emma

25 | she/her lover of minnesota united & blue lock ⚽︎♥︎ ao3

[teardropdeer]

come on you loons .ᐟ

⋆˙⟡ emma ⟡ 25 ⟡ she/her ⟡ north star state ⟡ lover of blue lock, major league soccer, & all things minnesota sports ⟡ always happy to make friends! ⟡˙⋆

masterlist | ao3 | more active on twitter | asks & requests are open | minors dni

[teardropdeer]

IT’S MINNESOTA UNITED MATCH DAYYYYY COME ON YOU LOONS 🩵🖤

[teardropdeer]

blue lock chapter 354 leaks are out and life is good

[el-toros-loco]

So much back and forth, analysis, and commentary about the USMNT game, but one constant I love seeing being highlighted is:

Support your local team.

It’s important to interact with the sport beyond the international team, and most importantly, grow the game domestically by keeping it culturally relevant.

USL, NWSL, MLS, it doesn’t matter. These are the leagues producing free youth academies in retaliation to the expensive pay-to-play model, being played in your own backyard, and can be supported inter generationally for years to come.

Of course, it’s not perfect. We’re decades behind, but it grows everyday with the people’s support.

[teardropdeer]

ruiner

When you were seventeen, you gave your best friend a tearful hug goodbye and sent him off to an elite soccer training camp.

You didn't expect that you'd never hear from him again after that day.

You certainly didn't expect to run into him again, eight years later, on your birthday, at a bar.

kunigami rensuke x reader | 12.1k words total | part one ✧ part two ✧ part three ✧ part four | ao3 | minors dni

(Content warnings/tags for entire work: angst, angst and smut, angst with a happy ending, slow burn, childhood friends, post-canon, manga spoilers, drinking, poor reader is not having the best birthday, reunions, confessions)

Part one

When you finally saw Kunigami again in the flesh, it was in the last place you were expecting.

You hadn’t expected to ever see him again, really. Especially not at the bar where you were currently celebrating your twenty-fifth birthday with your friends, after not having spoken to him for eight years. 

Not that you were counting.

The second his gaze met yours, and you confirmed yep, it was him, that those were the same amber eyes you had known so well so long ago, a surge of panic wracked through your body. You whipped around to hide your face from him - but it was too late. Kunigami had seen you, too, and you could feel his stare burning holes into the back of your head. 

“What? Who did you see?” your friend Sara asked in a hushed tone, surprised by your sudden and dramatic reaction. You didn’t answer right away, your mind spinning a million miles a minute. Why was he here?

This piqued the interest of the rest of your friends, who immediately began searching the crowded bar for whoever had elicited such a reaction from you. It didn’t take long before they noticed Kunigami - his mop of fluffy red hair made him easy to spot in most places, but he stuck out even more due to the rambunctious group of men around him. It was obvious he was the subject of your miniature freak-out due to the way he was currently staring directly at you, even as your friends looked his way - had he no shame? 

“Oh my god! Who is he?” Lilly, a friend from college, hissed, a grin on her face. “He’s so hot!” 

“Is he an ex?” your coworker Jada asked, leaning in conspiratorially. You grimaced. 

“Not an ex,” you answered through gritted teeth, still refusing to look Kunigami’s way. “Ex friend.” 

“Holy shit,” Sara breathed, her eyes widening as the realization ripped through her. “Is that the footballer?” 

You screwed your eyes shut and nodded, earning gasps and squeals from your friends. 

This group of friends didn’t know Kunigami - you had met them all in college or since you moved to the city for your finance job, long after Kunigami had unceremoniously ended your friendship eight years ago. All they knew about him was that you were once close, and then you weren’t, and then he became one of the best football players in the world. 

You’d kept up with Kunigami’s career for a little bit after he left, hoping that his lack of communication was a temporary thing due to the demands of his newfound fame. But when it became obvious that he never planned to speak to you again, your multitude of Kunigami jerseys went into a storage box, you stopped watching his games, and you did your best to stop caring - though that never fully worked. 

You’d moved far away from the small town you and Kunigami grew up in together for your fancy grown-up finance job, so seeing him here was… a shock, to say the least. And on your birthday, no less. 

“We have to go over there!” Lexie, another college friend, exclaimed. “He’s with his team, right? They’re all hot, and we’re all single! C’mon!” 

Lexie grabbed on to your arm and gave you the best puppy dog eyes she could muster, and before you could answer, the rest of your friends were doing the same, echoing her with whines and pleas. 

“Fine! Fine! You guys are the worst,” you relented, groaning. “But someone has to get me another drink before we go over there.” 

★☆★

A few minutes later, a fresh drink in hand, you and your group of friends made your way through the crowded bar towards the group of boisterous men surrounding Kunigami. 

Your stomach was in knots. You’d rehearsed this situation in your head so many times before, but somehow, you’d never thought it would happen in a bar. You always figured you’d meet again in some momentous way, some manner that felt important and dramatic and emotional, like on Christmas Eve or after he won the Ballon d’Or or something. 

How were you supposed to casually ask him “Why’d you throw away our more than a decade of friendship so abruptly?” 

As you neared, the attention of Kunigami’s teammates turned towards your posse. Your friends were hot, and all looked incredible tonight, so it was no surprise. However, you had no interest in meeting any of the other players - at least, not yet. Instead, your sights were set on the redheaded striker who was unabashedly staring right back at you. 

As your friends melted into their own interactions with ease - introducing themselves to the players, explaining that you’re a “friend” of Kunigami’s, you stepped closer to him. 

“Hi, Rensuke,” you said slowly, studying his appearance. In the almost decade since you had last seen him, he had changed quite a bit. He was taller, now, and you had to crane your vision upwards in order to hold his gaze. He was more muscular, and his frame was larger - he had always dwarfed you, a bit, but even more so now. His hair was longer, shaggier, and his eyes weren’t as kind as you remembered - the amber pools were stormy, now. It made you wonder if more had occurred in the years since you’d seen each other than what you had heard about in the sports column of the news. 

He seemed to look down at you in a peculiar way - not tilting his head down, but rather dropping the angle of his gaze, as though looking down his nose. But it wasn’t haughty. Guarded, rather. 

As he breathed out your name in response, you were struck by how flat his tone and expression were. The Kunigami you knew would have at the very least cracked a disarming smile at you by now. (Really, the Kunigami you knew would have pulled you in for a hug, but something told you he wasn’t going to do that after refusing to speak to you for eight years.) 

“What are you doing here?” you asked, gaze dropping briefly to toy with the straw of your drink before looking back up at him again. 

“I could ask you the same thing.” His tone was totally devoid of the warmth you remembered. But before you could say anything else, he answered your initial question. “We had an away match here.” 

“I live here now,” you explained, even if he wasn’t really asking.

Kunigami nodded stiffly. You threw a glance down at the beer bottle in his hand - his knuckles were white. “Oh yeah. Forgot my sister mentioned that.”

Your heart ached at the mention of Kunigami’s older sister. You’d always been close with his family, so she had been your shoulder to cry on when he first left. When you were eighteen and beginning to wonder if he’d ever speak to you again, she’d been the one to hold you tight and tell you he was just getting used to the demands of his new life as a pro athlete. But when you were nineteen and accepted he was never talking to you again, you drifted away from her, too. 

She still wished you a happy birthday each year, and always used that as a chance to ask for an update on your life. You just hadn’t realized that she’d been updating Kunigami, too. Hadn’t realized he cared. Her “happy birthday!” text she sent earlier today was still unanswered on your phone. 

Silence stretched between you and Kunigami, and you used the opportunity to glance around at your friends. They had all fallen into conversations with Kunigami’s teammates easily - flirting, chatting, and laughing it up, having the time of their lives. You were happy for them, genuinely. Even if you were dying a little over here. On your damn birthday, of all days. 

“They’re all good guys.” Your attention snapped back up to Kunigami as he spoke up, and you blinked at him a few times. 

“Looked like you were worried for your friends,” he explained plainly. A twisting sensation settled in your stomach at the fact that he was still able to read you so clearly after so long - and yet you felt like he was a stranger to you right now.

Kunigami tore his amber gaze away from you momentarily to take a sip of his beer, and you took that as a cue to take several gulps of the drink Lexie had bought you. Ugh, that shit was strong. What the hell did she order you? You casted a glance her way, and she gave you a grin and a thumbs-up before returning to her conversation with the player in front of her. 

When he lowered his beer again, Kunigami leaned on the high-top table next to him casually, looking at you down the slope of his nose once more - but he didn’t say a word. He just studied you intensely, like he was analyzing something about you. You squirmed, fidgeting with the straps of your “going-out top” you had chosen to wear tonight - suddenly feeling like it was much too revealing to be wearing in front of your childhood best friend who had ghosted you for the past eight years. 

Finally, you piped up. “It’s been a long time.” 

“It has,” Kunigami agreed. He didn’t say anything else, and the din of the busy bar filled the space between you once again. Fuck, this was so painfully awkward. 

“Why?” you asked after a few moments. You didn’t elaborate. He knew what you meant. 

Kunigami’s sigh was audible over the noise of the rest of the rowdy patrons. He simply stared at you, seemingly considering his answer. 

As he thought, you pondered how much longer he had let his hair get - it shadowed his eyes now and made him look tired. You’d noticed this change back when you were still paying attention to his career, actually - he’d stopped cutting it short sometime between when he left for Blue Lock and when that strange Blue Lock pseudo-reality TV thing started.

When Kunigami finally answered, you felt sick. 

“I don’t have an answer that you’re going to want to hear,” he said, as though it was the most tenable truth in the world.

