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twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat · 5 months

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you are somebody that i want to keep ; satoru gojo

synopsis; you aren't sure what you have with satoru gojo, but you know that it’s good.

word count; 6.7k

contents; satoru gojo/reader, gn!reader, colleagues to friends to something unlabelled, you love each other though!!, fluff, hurt/comfort, very very soft, reader falls first but gojo falls harder, both of u are afraid of intimacy lol, a lil angsty if u squint, satoru gojo cherishing u for ~7k words straight <33

a/n; basically just a collection of moments between you and gojo throughout the years <33 (a significant amount of time has passed between each part!!) hes an emotionally repressed loser but i love him and he is smitten w u.

in the soft luminescence of daybreak, your kitchen looks something like a dream.

tainted with a hazy sunshine, simmering with warm colours and pleasant scents, it almost seems to sparkle in the peripheral of your vision. brimming with that feeling of home, a home you’ve broken your bones building, desperate to shape it into something safe — and you think you’ve done a pretty good job.

it’s soothing, comforting, all of these sensations. bleeding into each other like smudges of paint on a canvas; hyacinths blooming by the windowsill, espresso-flavored steam wafting up to the roof, soft meows stemming from the cats by your feet. absolute bliss.

indulging in a peace yet to be shattered by the strain of the working world, you rub the sleep from beneath your weary eyes. blinking and yawning like a drowsy child.

beyond the translucent glass of your windows, glimmering with the light of a sun soon to rise, the world is painted pink and indigo — save for that one hint of gold, a streak of honey slathered across the surface of the sky. fluffy clouds drift through the chilly air, melting in the wake of a new day, and you think they look a little like tufts of cotton candy. soft enough to sink your teeth into, if only the glass wasn’t in the way. keeping the cold out.

it’s a new day. a pleasant morning, sitting comfortably on the brink of dawn, before the city has a chance to rouse from its slumber.

a kind of solitude you so rarely get to bask in.

a false solitude, really. because, for once, there’s another human being in your home — one you don’t know nearly as well as you’d like, for him to be fast asleep on your couch, cheek smushed against the leather. snoring softly.

satoru gojo.

like this, he looks very… human. vulnerable. hair just slightly tousled, from tossing and turning on your not-so-comfortable couch, blindfold only covering one of his eyes and close to slipping off entirely. his expression has melted into one of something vaguely resembling relaxation, as close to unguarded as you assume he can physically get.

even in his sleep, he looks a little stiff. not entirely at peace; like a stray cat sleeping under the hood of a car.

(you’re curious. fascinated, maybe, by the loneliness that clings to the strongest person in the universe. by the paradoxical innocence of his grin.)

honestly, everything from last night is kind of a blur. you remember accompanying the strongest sorcerer on a mission, one long enough to leave you completely and utterly spent, fatigue nestled deep into your bones. remember gojo getting a sudden migraine, so earth-shattering that you thought he was going to keel over and throw up in the middle of the street.

then you remember bringing him back home with you. very hesitantly, only after he begrudgingly accepted the fact that he didn’t have much of a choice. because you were fucking exhausted, and so was he, and your apartment happened to be conveniently close. you remember him practically passing out on your couch, still somehow managing to crack a bad joke you can’t recall, while you went to collapse into the comfort of your bed.

and now you’re here. dyed in half-transparent sunbeams, caffeine bubbling in your veins, gazing at your sleeping coworker from your spot by the kitchen table. waiting for the world to open its weary eyes.

it’s still early. some part of you expects him to sleep a while longer, but you can’t say you’re particularly surprised when gojo begins to stir.

a splotch of sunshine splatters across your living room window, staining the floorboards, falling over the contours of his pretty face. in the light, he looks positively holy; white lashes, pale skin, plump lips. like a goddess.

when he opens his eyes, it’s even worse. a single iris cracked open, pooling with unbridled brilliance. eyes so blue they seem to cut through the stillness of the air.

(— and the world wakes up.)

a little groan slips from his lips, barely audible. with groggy movements, he brings a hand up to his face, obscuring the grating light of the sun flitting in. you think you can almost see the gears of his mind turn, as he takes notice of his surroundings, remembering what transpired just hours before.

faster than you thought, he regains some semblance of composure. huffing under his breath, as he forces himself into a sitting position.

it feels a little wrong, to see the closest thing this world has to a god act so human. be so human. morning-fatigued, just like you, wearing droopy eyelids and a soft, sleepy pout. a little disheveled. groggy with lost dreams.

when his gaze meets yours, you can’t control the breath that hitches pitifully in the back of your throat. a meek skip of your heartbeat, like you just saw something you shouldn’t have. oops.

gojo cracks a grin.

“.. watchin’ me sleep?” he calls out, cheeky. paired with a drowsy yawn. composed, unbothered, but there’s something almost performative about it, something you’re sure you’d miss if he wasn’t still in the process of collecting himself.

“good morning,” is all you offer him. ignoring his teasing remark. he doesn’t push it, to your surprise. “sleep well?”

a hum. absentminded, jovial. one of his large hands goes to adjust his blindfold, the other to fluff up his hair. kicking off the blanket you just barely had the energy to throw over him last night. your fluffiest one, warm enough to protect him from the chill gnawing at the windows. hopefully.

“like a log,” he quips, stretching idly, muscles straining under his baggy uniform. they must be sore, after that mission. or maybe he’s above such things.

choosing not to comment on his obvious lie, you put your lips against the ceramic of your cup. sipping from the bitter brew, a tinge of hazelnut on your tongue. letting him gather his bearings without you scrutinizing him. a little favor, one liar to another.

“thanks for letting me crash,” he grins, lazy. toothy. stumbling to his feet with a low groan, gaze flitting around the room — looking for the exit. “i’ll get outta your hair,” he mutters, and you raise a brow.

“not staying for breakfast?”

gojo stills. your question rings out, bouncing off the walls of the kitchen, into the living room.

his smile twitches, ever so slightly, in what you think must be surprise. then it’s back to normal; like putting on a mask, not allowing a sliver of weakness to slip through the cracks. he exhales a raspy chuckle, a sound that flows through the air and crawls down your spine.

”generous, aren’t you?” he hums, voice rich with amusement. dappling sunlight licks at the white locks of his hair.

you shrug. “i wouldn’t mind the company.”

the words climb up the walls of your throat, a little reckless, eager to catch a glimpse of the miracle before you. satoru gojo, framed by the simplicity of your home — somewhat hard to let go of. sunkissed skin, restless hands. a little out of tune. shifting from foot to foot, eager to get away.

(a little like a frightened fawn, you amuse yourself by thinking. he’s really more like the fox who scared it.)

you think he must be bit uncomfortable. forced to spend the night in a coworker’s apartment, one he doesn't even know that well, one he probably doesn’t have any intention of getting to know. still trying to politely excuse himself. persistent, stubborn.

maybe he didn’t expect this. maybe he was convinced he could sneak away, before you had a chance to wake up. maybe he thought you’d be all too eager to let him leave, and never speak of this again. maybe he’s not used to being wanted.

“ha… i’m flattered, believe me, but —“

“what do you usually eat?” you ask. cutting him off, gently, tapping your fingertips against the edge of the table. “for breakfast, i mean. i’ll whip something up.”

a chuckle slips from his lips. you can’t put your finger on it, but something about it bothers you. “really, there’s —“

“if you’re worried about inconveniencing me, don’t be.” you pause, unsure of what to say. but the words end up spilling out of your throat, oddly honest. ”it’s been a while since i had the chance to make breakfast for someone else.”

it’s strange, really, how intent you are on seeing this through. how much effort you’re putting into making him stay. you barely even know him. actually, you don’t know him at all — all you know is that his smile makes you happy and his strength makes you envious. that you aren’t afraid of him, even though you probably should be.

something about him just feels safe.

“i’m pretty good at making pancakes,” you hum, a small smile playing at your lips. polite, jovial. pale light flits in through the window and slips into its curve. ”do you want some? before we go to work.”

(something in his fingers twitch, when you say that tiny word; pancakes. a little tell. you just barely catch it, before it sputters out. before he reels it back in.)

a moment passes. slow, drawn out, a rubber band bound to snap.

gojo stands there, a very subtle contemplation etched into his features. behind him, your cats begin to scratch at the couch, but you don’t scold them. just waiting for something to happen. beyond the glass of your windows, the sun unfurls in the sky, stretching its arms to envelop the world.

he grins, suddenly. soft light reflecting off the white of his teeth. cocky, composed. not quite performative, a little more natural.

“well, if you insist.”

he strolls over to your side, just a tiny bit sluggish, lazy steps and comically long limbs. he must still be tired. but he takes a seat, right across from you, plopping down on the chair with an effortless air of confidence. lighthearted, leaning his elbows on the table, crossing his legs under it. comfortable. settling into his role.

you’re pleasantly surprised.

“how would you like them?” you ask, and you think some of your excitement may have spilled out with the question. if it did, gojo doesn’t comment on it. ”your pancakes.”

“with chocolate chips, please!” he shoots you a sweet smile. “and whipped cream on top.”

so demanding. for some reason, it makes the corners of your lips quirk up. kinda like a bratty younger brother.

