

According to Gita Jackson, one of his biggest plaguarism targets, he's done exactly nothing to reach out to them or other victims. According to Kat, Hbomb's editor/researcher, he has not reached out to them about contributing to the fund. You'd think if fixing his mess was his main priority, he'd have done THAT before making a video.

This twit spent years stealing, launching harassment campaigns against his critics, dolling out misinformation that targetted women, lesbians, transmascs, NB's, WWII soldiers, Bisexuals, Asexuals and SURVIVORS OF THE GODDAMN AIDS EPIDEMIC while fetishizing Nazis and blowing smoke up the ass of a CEO scumbag. Oh, and setting himself up as a representative of the queer community despite going out of his way to shit all over about 85% of it.

How do we think the victims of his plagairism and harassment felt? Their mental health probably suffered severely when they got trashed and labeled as bigots when they tried to defend themselves and their work.

There is no way Somerton did not know he hurt people when he took active measures to do so.

He did not take active measures to actually fix things. He couldn't even be assed to provide a link to HBomb's fund for his victims in his video description.

He should not hurt himself. No one ever should. And I dont want to see harm come to him. Just earned comeuppence. DEATH or self harm doesn't fall into that category. I wish him a full recovery.

But aside from that, I also wish for all of his ill gotten gains to go to all he has hurt. I wish for him to leave the internet permanently. I wish for him to never be allowed into the fields of media study or entertainment again and be laughed out of the room if he ever tries again. I wish for an investigation into his "film studio."

The fact that he opened his so called apology talking about his self-harm/su*cide is sheer manipulation. He minimized his actions throughout his so called apology, blamed his misinformation and bigotry on his partner, and put his patreon up again. and anyone who buys that "It's so you can unsubscribe!" line is a moron. All he has to do to make sure people who hate him now arent charged is to shut it down completely. But instead, he makes his ex-fans do the work for him. And we know why.

The man's first priorities in his so called quest to make it right isn't to reach out to his victims, help with their funding, or even raise awareness of the funds for them. It was to film himself downplaying and making excuses for his actions and to reactivate his Patreon.

If that doesn't tell you who he is, I don't know what to tell you.

#james somerton #plagiarism #youtuber apologies #lgbtqia #scumbags #hbomberguy #suicide mention #self harm cw

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herrlindemann · 9 months

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Interview with Till's lawyer, Simon Bergmann, for Cicero.

Mr. Bergmann, what are the criminal charges against Till Lindemann, which prompted the Berlin public prosecutor to start investigations?

The authorities in Vilnius have already stopped their investigations due to a lack of sufficient suspicion. The investigations by the Berlin public prosecutor's office were not triggered by criminal charges from victims, but by two people and an association who refer to media reports or a YouTube video.

So the Berlin public prosecutor's office did not officially open proceedings, although the information was publicly available, but only reacted to the criminal charges?

As we can see from the investigation file, this is the case. I cannot say whether the authorities reacted to public pressure. On the other hand, we have nothing against it. An investigation has the advantage that the allegations are clarified by professionals and not by investigative journalists. We'd rather have the public prosecutor's office check that than leave it hanging in the air. I also know of cases like this, where suspicions are reported, but at the same time there are no investigations at all. This is a new phenomenon.

In the case of Julian Reichelt / Axel Springer, the old publisher Dirk Ippen intervened in Munich and at the last moment prevented any publication about alleged misconduct by the Bild editor-in-chief in the Ippen group. As a result, his investigative team resigned and went to Spiegel together . Der Spiegel must and wants to use these people and make full use of them.

The most spectacular result so far is the cover story from June 9, 2023: "Rammstein: Sex, power, alcohol - what the young women from 'Row Zero' report", produced by 13 authors. Do you see a pattern in the recent suspicious reporting? Is this a new development with results that were not seen five or ten years ago?