Your face twisted into a frown, and your mouth opened and closed several times as you searched for a response. Something, anything, to make it clear to Kunigami how he had made you feel over the past eight years. How he’d broken your heart. 

Before you could say anything, though, Sara bumped into your side, a big smile on her face. “The team is going to this rooftop bar downtown,” she informed you giddily, “and they want us to come with! Can we?”

A quick glance at the redhead in front of you… revealed nothing, of course. So you turned back to Sara and put a smile on your face, nodding. “That sounds good,” you told her, even if you were considering ending the night right now and going home to sulk. You didn’t want to ruin your friends’ fun - you knew they’d all leave the bar and go home with you immediately if that was what you did, refusing to let you be alone on your birthday. Sara cheered and immediately went to inform the rest of your friends, and you looked down at the half-full drink in your hand with a grimace. You were going to have to drink this concoction quick. 

“It’s your birthday, isn’t it?” 

Still unsure of how to interact with the man in front of you, you simply nodded as you raised the glass to your lips, glaring at him over the rim as you drank the rest in one go. You winced at the strong taste. Christ, what did Lexie buy you? 

“Happy birthday.” You could’ve sworn you saw a flash of the boy you once knew in his eyes as he said that. But if he was truly the Kunigami you had known all those years ago, he’d have picked you up and spun you around, made his sisters help him bake a cake, something. Not… this. 

“Thanks,” you replied, your tone short. As your friends and his team prepared to leave for the next bar around you, the two of you simply stared at one another. You couldn’t tell what Kunigami was thinking anymore, but you had known him well enough at one time to at least tell that he was thinking about something. 

“Can I buy you a drink at the next place? For your birthday,” he asked. The words were at odds with his nearly robotic expression and timbre - a question like that would typically be asked with an edge of flirtation or friendliness, at the very least. From the Kunigami you knew, you would’ve expected affection in such a request. 

“It’s fine. Thanks, though,” you replied, pushing your empty glass to the center of the table next to you so that it could be bussed, brushing off the suggestion. You couldn’t help the hint of annoyance that crept into your voice - eight years and he wanted to buy you a drink? 

“Don’t.” The sudden conviction and volume of Kunigami’s deep voice startled you. When you looked back at him, your eyes wide, you were shocked to see him looking remorseful, almost, his eyes lowered to the beer bottle in his hand. 

Quieter, he continued. “Don’t do that. I’m not good at these things. Just let me do it.” 

Then, after a beat, he added so softly you barely heard it, “Please.” 

Your heart pounded in your chest at the sudden display of vulnerability from Kunigami. But as quickly as he showed it, it was gone. He raised his head, his expression steeled once more, waiting for your response. 

“A-alright,” you stuttered, readjusting the strap of your purse on your shoulder. “I guess.” 

Kunigami nodded once in response. Before either of you could say anything else, Lilly and Jada descended upon you, beginning to tug you towards the exit in favor of the rooftop bar a few blocks away. As you walked, the rest of your friends and Kunigami’s team just ahead, they explained that the vibe at this place was just so cute and that it was perfect for chatting and “catching up.” In hushed tones, they told you about the players they’d been flirting with, giddy - but you found yourself struggling to focus, your mind remaining on one single striker instead. 

While your group made its way towards your next location, you threw a glance backwards. Just as you expected, Kunigami was following dutifully behind, his hands in his pockets and a somber expression on his face. 

It reminded you of high school. 

You and Kunigami had always been closer than most, but you still had a larger group of friends you adored. You loved exploring the town with your friends, finding new restaurants or interesting shops. 

As you walked from place to place with the group, Kunigami would always insist on bringing up the back, explaining that he wanted to make sure everyone made it to your destination safely. He’d always been your hero. Your protector.

Maybe some things never really changed. But maybe some other things did.

[succubusmoons]

Rensuke Kunigami is one of my favourite characters in Blue Lock for many reasons... without revealing too much, this fic series contains some spoilers from both the anime and manga. It's angsty, achy, sweet and smutty. Loved the way it was crafted; well thought out and well-written 🧡

[teardropdeer]

thank you so much for the kind words @succubusmoons !! :’) i’m so glad you liked the fic. i really really appreciate it!!!

[teardropdeer]

hi all i’m not dead i swear!! work has been crazy and now i’m on that world cup sicko grind trying to watch every match 🤪 i’ve got some fun ideas in the chamber (a certain moot turned irl has had to listen to me yap about these ideas for months now bless them) and hope to have some stuff for y’all soon 🫶

[weyherman]

MATCHDAY

@teardropdeer TWO SICKOS ENTER ONE SICKO LEAVES

[teardropdeer]

RAHHHHH

[teardropdeer]

double header tomorrow… loons vs lafc game then scooting downtown for bar hopping and going to the timberwolves/nuggets playoff game. my voice is going to be GONE on sunday

[teardropdeer]

happy @teardropdeer and @el-toros-loco rivalry day 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️ hoping we get to see james rodriguez and petar musa on the field at the same time that’ll be sick

also very jealous that it’s dollar hot dog night at fc dallas… minnesota united doesn’t do anything like that 😭

[miehya]

baby’s breath ノ yukimiya kenyū x blind!reader

for the only yukimiya fan i know : @kenyudotcom

—

youth [yoōth]

noun.

1. an early period of development or existence

2. life as yet untouched by tragedy

.

.

.

Youth is not always comprised of golden days, and the carefree summer nights spent running underneath a blue horizon. Days meant for freedom and happiness [childhood innocence] destroyed before the taste of dreaming hit your lips. Learning of the cruelty of living before you learned how to swim.

And youth, or yours, was spent tip-toeing through a familiar, yet unfamiliar hall, unending and compressing — between hushed whispers and eyes crawling up your skin. Your mother’s grip had only tightened.

Bone crushing against yours.

White nails pressing into your skin. Stinging of the scattered crescent moons drawn into you. Warmth as red pools beneath your thinning skin.

Your mother hands shake around you, cold, and you want to comfort her, despite the suffocation in your chest. You could justify her leash, because you love her. You understand her, because she is your mother, and you, her only child.

Life is not fair to anyone, but there was always good times within the bad. It wasn't too cruel, despite the small part of you that will forever remain trapped within that August summer day.

On an otherwise pleasant summer day, it was shining with childlike innocence — you, and the sound of your pink sandals flapping against the pavement, and the clear blue skies, and the familiar cicadas ringing in the distant that began to become distorted as red pooled your vision — your mother screams, yet sound does not come through.

The sky was beautiful, you remember.

—

Your room is on the first floor. Everything you need is on the first floor — navigating through the house is easy and simple, because you memorised the lines and how many steps it takes you to get from your room to the kitchen. Everything is organised in a way that makes sense to you and only you.

Your mother doesn’t like gazing upon the clutter, she says your room is a mess, but she doesn’t move anything. She hasn’t since then – that day – and the flooring has been renovated with different textures.

It is not easy loving you, you think. Not anymore, at least.

There was a time when the moon rose, and voices echoed through the halls of your home. Anger and frustration and anxiety lingered in every corner. The voices of your mother and father were only heard during the night — hidden hearts and blame — where burning love morphed into blinded hate.

(Fading hearts slipping away. You stand there cold.)

The click of your white cane tapping against the floor overrides their anger. Everything dies down, their voices, the owls, and you, who lied and said you needed to use the washroom. Their attention falls onto you — their voices soften, and loving hands touch you, but the atmosphere stays the same. One day, the argument died down completely, and for a moment, you believe everything would go to how it was back then — back before the accident.

A week from then your father had left with only a suitcase. Only the sound of wooden floors creaking and the faint click of the door as he slips away remains in your mind. Your mother hasn't talked about it. But it is your fault.

(A part of you and them remains trapped in that summer day, a memory that burns to the touch.)

It is not easy loving you, you know this, even when she says she does.

[They say the eyes are the window to one’s soul. You cannot see her eyes — even as they pierce into you.]

—

It is early in the morning when he wakes to the scorching heat. There are no classes today, or the weeks that follow (thankfully, and finally). Summer turns his room into a sauna, and he chugs the glass filled of lukewarm water on his nightstand. Yukimiya immediately regrets it, unable to soothe the dryness itching his throat.

His mother calls his name, yelling from the kitchen, to remind him of his afternoon appointment. 13:30. Luckily, it is only noon right now, yet his dreadfulness pulls at his ankles, and he does not want to take a step.

His mother places iced hōjicha instead of her usual homemade fruit juice in front of him. Yukimiya instantly understands without a word. She wraps her arm around his shoulder, and says everything will be fine.

The iced tea works on soothing the dryness. His nerves are not evident, and he feigns his usual cool, subconsciously rubbing his eye.

The specialist he goes to see was recommended by one of his father’s best friend. They say there has been nothing, but kind words said about the doctor. And Yukimiya thinks he understands. Dr. Motomura is an old man with gentle eyes, he makes him uncomfortable in the unfamiliar room, yet his next set of words feel like standing in January’s storm.

Optic Neuropathy.

[Everything will be fine.]

He suddenly feels so, so small. Surrounded by flashing lights, cameras and eyes focused on him and only him — the doctor’s gentle eyes feel magnified and they sit in every corner of this little room staring at him and his failure.

It is as if he, and his entire world [football], had become frozen. He, his dream, was stuck frozen in time with no way to move forward — no light shone at the end of the tunnel. And when he cries, Dr. Motomura’s words of comfort do not reach him.

—

“Hey, are you alright?”