“got it.”

the smell of dark chocolate hangs heavy in the air as you get to work, shuffling around the open space. all while gojo waits, patiently, tapping his foot under the table and staring out the window. leaning his jaw on the heel of his palm. listening to the humming of nightingales on the branches of the apple tree down on the ground, and the buzz of your old radio.

the kitchen fills with motion, sounds, smells. life. splotches of sunlight, crinkled cartons of orange juice. the clinking of plates. two tired adults, seated at the same table, indulging in a fleeting peace and the promise of something new. something almost concrete.

a small, precious moment. enough to make your fascination shift into something you know must be fondness. or close to it.

gojo grins at you, mouth full of pancakes, eagerly telling you about something the kids did last week. wolfing them down, chocolate smeared over his bottom lip. you laugh, and suddenly the world feels a little safer than it should. a little more intact.

you wonder what it means. where it’s going to lead. this feeling of something wonderful beginning, something you couldn’t stop if you wanted to.

a budding connection.

the city lays blanketed beneath a layer of thick snow. blurry pale dots dancing in the wind, obscuring the sky, frost engulfing every building in a bone chilling hug.

with a slight shiver, you dig your hands into the comfort of your pockets, seeking the fleeting warmth you find. admiring the frozen landscape before you, the hustle and bustle of people going about their day. the saffron light of the lamp posts, the glittering snow by your feet, the skeletal apricot trees and their bare branches. this monochrome city you find yourself in.

gojo exhales. strolling cheerily down the street, in tandem with you, a frosty breath to your left that scatters and melts into the open air. it smells minty.

today, he’s wearing black shades — like he usually is when you meet outside of work. it’s kind of nice. when you angle your face a certain way, you can almost see the blue pooling in his eyes, the white of his eyelashes.

he’s beautiful. he always has been. but like this, you think his beauty is simply unfair, highlighted by the winter wonderland you find yourselves in. mesmerizing, the red flush of his cheeks, how he hums along to some jolly tune playing from a little corner store further down the street. all bundled up, in a stylish overcoat and a nice scarf, untouched by the snowflakes fluttering about.

protected by his infinity, always. the silly god you call a friend.

he looks content, despite the cold that keeps nipping at your bare skin, smiling widely. blabbing on about the movie you’re about to watch, how he saw it back in high school but never thought it’d get a remake. how his friend thought it sucked but that friend always had bad taste so his opinion is irrelevant. how he has faith that you’ll like it.

(cute.)

distracted by the pretty man so close by, close enough to touch, you don’t look ahead. maybe just a little bit entranced. which would be fine, if you didn’t happen to be walking on the right side of the street —

crashing straight into a lamp post.

”owch!”

it’s sudden. and it’s a harsh collision, enough to leave your nose stinging, an ache that makes you whine. cursing under your breath as you take a couple steps back, hands reaching for the part of your face that took the brunt of the hit.

and gosh, is this embarrassing. you dance on the edge of death for a living, and here you are — whining over walking into a fucking lamp post. because you were too enamored by the beauty of your own coworker to pay attention to your surroundings.

a coworker who is currently looking at you, silently. having failed to warn you in time, stuck in his own memories, caught up in his in-depth, spoiler-filled review of a movie he’s been waiting to watch all week.

for a moment, all he does is blink. long eyelashes fluttering, like a dove flapping its wings.

then he starts laughing.

scratch that — gojo is downright cackling, thoroughly amused by your clumsy mishap, like he just saw the funniest thing in the world. laughter ringing out into the cold air, white breaths to compliment the red of your burning ears.

asshole.

with a harsh furrow of your brows, you attempt to look angry; but before long, your lips are curling up. infected by his joy. a soft punch to his shoulder is all you manage, biting back a little puff of laughter. you’re embarrassed.

(so embarrassed you don’t even notice how he puts his infinity down.)

”don’t laugh, you piece of shit!” you hiss, grinning even still, flushing and trying to ignore the curious glances you get from passersby. ”it really hurt!”

but gojo doesn’t stop. doesn’t even attempt to. you think he just grew even more amused, if anything, practically bending over from how hard he’s laughing — clutching his stomach.

”sorry, sorry — ’m just…” he tries to speak, taking deep breaths in between bursts of giggles. ”how the hell — how’d you —”

he stops trying. laughing, again.

and it’s a genuine laugh. a little wolfish, spilling out from his pretty parted lips, showing off his sharp teeth. from the very bottom of his gut, clear and bright, deep and infectious. melodic. shades close to slipping off the bridge of his nose, eyes tearing up behind them. trying to collect himself, muffled giggles turning to soft vapour in the cold air. dimples visible on his rosy cheeks.

and suddenly you can't think, can't speak, can only look at him and wonder how a human can be so very beautiful. how it’s metaphysically possible. like a crushed cluster of stars was given human form, a body of celestial light.

he looks so young, like this. a millenia younger, no weight on those broad shoulders, no immovable wall to separate you both. he looks like one of the guys you used to hang out with in middle school, running through corridors and play fighting and holding back shared laughter in the library. before the bite of the world left a mark in your skin.

he looks like himself. like someone pulled the mask off, and all that’s left is the human. none of the godhood he was saddled with at birth.

while you’re busy staring, gojo finally finds his composure again. wiping at his glassy eyes, a chuckle slipping out here and there. distracted by the breathtaking sight, you begin to forget the sting of your collision — until you feel something warm trickle down your chilled skin.

searching for it with the pads of your fingers, you feel a trail of wetness beneath your nose. and when you bring them down, to get a look, all you see is red.

”ah.”

gojo moves closer. maybe just a little alarmed, by the blood dripping from your nose, staining the white of the snow beneath your feet. a chilling contrast, one you’re frighteningly used to. it’s almost comforting. blood on your skin, that sting of pain clogging up your nose, enough for you to get lost in. colours melting together, memories rising to the surface —

when suddenly, something touches your cheek.

one large hand goes to keep your jaw in place, gentle. smooth leather, sneaking under your chin, lifting your face up ever so slightly. warmth trickles from his fingertips through the fabric, and you can smell a hint of his perfume. strawberries and vanilla.

gojo looks at you fondly. wiping the blood from your nose, smudging his expensive gloves. from this angle, you can see his eyes, a blue shimmer in an evening painted white and gray — the sole flicker of colour in this monochrome city. they’re crinkled at the edges.

he looks awfully amused.

(you stay still, not breathing, like any slight motion could have him pulling away.)

”careful,” he croons. so low you barely hear it, almost a purr. the word has a soft underbelly, something you don’t need to dissect to feel.

a sentiment that seems to simmer in the air around you, drifting past the little corner store, a dog tied to a lamp post, your reddened cheeks. past the blue of his eyes, a peripheral that stretches to cover the city before you. words too heavy to speak aloud.

stay safe for me, silly.

then he’s letting go. sudden, the bite of the air replacing his hand. it lingers on your skin, like a memory, like the ghost of a memory. but it’s there. strawberries and vanilla, leather and warmth. something kind. warm.

and it stays there, even as gojo takes a step forward, no longer facing you. walking confidently, the wind bending around his tall stature. long legs and large steps, leaving an imprint in the snow for you to follow. a northern star.

he turns his head, and grins. hair tousled by the breeze, white locks glittering with snowflakes. ”you coming? it’s starting soon.”

a moment passes.

”or do you need me to call shoko?”

you puff out a breathy laugh, at that, stumbling forward. reaching up to wipe more of the blood sticking to your skin. sniffling, but smiling, teeth peeking out between your lips.

”yeah, yeah,” a roll of your eyes. ”’m right behind you.”

gojo’s eyes crinkle, disappearing behind his shades when he straightens his back and raises his head. moving forward, while you follow; his back turned to you, snowy hair melting into the white all around you. like something out of a painting.

with a pep in step, you catch up to him. eager to hear more of his voice, his memories. still basking in the warmth of his hand on your jaw.

a touch from the untouchable.

gojo’s lying on your couch.

he usually is, to be fair, so it shouldn’t be surprising. kicking his legs up, watching tv — or sleeping, snoring loudly, like the couch belongs to him. like your home belongs to him. like he pays rent, and doesn’t just laze around and devour all the sweets in your kitchen cabinets.

(he’s there so often that you’re starting to wonder if you should give him a copy of your keys, or something. but you have a feeling that’d be just a smidge too intimate for him to ever accept.)

this time, however, gojo is doing neither of those things.

he’s on your couch, but he isn’t manspreading, or draping himself over the leather with a lazy grin. he doesn’t have that air of effortless confidence. and it’s palpable, in the air, the open space, enough that you can feel it. an itch on your skin, a lump in your throat. you could practically feel it as soon as you walked through the door.

he isn’t wearing his blindfold, or his shades. he isn’t even smiling. and gojo is always, always smiling.

you think he might be having a rough day.

even the cats are noticing that something’s off. jumping up in his lap, trying to comfort him, brushing against his legs. purring, when he cradles them close — always so gentle with them. hands petting down their backs, softly, the same hands he uses to rip out the throats of curses and curse users alike.

then they mewl and run away. and for once you wish they wouldn’t, wish they could keep clinging to him like they always do. just to make him feel better. right now, in the state he’s in, you wouldn’t even mind gojo’s usual smug declarations of how does it feel to know they like their papa best?

you can’t help but feel unsure of yourself. gojo isn’t doing anything, and he isn’t saying anything. he’s just lying there, on his back, eyes closed. letting the darkness of the room engulf him. drowning in his own thoughts.

he must know that you’re there. he must have heard you come in. but he isn’t saying anything, and you wonder if that means he wants you to leave him alone.

you’re reminded of that one morning. when he woke up on your couch, and looked more human than you’d ever seen him. how you wanted to avert your eyes, how wrong it felt to see a god rouse from its slumber.

(but you know better now.)

hesitantly, you begin to inch closer, step by step. quiet, floorboards barely creaking beneath your weight. tentative, as you settle down on the couch. brushing against the infinity between you.

gojo’s eyes flicker open. like an old tape beginning to play. they still shine with that same brilliance, they always do, but now you think they look just a little dull. a little red.

a moment passes. agonizingly slow.

before you can properly think it through, you’ve done it. almost on instinct, jumping the gun before he has the chance to cover everything up with jokes and laughter. opening your arms; a silent invitation.

gojo only stares.

his gaze moves down to your outstretched arms, and then up to your face. your pursed lips, nervous eyes, worried crease between your brows. one second passes. two, five. you stop counting.

for a moment, you’re almost certain that he’s about to get up and leave. that he’ll flash you a smile that doesn't reach his eyes, walk out the door and then never return. like you flew too close to the sun, just another icarus too mesmerized by the glow of his grin to notice your melting wings. like you stepped over the fragile line that separates his bones from yours, his heartbeat from your greedy hands.