One gets the impression that the topic has gained a whole new spin in the media with the MeToo movement and Harvey Weinstein. You noticed that this topic triggers people. It attracts a lot of attention, just the catchphrase "MeToo" alone, and it guarantees high sales figures, especially in the digital sector.

That's why you will hardly find any MeToo reports without a payment barrier. They appear in the print edition - which you have to buy - and often in the paid subscription area, so they are not freely accessible. The reason for this is that they also want to make money with it. This has led to a significant increase in impermissible reporting of suspicions and to a dangerous shift in the guidelines.

Where do you draw the line between permissible and impermissible reporting of suspicions?

This is very complex, actually a case for legal seminars. There is no such thing as black and white. It must be assessed on a case-by-case basis. In order to be able to report identifyingly, a celebrity must usually be affected. If it is not about a celebrity, the story is usually dead, because then there is no public interest in naming or depicting the person. The reporting interest of the public must not only be given, but also relatively high, because the risk of stigmatization is enormous. You are reporting something that has not yet been clarified.

The authors and one of the publisher's legal advisors recently said in a video discussion with selected readers – “ Spiegel – Backstage” from June 29th – themselves: “We don't know whether what we're writing is true.”

That's how it is. There are accusations, there are clues or witnesses or there aren't. The person concerned denies it or does not comment. One does not know whether the person did what someone claims. That has to be clarified by the investigative process or by a court, or it will clear itself up. Only: As long as that is not clarified, the accused has to be considered innocent. That is why there are these strict requirements from the Federal Court of Justice to the Federal Constitutional Court and the European Court of Human Rights.

As far as the public interest in Rammstein is concerned, you don't have to worry too much: Yes, of course such allegations are also possible in principle. In any case, the lack of prominence is not the KO criterion. Only: The article would not really work for Lieschen Müller or the average consumer anyway. It takes celebrity to make it sell.

The second hurdle is then the main one: Depending on the severity of the allegations, the press may only report when sufficient evidence is available or has been determined. The press now has to see for itself: Is there enough evidence that the person did it? It must have a minimum number of connecting facts and, if requested, produce them that support its presentation. Only then is she allowed to publish her suspicions. This is where most mistakes are made.

Do you assume that such legal disputes and even defeats as now before the Hamburg Higher Regional Court, which also cause considerable costs, are factored in by the magazines in their sales expectations from the outset?

I do believe that publishers see the risks and consciously take them. The Spiegel legal counsel and also the investigative editors have recently commented on the alleged thoroughness of their research, even before a legal dispute arises. I am very surprised that the press obviously feels compelled to justify its research in such a proactive manner, given that it is a matter of course in journalism.

Or she turns the tables and uses the opportunity to celebrate her own professionalism, impartiality, her ethos and thus to do additional advertising. On the one hand you want to arm yourself against criticism, on the other hand it is a marketing tool: "How did our research in the Rammstein/MeToo case go?" New people are attracted to listen to it: Take a look and you can consider getting a subscription. This is really new.

Is that voyeurism that is being exploited and exploited in terms of sales? Especially since you know next to nothing about the private life of the band Rammstein. They isolate themselves and allow no insights, let alone home stories; which makes you really curious.

Definitely. That's also my point of criticism. The alleged perpetrators do not peddle their private lives. In the case of Luke Mockridge, the preliminary investigation had been discontinued when the reports began, in the case of Rammstein suspicious reports were used as the basis for a preliminary investigation, and in the case of the gallery owner Johann König, there was no preliminary investigation at all until today, which did not prevent Die Zeit from getting started against him .

What is the evidence in the Rammstein case ?

I ask for your understanding that I do not want to comment on the status of the criminal investigation. On the other hand, I can judge what was put forward by the publishers in the press law disputes. And the means of making the allegations credible - rape, administration of knockout drops to enable sexual acts - do not convince me in any way.