The hallway lights are blinding — it takes a second for his eyes to adjust to the brightness. White light stinging him. He’s crouched down, a few feet away from Dr. Motomura’s office, his legs gave out and the remaining tears leaked down his face.

In his misery, he had forgotten he wasn't alone, and he failed to hear footsteps approaching him. His eyes are probably red and puffy and he doesn’t want anyone to see his face like this — tear-stained with snot.

Face to face, reddish eyes meet yours, or attempts to. Your eyes stay closed under this light, and he takes in your appearance. Eyes zeroing in on the white cane held in your hand. “You can’t see,” he blurts out without a thought before slapping a hand over his mouth.

Yukimiya quickly snaps his head up to guage your reaction at his insensitivity. Yet, there’s nothing on your face, and he suddenly feels so small and pathetic.

“As you can see,” you reply, unable to hide a small smile that tugs your lips — a joke, he thinks. Though, he can’t find this situation amusing, his heart aches with regret.

A quiet I am sorry falls from his mouth, ashamed. He wonders if you heard it, he attempts to repeat his apology a little louder, but a familiar, low tone calls out your name.

Mr. Motomura calls for you, and his apology dies right then and there.

“Here.” Your hand reaches out to him, closed-fist, and he meets you half-way. “Cheer up,” you say as hard candy is dropped into his hand, and you disappear down the hallway into the room he exited.

[It tastes like vanilla and condensed milk. Too sweet.]

—

It is a week before you meet again. He runs into you at Dr. Motomura’s office — that is when he finds out you are related to Dr. Motomura. Not by blood, you mention a little later.

You accept when he asks if he can talk to you. You end up sitting at a small park bench, only three minutes away from the office. And you mention that your mother will be here soon.

An awkward silence fills the air, not unpleasant, but not exactly comforting. “I hope you’re feeling better,” you began, taking the opportunity to comfort him once again. “Did you like the candy?”

“. . . I am,” he lies. Yukimiya takes a deep breath before speaking again. “I felt bad for what I said last time. I kept wishing to see you again to apologise.”

“Oh. Yes, he told me that you . . . Well, don’t worry. I wasn’t offended.”

“No, I was insensitive. I am sorry about that, please don’t pretend I didn’t do anything wrong,” he replies, disappointed in himself, his hands clutched together. Each night since that day, he laid in bed, his words and that interaction on repeat.

A light breeze picks up, your cane falls onto his thigh and he reaches for it before it clatters onto the concrete.

“Really, it’s not big deal.” He stays silent, a soft sigh escapes your lips. “Fine. I’ll forgive you if you tell me your name.”

“My name?” Eyes flicking to your face — nothing masked. He answers, “It’s Yukimiya Kenyū.”

You smile, asking, “As in . . . ?”

He stares for a second, before reaching out a hand, “Can I see your hand?”

Without hesitation, you place your hand in his, and honestly, his heart flutters at your trust in him.

Palm open, index finger traces feathery lines — burning to the touch. Sweat builds beneath, unsure if it from the summer heat or a strange collection of nerves — him, or you.

雪宮 as in a snow shine.

剣優 for gentle sword.

You’re giggling by the time he finishes the last stroke. Smile, showing your teeth. “You didn’t have to trace the kanji for me. I only wanted to know the meaning, but thank you.”

“Oh. I thought—no, nevermind . . .” He rubs the back of his neck in embarrassment, internally groaning.

And when you began to laugh, he turned his head away quickly — as if you could see [read] everything written all over his face. He's embarrassed, despite it not really being anything, it could mean something.

Then, you take his hand in yours this time, his palm faced up, and you don’t seem to be bothered by the sweat that had slowly built up from the previous touch. Your finger presses against his palm and when you began to trace, he attempts to memorise each stroke, except you draw dots.

He blinks.

And he is left confused. He wonders if it is in English or another foreign language, and he concentrates on your light touch (your skin against his), except it really is just dots you press into his skin. “What are you drawing?”

You simply reply, “It is my name in braille.”

“Braille?”

“Mhm. For people like me.”

Something flickers inside of him at this moment. A genuine curiosity for the person in front of his eyes — he wants to know you. “How do I write your name again?”

That night, the lamp in his room stays on. Only the faint click of the mouse is heard as his family is fast asleep. He spends a long time browsing through sites and YouTube, his finger tapping against a thick sheet of paper with cells of raised dots.

—

He gets a new pair of glasses. One more fashionable. His agency says it suits him and glasses are considered fashionable these days. Trends always come and go. But those words do make him feel more confident while wearing them. If anything, he thinks they frame his face quite well.

A magazine, one from his shoot from a few months ago, is shoved into his face. “My mother says you are on the front page. I know she isn’t lying to me, but I want to make sure.”

He confirms that it is him, but says he is not alone. It was a couple’s shoot for White Day. Upon seeing the pictures, Yukimiya realises that the fake glasses he wore in that photoshoot are similar to the ones he has on now.

You softly hum, as your finger glides across the page and when you turn to the next one. “Do you think the blue or brown shirt suited you better? The blue is so dark, but I am not sure how fair your skin is.” There are little scratch marks on his image, and his heart warms at recognition.

“Maybe brown? I prefer it over the blue. I like earth tones.”

“When I was a child, I think I liked yellow. Like dandelions, and the sun,” you tell him. In these little moments, he learns more things about you. It may not be much to anyone, but he likes the way he naturally learns without asking — you just speak, and he listens onto every word ever spoken between the two of you.

You like braille. You are learning how to cook, though your mother stays in the kitchen at all times. You ask him what his favourite dish is, and then he asks if he is allowed to be hopeful (you answer maybe, and to not blame you if it tastes terribly). You lost your sight when you were a child, it was an accident, and you never mentioned it again. He doesn't ask. And your childhood favourite colour is yellow of all things.

Admittedly, he does not know of anyone who likes or wears that colour, dandelion yellow, besides during photoshoots. “Well . . . I guess those could be consider earth tones, too.”

“I am pretty sure those don’t classify as earth tones.”

“It is considered part of the Earth, no?” And he knows he probably sounds so ridiculous, uncharacteristic of him, but your laughter makes everything worth it.

He confesses, “When I was a kid, blue was my favourite colour, like the sky.” He doesn't tell you that he went through a red phase during all of his years in junior high.

“The sky is beautiful,” you reply.

He gazes up to white clouds, and contrails on sky blue. It is beautiful, he agrees.

—

It becomes a routine: the gentle footsteps that stop five inches before reaching you, and the soft [tender] voice that calls your name. Soft and gentle, like cherry blossoms petals swaying in Spring.

“I am going to grab a petal that had fallen on top of your head,” Yukimiya states, smooth voice next to your ear, and it tickles — your heart flutters as he waits for your okay before moving.

Minimising the space between the both of you, yet his fingertips are barely felt against the little strands of your hair as he carefully picks up the flower petal.

Yukimiya is a gentleman, so sweet and kind, your best friend. He treats you so gently, as he does with everyone, and it makes you feel equal.

“Oh, thank you. Shall we go now?” You reach out your hand and he instantly catches it, allowing you to be the one to link your arm through his.

—

You seem to take more walks these days. Sometimes, you invite him and he accepts more often than not. But today is Thursday, and Thursdays are meant for you and your mother to go to the market together, except she had a sudden client meeting and could not reschedule.

Your name lights up on Yukimiya’s phone screen, and he answers on the second ring. Twenty minutes later, he is running out the door in his best outfit.

The two of you take a walk, chatting about random things that has happened since the last time you’ve seen each other [exactly four days ago], and he suggests stopping by a café for drinks and mini cakes to which you agree.

The whispers and noises within the café hush out everything, and he moves his chair closer to you to hear better.

“You must be popular,” you point out, twirling your straw in your iced latté, ice clinking against the cup.

“Hm?” Softly scratching his cheek — debating on what the proper reply to that would be. “Well, not really,” he decides to add.

“I feel a lot of stares when we go out together. More than when I am alone. It must be you.”

“Maybe it’s you,” he replies.

You softly giggle, tip of the straw pressing against your bottom lip. “No, these stares feel a little different.”

For some reason, he doesn’t like the way you said that, despite your face and smile looking so bright. Discreet glances thrown in this direction from a few school girls – maybe junior high – and you never once reacted to the growing stares.

“I want to know what you look like,” you say.

He replies before thinking, “You can touch me.” And you do just so.

Cold from the way your hands were cupped around your iced latté, he flinches at the first touch, and you softly giggle at that — the scent of the strawberry cake you had eaten mixed with caffeine surrounds you. He thinks you did it on purpose, but he doesn’t accuse you of so.

Your hand cups his cheek, thumb brushing over his skin, and his breath hitches as you run a finger over his jaw and he swallows harshly.

Yukimiya ignores the stares, or attempts to as he has always grown conscious of the way people look and perceive him, because this is what you have always done. You told him that your other senses are only stronger, because you have no choice, but to rely on them unlike your eyes, and he is sure you can hear the soft giggles and glances every so often as they’ve grown louder and more bold — he is envious that this doesn’t seem to affect you.

The closing distant doesn’t seem to affect you, nor does the way you touch his face — growing red from soft and lingering touches. You seem so unfazed, so concentrated on memorising the bones and blemishes that makes him him.

Your fingers rub along the black frames of his glasses, careful to avoid the lens. “Can you describe your eyes?” You ask, a little quieter than usual. A little drowned out by the sound of the coffee machines.

“My eyes . . . They are orange, I think they’re a little bigger than normal. I get it from my mother,” he slowly answers.

“Orange. Like the sun?”

Yukimiya lets out a quiet drone. “The sunset, I think.”