— but then he sluggishly gets into a sitting position, and doesn't look at you.

when gojo collapses into your embrace, you’re so surprised that you almost forget how to breathe. almost forget your own name, forget whose home you’re in, why your arms are wrapped around a pale man. all you can think of is how warm he feels, how he’s like a weighted blanket against you. how he trusts you enough to come so very close.

cheek pressed against your chest, arms loose around your waist. no infinity, no barriers. just a single touch shared between two damaged human beings.

a brief inhale gives you the composure that you need. air flowing into your lungs, your brain, as you settle into a comfortable position. no words leave your lips; you just continue to hold him, one hand on his back, testing the waters. letting him hear the echo of your heartbeat. unsure, the both of you, but something about this feels right. close to right. almost there.

gojo is stiff. when you strain your ears, you hear a sharp intake of breath, and a full body shiver courses through him. a tremble of his spine. like he’s itching to run, like he doesn’t quite know where to put his hands. so painfully unused to a proper embrace.

(a little like a frightened fawn.)

a tender something unfurls within your chest, and you feel almost devoured by the fondness rooting itself into your beating heart. delicate, as you begin to brush away his tousled bangs, leaning close. pressing a kiss to his forehead, glistening with sweat. letting your lips linger on his skin.

he’s pale, shining in the bleak moonlight cast from the translucent curtains of your living room windows. pale like a ghost. and there are dark crescents beneath his dull eyes.

nightmares, you surmise. they haunt him too, don’t they? of course they do.

eyes brimming with emotion, you gaze at him; quiet as a mouse, closing his eyes. leaning into your touch, ever so slightly, breathing out a sigh tinged with pure exhaustion. and a certain realization washes over you, akin to a tidal wave, sudden and inevitable. so obvious it’s funny.

you’re not a god at all, are you?

a coo slips from your lips. barely a sound, more like a soothing breath. warm against his cold skin.

you’re just like everyone else. just as fragile.

one of your thumbs goes to smooth over the puffy skin beneath his eyes. so, so gentle. like one wrong touch could have him crumbling into little grains of stardust, spilling out over the worn leather of your couch.

there are so many things you wish you could say to him. so many things you’ll never be able to say, because you’re afraid that if you give him too much it’ll scare him off. like love could burn him if it were to leak out too fervently. like it’s burned him before.

so you don’t say anything. but you think it, you repeat it inside your mind like a prayer, and some part of you thinks that’s enough. i’ve got you — a whisper that you don't dare to voice.

one gojo still manages to hear, somehow, if the way he tugs you closer and snuggles into your neck is anything to go by. a shaky exhale brushing against your collarbone.

(if you feel something wet touch the skin of your shoulder, you don’t mention it.)

you simply hold him, and don’t even think the thought of letting go. even though it takes him hours just to fall asleep, hours you spend anxiously wondering if he’ll change his mind and pull away. but he doesn't leave, even though his body may want him to, and that's enough, and you don’t let go. not even once. he stays cradled to your chest the same way you’d hold a tiny puppy, something fragile. something you need to handle with care.

and when his heartbeat finally mellows out, when you hear little barely audible snores flow from his lips, you finally begin to relax. melting into the couch beneath you, watching him get the rest he deserves. praying that any nightmares of his will be given to you instead.

sleep comes, eventually, to the both of you. tangled up on the couch, him on top of you, comforted by the flutter of each other’s heartbeat. by the warmth of another human being. safe in each other’s arms.

(the next morning, through hazy sunshine and the clinking of coffee cups, he teasingly tells you that just satoru is fine.)

it’s barely daybreak when satoru wakes you up.

a rude awakening, to say the least. he pulls out all the stops, intent on not letting you sleep even a second longer; poking at your cheek, pinching them when that doesn’t work. tickling you, blowing cold air into your ear, flopping down on top of you like a big dog. anything to rouse you from your deep slumber.

and he just will not give it up. no matter how hard you try to ignore him, no matter how many times you swat him away with your duvet pillow or turn to bury your face into the sheets. that’s how satoru always is, how he’s always been, how he hopefully always will be — an absolute pain. one you wouldn’t trade for anything else in the world.

so, when he starts whining for you to just wake up already, voice tinged with a sadness that tugs at your heartstrings, you find yourself opening your tired eyes. all while he murmurs on and on about something unintelligible, still trying to bribe you.

”i’ll make you coffee, okay? just get up. c’moooon.”

”… what time is it, satoru?” is all you mutter, voice leaving your lips in a raspy, disgruntled fashion. stirring a little at the promise of coffee.

he cracks a grin. ”don’t worry about it! just come with me.”

despite your grumpy attitude, and the ungodly hour at which satoru shakes you awake, you find yourself letting him scoop you up and set you down on the kitchen counter. placing a hot cup of coffee in your hands, made just the way you like it, before grinning mischievously in a way that has you feeling ill at ease.

and ten minutes later, you find yourself on top of a hill. overlooking the woods, and a big lake below you, no city lights visible no matter where you turn — god knows where he’s taken you, but it’s pretty.

breathtaking, even. all frost and wildlife and peace, sweet solitude, tiny flowers blooming on the patches of grass around you. a murder of crows takes flight in the distance, scattering into the indigo of the sky.

gojo grins, boyish and bright, excited breaths turning into vapour as he speaks. awfully proud of himself.

”i can’t take you on vacation, but —”

he drags you with him, arm looped around your own, plopping down on the ground. not before taking off his jacket, to cover the ground beneath you. grass tickles the skin of your palms, as you comfortably spread your legs, making sure to sit as close to him as possible.

and your heart softens a little.

because he’s mentioned it, before; how it’d be nice to go on a road trip, someday, just the two of you. all around the world, wherever the wind takes you. basking in that feeling of freedom. it’s no more than a fever dream, though, with how busy satoru is, the responsibilities you both shoulder.

so this’ll have to do. that’s probably what he’s thinking.

”the sun’ll rise soon. it’ll be pretty, i promise,” he beams, so close that you feel his warm breath on your skin. that you can see the dimples on his cheeks, his barely visible freckles.

”oh, so that’s why you woke me up so early.”

his smile widens. ”nice, right? i wanted to surprise you. d’you like it?”

a smile blooms on your lips, in tandem with his, honeyed and content. indulgent. gojo looks at it, and immediately knows your answer.

”yeah. it’s really pretty out here,” you face forward, taking a deep breath, fresh morning air entering your lungs. cool and crisp, stirring your sleepy mind. ”kinda nostalgic.”

satoru hums, and follows your lead. looking ahead, admiring the beauty of an empty world.

the big lake looks like a mirror, from here, glittering in the peripheral of your vision. the sun licks at the frozen sky, not quite breaking through, not entirely ready to rise — but it paints everything a rusty gold and you can almost feel spring shining through, taste it on your tongue, that promise of something better, something more concrete. a warmth you don’t have to question.

a warmth that’ll stay with you for a long time to come.

it takes about ten seconds for the man by your side to start speaking, again, shattering the peaceful silence. but you don’t mind. his voice is nice, a mellow melody to your morning-fatigued brain.

side by side, you wait for the sun to rise. sharing hushed whispers and laughter, like two kids having a sleepover. like nothing exists but the space that cocoons you, wraps you up in a nostalgia so palpable the entire world feels like a fond memory.

(it makes you feel a millenia younger.)

satoru giggles like a child, telling you about something shoko said, or something megumi did, and you don’t miss a single word that spills from his glossy lips. hanging on to every word he’s willing to give to you.

he looks so unbothered, like this. eyes crinkling, humming some tune you don’t recognize, like a little nightingale ready to take flight into the skies.

you part your lips, admiring his features. every patch of skin you can see. words making themselves manifest, hungry to see inside his brain, to know more about him. a fascination that’s never quite left you — though now you think it may be better described as love. ”hey, satoru?”

at the sound of his name, he turns to you. the weight of his eyes feels so light, like this. those blessed eyes staring into yours. he tilts his head, a smile playing at his lips. ”mm?”

”if you could go anywhere you wanted, where would you be right now?”

satoru blinks.

he looks at you, a mild surprise flitting through the lines of his face, as he takes you in. measures the weight of your words.

then he smiles, again. lopsided, almost a smirk, rich with amusement. a hum buzzes in his throat, like a butterfly itching to break out.

”.. you teasing me?”

a huff fills the air. ”it’s a genuine question!” you insist, moving your leg to nudge his own. ”c’mon. anywhere in the world. i’m just curious.”

another hum. he narrows his eyes, playfully, biting at the inside of his cheek to hold back a chuckle when that makes you grumble. pouting softly, tilting your head. he’s amused, you can tell.

but he closes his eyes, lashes fluttering, glimmering with morning dew. and you can tell he’s taking you seriously. tasting the question on his tongue.

something shines in his eyes, when he opens them again; crinkling at the corners, soft lines of crows’ feet. you can almost see that burst of aquamarine, breaking through the black glass of his shades. like the laws of physics can’t contain it. and he smiles, as always, a smile so beautiful you wish you could live on the curve of his lips. flimsy, no teeth peeking out, no dimples to admire. but sweet. slathered with honey, as sincere as can be.

his voice comes out a little raspy, tainted with a tinge of fatigue, a smokey residue that sticks to the walls of his throat. but it's genuine, like he just woke up, like he's too sleepy to be dishonest. like every word he says can be no more or less than the absolute truth.

and when he turns to face you, tilting his head enough for you to see that shade of blue you love so dearly, his eyes shine with an honestly so palpable you feel like you’re being devoured.

satoru parts his lips.

”right next to you.”

a moment passes. silent, endless, no sound to be heard but the beating of your own heart.

at last, the sun breaks through that layer of frost, peeking up from the boundary of the world — and the morning begins to thaw. streaks of sunlight cascade down the contours of his handsome face, painting him a mellow gold, and it’s almost enough to distract you from the warmth of his hand finding yours.

for a moment, satoru looks unsure. smile shifting in the light, into something slightly stiff, and you know that means he's nervous. silent, as he wets his glossy lips. pink tongue tasting strawberry chapstick.

then he’s leaning forward.

it’s chaste, the kiss he plants on your forehead, soft as the flutter of a butterfly’s wings. but it lingers, even after he’s pulled back — a warmth on your skin. a silent declaration.

he doesn't have to say anything. when you look up at him you can see the red flush of his ears, and when you strain your ears you can hear all those unspoken whispers. the sentiment neither of you will ever have to say out loud, because you know. it’s there. and it means everything.

and you know that for as long as you live, you’ll both have this. one single thread of normalcy, in your unorthodox existences, one single glimmer of something almost entirely good. something that heals, something that isn’t a blessing and a curse all in one. something soft to the touch.

there’s no need to find the right words for it. there never was.