There is surprisingly little, considering what has been announced in the articles and headlines. Der Spiegel is an example of an approach that I have observed in numerous recent MeToo reports: When the article says: We spoke to around two dozen women and this resulted in a certain pattern, a system. A man who pushes boundaries. A man who does not respect the will of women. You read the article and you think: Well, two dozen women – that sounds pretty bad. There must be something to it. And the higher the number of witnesses, the more one believes that this is true.

As a person affected, you then have to sue, so in this case apply for an injunction against Der Spiegel . Only then do you have a chance to find out what's actually true about it. Most of the time you don't even know who is accusing whom of what. These are often alleged or actual events that happened years ago. So you have to force the press in court to disclose the results of your research.

As part of a process, the court then has to check whether the stated principles of reporting on suspicions have been complied with. Other criteria are whether the reporting was balanced and objective, and whether the opportunity to comment was given. And it shouldn't be prejudiced. Incidentally, all points that I believe were disregarded in the article. Anyway. Then you go to court and then Der Spiegel presents its research results and then you check: where are the two dozen women actually?

The text is about the "casting system", but also about the accusation that Lindemann used knockout drops or had them used to make women compliant. And we only attack this latter, this really serious accusation, because the "casting system" is more a question of moral evaluation. You may ask: Do you still have to go to bed with groupies these days, do you have to make a “selection” based on visual criteria? You can evaluate everything critically and raise the moral index finger. I find this feigned indignation completely exaggerated. For me it's a puritanical hypermorality that's being shown.

But: If there were criminal offenses, then I don't want to defend it. I just can't see it at all right now, at least not in terms of a "casting system". And as far as the knockout drops are concerned, I didn't find anything relevant in the documents and evidence provided by Spiegel . The district court of Hamburg has meanwhile also assessed this in the same way.

So what follows from this?

The media must find out: Is a statement credible? Are there additional indications, facts? The thesis that in testimony-against-testimony offenses the man always wins because of the principle "in case of doubt for the accused", i.e. it should never be reported on, is wrong. It's not like that. Criminal proceedings on sexual offenses are checked very carefully because the public prosecutor's office does not want to be accused of stopping such proceedings too quickly.

That's how it should be. It's different from a few years ago. There are other options; you have very well-trained civil servants, above all. There are indications such as Whatsapp messages, signs of injury, cell phone data on whereabouts. This is often the subject of an indictment. Whether or not there will be a conviction is another question, but prosecutors are trying their best.

But abuse of power is also accused of Lindemann.

Because of serious sexual offences, which, given the current state of affairs, is not even remotely possible and, by the way, is not even covered by the allegations made by Der Spiegel : I did not find any evidence in the file about the knockout drops. At this point, Der Spiegel is already rowing back and says that it did not raise this suspicion at all, but that it primarily came to speak of this "casting system" and of abuse of power.

What is the abuse of power in the Lindemann case?

If you compare this with the Weinstein case, you realize that the abuse of power does not exist. What kind of power is that supposed to be? Rock star prominence is said to be power. He uses it. Only: You could level this accusation against any celebrity who has sex with a woman who may not be his own.

Have you found any indications that your client has given or promised anything to women? Does he put together a backing choir? A dance group? vocals? Or did he conversely threaten them with the end of their careers if they are not compliant?

Nothing like that. The women whom Der Spiegel is now using as witnesses do not claim that either . The affidavits I've seen make no mention of that. On the contrary, the majority of women say they knew there would be sex at the after-show party, and they went anyway. Only two of these affidavits come from women who report from their own experience. Others only report atmospheric. And that they left when they became uncomfortable.

Were women prevented from walking when they wanted to?

I did n't find anything about this in the documents provided by Spiegel . But I was never there myself. So I can only reproduce the statements I have seen so far. Result: None of the women say they were prevented from leaving the room. And none of the women talk about abuse of power. On the contrary: Most of them, at least that's how I understand the statements, were interested in sex.

I also see the problem that, as a person affected, you first have to put a lot of money on your table before you can even attack an issue of Spiegel or anyone else.