“Oh, wow. I can see why you're a model,” you reply. “I think these glasses look good on you.”

A ‘pfft’ falls from his mouth, a little less gentlemanly than he liked to be, all at your joke hidden within a compliment. But the noise makes you break out into a grin, and he can't help, but to smile at the sight of your smiling face.

He walks you home today — rare, yet not uncommon. He had memorised the direction to your home, the difference in what street you turn into depending on if you’re walking home or when your mother drives.

A soft, warm glow paints over the horizon as you reach your house. Before you reach the door, you turn around to say, “You’re beautiful, Yukki.”

Your features glowing against the memorising light. Golden, you and your smile. The sun is sinking down so slowly, reluctant to say farewell to this day, and he swallows down everything and anything he isn’t ready to admit.

And for the first time, in this moment, he is glad you can't see him. There's no way for him to hide the redness flowing onto his face and ears and quivering lips.

Even after you had disappeared inside, his eyes linger on the spot you had just been.

—

There is hope for him, his eyes and dream, though the chance is low. Dr. Motomura says, “It’s not a crime to keep on dreaming. No matter how dark it seems, never give up hope.”

And he thanks the elder, sincerity in his words and heart — his voice shakes a little at the end. “I feel like I’ve come to terms with my diagnosis.”

Dr. Motomura proudly smiles.

“Yukimiya-kun,” his doctor unexpectedly calls out from behind as he is about to step out of the office, one foot out the door.

He turns around, and the man’s smile is awfully gentle, yet sad. “I haven’t seen that child so expressive before.” So, so sad. And when the man thanks him for treating you normally — his eyes began to sting, though he does not cry.

—

A confession spills from his lips to you. About his dream. About football, and his worries.

You confess to him, too. You tell him you don't really have a big dream, and you just want to live a normal and happy life.

Smiles shared over secrets, fingertips that nearly touch, and mirror of hearts that feel like it – the two of you – means something.

He asks if you are happy.

Your throat tightens, barely missing a beat when you say yes, and he replies that he is happy, too.

A shooting star passes by overhead, Yukimiya points its location out to you. Shooting stars are meant to be wished upon, and you do just so — a blue streak of glittering hope left behind as it disappears from human eyes.

[Shooting stars are not stars at all. Just specs of dust turned into meteors. Burning up as they inevitably fall down, down, down.]

—

At Miyazaki Station, you wait for the train with him. It’s early, too early — the sun had only just risen, its soft glow barely seen from over the tall buildings surrounding the station.

You yawn beside him. Contagious, as he does, too. “You didn’t have to come,” he says to you, but is grateful all the same. Admittedly, it would’ve feel right if you weren’t here.

“I wanted to.”

And all Yukimiya can say is, “Okay.”

You held hands, not knowing who reached out first, and it fits together like puzzle pieces. Perfectly together. You held hands and didn't let go until the train stopped.

And that faint tremble of your hand causes his heart to ache in a way he had never experienced as he pulls away. Regret immediately comes, and suddenly, he doesn't want to leave. He hugs you first, so sudden and he hopes he did not frighten you, but you hug back instantly without a word. The surrounding noise dies out — the footsteps and voices of people drown out, as does the hissing of the train. Diseal fumes and metal in the air mix in with the sweet scent of your shampoo.

“I’ll see you later,” he whispers, and your arms tighten themselves around his waist as you nod into his chest, before you let go of him first — the warmth of your body vanishes, and he suddenly feels cold.

You don’t say goodbye. You only tell him to call you, and he turns to board the morning train to Tokyo.

He can't find it in himself to look out the window despite this growing need of wanting to catch a glimpse of you just one last time, because he knows you will still be there in the same spot he had left you. You won't leave until you don't the sound of the train slowly fades from your ears.

(You will still be there.)

Eyes closed, from tiredness and not wishing to look back, he lays his head against the glass — the coldness keeps him awake, there’s an ache. Yukimiya reaches into his pockets to grab him cellphone, maybe hoping there is a message from you or his friends, except his fingers brush against paper and he pulls it out in confusion.

White, thick card stock, no smell of ink lingers. Written in braille, his index finger gently glides over the cell of raised dots, careful to not leave even a scratch. Once. Twice. He swallows harshly.

Good luck, Yukki. I believe in you.

Words bubble up, and get trapped in his throat. and strangely, it makes him want to cry, despite his heart being filled to the brim — like a glass jar full of happiness, anticipation, and you.

[Everyone was hopeful.]

note. this was so rushed. i lost motivation and i gave up half-way through ;;; there is probably a ton of grammar and spelling mistakes as it’s unedited

idk much about him, sorry if he is mischaracterised !!

[teardropdeer]

just went a little crazy and ordered a set of sae/aiku/sendou/shidou nuis from buyee and then a bunch of little outfits on aliexpress… what have i become

need to figure out how to make them tiny timberwolves, lynx, and loons jerseys

[teardropdeer]

HAPPY TRANS DAY OF VISIBILITY I LOVE MY TRANS FRIENDS AND THAT MY TEAM POSTED THIS 🩵🩷🤍

[teardropdeer]

been feeling particularly nostalgic for college lately so blue lock frat AU is in the works lol

[teardropdeer]

planning is done + intro is written... hmu with which characters you wanna see entries for first 👀

[teardropdeer]

been feeling particularly nostalgic for college lately so blue lock frat AU is in the works lol

[teardropdeer]

MASTERLIST

shidou ryusei

⋆˙⟡ all i want for christmas is a hat trick - shidou ryusei x reader [hallmark christmas movie, very cheesy, smut] ⋆˙⟡ princess cut - shidou ryusei x reader [porn without plot, breeding kink]

kunigami rensuke

⋆˙⟡ ruiner - kunigami rensuke x reader [angst and smut, post-canon, manga spoilers, childhood best friends] | part one ⋆ part two ⋆ part three ⋆ part four ⋆˙⟡ super! - kunigami rensuke x reader x oliver aiku [threesome, partner sharing, MLS!kunigami and oliver] | part one ⋆ part two

oliver aiku

⋆˙⟡ c'mere - oliver aiku x reader [pro athlete!aiku, charity gala, banter, smut] ⋆˙⟡ super! - kunigami rensuke x reader x oliver aiku [threesome, partner sharing, MLS!kunigami and oliver] | part one ⋆ part two

karasu tabito

⋆˙⟡ ref drabble - karasu tabito x ref!reader [u20 wc!karasu, rough smut]

requests are open ♡ ask me here!

[teardropdeer]

c'mere

Every year, you and your friends volunteer at a charity gala to raise money for brain cancer research in honor of your dear friend. It's always a fun night of doing something good while rubbing elbows with your city's elite.

This year, though, the hotshot new soccer player on your city's team is something of a guest of honor, and he's got his eye on you.

oliver aiku x afab reader, gn language used | 8.4k words | ao3 | minors dni

a/n: this is my first time attempting to write something with a gn reader. i avoided use of any feminine pet names or descriptions of feminine clothing, with the exception of a mention of victoria's secret panties. if you have any feedback on this, please let me know! i'm looking to improve at writing gn readers :)

(Content warnings and tags for work: meet cute, charity gala, post-canon, banter, sugar daddy vibes, rich pro athlete aiku, sexual tension, smut, alcohol use, vaginal sex, condom use, sleazy aiku but like it's hot)

“Over here!” an older gentleman called out to you, holding up a hundred-dollar bill. 

Was this what strippers felt like? Just… hotter, maybe? 

You smiled brightly at the man and began waltzing over to him, rolls of tickets akimbo. “A hundred? That’ll get you ten tickets,” you explained cheerily as you counted out his raffle tickets. You tore off half of each one, then kept the other half to put in the spinner. “The winner will be called at the beginning of the program.” 

“What’s the prize?” the man asked as he tucked his tickets away inside his tux pocket, his gaze not-so-subtly raking over your figure. Aha. So your choice of outfit had, in fact, made you another sale - not the allure of the prize. Cha-ching. 

“A pair of diamond earrings. One carat total weight,” you answered. Before the geezer could attempt to draw you into further conversation, much to your relief, a woman nearby began gesturing to you. “Please excuse me. Thank you so much for your support!” 

As you sauntered between tables of wealthy donors to reach the woman, you glanced around the event hall. It was beautifully decorated, and hundreds of impeccably-dressed guests were eating, chatting, and buying raffle tickets happily. Your friends, fellow volunteers at the gala, were also selling raffle tickets among the tables - each of you intent on winning your little competition to see who could sell the most (and thus raise the most money for the cause). 

After selling the woman her tickets, another old man who you could just feel was sleazy called you over. But hey, if putting up with a sleazy man meant more money towards brain cancer research, you could deal with it. 

“Looking to buy some raffle tickets?” you greeted as you neared the table. Upon your approach, you gave the attendees at the table a quick scan.

Your eyes immediately caught on one man - dark hair with green underlights, an athletic build, handsome stubble, and strikingly heterochromatic eyes - one dark, one a lighter green. One of your friends had pointed him out as he’d entered the event. He was a soccer player or something for your city, and had donated several pieces of signed memorabilia for the silent auction portion of the night. He must have been pretty popular, because you’d heard that those items had gone for thousands of dollars each. 

He was hot. And unfortunately chatting with the guy next to him instead of paying attention to the cute ticket seller. 

However, someone was paying attention to you, and said someone snapped you out of your thoughts.

“What’s the raffle prize? A date with you?” 

Barf. 

“Buratsuta!” someone at the table scolded him, guffawing. You faked a good-natured laugh instead of sneering. It was for charity, you reminded yourself. 