”kinda looks like melted ice cream.”

the words pull you out of your stupor. satoru’s looking at the sky, and you follow his gaze, watching the sunrise in tandem with him.

it’s beautiful. soft clouds melting into pinks and oranges, dappling sunbeams lapping at the trees, a saffron shade washing over the empty world in front of you. a world that may not be so empty, after all, because you hear crows in the distance, and someone’s fishing by the lake, and you think you spot a squirrel in the tree closest to you.

and you have someone, right next to you, right by your side. someone who won’t ever leave.

sometimes, loving satoru gojo feels a little like strolling on the edge of a cliff. like one wrong step could have you tumbling down, a mess of broken bones and unspoken words. but if you do stumble and fall — you know he’ll be waiting at the bottom of the precipice. arms outstretched, wearing that same innocent grin, ready to hoist you both back up.

so you know it’ll be fine.

swallowing down a bout of fresh laughter, like a flower unfurling in your chest, petals brushing against your ribcage, you give in. opting to bask in the moment, in his presence.

”yeah,” you puff out a chuckle, head slumping against satoru’s shoulder. he makes a little noise of approval, and your grin grows. ”it does.”

he doesn’t say anything. smiling, wordlessly, admiring the way the sun kisses up your collarbone. lighting up your face. and you bask in his warmth, how right it feels to be tucked into his side. how safe he feels, even now. how safe you make him feel.

you look at the man to your left, and he looks back at you, and that wonderful unnamed something unfurls inside your chest again. and, without having to speak it aloud, you know it will continue to do so.

many, many years later, he’ll still be satoru, and you’ll still be you. the distance between you will be what it always was; breachable.

and that will be enough.

#someone sedate me i giggled while writing this. im so in love w this stupid weasel #this is rly just my attempt at writing a more canon-aligned gojo and the kinda-sorta relationship i could see him having in canon #i firmly believe that he’d feel most at peace w a love that sits somewhere right between platonic n romantic !!#”me n the bestie <3” (selfie of u wearing matching rings)#its the kinda love that u dont need to label bc its just There. its just love !! a love that comes easy #im happy w how this particular gojo turned out i think!! :'3 hes my lil baby #in other news hes so bambi coded ☹️ i need to nurse him back to health #listen to capable of love by pinkpantheress btw its so gojo to me #jjk x reader #jjk #gojo satoru #gojo satoru x reader #jjk fluff #gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo x y/n #jjk x you #jjk x y/n #jjk x gender neutral reader #gojo fluff #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x y/n #jujutsu kaisen x reader

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riaki · 5 months

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nice boys and sour hearts | satoru gojo x reader

wc: 4.6k cw: minor swearing, he refers to u as 'momma' once (its normal i promise) n i think thats about it post suguru defection, shoko typical smoking ; no established relationship b ur def more than friends

i didnt want this angst to be too intense so i made it super duper fluffy. hopes it tastes like strawberries to u cs it does in my head ; another one of those fics i whipped up to meet the weekend deadline b i’m actually proud of this one not proofread!

satoru hates arguing with you.

it bites at him; twists his heart from the inside out in such a gut-wrenching way that he can hardly stand seeing your nose wrinkle in frustration and your eyes narrow with impatience, let alone hear the words coming out of your mouth, dripping with venom and irritation directed at him. he's never been used to being on the receiving end.

it tastes sour; bitter on his tongue in a way he's never been accustomed to. his tastebuds only recognize the sweet taste of fruit syrup, powdered sugar, or warm chocolate as home; he never indulges in the bitter, like the black coffee the kid he took in seems to like so much. but he'll take the silly sour lemon drops with sweet cream in the center, only because they remind him of you. you, so sweet when you love but sour when you're annoyed, which happens to be now, in this instant.

of course, he'll tell himself he doesn't mind. that sweet and sour have always gone nicely together. like strawberry lemonade on hot summer afternoons when the both of you have had enough of being stuffed into a clammy hot classroom with your musclebrain teacher. sometimes its the three of you, maybe even the four of you if you get lucky with the pixie stick trade offering (a healthier alternative to a cigarette, you both agreed on). but nowadays, it was only ever the two of you. the bitter had chosen his own path, and tangy was locked up in the infirmary sun up to sun down.

but right now, you're upset with him. and he absolutely despises it— to him, it's abhorrent. a strong word, but it's only fitting. but he can't help it when your conversation lingers in his mind, spinning itself a web of self-doubt and hurt and anger as he slips his gym shoes off and redresses himself by the school lockers, running a hand through his hair with a forced, annoyed exhale.

it was nothing big, really. or at least, that's what he thinks. you'd been in the gym after school, watching as he messed around with the basketball, seeing how long he could go dribbling by himself with a bump of his knee there, pushing it to the floor with his hand and watching it bounce back up with mild interest. he had no one to play with, but at least the ball would come back up no matter how much he pushed it down.

it was small. barely worth fussing over.

he had already been irritated. it was hot out, because summer was coming around. sweat beaded on his neck and rolled down his chest, seeping into his shirt as he wiped his forehead and made another shoot at the hoop, landing back on his feet with a soft thud as the basketball rattled around the rusted metal ring and fell through the net for the nth time that afternoon.

a hum of approval comes from your throat, followed by a loud whistle of contentment from him as he watches the ball bounce on the floor. he hikes his sunglasses up his forehead, bringing an arm up and wiping away the sweat on his cheek with his sleeve as he turns to look at you.

"that was pretty good, yeah? i think i deserve a celebratory smooch. lay some sugar on me, momma'." he laughs, loud and arrogant. you just give him a pointed look at that, but he ignores it as a sign for something wrong and only acknowledges it as your dramatic endearment. like speeding up at the sight of a yellow light in hopes that you'll make it instead of slowing down at the warning.

his shoes made squeaking sounds on the gym floor as he made his way over to you, swiping his shades off his face and sliding them onto your forehead, nestling in your hair as he grabbed a rag from the bench and wiped the sweat from his jaw. you have his uniform jacket on your lap, the yellow button glinting in the dying sunlight filtering in through the windows, reflecting off indiscernible flecks of dust in the air.

you had watched him with quiet contentment, observing the languid way he moved, graceful like a dancer moving in water. but then, you seemed to remember something; his lips pressed into a thin line, tilted to one side in anticipation. it made you hesitate— he always knew when you were about to speak before you even opened your mouth. he had come to notice, and appreciate, little things about you like that.

"were you smoking with shoko?" you had asked him. he tilted his head, eyebrow cocked up as he made a face. "no, i wasn't. why d'ya ask?" he huffed, watching from the corner of his eye with mild disinterest as the basketball, still rolling from his previous goal, bumped into the wall. cocky as ever.

(he wouldn't even look you in the eye when you were being dead serious.)

you reach a hand into his jacket, fishing around for something in his pocket; that gets his attention. who knows what trinkets and candy wrappers he has in there? and he'd hate for you to send him to his yearly checkup early again; the nurses always try to coddle him, and he has half a mind to charge for battery. nevertheless, he almost mistakes what you pull out for a lollipop stick. but it's not— it's a cigarette; a white papery hit of cancer with a dead cherry. certainly not a wise idea to keep that in his pocket among the other very flammable wax wrappers and the occasional flower petal, but who were you to judge? you, who's lips pucker like they've just tasted lemon juice when he eyes the unlit cigarette, utterly unamused.

he knows that you know it's his; the subtle glistening of pink around the end points to the gloss on his lips; he can practically taste it on his tongue. he wonders if you'd put the cigarette to your mouth too if you could have a sample of his lipgloss; then again, you could always just ask for a lip-to-lip taste, and he'd indulge you without a second thought.

you twist the cigarette butt between your fingers so that he can see the remnants of faint strawberry pink on the edges. he just rolls his eyes with a loud huff, leaning his weight back on his heels and shoving his hands in his pant pockets.

"yeesh. you're such a goody two shoes, y'know? how come shoko's allowed to smoke 'n i'm not?" he drawls, an arrogant lilt to his voice as he sticks his lower lip out. you can see a matte spot where the gloss had been transferred to the cigarette paper. you just sigh exasperatedly (he feels like a kid when you do that) and lean forward, resting your elbows on your knees. his jacket bunches up in your lap.

you tap the cigarette to his chest a few times; it makes a soft thumping sound against the fabric, and for a moment he's grateful of the noise; it sounds just like the way his heartbeat picks up with each touch, but you don't hear it. he wonders if you ever will. maybe one day, when there isn't so much distance between you and he has the opportunity to tuck your head to his chest, right over his heart.

"it's not that i care about the lung damage, idiot. why were you smoking?" you asked, voice softening. and he absolutely hates when you do that, because it always pulls on his heartstrings and brings a flush to his face, the way you treat him. he thought that if you did it enough, he'd be sent to the doctor for heart palpitations instead of a sweet tooth.

he doesn't answer you at that. how could he tell you, when he knew all that'd result from it was a thorn in his side? you, being the rose. so beautiful but awfully prickly and unfairly sour like a lemondrop with a sweet inside. then again, he'd much rather have your interrogating care than lose you, like what had happened with the reason he was trying out smoking in the first place.

then, it happened— your voice went unbearably soft, like puffy white covers and featherlight pillows with silk covers on a saturday morning, looking out the window to see pink tulips against a cloudy blue sky as the sun streamed in. it almost made him want to clutch your hand over his chest and see if you could feel the way he was reacting. no doubt, it was filled with such patient tenderness; all-encompassing sweetness it made him want to cry. so he coughed to cover it up, averting his gaze and bringing one hand to his face to absentmindedly smooth down the strands of damp white hair hanging over his eyes.

"thinkin' about suguru again, are you?" you asked gently, tucking the cigarette back into your pocket—yours, not his—and reaching out to take his hand.

his lips parted ever so slightly, gaping like a goldfish. he knew he looked silly, and he should've been okay with that— because being vulnerable with you, out of everyone he ever knew (with maybe the exception of one) was easier than breathing; came more naturally to him than his gravitation to a challenge. the same could be said for sweets.