That's added. I have clients who honestly say: Unfortunately, we have to lay down our arms, as sorry as we are. It's no longer financial.

If it goes all the way to the Higher Regional Court and then to Karlsruhe, that will be really expensive - and woe betide you lose in the end. Do you have an example?

I'll give you a case. The client, himself active in the media, was accused. We took action against the mirror , applied for a restraining order. That took a long time. It was issued in essential parts, so initially a success, but the mirror raised a hearing complaint and the BVerfG suspended the enforcement of the temporary injunction.

Consequence: What we had achieved, the deletion of passages from the article, is reversed and the text can be put online again. Negotiations were then to continue in August, which lost another two months. And Der Spiegel had already announced that it would go through all the instances and also force my client into the main action. Against this background, the continuation of the proceedings no longer made any sense.

So if things go as Spiegel has threatened, that means: In the injunction proceedings you have two instances with two oral hearings and you then have main proceedings with at least two, but probably three instances, because then it goes from the regional court to the higher regional court to the Federal Court of Justice.

How much money does that add up to?

This depends on the amount in dispute and the course of the proceedings - the more serious the damage to reputation, the higher the costs. If the client loses in the end, which thank God rarely happens, he has to bear all the costs, including those of the other party. That can add up to a six-figure sum. Of course there are people who can and must afford it, but there are also clients who are prominent but not millionaires.

And they are brought to their knees.

And the media, the opponents of the trial, know that. They take into account the financial situation of the person concerned. They say to themselves: We'll report on the suspicion despite all our reservations, but the scoop is so big that it definitely pays off and we'll include the lawyer's fees. My impression is that the mirror has now reached the level of an image newspaper. In the specific case even clearly worse than the picture . Methods are used that are actually attributed to tabloid journalism. This is a bad development.

#rammstein #till lindemann #great insight into the case #*#it's all about money really

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formulatrash · 6 months

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I feel like people don't understand this. like, people do not get how much abuse you get working in motorsport.

I still get hundreds of emails a week - my email was shared via a forum a few years back and people use it all the time. they range between succinct 'go die' messages and long, rambling things detailedly explaining how they'll dismember me. they often have guesses at where I live. I didn't say who my flatmate was for a long time on twitter and neither of us can post photos anywhere near our house or with the windows in the background if it's of the cat, etc. people have come up to me in pubs and screamed at me in my face. my editors used to receive between 10 and 70 emails a week asking me to be removed from my (outrageously junior) position because people hated that I had any platform whatsoever that much.

people will literally cheerfully eat up every straight white man in motorsport media and then shit themselves stupid when anyone else is in it. there is not just a longstanding but recent hire at Autosport with credible sexual harassment claims against them and yet no one gives a fucking shit about that do they.

I get hundreds of asks a week on here. I get DMs on every social media platform. people make up abjectly insane shit about me ("Hazel claims she experiences slavphobia" what the fuck I am not slavic you insane pieces of shit) and lie and lie and lie and I can do nothing about it. and this has ruined my life. I will never get away from it. it doesn't matter that I lost my job, it will continue forever. I hate it.

and people like Barstool were key to this.

if you want a career in motorsport: don't! fuck this whole shit off. never touch it. get out before this happens to you.

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hallo2838 · 1 month

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Waiting room pt.1

Notes: thankyou for showing love on my writings. I think i will write a part.3 for the hotel experience about the punishment but i don’t have any good ideas yet and i still feel that im not really good at writing. However there is just such a lack in deukae smut and especially siyeon smut so i just continue writing my horny thoughts. Highly not proofread so it may lacks quality and grammer.

Ps. If someone has the video of this picture please send me it its from their fansign, it just radiates so much fuckboy energy

Comeback weeks are the best and the worst for you. Siyeon was busier and stressed than ever so there was hardly time that you could spend together. However due the amount of stress siyeon needs a good fucktoy to relieve her stress. So during the comeback times you would always get pounded and used harder than you could ever imagine. Also being shared among the members was a common thing because they needed to relieve there stress too. The other girls already see a lot of nudes and videos being sended in the groupchat since siyeon likes to show off and sometimes they also want a taste themselves.