“Sorry to say it’s not,” you answered, smiling politely at the man. “It’s for a pair of diamond earrings. And the money goes to a good cause, of course!” You held up the rolls of tickets enticingly. 

The man - Buratsuta, you figured - bought ten tickets, as did a few others at the table. Just when you figured everyone was done and were ready to move to the next table, the dark-haired man raised a hand and shot you a smirk that made your heart stutter. 

You rounded the table to him quickly. 

“I’ll take a hundred tickets,” he said casually, pulling out a black leather wallet from the interior pocket of his tux. Your eyes widened. Casual displays of wealth were normal at an event like this, but nobody had bought more than ten or twenty tickets at a time so far. 

“Oh! Wow! Thank you so much, sir,” you said, smiling brightly at him. 

As he began to count bills, you began counting tickets - until he said something that made your heart catch in your throat. 

“If I win the earrings, I’m givin’ ‘em to you,” he said casually, still smirking as he counted out ten hundred-dollar bills. “You’ve earned it with all this ticket sellin’ and dealin’ with creeps like him.” He jutted his chin at Buratsuta across the table, who was too engrossed in his conversation to catch the slight. 

You just giggled nervously in response, flustered and incapable of forming a coherent thought because oh my god a hot professional athlete was flirting with you and handing you a thousand dollars in cash. Your fingers brushed his as you traded the cash for his tickets, and you nearly let out a pathetic squeak at the feeling. 

“Thanks, doll,” he said, winking at you before turning back to the table.

You managed another “Thank you!” before an older woman at the next table over was vying for your attention. Duty called. 

-

The rest of the ticket-selling portion of dinner went by in a haze, and even while you counted up the cash you’d raised with your friends in the back room of the event center, you felt like you were floating. 

“Six thousand flat,” your friend Andrew announced, holding up his fat stack of bills and grinning proudly. Your friends cheered - he’d raised the most so far out of everyone that had counted. “How about you?” he asked, nodding towards you. 

“Six thousand seven hundred,” you replied, beaming and fanning your cash goofily. Surprised “oooh!”s and “no way!”s rang out through the group, and everyone congratulated you on your victory in the friendly competition. 

Once you’d given the cash to the woman coordinating the event and keeping track of donations, you nudged Andrew with your elbow.

“Hey, what did you say was the name of that soccer player who’s here?” you asked. 

“Oh, the one who donated all the stuff? That was Oliver Aiku,” he replied. “Seems like a good guy. Plays as a forward for us. Huge signing from Japan. Did you sell him tickets?”

You nodded as he spoke, taking in the info. “Yeah,” you answered. “He bought a ton. A hundred.” 

Andrew’s eyes widened in surprise, and he let out a low whistle. “Damn. Must really want those earrings… or must be really passionate about fighting brain cancer.” 

“Something like that,” you murmured in response, the corners of your lips twitching up in a little smile. Before Andrew could reply, a whistle rang out through the room - the volunteer coordinator was vying for everyone’s attention. 

She launched into a spiel about how the next part of the event was going to go - the auction and the “paddle raise”, where donors would hold up their bidding paddles to donate sums of money. As volunteers, you’d be scattered among the tables and given flags to wave in order to bring attention to bidders. 

It seemed the universe was smiling down on you tonight, because you ended up being placed right by Oliver Aiku’s table again. When he spotted you, the grin he gave you made butterflies go wild in your stomach. 

The emcee, a local celebrity known for his morning talk show on the city’s news channel, took the podium again and greeted the crowd. 

“We have some amazing auction items for you all tonight, folks,” he said smoothly. “Our organization is lucky to have such kind, generous donors who have made this all possible - and are helping us to fight brain cancer. Speaking of our wonderful donors, I’d like to thank Shane Co. Jewelers for donating our raffle prize tonight!”

He reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a sleek velvet box. When he opened it up and showed it to the crowd, a pair of beautiful diamond earrings glittered inside to a chorus of “ooh”s and “aah”s. 

“Shari, our event host, will be drawing the winning raffle ticket now. Get out those tickets, folks!” he announced, gesturing towards where the chair of the organization’s board was mixing the tickets around in a raffle tumbler. 

Attendees held their breath as the chairwoman spun the tickets around and around before finally stopping and unlatching the cage to draw one out. With a flourish, she handed the lucky ticket to the emcee, who cleared his throat before beginning to read off the numbers. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Oliver holding up his strip of a hundred tickets, noting the range of numbers he held. 

“Two… five… three…” the emcee read slowly, glancing around the room. Many of the tickets sold fell within those numbers so far. “Six…” Groans rang out as most individuals were eliminated. “One…” Oliver’s smirk widened, and his eyes met yours. “Twenty-two!” 

Oliver stood, holding up his long strip of tickets in one hand in victory. He shot you a wink before making his way up to the stage with more confidence and swagger than you’d ever seen in a man before. 

Embarrassingly, whatever he had going on was working on you. 

“We have a winner, everyone!” the news anchor announced into the microphone, gesturing towards Oliver as he approached. The crowd applauded politely, no doubt disappointed they hadn’t been the ones to win. 

Once Oliver had retrieved his prize, he returned to his seat as the emcee began explaining how the auction would work. The athlete’s pretty eyes found yours again, and he gestured for you to “come here” - with a look that told you he knew you wouldn’t be able to say no. 

As though under his spell, you weaved through the tables until you were standing right next to him again. The old guy - Buratsuta? - grinned at your approach, but you ignored him. 

“I’ve got somethin’ for you,” Oliver announced, hiding the box behind his back like you hadn’t just watched him retrieve the earrings. 

“Mr. Aiku, you really don’t need to-” you started, but he cut you off. 

“Mr. Aiku?” he repeated, laughing. “First of all, it’s Oliver. Second of all, you know my name now? You looked me up or somethin’?” He was having too much fun with this, but your face was flushing bright red. 

“O-oh, my friend’s just a fan, and was mentioning you…” you tried to explain, but trailed off, giving him a sheepish laugh. He just chuckled, bringing the box out from behind his back and holding it out to you. 

“Put ‘em on,” he urged you, his voice low, cutting through the emcee’s voice and the din of the attendees. Obediently, you removed the earrings you were currently wearing and put the gorgeous diamond ones in instead. Oliver took your earrings from you and tucked them safely back into the box. 

He leaned in closely to look at them, his proximity making you blush. You couldn’t see the earrings, but given the quality and how they’d looked in the box, you were sure they looked beautiful in your ears. 

“You look nice, doll,” he drawled, his voice low and velvety in your ear. He then leaned back in his chair to get a better look at all of you. “They make your eyes sparkle.” 

“Thank you,” you squeaked, more flustered than you’d ever been before in your life. Were you really going home with these earrings? 

Oliver tapped the velvet box on the table that now contained the earrings you’d worn there tonight. “Don’t let me forget to give these back to you before you leave tonight.” 

You nodded in response, stepping back to take your place before the auction started. 

The news anchor running the show began describing the first auction item - a “staycation” in town, complete with private dining, a stay at a five-star hotel, and spa treatments for two. Paddles went up immediately, and you and the other volunteers got to work waving your flags and bringing attention to the bidders with their paddles up. The auctioneer’s voice rang out, quick and nearly impossible to understand, tallying up their bids. “SOLD! To bidder number 543 for $14,000. Thank you!” 

As the next item was described, Oliver turned to you again, beckoning you closer. Fuck, the way he looked at you made heat bloom in your chest. Obediently, you scooted towards him. He leaned back in his chair again, a movement that was so confident and so full of swagger that it was almost cheesy. 

“Any particular reason why you volunteer?” he asked, his heterochromatic eyes staring up at you. 

You blinked twice in surprise. It was a nice question, just not really one you were expecting. Your hand raised, pointing at your friend across the room - Gabi, who was looking absolutely stunning in a purple dress tonight, holding her flag and glancing around the room as the emcee described the helicopter tour of the city that bidders could win. 

“See my friend Gabi over there?” you asked. Oliver looked where you were pointing, then nodded. “She had brain cancer years ago. When we were in college. This org… They helped her a lot. She was an honoree our sophomore year, shortly before she went into remission. She’s been cancer-free for a while now, but we have a big group of friends who volunteer with the gala every year to sort of honor her.” 

It was Oliver’s turn to look surprised, apparently. “Wow,” he said. “That’s a great story. You got a good heart. Your friends, too.” His voice was so genuine that it made your heart clench - yet another feeling to add to the list of things he’d made you feel tonight. 

You gave him a small smile, fidgeting with one of the earrings he’d given you. “Yeah. It’s a good organization full of good people. I’m happy to help out where I can.” 

“We’ll start the bidding for this once-in-a-lifetime helicopter tour experience for two at one thousand dollars!” the auctioneer’s voice rang out, bursting the little bubble you and Oliver had found yourself in. With an apologetic smile, you stepped away and back to your place, ready to wave your flag for bidders. 

-

One by one, the auction items ticked by. One in particular intrigued you, though - a gameday experience for the football club Oliver played for. A meet and greet with the team, field-level seating, and a game-worn jersey signed by the whole team at the end of it. The emcee said it was donated by an “anonymous donor” - but the tiny smile fighting at the corner of Oliver’s lips as the bids crept higher and higher gave you an idea of who had donated it. 

Once the auction had completed, it was time for the “paddle raise” - the final push for donations, in which amounts of money would be called out and donors would hold up their bidding paddles to commit to donating that sum of money. 