(maybe he'd have to re-evaluate his proclaimed taste, then. since you were more sour than sweet.)

but this time, he wasn't okay with it. it had been hard to talk about what had happened with suguru one year ago since— it formed a nasty lump in his throat, bitter like black coffee and the wrong mix of herbs. it made him feel weak. reminding him of his shortcomings, which, in his mind, shouldn't even exist in the first place. but you never had a problem ripping his problems from the shielded cavity in his gut, bringing them under the operator's light to dissect and solve like a surgeon. forget about forcing him to the doctor's— at this point, you should be the one in the white coat, not shoko. he thinks about what you'd look like with blue gloves on your delicate fingers for a moment too long.

"what's it to you?" he snaps back after what feels like three years of his life. his fingers tighten around yours for a moment before he pulls his hand away abruptly.

the frown that lingered on your face from then on had been burned into his memory.

and, well, that was his mistake. it spiraled from there— because he knew what it was to you, and he hated that. hated that you could see straight through him like a cloud blue stained glass window; without rose colored lenses like the ones he always wore (the ones he rocked, he thinks).

a crack of thunder overhead jolts him from his thoughts; he couldn't even get in there to dust the spiderwebs away before being jerked back into reality. he clicks his tongue in disappointment, watching as the skies pry themselves open and rain begin to fall in the way it only did over heavy summer showers. he wishes the sky would stop its weeping, but even the strongest has his limitations.

but it doesn't matter. he has one of those cheap plastic umbrellas he'd bought from a convenience store one day in a late march many moons ago, during the brightest blue spring of his life. and so, he didn't understand why he was lingering at the door, swinging the umbrella around his fingers by the hook on the handle, watching as the rain fell with increased fervor. there was no plastic button to keep the folds tied up, so it floundered around with each swing like a tulip bent by monsoon winds. maybe on the coast of some faraway land with windmills and fields of flowers. he wonders if he'll ever get to see the world with you someday— a fleeting thought that crumbles instantly when he conjures your pretty face in his vision, clear yet distorted like a reflection on a glazed pond, rippling water from the dragonflies that skipped over the surface.

you were definitely still angry with him, because you hadn't showed— normally, you'd walk home together. sometimes with shoko, if she didn't leave early. angry words echo in his mind, the image of your downturned lips swimming in his bright vision as he watches the rain streak down the window panes by the lockers. there's a fog settling over the grass outside that's sure to leave dew after the storm. he wonders when that'll be.

"why can't you ever take me seriously? can't you see i'm worried about you?"

"of course i can. but i don't need your damn concern!”

...

he'd been sorely mistaken, that was for sure. loosing his cool and snapping at you wasn't exactly something he took pleasure in, either way. he leans back on his heels, tapping his foot impatiently as he holds the umbrella like a cane against the floor. infinity could probably do away with the rain. another reason as to why he's not even sure why he's waiting here, or why he's holding an umbrella. perhaps to keep in case he has to offer it to some poor, shivering and cowering young maiden lost beneath the shading of a bus stop behind a curtain of rain droplets, with a charming grin and a wink.

maybe.

a shuffle behind him catches his ear; he turns his head, an unamused expression on his face as his eyes drift over the empty room to land on you. the shadows beneath your eyes are prominent, and your hair is unkempt. there are sleep lines on your face; you probably fell asleep in a classroom somewhere, which is why you delayed.

it was evident you weren't expecting to see him, though— with the way your eyes widened a little before they dropped again, nose bridge wrinkling slightly as if you'd caught the scent of something unpleasant. your eyes left his, and he felt a little disappointed as he watched them wander toward the window, where the current downpour was prominent. he didn't like the way it made his chest pang when your attention was anywhere but him, so he raised his hand lazily, tilting his head to catch your attention that he so clearly craved.

"yo. got an umbrella?" he calls, tapping the tip of his budget cane on the floor. the thud is the only sound for a while as your gaze wanders back over to him; reluctant.

"no, i don't. i didn't expect it to rain so hard today." you responded quietly, stepping over to him with a small sigh. almost a little resigned, he thinks. he can't be sure, though. he never is with you. doesn't know whether to expect his candy to be sour in the center or the other way around; but maybe he likes a bit of uncertainty every once in a while. (not with you, though. if it means arguing? never with you.)

his sunglasses are hooked around the collar of your shirt. he doesn't know why it takes him so long to realize, but when he does, he has to clear his throat in an effort to hide the heat on his face and do away with the blush. "here. take mine. i don't need it," he says curtly, offering his umbrella to you. he wants to snatch the shades from your shirt, but he doesn't want anything to go wrong, so he just eyes them warily, careful not to let his gaze slip past into anything you'd be pissed at him for.

you eye him, eyes narrowed as you raise an eyebrow, but you don't protest. your fingers brush against his for a brief moment when you take it, shaking it a little before opening the door and stepping outside, opening it up. it looks like a little clear plastic mushroom cap over your head; you're short enough to constitute as the stalk in his eyes. it's a little funny, but he has to stifle the laugh bubbling on his tongue lest you think he's making a mock of you.

he follows after you, slipping past to stand at your side with his hands in his pockets. you can't help but feel a little curious despite your prolonged anger (you like holding grudges, he knows), so you sneak a glance upward to satiate your wonder. you don't expect him to look as breathtaking as he does.

the clouds are light overhead; they're not a heavy blanket of gray anymore, and a small strip of light manages to push through, shining on satoru's pale white hair. you can make out the edge of his undercut against his neck when the wind picks up a little, the color of fluffy white clouds on a lavender sunset with the sway of yellow flowers beneath an expanse of a bright sky. there's a little cat hair on the collar of his jacket; you realize with a faint flush that it must've been from when you were holding his jacket for him in the gym. somehow, the cat you have at home found its way to satoru. you hope your pet has become a matchmaking fortune teller, for the sake of your happiness.

what catches your eye the most, though, isn't the cat hair on his dark jacket or the faraway look in his misty blue eyes; it's the outline of rain water around him, a product of his infinity, you realize. he's dry underneath the downpour, and it never ceases to amaze you. it's like there's a soft glowing halo against the backdrop of tangled wires, gray walls and pale green bushes— he looks like an angel boy, school bag hooked and hanging over one shoulder.

eventually, you manage to peel your gaze away, and he notices— looks down at you, pressing his lips together and running his tongue over them. he can taste strawberry gloss.

wordlessly, you start walking. and he follows suit, rain bouncing off of him; you catch yourself sneaking glances from under the roof of your clear umbrella between raindrops that slide down the clear plastic. sometime during the walk home, he had gone off and gotten himself a drink from a nearby vending machine— the red can catches your eye, and your fingers curl around the rubber handle of the lent umbrella as you watch him drink; the bob of his adam's apple before he crushes the can up and tosses it into a nearby bush, causing a brief scattering of leaves and a downpour of collecting droplets onto the pavement.

despite the rain, the weeds between the cracks in the sidewalk still stay strong; they have deep roots. much like the way you never fail to scowl at him for littering. he catches it— of course he does. he's been praying for a sign you're not still so hopelessly angry with him that you can't even bring yourself to have a civil walk in the summer rain together. after the scowl, though, comes the smile— the one that always makes him melt in his shoes, much like the sunshine after the rain.

and there it is at last, he thinks. the hard sour coating melts away on his tongue, draining the taste of lemon to reveal a sweet, genuine center. all it takes is time. your lips curve up, and you duck your head, hiding the small bemused laugh that leaves you breathless.

"what are you laughin' at?" he huffs, glaring down at you. but there's no malice behind it— if only you could feel the wave of relief that's washed over him, a crest of white foam that leaves behind still waters reflected in the pools of sapphire in his eyes. nothing like the hit of numbing nicotine he'd shared in the shade of an alleyway with shoko earlier that day— away from the sun; away from you. hidden from both. or maybe they were the same— to him, he couldn't differentiate.

"i'm not laughing!" you protested weakly, immediately wiping the grin from your lips, and he regrets speaking up. "just.. i dunno."

you walk in silence for a little longer, content to listen to the rain lighten up overhead. satoru kicks a plastic onigiri wrapper out of the way, splashing up a puddle as a frown dampens his face when the wrapping only clings to his shoes. he's fine with getting a little grumpy if it means seeing you smile again. and even better, you laugh again— so sweet, like the chiming of bells in the wind's melody.

"please don't do that again." your voice sounds so very small when he hears it again, and he looks down at you from beneath long white lashes, the corner of his lips quirked up. the shape of them is almost cat-like, you think. he doesn't even know what you're talking about— a vague idea, at best— but he won't do it. not if it means hearing you sound so pathetically... sad. he doesn't like it. it's far too bitter for his taste. let the black betta you both used to know indulge in dark coffee and bitter cologne— satoru likes things sweet, like the cream surrounded by tea leaf matcha in the center of his mochi and fluttering feeling he gets when you run your hands through his hair, fluffing it up to your heart's content.

(as long as your heart is happy, his is, too.)

"i won't. happy now?" he sticks his tongue out, making a face. but you both know he means it— he hates breaking his promises to you. you smile when you look up at him again with a small nod, and he feels his knees wobble a little. he just hopes you don't notice. "sorry for lying. i just.. don't like it when you're mad at me. and you look at me like that," he mumbles under his breath, bunching up the fabric of his pants between his fingers. then, after a moment, "geez, you're so dramatic. quit carin' so much." he really hopes you don't stop, and it makes him feel like the world's biggest hypocrite. the strongest, but so weak for you.

