#torunetteworks

footballer!gojo, who made his professional debut at the ripe age of seventeen, in which he scored a header and gave himself a nosebleed from celebrating into the goal post.

footballer!gojo, who, apart from football, is a huge sports nerd in general. ask him about anything from darts to synchronised swimming, and you’ll get a historical breakdown, complete with obscure trivia, and an unexpected 15 minute detour that somehow ends in 1885 with absolutely no return to the original point.

footballer!gojo, who enjoys fucking you doggy style while you're wearing nothing but his jersey. he loves having both the view of his name and number on your back along with his girthyyy cock ramming deliciously into your squelching pussy.

footballer!gojo, who also enjoys having you ride him, especially if you're completely naked with just his medals around your neck, dangling in front of your tits and his face. when you start complaining about a neck ache, he'll flip you over and fold you in half with no hesitation.

footballer!gojo, who spent two out of his three minute ballon d'or acceptance speech rambling about you.

"and i'd like to say thank you to my girlfriend, of course. i mean, obviously. you've been there with me through the best games, the bad ones, the injuries, the… moods. thank you for putting up with me and my... 'shenanigans', and uhhh, for never letting me get too full of myself. or too miserable. you really mean the absolute world to me... more than any of this ever could—" he squints at the front row seats. "ohh. she's mouthing at me to stop."

footballer!gojo, who joked afterwards that he now has 5 ballon d'ors, referring to the one currently in his hands, and the ones that will next be in his grasp as soon as you two get back to the hotel. (your boobs and your ass, duh)

footballer!gojo, who calls you his lucky charm, but what he really means is the innocent polaroid of you that he carries with him until the start of every game. it's a selfie you took at your first live football match — the very match where he scored his first pro hat trick. you insist it's just a coincidence, but he thinks not.

footballer!gojo, who just has to make you sit through every single edit he comes across of himself, most of them made on capcut by thirteen year old fanboys. he even has a secret social media account dedicated to liking and commenting on them.

goldenboyfan161616 commented: 🔥🔥🔥 gojo more like GOATjo. btw can u do a tut for the 2rd transition

gojosixeyeditor replied: it's a template

footballer!gojo, who never fucks you out of frustration, unless he gives a really disappointing performance in a match. 0-3 at home? then, that's 3 rounds of him fingering and tongue fucking you until you're squirming and in tears, just to pull away as soon as he feels that twitch and spasm he knows all too well.

footballer!gojo, who by now is well accustomed to praise, takes it in stride. but when it comes from you, he cherishes it deeply. He's heard it all before from fans, journalists, and footballing legends alike, but your acknowledgement of his achievements feels like an applause that goes beyond football.

footballer!gojo, who won't ever admit he's possessive but will always have an arm draped over your shoulder when you're around his teammates or other athletes. he'll get particularly wary of one certain person—his biggest football rival—who seems a tad bit too interested in you for his liking.

︵‿ ♪ "Everybody loves somebody sometime..."

An ivory haired man sits in the cosy back corner of a dimly lit jazz bar. His chin is propped in his hand, a private smile resting comfortably on his lips as the soft hum of music fills the air.

His bright blue eyes carry the weight of a lifetime, where the echoes of youth, scars of battle, and quiet traces of grief have lingered in silence. But in this moment, they are muted and submerged beneath a newer, deeper feeling.

His gaze is anchored on you; the graceful sway of your figure as you sing into the mic, your voice rising like a warm current, wrapping the room in a delicate spell and drawing every listener in.

︵‿ ♪ "And although my dream was overdue..."

As his mind drifts, a fond memory tugs at him. The day of your first anniversary, where you led him back to your shared apartment with a shrug, putting on your favourite vinyl record to set the atmosphere while you improvised a meal.

By the time the dishes were set on the table, the date you had been planning for months—ruined by bad weather—was already long out of your minds.

You laughed and chatted just as you would have if the day had gone as expected, sang and danced as much as you pleased in the privacy of your own living room, before snoozing off into peaceful slumber, engulfed in one another's arms, as you wouldn't have been if you'd had to journey a tiresome way back home.

Because that was how you made life feel... like nothing that went wrong truly mattered. Where once there were doubts and frustrations, you showed him that sometimes the best thing to do was to simply let go.

"What's happened has happened, and there is no reason to hold on to it. Process the feeling, but don't let it linger." Your words stuck with him, like a calm breeze ready to blow away any stress he should feel. "... remember, we've got countless days ahead of us."

︵‿ ♪ "Your love made it well worth waiting..."

Before you, life had been a neverending maze. The weight of responsibilities, expectations, and of being the strongest persistently chasing him through it. You found him there admist the chaos and gently guided him out, aiding him with the kindness and understanding he never knew he needed so badly.

You finally catch his gaze for the first time this evening, sending him a wink. Your eyes like crescents and lips curved up into the most breathtaking smile.

Here he is at your show, after saying he wasn't sure he'd be able to make it, rushing through — or rather plainly ignoring — whatever workload was unfortunate enough to have been placed in his care so that he could be there for your special night.

He watches you in silence, grinning proudly. Perhaps he looks a bit ominous, sitting alone in the shadows like some cartoon villain, possibly plotting how he might whisk this stunning jazz singer away to his secret lair.

But he is no villain and owns no lair. He's merely a fool, helplessly smitten by love. And what more is there to adore than the woman — radiant and enchanting — singing joyously on stage before him?

The woman who gave his life meaning again, who made his troubles feel like nothing more than small fragments of the past that he no longer has to carry. The one who claimed his heart in its entirety—you.

︵‿ ♪ "For someone… like you!"