“We’ll start small, at donations of five hundred dollars,” the announcer said into the mic, prompting several dozen paddles to raise. Next came a thousand, then two thousand five hundred, then five thousand. With each, you waved your flag and pointed at anyone near you who had their paddle up. 

As the donation amounts climbed into the tens of thousands, you could feel Oliver’s eyes on you, but you were busy ensuring everyone’s donation was accounted for. Every year, it always amazed you that there were people wealthy enough to donate sums of money like this so casually - but you supposed you were thankful for their willingness to donate to the cause, all things considered. 

In a quick lull between the seventy-five thousand dollar and hundred thousand dollar marks, Oliver waved you over again, this time with a little bit more franticness. You hustled over and leaned in, totally not ready for what he was going to say. 

“Say, doll,” he drawled, like he already knew your answer. “If I donate a hundred grand right now, will you come get a drink with me after this?” 

Your jaw dropped, and you blinked at Oliver in shock. His gaze shifted to his bidding paddle, his neatly manicured fingers finding it on the table, before looking back at you expectantly, waiting for an answer. 

Your mouth worked before your brain. “Make it five hundred and it’s a deal.” 

He laughed. A laugh that was full of complete and utter delight, like he was happy you’d said that. “You drive a hard bargain, sweetheart,” he murmured, the glimmer in his eyes turning downright feral. “I like that.”

Unsurprisingly, he followed through, and when the final donation level of the night was called, he was only one of two donors to raise their paddles. His eyes stayed locked on yours as he did so, giving you a smile and a wink that had heat pooling in your core. You gave him your best attempt at a sultry smile back, though you were sure he could see your heart practically pounding out of your chest. 

Before you departed with the rest of the volunteers, leaving the attendees to enjoy the dessert and entertainment, Oliver reached out and gently grasped your wrist, tugging you towards him. You leaned down, and he angled himself so that he was speaking directly into your ear, his warm breath sending shivers down your spine. 

“I’m stayin’ at the hotel across the street tonight,” he murmured. “I’ll wait for you in the bar over there after this. Don’t keep me waitin’ long, alright?” 

He released your wrist, and you stumbled a bit on your feet for a moment before standing upright again. You could feel your face burning bright red. “Okay,” was all you could manage to say, your brain on overdrive. 

With one last look at Oliver, you hurried off to meet up with the other volunteers.

-

“I can’t believe he donated $500k,” Andrew said, shaking his head in disbelief. “I knew he was a good guy, but wow. Though I guess that’s kind of pocket change to an athlete like him.” 

“Sure,” you replied, taking a bite of the cupcake you’d been given for dessert. The two of you were sitting side by side in the back room of the event center, enjoying a break before it was time to help take down the event. Andrew was chatting about Oliver, but your mind was spinning, unable to reply properly. 

“How rich of a guy are we talking?” you asked after a moment of thought. Maybe it was wrong, but you were curious as to what level of wealth Oliver was on if you were going to be getting drinks with him later for the low, low price of five hundred thousand dollars. 

Andrew shrugged before pulling out his phone, typing “oliver aiku salary” into his search engine. 

The number that came up had you choking on your cupcake. “Jesus!” you exclaimed through a mouthful of cake and frosting. 

“Makes sense, I suppose,” Andrew hummed. “He was linked to this program in Japan that produced some of the best players in the world. They’re all crazy successful internationally now.” 

Still coughing from your salary-related choking incident, you nodded in understanding. Your heart was racing, though - you had been gifted a pair of diamond earrings from one of the best athletes in the world, and now you were supposed to go have drinks with him? You’d just come here expecting to have some fun volunteering with your friends and maybe bump elbows with some rich people. Not… this. 

This was turning out to be a wild night, and you still seemingly had the wildest part to go. 

-

Once you’d helped clean up and take down the event, you ducked into one of the bathrooms at the event center to freshen up. Thank god you’d had the foresight to shove deodorant, mints, and supplies to touch up your appearance into your bag before you left. You’d even - by some grace of god - chosen cute underwear to go beneath your formalwear, just in case tonight went beyond drinks. Which, based on the way Oliver looked at you earlier, you had a feeling it might. 

Once you felt somewhat put together again, you exited the venue and crossed the street to the hotel Oliver had said he was staying at - a beautiful, five-star place you’d been to the bar of a few times before with your friends, the type of place you’d dress up and take Instagram photos at. The city hummed with life around you, full of promise and opportunity. 

Once inside, it didn’t take long to find the athlete you were searching for. Oliver was sitting on one end of the U-shaped bar, tucked away in a quiet, darker corner. The whole place was dark and moody, but he’d chosen the spot that was most so - intentionally, you guessed. His green-and-dark eyes scanned the room as he took a sip of something from a rocks glass, half-lidded over the rim. 

When he spotted you, you could see the corners of his lips curl up in a grin behind the glass before he lowered it again, revealing his smile in all its infuriatingly charming glory. You smiled back and began weaving between patrons and tables to reach him. 

As you approached, you realized that much of the anxiety you had been feeling earlier was gone. Here, in this hotel bar, you weren’t a volunteer and a mega-wealthy donor - you were just two people… on a date? Getting drinks? Whatever this was. 

The up-and-down look he gave you as you neared him still made butterflies go wild in your stomach, though. 

“You came,” he said, his voice like velvet, as you slid into the barstool next to him. 

“Of course I did,” you hummed in response. “Only because you have my earrings,” you added with a teasing smile. He laughed at that, and pulled the velvet box from earlier that contained your earrings back out from his pocket, sliding it across the bar top to you. You tucked them into your bag for safekeeping. 

His eyes flickered to the diamonds adorning your ears, to the way they caught the dim light of the bar. “Did I tell you how pretty those look on you?”

“You might have.” You leaned forwards, resting your elbows on the bar and your chin on your hands. You turned your head to face Oliver. “I wouldn’t mind hearing it again, though.” 

He chuckled at that, taking the last sip of his drink. “Well, may I say that they look-” He started to compliment you, but was interrupted when the bartender arrived to take your order. Oliver asked for another one of whatever he was drinking, and you ordered an espresso martini - after the long day of running around at the event, you could use the caffeine. 

The bartender arrived with your drinks a moment later, and you both thanked them politely. As you sipped your martini, Oliver stirred his drink - a Boulevardier, you’d learned when the bartender had announced it - and eyed you with amusement sparkling in his gaze. 

“You know,” he started, his glaze flickering between the ice in his glass and your face. “I’ve been on some expensive dates before.” 

You chuckled at that as you set your drink back down. The number that had flashed on Andrew’s phone screen earlier came to your mind again. “I’m sure you have.”

“But none of them have cost me a half a million dollars. You’re expensive,” he finished. 

“Hey, you’re the one who offered.” 

“You’re the one who ran such a hard bargain.” 

“Not that you hesitated.” You rested your cheek on your palm as you looked at him, a smile tugging at your lips. 

Oliver leaned forwards, his heterochromatic eyes locking onto yours. “That’s because I took one look at you sellin’ those tickets and knew I needed to figure out a way to take you out tonight.” 

He leaned back again, a smirk on his lips, and took a long sip of his drink. Lord. You were well and absolutely fucked. But at least you’d get a good story out of it, right? 

-

The first round - or second, for Oliver - of drinks was spent on those “getting-to-know-you” topics. You told Oliver about where you’d grown up, what you did for fun, what you hated most about your job. 

And in turn, you learned about him. He was fascinating. He’d spent half of his childhood in Sweden, and half in Japan. He played football his whole life, and when he was 19, joined something called Blue Lock - an insanely intense soccer training program that produced some of the best players in the world. He’d played in Italy for Ubers for a number of years after the program, but transferred to your city a few years back in search of a change. He’d lived and traveled all over the world - and partied all over the world, too. 

When the next round came, Oliver held up his glass for cheers. “To charity,” he said with a grin that made your heart flip. 

“To charity,” you echoed, clinking your glass with his. “And fuck cancer.” 

“Fuck cancer,” he agreed with a laugh. His knee bumped yours under the bar. You didn’t move your leg, letting the warmth of him seep into you through layers of fabric. 

Motion caught Oliver’s attention out of the corner of his eye, and yours too. Across the U-shaped bar, a fan was not-so-subtly trying to take a discreet photo of Oliver. 

Chuckling to himself, Oliver smiled brightly and flashed a peace sign at the fan. Flustered, the guy put his phone down and turned away quickly. 

“Hope you don’t mind endin’ up on Twitter,” Oliver murmured as he sipped his Boulevardier. “The fans’ll get over it quickly, though.”

You watched for a moment as the embarrassed fan made his way out of the bar. You prayed he wouldn’t send out some announcement that Oliver was here or something. “Is it… weird?” you asked. “Having people recognize you in public like that?”

“You get used to it,” he answered with a shrug. “Comes with the job.” His gaze returned to you for a long moment. His mismatched, pretty eyes studied your face like he was just seeing you for the first time. “It’s always really nice, though, spendin’ time with someone like you. Someone who just… doesn’t give a shit.” 

“I give a little bit of a shit,” you admitted, your tongue loosened by the alcohol. 

“Okay, well, you know what I mean,” he retorted, laughing softly and shaking his head. He took another sip of his drink, and you couldn’t help but watch the way his throat moved as he swallowed. 

-

“Be honest with me,” Oliver hummed as the bartender placed round three - your last for the night, you’d already internally decided - in front of you on the bar. “If I hadn’t gone up to $500k, if I’d stayed firm at a hundred… would you have still agreed to drinks with me?” 