"sorry, can't. the day you stop crushing your soda cans and littering is the day i'll stop caring, 'cus that won't be my satoru anymore." you tease. and he laughs, throwing his head back so you don't see the red that spreads across his cheeks, dusting his skin like powdered sugar on top of a strawberry crepe. he always wants to be your satoru, so he figures he'll keep littering. a few money fines here and there mean nothing to his undentable wallet, or the erratic beating of his heart, trapped against his ribcage in a feathery blooming of flowers he only gets from you and your pretty smile underneath the layer of lemony sourness.

you walk along the road for a little while longer. the rain has lightened, but it's still going— incessant, dripping from the leaves of trees and the knotted black wires overhead. he still has his infinity up, which means he can't pet the cat the two of you spot on your way back, but he's perfectly content to watch you do it. you scratch its chin, smiling at the way it purrs and nuzzles into your hand, and he wonders if he'd do the same if he was in its position.

he's lost in thought when you speak to him again, shoes splashing against murky puddles in the backdrop of a never-sleeping city; tokyo's bright skyline always makes your eyes go round with wonder. you say something, and he chuckles, warm and velvety. and then you realize what's been off with him this whole time— he doesn't have his shades on.

you slip them off the collar of your shirt, smoothing down the fabric before you reach over and attempt to nudge his arm. you don't think it'll work, because he still has his infinity up— and your sleeves are already getting spattered by rain that leaves darkened wet spots on the cotton. but to your amazement, your fingers make contact with his sleeve, and you watch in wonder as the rain actually falls— soaks into that little patch of wet fabric that you're able to feel on his arm. that he's turned his infinity off in that one spot so you could touch him. you spare a glance up at him, only to find his head angled away from you. you might be hallucinating, but the tips of his ears seem red.

you don't linger on it before you're tugging on his shirt with a frown, getting him to look down at you as you unfold his glasses and offer them over to him. he takes them quickly, and you don't miss the way the rain stops falling onto his arm again, back to bouncing off the invisible shield that protects him from everything (but you, it seems). he slips his dark shades back over his eyes, obscuring oceans of pure blue that seem like they've trickled in from the purest snowcaps on the distant mountains dotted with old red tori gates and shrines with scrapped paint. but you can't stifle the smile that spreads across your lips this time— giddy and fresh and filled with youth, blossoming like sakura petals in a spring that seems so far away yet so close with his presence by your side.

you don't say anything for a while. you're content to watch the rain wash down the pavement and into the gutters, past cute little coffee shops and parks with ponds as the droplets from the sky scatter the water in part of a never-ending cycle; watering the surface of the earth and bringing life that would soon spring up as shroomcaps and fresh dew on the clean cut green grass. you wonder what satoru sees through his lenses— though, you already know. you've worn them plenty of times before, when he insists on having your perfume cling to the frame for long missions he's sent on alone, when he can't have you hold his jacket, or his hand, or scold him for sneaking a smoke when you're not watching. that, and the extra lemondrops he keeps in his pocket; gifts from you that he's fought hard for.

you're more prepared to not feel any interference of his infinity this time when you reach over, and this time you don't go for his sleeve—yanking him close to you by his hand and forcing him beneath your umbrella. you feel the way he freezes up for a moment, but his fingers fill in the gaps between your own like its the most natural thing in the world, palms pressed together in a little breathless hug that leaves no room for the humid air.

"don't waste your infinity on the rain, dumbass. you'll fry what little is left of your brain." you scold him, and he just grumbles and scoffs angrily under his breath, cursing you as he hunches over and ducks his head to fit under the umbrella to negate his height. his hair brushes against the plastic roof of the umbrella, and his lanky limbs are still awkwardly sticking out, but his fingers tighten around yours and his thumb rubs over your knuckles, still a little damp from your earlier encounter with the rain, and you can't help but smile a smile bright enough to wash away every last bit of cloud in the sky. his personal sunshine.

even though he still prefers sweet things, satoru's come to like the taste of lemondrops. sweet and sour go well together, after all. just like you and him.

its okay if it doesnt taste like anything to u as long as u enjoyed it :) thanks for reading !! the black betta in question is suguru btw my (riaki) stuff. don't repost and/or plagiarize !

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buckttommy · 19 days

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I need buck to be in danger and tommy running into the danger to get buck out safely. I need tommy to hold bucks face in his hands and tell him that he needs to look at him and tell him what hurts. I need tommy to be a worried boyfriend

whoops

"I'm okay."

Evan doesn't actually know if he's okay. His head throbs, for one, his vision blurring around the edges. He's not entirely convinced he doesn't have a concussion, and his ribs spit fire whenever he so much as tries to inhale. His arm—the one that's not currently attached to the hand that's gripping Tommy's wrist like he's scared he'll float away—is broken, or at least he thinks it is, and he's got a bunch of other scrapes and bruises that'll give him hell in the morning.

So maybe he's not okay (and judging by the way that Hen glares at him in his peripheral vision, maybe is starting to look like definitely), but he's not dying.

That's all that matters.

Tommy swallows tightly. His right hand clenches and unclenches at his side like he's trying to keep himself from reaching out to touch, and it seems like he's losing the battle. Evan appreciates the respect, appreciates the acknowledgement that he's not out even in a situation as dire and terrifying as this one, but it's a particular sort of agony to watch Tommy fight his instinct. Evan just doesn't know which one of them it's hurting more.

Tommy clears his throat. "When Chimney called and said that—that you were hurt..."

"I know." Evan has been on the receiving end of a call like that more than once. The corner of his mouth lifts into a small, fragile smile that sends more blood spilling down his face. "I'm sorry I freaked you out. I didn't mean to do that to you."

He doesn't mention that he, too, was also freaked out. Not because he thinks Tommy can't take it or doesn't want to hear it, but because he doesn't know how to say it without having the whole situation feel abruptly, horrifyingly real.

When the building came down, all he saw was rebar and ash and cement, and if he's honest, he's still not sure how he made it out of there. Still not sure whether it was pure survival instinct that had him clawing out of that air pocket or whether some benevolent god reached down and gave him a helping hand. Either way, he's not complaining. He knows what it's like to be the one waiting for information, to think you're about to live the worst day of your life.

He's glad he didn't do that to Tommy.

This time.

Tommy's eyes rove over his face, his body, like he's trying to catalogue for himself all the places in which Evan is broken. He loses the fight against his hand and gently grabs Evan's jaw, tilting his face toward the flashing lights of the ambulance. He clucks his tongue and drags his thumb along the edge of a gash scored across his cheekbone.

"You're going to need stitches on that."

"I know, I know. Just—" Evan sways on his feet. He's tired, suddenly, the adrenaline passing and fear taking roots in it's place. "I thought I was going to die today."

Tommy makes a wounded noise in the back of his throat. "Evan."

"No. I know. It's just that—if I hadn't somehow ended up in that little pocket of space, I-I would have been dead. And I know that's the job. You know? It's—it's what we both signed up for." He rocks forward on his feet, partially fueled by fatigue, partially fueled by this desperate fucking need to be back in the comfort of his boyfriend's orbit. "But I'm just really—I'm really glad I get to come home to you again."

Tommy's face softens. "Oh, sweetheart."

Evan's boyfriend is massive. It's one of the things he loves most about him. Tommy can (and has) manhandled him with ease countless times before. But the way he touches him now, careful of all his broken parts, is so gentle that Evan almost feels like crying. He melts into the warmth of his embrace as he feels Tommy's nose press into the soft hairs at his temple, followed by a quick brush of his lips.

"I'm glad you get to come home at all. I—god. You have no idea, Evan. You just don't know." He huffs a laugh that's not really a laugh at all and holds him slightly tighter. "I know it's the job, like you said, and I never really minded when it was me running into burning buildings. But now it's you, and—" he pauses. Swallows. "Well. It's not really as fun from this side of things."

"Says the guy who flies helicopters into hurricanes for a living."

Tommy's laugh is actually more of a laugh that time. Something eases in Evan's chest. He tips his chin to look at him.

They're standing far too closely, far too intimately to be considered casual. He's not out to anyone at the station except his family, and he can feel curious eyes roving over them every now and again.

But Tommy is shaking.

It's a small tremble wracking his body, clearly suppressed (or at least trying to be), but it's there and it's breaking Evan's heart to pieces.

Maybe it's that that gives him the courage. Or maybe it's the fact that he almost died. Or maybe it's the fact that Tommy smells like his laundry detergent and, this close Evan can see the edge of the hickey he left beneath his collarbone, or maybe (most likely) it's all of those things. But before he can think about it, before he can stop himself, Evan is murmuring,

"Can I kiss you?"

Tommy's eyebrows raise to his hairline. His gaze darts around, but they're tucked away from the largest portion of the crowd of first responders that arrived at the structure fire. The only person that's even sort of nearby is Hen, and she's so obviously giving them privacy that Evan wants to hug her a little bit.

Later.

Right now, he just wants to kiss.

Tommy frowns. "Are you sure? I mean. Yes. You can. I always want to kiss you but you're not out."

This is true. Evan considers this for a moment and decides that, right now, he doesn't care. Everyone he cares about already knows he's bisexual and they love him regardless, have loved him all this time.

He doesn't give a shit about anyone else.

"We don't have to," he says after a moment. "But I'm tired. And everything hurts. And when I was under there, all I could think about was—was you and getting back to you and kissing you, and so I—"

He's cut off by the feel of Tommy's mouth on his, tension gliding from his shoulders as their lips slot together.

Finally.

This is what he's been needing ever since he emerged from the rubble. Ever since Hen dragged him to the ambulance and sat him down to tend to his wounds. Ever since Chimney told him he called Tommy to let him know what happened.

This is what he's been missing.

Tommy's heartbeat jackrabbits against his chest.

It's an odd thing to be able to feel someone's heartbeat, to be pressed so close together that you can literally feel the thing that's keeping them alive. Evan has never felt anything more sacred, he thinks, and the fact that this heart—this beautiful fucking heart—beats a litany of fear for him through Tommy's veins is overwhelming.

Humbling.

He adores this man.

He lets go of Tommy's wrist and slides his hand up until it rests over Tommy's heart, and then he waits and waits and waits until the beat starts to slow down. Until Tommy exhales a sigh against the side of his face.

There it is, that's what he was waiting for.

Tommy pulls back first, far enough to press their foreheads together.

"You need to go to a hospital," he murmurs.

"Later."

"No, now." His laughter is soft. "Hen is glaring daggers at me. I can't be sure, but I'm fairly certain she's about to pry you out of my arms and strap you to the gurney herself."

Evan snorts. Yeah, that sounds like Hen.

He takes a step back out of the warm circle of Tommy's arms. A bout of vertigo nearly knocks him off his feet, but then Tommy is there once again, holding him up.

Evan's own heart beats just a little bit faster.

Together, they walk over to the back of the ambulance, Tommy helping him get settled on the gurney once they get there.