One time she was watching while jiu, who was sitting next to her, was being filmed for the deukae note. However a video of siyeon pounding you from behind was played by siyeon. So in that filmed part of jiu you could hear definitely all the moans, grunts and the ass clapping. But the editor didn’t noticed so that part was uploaded on the internet. Only a day later they were aware of it but the video was already been seen by everyone. But siyeon didnt really mind because everyone praised her for her bick dick energy which made her already high ego go through the roof.

Most of the times you were just living your own life during the filming of the music shows but tomorrow you had a day off and siyeon knew because you have a shared calender. So siyeon had a good idea, she sended a picture of her in the mirror with her strap on. One hand stroking and her facial expression like a fuck boy. Tongue pressing against her cheek. She sended the nude with the text:

“I know you want my cock in your dirty cunt because you’re nothing that a cum slut for me. What if you take it in the waiting tomorrow. I know you would like it you fucking whore”

#dreamcatcher smut #dreamcatcher smut headcanons #dreamcatcher x reader smut #kpop smut #siyeon smut #siyeon x reader #siyeon imagines #gg smut #girl group smut #dreamcatcher scenarios #siyeon x fem reader #dreamcatcher x reader #dreamcatcher imagines #dreamcatch

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bestcurse · 4 months

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another year comes and goes, and in some ways, it feels as though nothing has changed at all. while he still mourns the death of a parent and a relationship he considers to be unfairly lost, grieving a life he could've had, should've had with the one person he's only felt whole with, in reality, a lot has changed. he's finally written that fucking book, for example, which is why they're all gathered here today, congregated under the same roof to celebrate his successes, even though it barely feels that way at all, to him. it was pure luck, somehow— falling into a crowd that opened doors that were never imaginable to him before, introducing him to editors and publishers and— fuck. he was grateful. so grateful, but there's always been something missing through it all, an integral piece that still has his chest aching each morning he wakes, each night he attempts to sleep. can't help but feel as if it's that familiar tug in his chest, the one that leads him directly towards the girl who had been invited tonight, along with all his other old friends, who he just can't seem to work up the courage to approach, just yet. and it might be because all this attention is enough to make his skin crawl, or it could be because he doesn't really feel like the person he once was, that once fit in with that group of people. whatever the reasoning, it's definitely not because the last time he had seen devon, one thing had led to another and they'd found themselves in an entanglement of bodies, of souls. and that's not the reason, either, why he's suddenly desperate for fresh air, excusing himself from the conversation he's having, disappearing into the night, cigarette already in hand and ready to light, as he positions himself against the railing of the balcony, observing the city below him rather than anything back inside. / @butterflydusts

#butterflydusts #interactions / miller banks.#this is... not very good but so WHAT if i want to spend the start of the new year making myself upset!

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dreaminginthedeepsouth · 29 days

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A Letter from the Editor in Chief of the Cleveland Plain Dealer: The facts involving Trump are crystal clear, and as news people, we cannot pretend otherwise, as unpopular as that might be with a segment of our readers. There aren’t two sides to facts. People who say the earth is flat don’t get space on our platforms. If that offends them, so be it. As for those who equate Trump and Joe Biden, that’s false equivalency. Biden has done nothing remotely close to the egregious, anti-American acts of Trump. We can debate the success and mindset of our current president, as we have about most presidents in our lifetimes, but Biden was never a threat to our democracy. Trump is. He is unique among all American presidents for his efforts to keep power at any cost.