You thought for a moment, toying with the embossed cocktail napkin beneath your drink. “Probably.” You glanced up at Oliver to find him looking at you with a fascinated gaze, clearly waiting for you to go on. “I didn’t know what you could afford,” you began to explain. The use of past tense earned a raised eyebrow from him, but you carried on, not wanting to admit you’d looked up his salary. “At the end of the day, it’s just drinks to raise a lot of money for a cause that means a lot to me. And it helps that you’re hot.” 

“You think I’m hot?” he asked, satisfaction evident in both his tone and the grin he gave you. 

You rolled your eyes playfully. “Like you don’t know.” 

“Maybe I do,” he hummed, lifting his glass to his lips. “But it’s always nice to hear from a pretty thing like you.” Your heart skipped a beat at the compliment, the alcohol in your system making the blood rush to your cheeks a little easier than it would otherwise. You sipped your drink if only to give yourself something to do with your hands. 

The blush on your cheeks, the way you averted your gaze, only seemed to intrigue him further. He leaned a little closer, turned more towards you, pressed his leg into yours more. His closeness made your breath hitch. 

“That your last drink?” he asked, his voice lower now that he was closer, nodding towards the martini glass in your hands. You nodded in response. 

“Good.” His gaze flickered between your eyes and the drink. He brought his Boulevardier up to his lips again and finished it, draining half of the glass in one go. The soft clink of the glass on the bar top sounded like a gunshot, a declaration, in the small space between you. The bar had gotten a little busier as the night had gone on, hotel guests returning from their adventures, but the corner Oliver had chosen had remained relatively private. 

“Finish your drink,” he instructed, reaching inside the pocket of his tux jacket to pull out his leather wallet once more, just as he had done earlier in the night to buy tickets from you. As you turned your attention to your remaining half of a martini, he pulled out a wad of cash and set it on the bar.

Once he’d placed his wallet securely back in his pocket, Oliver leaned back in his seat. One hand came up to his neck, loosening the bowtie there as he watched you finish your drink. His eyes were darker now, filled with a hunger that sent a shiver down your spine, tracing your profile as you sipped. 

Your glass clinked as you set it down on the polished wood. As though the sound was the starting gun of a race, Oliver slid off his barstool and held his hand out to you. “C’mon.” 

“Where are we going?” you asked as you placed your hand in his and grabbed your bag with the other. You knew where you were going. 

“My room.” That fucking smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth again as he began to guide you through the bar, towards the lobby and elevators. Your stomach fluttered.

“That’s… direct,” you murmured.

“Relax,” he said, chuckling. “I just wanna… show you the view.” He pressed the ‘up’ button on the elevator and turned to you again. 

“The view.” 

“Yeah,” he said, as though it was obvious. “Corner suite. Top floor.” His mismatched eyes glittered with amusement as he looked at you. 

The elevator doors dinged as they opened, and he all but tugged you inside, swiping his keycard and pressing the button for the top floor. 

Oliver didn’t make a move yet. Security cameras, you figured. He kept your hand in his, but leaned back against the wall of the elevator as it began to ascend. His heated gaze drifted slowly up and down your body, making heat smolder in your core.

“You know,” he drawled after a moment, breaking the silence.

“What?” You cocked your head to the side as you looked at him. He smirked again. 

“For the record…” His mismatched eyes met yours again, causing your heart to race. “I definitely would’ve gone higher than five hundred.” 

A surprised laugh escaped your lips, and you shook your head. “I wouldn’t have asked.” 

“I wouldn’t have blamed you if you did,” Oliver replied. He paused for a moment, his eyes still on you, and you could see his tongue run along the inside of his cheek. “Thanks for sayin’ yes.” 

You weren’t exactly sure how to respond to something like that. Thanks for letting him donate $500k? Thanks for letting him, a world-famous athlete, take you out for drinks? 

“Yeah,” you finally settle on, giving him a small smile. 

When you finally reached his floor, he gently led you by the hand to his hotel room. It wasn’t frantic - Oliver moved like he already knew how tonight would end, though he wasn’t necessarily presumptuous. 

“You weren’t lying about the view,” you murmured once he’d opened the door and guided you inside. Your shoes got kicked off and your bag got dropped by the door as Oliver shrugged off his suit jacket and removed his bowtie, tossing them onto the desk chair. The room was gorgeous, all blue and gold and art deco. The big windows gave a gorgeous view of the darkened city - as soon as your shoes were off, you crossed the room to get a better look. 

When you turned around after a few moments, the sight that greeted you made your heart skip a beat. Oliver had unbuttoned the top few buttons of his dress shirt and rolled up the sleeves, then settled onto the couch with his legs spread wide. He was watching you, his heterochromatic eyes half-lidded and a lazy smirk on his lips. 

You were suddenly hyper aware of yourself. Of the formal clothes still clinging to your body. Of the weight of the diamonds in your earlobes, sparkling as they reflected the city lights. Of the fact that you were standing in the middle of a celebrity’s hotel room, and he’d dropped half a million dollars to get you there. Of the way his eyes wouldn’t leave your form. 

Of the heat building low in your core. 

“You gonna come here,” he drawled, his voice rough and husky, “or you just gonna stare at the skyline all night, doll?” 

You stifled a giggle, a smile tugging at your lips. “You said you wanted to show me the view.” 

“I did. It looks great.” His eyes didn’t leave you. The laugh spilled from your lips now, and your cheeks warmed up under his gaze. Your heart raced. 

“C’mere,” he murmured, giving you the same gesture he had at the gala. He looked even more certain now that you wouldn’t be able to say no to him. 

And he would be right.

You crossed the room quickly, coming to stand in front of him where he was lounging on the couch like he owned - no, dominated - the space. He didn’t move as you approached, just watched with appreciation evident in his gaze. 

You stopped an arm’s length away. 

“You nervous?” the athlete asked, smirking. You shook your head, a hand coming to rest on your hip as you looked down at him. He was deliciously disheveled, the tiniest hint of pink on his cheekbones from the alcohol. 

He held your gaze for another moment before his eyes flickered down to the hand resting on your hip. Slowly, like he was giving you the chance to pull away even though he knew you wouldn’t, he reached out and took your wrist the same way he had earlier in the night. His hand was big, warm, and soft, you noted, as he encircled your wrist and tugged you gently forwards until you were standing between his spread knees. 

“Don’t be nervous,” he purred. 

“Bossy,” you teased, smiling down at him. 

“Not bossy,” he corrected smoothly. “Just very used to gettin’ what I want.” His hands moved, releasing your wrist and both coming to rest on your hips.

“And tonight,” he murmured, “I want you.” His low voice sent shivers down your spine.

“You’re a dog.” There was no heat in your words. Just fondness and a hint of desire he latched onto. 

And Oliver, that fucker, barked. A shocked laugh escaped your lips, and his grip on your hips tightened slightly as he grinned up at you. 

“Excuse me?” you asked, still laughing in disbelief. He leaned back against the couch, his hands still on you, that grin still on his lips. 

“Maybe I am a dog,” he clarified. “Woof.” 

“You’re unbelievable.” 

“And yet…” he pulled you forwards by the hips, guiding you to straddle him on the couch. “You came upstairs with me.” 

Your breath hitched as you settled onto his lap, your heart rate kicking up a few notches. This close, all the details of Oliver’s face were clear to see - the faintest hint of freckles along the bridge of his nose, the way his eyes caught the light differently from one another. 

“Your ego is insane,” you told him. He laughed at that, a little harder than you would have expected, like it was funny for a reason you didn’t quite get. 

“It’s what makes me so good at my job.” There was a challenging glint in his eyes that made your heart flutter. You were incredibly aware of your position on his lap, his hands on your hips. His body heat seeped into you through your clothes. 

Your hands, which had been resting on your thighs, slid up his chest, feeling the muscles beneath his shirt, until you reached his shoulders. His gaze flicked from your eyes down to your lips, and your eyes did the same to him. 

He hummed in approval as one hand left your hip, moving around to your back. It slid up your spine until he reached your neck, and he gently guided you closer to him. 

“This gonna cost me?” he teased once your lips hovered just a millimeter away from his. 

“Just fucking kiss me already,” you whispered back. 

And he listened. Oh fuck, did he listen. He pulled you to him, kissing you with a barely restrained hunger. His lips were slightly chapped, and he tasted like whiskey and something more bitter. His hand on your neck slid up into your hair, and the hand on your hip slid down to grab your ass. His tongue licked into your mouth, hot and wet and intoxicating. 

Your hands moved. His shirt needed to go. Button after button came undone until you were pushing his dress shirt back, and his hands were leaving your body to help you get it off. 

“Fuck,” he cursed lowly as he broke the kiss, reaching down to grasp the hem of his undershirt. The neckline messed up his hair deliciously as he pulled it off, and your eyes widened as you took in his muscular form. You knew he’d be ripped - he’s a professional athlete, after all - but you didn’t expect it to be so fucking hot. His chest was dusted in a light amount of dark hair, spread across his pecs and leading enticingly downwards towards his belt. 

He didn’t let you admire for long, though. His hands were on your body again a moment later, tugging you to kiss him again as he began pulling your clothes off. 

He only got a few steps in before he groaned in frustration. Cursing, he grasped your thighs tightly, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. 

“Hold on tight, baby,” he murmured before surging upwards, lifting you off the couch and settling your thighs around his hips. You let out a little gasp as he lifted you so easily. 

He dropped you on the crisp white linens of the hotel bed, following you down. He used the change in position to strip your clothes off until you were just in your panties. 

“So tell me, doll,” he spoke against your skin as he began to kiss down your neck. “Was this always the plan?” 