Evan meets his eyes. "Come visit me in the hospital?"

"Visit you? I'll be right behind."

Tommy presses a kiss to the back of his hand, and this time when the vertigo hits again, he's not entirely sure it's just because of his injuries.

He's never felt so adored, so treasured before. It's intoxicating.

Tommy looks over his shoulder, his face earnest. "I know I don't have to ask, but please take care of him."

Hen's voice is immensely fond. "Relax, Kinard. He's in good hands."

Tommy nods. He meets his gaze again and then holds it until the ambulance doors close. It's only when Evan leans back that he remembers, oh, right. Everything does kind of hurt after all.

Definitely not okay, then.

"Ow."

"Yeah, I know." Hen's voice is still soft. She fusses about the back of the ambulance, plying him with bandages and medicine and whatever the hell else she's doing. He's not entirely sure. Reality is starting to slip away. Her face appears in his field of vision. "We'll be at the hospital soon. Close your eyes."

"Tommy?"

"Buck, I'm pretty sure not even a natural disaster could keep that man from being at your side." Her tone is teasing, but she's sincere. Something warm settles in his chest even as his eyelids drift closed. "Rest. The sooner you go to sleep, the sooner you can see him."

Evan's not sure about that logic but he's too weary to question it. He closes his eyes anyway, lets the rock of the ambulance lull him into a relative sense of peace, and he falls asleep imagining the warmth of Tommy's body beside him.

#ngl I giggled to myself SO MANY TIMES WHILE WRITING THIS OH MY GOD #*screams and kicks my feet*#anyways #bucktommy #jack answers mail #tv: 911

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sparring-spirals · 10 months

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okay. i mean this with the utmost affection. but. while imogen and laudna telling each other "im you're anchor. you're my tether" as reassurance about going "dark" or giving into the lure of power is very meaningful and important. it also kind of struck me like. hey wait one of you anchoring the other. fine. possibly-functional. but doesnt BOTH of you tethering to each other risk creation of a spinning centrifugal blur whirling down the road to power.

and like yes yes this isnt an original thought and the proper terminology for this is probably like "dual corruption arc" or in CR "i broke the world for you" yes but. i wanted to share the specific imagery my brain provided for this train of thought, which is roughly:

like. thanks. brain. i guess.

bonus thought that popped up when drawing this:

#critical role #imogen temult #laudna #c3e65 #cr spoilers #kinda #sorcery pact #LOOK I CAN ABSOLUTELY WRITE MORE THOUGHTFUL IN DEPTH ANALYSIS OF THIS or i can illustrate this and giggle at it #orbs spin fast. hah.#:)#(once i watch. proper meta is coming. this is both a promise and a threat)#i was partway thru making this post when i lost signal for a while and had to ask someone around me whether centrifugal is the outward forc #and couldnt explain why i was asking #the sacrifices i make for cr......#shitpost #spar speaks #imodna #.....?

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sexygaywerewolf · 4 days

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Kai should've never had his freckles taken away. He had freckles as a kid, and should've never had them removed in the new designs. Nothing against plain skin, but Kai's freckles were a defining part of himself. We all grew up as Kai with freckles truthers so why would we let them change his model to not have them? The new writer should've just kept them, not change and remodel one of the best character designs in history. Sign this petition if you think Kai should still have freckles and not a blank face. Once we reach a good amount of people who have signed, I will contact all y'all's mom's and tell them how fucking stupid you look and I won't contact the new writer bc that's weird.

#lego ninjago #ninjago #ninjago kai #kai smith #I WAS GIGGLING SO HARD WHILE WRITING THIS #copypasta

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derpycatsu · 6 months

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opened my 3ds for the first time in months and continued my pokemon Y game and well. i havent really put it down. so here are some sycamores :) i think he is very cute

#hes so autistic to me i cant even explain it i have to draw him stimming at some point #i see him as a very stimmy person #always doing something with his hands and arms #(wow…….. Just Like Me I LOVE TO PROJECT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)#i will definitely be drawing him more hes so fun and easy for #me to draw #yay!!!!!!#i was giggling so much while drawing the last one LOLLL #i told my pkmn server he definitely giggled and twirled his hair when he said that #ok…. idk what else to write Hi Bye #professor sycamore #augustine sycamore #pokemon xy #pokemon #felix art

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zeijia · 5 months

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music producer!sukuna who fucks you in his studio . . !! ໒꒰ྀིっ˕ -｡꒱ྀི১

His studio was dim lit– neon lights coming from his computers and the small led lights on the corner of the room.

He has you bent over, your chest pressed against his desk as he fucked you from behind, thrusting his dick in and out with a menacing pace– a pace that made you see stars each time he hit a spot in your sweet cunt.

he’s so cocky about it too, he loved whenever you moan– no, scream his name in pleasure, echoing through his room.

“fuuuuuck, that’s it, doll, scream my name.” he encourages as he continues to bully his cock in and out of your abused hole.

what sukuna loves is when he grabs you by the back of your skull, pulling you towards him just to see that fucked out expression on your face.

he loves seeing your rosy tongue lolling out, drool spilling from the corner of your mouth as your eyes roll back to see stars.

“just fuckin’ look at how much of a slut you are f’me, baby,” he whispers in your ear before kissing your neck, and you’re too dumb to even blabber out a defensive statement to him.

I just know he even has the nerve to laugh at you, when you try to defend yourself; he’ll respond with– “oh yeah? is that why this pussy’s clenching so damn tight ‘round my cock right now?” he says in a mocking manner, noticing the white creamy ring form on his cock.

It’s even worse when you cum around him, making a mess all over his floor. “you better– ngh, clean that mess up later..” he’ll jokingly say, knowing full well he’ll do that, “you came so much– no other microsized dickheads could make you cum like me. c’mon, say it pretty thing,” he grabs you by the chin, making you face him as he fucks you through your orgasm,

“c’mon, tell me how much you love me, how much you love my cock and no other man could make you feel like this.” he grunted, as his balls tightened up, his pace getting faster, as you screamed again. “mmh– only you, sukuna! haaaah.. only ‘kuna makes me– ngh! feel this damn good,” you voice out to him, going full on shameless as he paints your walls white.

once he’s fully pumped all of his seed inside you, he lets your body drop back to the desk, pulling out his slowly softening dick

he loves the sight of your pussy oozing out with his cum as you mumble something he can’t seem to understand.

oh well, sukuna just got his motivation and inspiration for his new track.

#jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk smut #ryomen sukuna #ryomen sukuna smut #god help me i cant with myself #i giggled while writing this #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x you

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cozymaples · 5 months

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prompt idea (no worries if it doesn’t speak to u!!): reader tells steve she wants him to degrade her, and at first, steve is against it. he feels really guilty about how he’s spoken about women in the past and feels like calling you mean things in bed is disrespectful to his girl. but the first time he tries it and sees that dumb look in her eyes, he changes his mind REAL quick 👀

OHHHHHHHHHHHH YOU.

steve is in love with you. he loves you so bad, he can't even stand it. the spare time he has when he's not daydreaming about you is shopping for engagement rings, sometime in the near future. so when you ask him to degrade you, his face completely drops.

"what?" you stare back at him, suddenly regretting this decision. lust overrules you, and fuck it; you love him too, and you feel safe enough to explore this territory with him.

"please," you beg, his cock having just been put inside you. "doesn't even have to be all mean, stevie-please-" he doesn't even know where he would start, not wanting to hurt your feelings whatsoever. sure, he'd had reputation in the past-but that was the past.

you were his future.

"i-" he stammers, sighing with defeat as you stare up at him, doe-eyed, pussy soaking. he slides his cock slowly, the first thrust making a soft moan spill from your lips. "fuck, just-"he stammers, choking back his own noises. he can't hold it back any longer, he needs to fuck you-and if this is what you want, god is he willing to try. "alright, baby. you tell me to stop if you need it, yeah? promise me-" you cut him off, nodding eagerly. "promise. swear it." with your permission, he starts to thrust his hips forward, slowly pounding into your pussy. he immediately shifts his demeanor, the dead (but not gone) 'king steve' finally peeking through.

he lifts your leg, pressing it back until it touches your chest, bending at the knee. it causes his cock to sink further into you, earning a near-deafening moan from you.

"yeah, you like that, huh?" it's his usual banter, but you nod rapidly, eager for more.

"of course you do, fuckin' slut." your brows furrow, and you can tell he's holding his breath waiting for your reaction, despite his expression remaining the same. you feel your stomach flip in the best way, his words sending warmth straight to your throbbing clit. "f'course i do," you murmur, breathy and dizzy with lust. you hear him hiss through his teeth, his cock throbbing inside of you. "god," he moans, and you cut him off. "love y'r fuckin' thick cock pounding into me." his brows furrow, feigning sympathy as he nods.

"oh, i know, baby. must be so-fuckin'-hard for you to do anything if my cock isn't fucking pounding into you." he says through thrusts, pounding you harder each time. you whine in response, and he chuckles. "yeah? go all dumb when i fuck into you like this-so fuckin' pretty. didn't know how good you'd look without a fuckin' thought behind those eyes."

#me eating gummy sharks while i write this #giggling and kicking my feet #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington stranger things #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington #steve harrington smut #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x reader smut #anon #steve harrington moodboard #steve harrington headcanon #steve harrington x reader imagine #steve harrington imagines #joe keery #maple writes stevie!

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kenneduck · 5 months

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I just spent way too long writing this, but here's a HC on what I believe would happen if BOTW Link found his OWN diary from 100 years ago.

At first, the diary's pages seem rather bland. Random stories about being in training, how Link misses his parents, how he's overwhelmed with the pressures of being a knight, etc. But, as Link reads through his old self, he finds himself caught on words. Words that seem... off putting. Words that make him feel a bit of fear of what he had forgotten about himself. Sentences that made him second guess if he should have been the Hero of Hyrule.

It's not apparent, but there's little sentences here and there that show a side of Link that didn't awaken after the 100 year slumber. Anger, envy, spite. Emotions Link DID encounter once he'd awoken, but... never directed towards the Princess. Never towards his role as knight. Never towards his friends who didn't remain any more.