Personally, I find it hard to understand how Americans who take pride in our system of government support Trump. All those soldiers who died in World War II were fighting against the kind of regime Trump wants to create on our soil. How do they not see it? The March 25 edition of the New Yorker magazine offers some insight. It includes a detailed review of a new book about Adolf Hitler, focused on the year 1932. It’s called “Takeover: Hitler’s Final Rise to Power” and is by historian Timothy W. Ryback. It explains how German leaders – including some in the media -- thought they could use Hitler as a means to get power for themselves and were willing to look past his obvious deficiencies to get where they wanted. In tolerating and using Hitler as a means to an end, they helped create the monstrous dictator responsible for millions of deaths.

How are those German leaders different from people in Congress saying the election was stolen or that Jan. 6 was not an insurrection aimed at destroying our government? They know the truth, but they deny it. They see Trump as a means to an end – power for themselves and their “team” – even if it means repeatedly telling lies. Sadly, many believe the lies. They trust people in authority, without questioning the obvious discrepancies or relying on their own eyes. These are the people who take offense to the truths we tell about Trump. No one in our newsroom gets up in the morning wanting to make a segment of readers feel bad. No one seeks to demean anyone. We understand what a privilege it is to be welcomed into the lives of the millions of people who visit our platforms each month for news, sports and entertainment. But our duty is to the truth.

Our nation does seem to be slipping down the same slide that Germany did in the 1930s. Maybe the collapse of government in the hands of a madman is inevitable, given how the media landscape has been corrupted by partisans, as it was in 1930s Germany.

#democracy #both sides-ism #fascism #political #Cleveland Plain Dealer #rise of authoritariansim

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naamah-beherit · 1 year

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On fanzines and the mess their current state is

Or: musings from a writer's biased perspective.

This post has been a long time coming, but always something else caught my attention and months passed as such. Finally, the time has come.

There was a zine wank recently. The mods proved to be quite ignorant how art works, kicked the artist, the artist went public with receipts, the mods insisted it wasn't like that, and the whole affair kept derailing with possibly another explanation for the kicking until at last the mods cancelled the zine. And it's just the latest wank of many. A zine here took money and never delivered the product, another zine there has a mod who hasn't read the book but only heard about it from their friends who, coincidentally, are the other mods. And so on, and so forth. Everywhere you look, there's a fanzine. Multiple fanzines in fact, sometimes at the same time. Which is understandable, given how old a concept of a zine is and how solid their foundations in fandoms.

Or, well, technically, because when I think about the zines of today, I can't help but realise they're gradually losing the connection to their roots.

(yes, this might be another post of the "old person yells at clouds" type. I'm fully aware of that)

I won't summarise a history of zines, because that's not the point here and also Fanlore has done a much better job in this article. It does serve as a good starting point, though, if you've never ventured past "zines are a thing that exist". The most important thing to keep in mind is: the zines used to be about much more than just art. And here lies some of my beef with them.

Nowadays, most if not all zines are art books. Worse than that: art books that refuse to acknowledge the fact, own it, and market themselves accordingly. I actually own an art book that was announced and sold as such (Ages of Arda Anthology), which to this day in all my fandoms¹ remains the only publication of that kind. And if the zines of today would have acknowledged their main focus is mostly if not only art, I wouldn't be writing this.

Alas, here we are. I participated in four zines. Additionally, I was one of the editors in one of those. It was the first English Hualian zine, actually, back in 2019 - unless another one somehow slipped my mind, but I don't think so. My 2019 was bad, but TGCF is the only thing I remember well from that time. I've also been traditionally published (three times so far), which is also relevant to the rant. I admit I don't remember how many check-ins we had for that one zine I was in the staff of. We had a word/size limit for the entries. As fas as I recall, that was the entry criteria. I might be missing details, though; I was hella depressed at the time. Like I said, bad year, few memories and 99% of them is TGCF.

But anyway, the other three zines I wrote for. I applied, was accepted, went through the process, saw it to the end. You know, the "usual" zine process. The one I've got Opinions™ about.