“H..huh?” you stuttered. His lips on your neck made it difficult to form a coherent thought. 

“Awful fancy underwear you chose,” he pointed out, shifting his weight to one arm so he could reach down and trace the lace of your panties. 

“God dammit,” you breathed, laughing. Your hand came up to tangle in his dark hair as he licked a stripe up your neck, making you shiver. “No. I just wanted to wear nice underwear with my nice clothes.” 

“Cute.” He moved further down your body to bring his mouth to your tits, finding a nipple with his mouth and beginning to tease it. “Too bad I want to see you in nothing but those diamonds.” 

Then, in a move that made your jaw drop, he sat back on his knees, brought both hands down to your panties, and ripped them clean apart. 

“Oliver!” you gasped. “Those were expensive!” 

“I’ll buy you new ones. I’ll buy you the whole fuckin’ catalogue,” he promised. “Just wanna make you say my name like that again first.” 

And then he was pushing your thighs apart and bringing his mouth to your dripping pussy and everything turned upside down. 

“Oh fuck, Oliver!” you gasped as he immediately honed in on your clit, your whole body jerking at the sensation. 

“Yeah, just like that,” he groaned against your core, his hands massaging the fat of your thighs as he held you open for him to feast on. “Say my name, baby.” 

He was clearly experienced, and it was hot as fuck. He knew just how to lick up and down your slit, suck on your clit, flick it with his tongue just right to have you whimpering and moaning for him. 

And when your hands tangled in his hair and tugged a little, he moaned. 

“Shit, Oliver, don’t stop,” you gasped, beginning to buck against his face. You swore you could feel his smirk against your pussy as he focused his ministrations on your clit. If he could talk right now, you just knew he’d be spewing absolute filth. 

He didn’t need to say ‘cum for me,’ because the way he was rapidly stroking your bud with his tongue was command enough. “Fuck! C-cumming!” you choked out before you crashed over the ledge, your whole body spasming as he held your legs open and continued to drink you down. 

His lips didn’t leave your pussy until you were overstimulated, whimpering and trying to pull him away by his dark hair. “Jesus, Oliver,” you breathed, your chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath. He just gave you a triumphant grin as he rose up from between your legs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“Now that you’re nice ’n’ ready…” he purred, reaching down to begin unbuckling his belt. You pushed yourself up on your elbows to get a better view, watching appreciatively as he removed his suit pants. 

He kicked off the pants, letting them fall to the floor elsewhere in the hotel room. He was just wearing black boxer briefs beneath, and fuck, you wanted him to crush you with his thighs. 

“Your legs are insane,” you blurted out without thinking, admiring the defined muscles of his quads as he knelt before you on the hotel bed. You were still laying there, totally naked, your torn panties beside you on the bed, your legs still spread for him. 

Oliver laughed at that, looking down at his legs as he tensed his muscles in display. “Another occupational hazard,” he joked, before looking up at you with a grin once more. “You wanna see what other part of me is insane?” 

That earned a laugh from you, too. “No way your dick is big. You can’t be charming, hot, rich, successful, AND have a big dick.” 

“Oh, but I can,” he teased in response, his thumbs hooking into his boxer briefs. He watched your face carefully as he pulled down the waistband, letting his erection spring free. 

“Jesus, Oliver,” you groaned, both in excitement and disdain for how perfect this man seemed to be, as you watched his dick bounce for a moment. He was big - average in length, but certainly beyond average in girth. 

Oliver just grinned proudly at you as he stroked his cock slowly. “Yeah?” he murmured. 

“Shut up and fuck me,” you told him, trying your hardest to maintain a straight face. 

“Alright, alright. Expensive and testy, apparently,” he mused, chuckling to himself. He climbed off the bed, a little awkwardly due to the boxer briefs around his thighs still, and kicked off his underwear before making his way over to the desk chair he’d left his suit coat on. After rummaging around in the pocket for a moment, he produced his wallet, from which he pulled out a condom. 

Meanwhile, you were just enjoying the view of his toned ass as he moved around the room. 

The way that Oliver opened the condom (carefully) with his teeth was insanely hot. He tossed the shiny wrapper aside and rolled the latex down his erection. 

“Not allergic to latex, are you?” he asked as he settled down on the bed between your legs once more. “I got non-latex in my bag if you need it.” 

It was… oddly considerate of him. And it also made you realize how often he must do this. You shook your head - no latex allergy for you - and he grunted in approval. 

You gasped when he smacked his fat, heavy cock on your already-drenched pussy. 

“You ready for this, doll?” he asked, his voice husky. You nodded emphatically, and he grinned in approval. 

His thick fingers spread your slit apart as his other hand guided his shaft to your waiting hole. Slowly, agonizingly, he began to press into you. 

“Oh shit, Oliver, you’re so fucking thick,” you hissed. 

“And you’re so fuckin’ tight,” he replied, his eyes glued to the sight of his dick splitting you open. “Jesus, baby. You tryin’ to make me bust already?” 

His hands moved up to grip your waist as he continued to fill you up, until his hips met the back of your thighs. When he bottomed out, he let out a groan that made your cunt clench around him, his head tipping backwards to face the ceiling. 

His eyes were blazing with hunger when he looked down at you again. Slowly, torturously slowly, he pulled out almost all the way, until just the tip of his cock was inside you. With another low groan, he then pushed back inside, making your back arch off the bed. A moan of his name tore from your throat, and he grinned. “That’s it,” he purred in approval. 

Then, before you could even think, he was moving. He began to piston into you with immense force, his hands finding the back of your thighs and pressing your legs to your chest to open you up wider for him. 

“Fuck,” he growled. “You feel even better than I imagined.”

“Y-you - ngh! - you imagined?” you questioned through moans. 

He chuckled and grunted in affirmation. “Fuck yeah I did, doll. The second I bought those raffle tickets, I knew the only prize I gave a shit about was you.” 

His words made your heart race even more than it was already. 

The thrusting paused for a moment, and Oliver shifted back onto his heels, gyrating his hips to tease you. One hand guided your leg to rest over his shoulder, while the other ran through his dark hair. His jaw was tensed. 

“Fuck, doll, I promise I normally last longer,” he gritted out. “Especially with a fuckin’ rubber. But Christ, you just feel so fuckin’ good…” 

His free hand came down to rest over your pelvis, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing it in tight circles as he resumed his punishing pace. His heterochromatic eyes seemed to glow with lust as he took in every aspect of your body hungrily, from your flushed face to your bouncing tits. 

“Gonna make you cum before I do,” he promised. And he was dedicated to that promise, if the way he slowed his thrusts to hold off on cumming and focus on your pleasure was any indication. He toyed with your clit like a man on a mission, intense in a way you imagined he saved for sex and soccer. 

“Oh shit, Oliver, don’t stop,” you gasped, your hands clutching at the bedspread. Your whole body tensed as you felt your orgasm approaching. “I’m gonna cum.” 

“Yeah?” he murmured, his eyes half-lidded. “Cum for me, baby. Cum on my cock. Give me that prize.” 

With a few more well-aimed thrusts, you were coming undone around him, crying out his name as your body shook. Oliver roared something in a language you didn’t understand - you were too far gone to know if it was Japanese, Swedish, or something else entirely - and thrusted a few more times before spilling into the condom, his thumb never stilling on your clit. 

Finally, once you were shaking at clutching at his arm, he removed his hand from your pelvis and gave you a second to breathe. With one last groan, he pulled out, pulling off the condom, tying it off, and tossing it elsewhere in the room to be dealt with later. 

“Shit, doll,” he murmured as he flopped down beside you on the bed. “That was incredible.” 

“You can say that again,” you replied, your voice slightly raspy from screaming his name. 

-

When you returned from the (incredibly fancy) hotel bathroom, having freshened up and recovered somewhat, Oliver was still lounging naked in the bed, scrolling on his phone with one hand and absentmindedly massaging his thigh with the other. 

“Am I not entertaining enough?” you teased, grabbing a bottle of water from the minibar. Oliver Aiku, pro footballer, could afford the $50 charge or whatever it was. When Oliver looked at you in confusion, you pointed at his phone. 

“Oh,” he said, looking back down at his phone. He turned the screen towards you - from your distance away, you couldn’t make out the details, but he was clearly on the Victoria’s Secret website. “Just doin’ my homework. You like black lace? I’ll get you those and my team colors.” 

The revelation earned a shocked laugh from you - thankfully, you hadn’t started drinking the water yet, or you’d be choking. “Seriously?” 

“Of course. I owe you,” he said, shrugging like it wasn’t surprising that he was actually following through with this. He tapped the screen a few more times, then tossed his phone towards you, where it landed on the foot of the bed. “Put in your address. They’ll be here on Monday.” 

Once you’d entered your address into the checkout screen, he tapped a few more times before locking his phone and setting it aside. You cracked open the water and took a swig, thankful for the hydration after… all that. 

Oliver leaned forward and grabbed the water bottle from you, chugging the last of it in a few seconds. It was both annoying and cutely intimate in equal measure. 

“You busy tomorrow?” he asked, like it was nothing. 

You blinked once, twice. “Tomorrow?” This wasn’t a one-time thing? He wasn’t kicking you out? 

“What?” He smirked at you, gorgeous and frustrating and so hot. “You think I’m droppin’ five hundred grand for just one night?”

shoutout to @lorelune for the writer's block advice that made me actually able to finish this finally lol.

hope you all enjoyed!! comments/likes/reblogs are much appreciated :) and my asks are open for any requests or comments you may have!

[teardropdeer]

TRIPLE JOKER [minnesota united fc edition]