Let's start with submissions. x samples of works of y quality. Okay, sure, we all think without stopping to realise it's a tad weird to submit a selected portfolio of works for a hobby event as if it were a job application. It gets weirder the longer you think about it, because, as I once wrote, fandom is for fun. It's a hobby. Maybe I'm old and jaded, or an idealist, or an old jaded idealist, but I believe everyone has a place in something as deeply tied to the fandom as a fanzine.

Then comes what I've got a personal vendetta against: check-ins and deadlines. Sure, I know people create projects with specific time frames in mind, but dear gods, again, it's not a job. Nothing bad will happen if dates shift around a bit when there's no money involved. Maybe it's just me being bitter about putting fun, fannish activity into strict professional frames. again, I'm old and jaded. And dear gods, check-ins. Here's when my trad pub history comes into play, because in neither case I had to let the editorial staff know I was actually working. True, it might be a case for a story that isn't done yet, doubly so if there's a deadline looming over both an author and their editor, but when you submit something finished and aren't asked to revise&resubmit, you go over the editorial input, make the changes (or not if you're feeling brave, lol), send it back, go over the proof copy, submit possible adjustments, and that's it. Or at least that's how it worked for me for two magazines and a short story anthology.

What does it matter if someone writes a story the day before the zine submissions are due? If it works for them, then it shouldn't be an issue. Again, it might be just me, but standardising and project-managising a hobby activity doesn't really sit well with me. From my very biased perspective, I don't see fun in chasing deadlines and writing on the clock, but that's just me.

Zine being a project rather than fun activity also ties to it becoming a product. That means a zine has to sell to at least cover the production cost, and with the quality the organisers and the audience expect, the labour cost is basically non-existent. That at least remained from a fun hobby activity - people working for free, lol. It also enables situations when the same few highly popular artists partake in most or all zines in a fandom (often upon invitations, whose very existence makes my blood boil), leading to a reality where zines become an endless cycle of repetition. And don't even get me started on invitations that add to the marketing strategy of selling the zines. "Here are our wonderful, carefully selected artists, and here's everyone else". That's how I see it. Where has "we're all fans of the same thing" gone? Where's "share our mutual love for the same thing"? Instead, we get invited people and those who have to submit a CV-like application for a senior position.

You ruined a perfectly good fan activity, is what you did. Look at it, it's got capitalism.

And last but not least, art books that refuse to acknowledge what they are and the subsequent treatment of writers.

The longer I look at zines, the lower the artists:writers ratio is becoming. Sure, people like to look at art, because it's quite often easier and always quicker than reading. Sure, ain't nobody got time for reading these days. BUT. The growing disparity between respect and reception of works of artists vs writers is, well, growing, and by not giving writers an equal treatment and exposure in something as important to fandoms as fanzines doesn't help to improve the situation. Again, my opinion, but when seeing zine promos that have got approximately 20-30+ artists and 5-10 writers at most is not cool. This is why I say most of the zines these days are art books that refuse the name. And there's nothing wrong with that name, or with including only artists in something that's only about visual art. But when it's mixed for art and writing, then the least zine organisers could do is make the numbers equal. Again, we're all fans of the same thing, and no fan activity is better than the other when its outlet is meant to be varied. Also, where are cosplayers? Where are meta writers? Both of those have got a place in a fanzine as well and should be given a treatment equal to other expression of fannish love.

Am I trying to turn back a river with a stick? Probably. But I'm fed up with zines that fail because someone embezzles funds, zines that prioritise the same group of people over and over again over a more diverse crowd, or claim they're welcoming to all forms of expressions but obviously prefer to include only fanart. I'm fed up with manufacturing zine after zine after zine just because they sell. I'm fed up with fandom becoming more and more of a structured professional endeavour instead of a hobby. I'm fed up with audience that constantly demands a faster and faster stream of, well, content. Neither of those is what fandom and fanzines should be like.

PS. not proofread. Sorry, I'm too dead to do that, so mistakes may get fixed within the next few days, 'cause they sure as hell are many.

¹ - I don't know anything about other fandoms, though. Like I said: it's all opinions from a very personal angle.

#fandom

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