Link felt a pit in his stomach form as he got further into his diary. Everyone he knows now recounts Link as a hero full of heart and determination. One who stands up for what was right, one who never questioned what he was told if it was to protect another. But these thoughts Link wrote... it made him feel guilty. He wrote about how he hated being a knight. Being HER knight. Being a chosen one who couldn't run away from what was forced upon him. He even... wished he would fail, so his duties would come to an end.

It felt heartbreaking to read these words he wrote 100 years ago. He wanted to help the Link who wrote this. Almost treating this Link as if it was someone he could comfort, but this wasn't another person he could reassure. It was him.

As Link got near the end of his diary, he didn't know what to think. He... hated himself. Who he was. It wasn't who Link was now. He never felt this anger towards his role in the Calamity since he woke. Link did feel anger, but it was towards his writing. How he could have possibly had such spite towards those he loved. Towards those he put his life on the line to protect. It angered him. Made him seethe as he got to the last written words.

"There's no winning against the Calamity. Only winning against those who use me for what I provide. I must leave, for I am fighting the wrong fight. I only have one place to turn to, one place that will truly accept me. No matter if I join them now, or many of years into the future, I must join the Yiga Clan."

Link stared at the last sentence. He began to feel anger, a different one than before. As Link recounted how he came across his diary, he grew frustrated. It was found neatly placed in the damaged knights' wing of Hyrule Castle. The diary itself had no dust, yet the room was caked in it. A room... that had a familiar scent of fruit lingering...

The diary was a pathetic ploy to have Link join the Yiga Clan. To turn him against his loved ones.

And it took him until the very last page to realize it.

He also now understood why previous pages would randomly recount his love for bananas. Why there was even a recipe to make banana bread on the 14th page.

He felt like an idiot for not realizing this sooner, but as he began to calm down from the overflow of emotions he got while reading, he realized the perfect way to release the frustration. It was time to visit the Yiga Clan.

#zelda #botw #zelda headcannon #zelda headcanon #leave me alone I just thought this would be silly #some yiga memeber deadass was writing this while kicking their feet #probs giggling too and patting themself on their back #while eating a banana #and also kind of being weirdly accurate enough on link's life that it took link so long to realize it was a ploy

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emlovessid · 4 months

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@jegulus-microfic january 3, ruthless, 134 words

“That’ll be $2,000,” Regulus says with a smirk, holding his hand out in front of James.

Sirius chuckles from beside him, “I told you he was ruthless, Prongs.”

Looking from Regulus’ face, to the hand held out in front of him, James can’t decide if he’s annoyed or turned on. Lips turning up into a smirk of his own, he proposes, “I can pay up now. Or I can pay you back later in…other ways.”

“You’re not seriously using a game of Monopoly as foreplay, are you?” Sirius says, horrified.

Ignoring Sirius, Regulus deliberates for a moment, chewing on his lip before nodding and saying to James, “You have yourself a deal.”

As soon as Regulus has made the last of them bankrupt, Sirius and Remus are hightailing it out the front door.

#giggled to myself while i wrote this one #jegulus #jegulus fic #marauders #sometimes i write things

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charamelwrites · 1 year

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he's ready for your date!

#undertale #underswap #sans #underswap sans #i really wanted to draw our date for the day!!#u guys i've been giggling uncontrollably while writing the latest chapter #he is literally everything #can't wait to write more fluff with the other skells!! 💕#undertale au #myart #charameldraws #I can't draw flowers don't look at me #bwems #bwems art #bwems fanart #babysitting with extra morbid steps

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captainfern · 6 months

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Hi! Hope your day/night is going well, do you think you could do a post about wake up sex with Gaz?? Like imagine- it’s early in the morning, both tired and needy for each other, and he just slowly fucks into you while whispering/praising into your ear?? 😩😩😩😩 (I need help) ofc do it whenever you can no pressure but your writings for him r amazing 🫶🏽

i got a bit carried away. enjoy <3

18+, fem!reader

“just love this pretty pussy, baby, mmm—” gaz whispered in your ear, the sentence stretched out on a deep, breathy groan

you were both on your sides, his chest against your back with his arms hugging you closer to his body. he had one of your legs folded back over his as he slowly eased his cock inside you

you whimpered, head lolling back and allowing gaz to press kisses along the curve of your neck and jawline while splitting you open on his cock, sinking into you slowly until his hips pressed against your arse

“s’that feel good, hm?” he muttered in your ear, kissing behind it. “does my baby feel good?”

he rocked his hips slowly, cock hitting deep inside you, your arousal already leaking out from around his length. you whimpered, nodding against the pillows, eyes blinking lazily

his big hands held your hips, carefully pulling you back against him with each movement of his hips. he kissed and licked at the skin of your shoulder, neck and jaw, sucking kisses as the tip of his cock kissed the base of your cervix, making your body grow hot against his

“mmm such a good girl for me, letting me stuff this wet pussy with my cock,” he whispered, teeth skimming your earlobe. he hummed a moan from deep in his throat. “such a wet pussy, all for me. s’just for me an’ my cock, hm?”

you mewled, your legs trembling. his cock nudged that spot inside you so effortlessly, your orgasm fizzling in the lower parts of your stomach

he reached a hand around your hip, brushing over the soft curve of your tummy, before running a finger through your folds to collect your arousal. he grumbled a noise into your ear, feeling how wet you were for him, before pressing his finger to your swollen clit, making your breath hitch

“gaz—” you moaned quietly as his fingers began tracing light circles against your clit. sweat built between your two bodies as his slender finger worked against your clit and his cock continued to rut inside you

“love this pretty little thing,” gaz murmured into the soft skin of your neck, pinching your clit lightly before continuing his circling. “love the way it makes you feel when i play with it. eh, baby? y’just love havin’ your clit played with, don’t you?”

“yeah…” you exhaled around a whine, your orgasm building inside you, legs trembling, cunt squeezing around gaz’s cock

he breathed deeply against you, lips still moving in short, wet patterns across your skin. his tongue laved across the light sheen of sweat that had accumulated on the curve of your neck from where he had his face pushed against

“mmm, you wanna come, baby? you wanna come all over my cock?”

“please—”

“come for me,” he whispered, hips rocking a bit harder against you now. “wet my cock. want this pretty pussy gushin’ ‘round my cock when you come.”

your body shivered as you came, arching back against gaz as the pleasure overtook you. your body listened to him— your cunt squeezing his cock tight, gushing around him, liquid arousal dribbling out of you and smearing against the thick of your inner thighs

you moaned, and gaz moved his finger away from your puffy clit, instead placed his finger against your lips. you sucked the digit into your mouth in your post-orgasmic haze, eyelids dropping as he continued to rut his thick cock into you

you moaned around his finger as he hooked it around your bottom teeth, pressing the pad flat to the front of your tongue. he grunted into your neck, shunting his hips against the plush of your arse, cock twitching heavily inside you

“gonna come in this pretty pussy,” gaz moaned against you, the prettiest sound ever. “beg for my cum, baby, please. please beg for it.”

you whimpered around his finger, and he chuckled against you, sucking and nipping at your skin before speaking lowly into your ear. “aw, has someone got her mouth full? mhm… shouldn’t speak with your mouth full, baby.”

you whimpered again, managing to spit out a few words around the thick shape of his finger against your tongue and teeth. “please, gaz— need your— mmpff— your cum.”

he groaned against your neck when you almost choked on his finger, the tip pushing harder towards the back of your throat, his knuckle brushing against your lips. he continued rutting into you slowly, moaning into your neck, before his slow pace became sloppy

“here it is, baby, here’s my cum— n’ you’re gonna take it all in this pretty pussy, mmm— gonna take it all like my good girl, my best girl.” he came inside you, whispering your name as he pulled your arse back against his hips, his thrusts stilling as his cock twitched inside you, filling you with his cum

he mumbled incoherencies against your neck, licking and sucking, still spurting warmth up against the plug of your womb. you whimpered, and he finally pulled his finger out of your mouth, patting you gently on the cheek

“that’s a good girl,” he cooed, rocking his hips gently against you a few more times, stuffing you full of his spend. “s’that feel good?” he pressed a hand to your lower tummy, rubbing circles

“mhm…” you hummed, sleepy. he was still kissing you softly and whispering praise into your ear as the morning sunlight bathed you in gold, and you drifted off to sleep again

#RAHHH #i got carried away 😔#but i was giggling while writing this #love this man #captainfern #captainfernsalutes #sergeant kyle gaz garrick #kyle gaz garrick #cod gaz #call of duty smut #cod smut #gaz smut

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that-foul-legacy-lover · 1 month

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10,000 Leagues Under Fontaine

Synopsis: The life of a guard of the Fortress of Meropide is mostly dull and structured, until a chance encounter with an otherworldly beast gives you a reason to smile again.

Foul Legacy x Reader Pronouns: Gender Neutral (no pronouns mentioned) Genre: Angst Warnings: Mentions of drowning, acid, burning, very slight mentions of blood

~ * ~ The Fortress of Meropide is always cold. Cold, but never quiet; the underwater complex is unmistakably alive despite being made of metal sheets and grates, the sound of machinery weaving with the chatter of both inmates and guards, sharing their days and gossiping here and there as good citizens of Fontaine always do- rumors spread fast in the Fortress, and there’s not a moment that isn’t exciting or entertaining in some way. Or so you like to imagine. Being one of the top guards of Meropide has its benefits- getting to choose your days off, occasional trips to the surface, even the Duke’s personal trust in your abilities. But with trust comes difficult, often tedious tasks, ones that Administrator Wriothesley only assigns to the most capable workers, and so you find yourself patrolling the space between the main prison and the ocean gates. The room is an odd mixture of metal and screws and a gradual incline towards the sea floor, a shallow puddle transitioning into a passage filled with water that someone could swim in. You keep wondering when Wriothesley will properly fix the gate at the end, and he simply responds that he’ll get around to it at some point. For now, keep watch- it’s almost a straight shot to the ocean, and we wouldn’t want inmates attempting to escape, now would we? And you just nodded, expression steady as stone and twice as unmoving; no prisoners would sneak in on your watch.

Not that they often do. Life at the Fortress is a new start for many and even a step up in comfort for most. Besides, the passage is much too long for anyone without a Vision to swim through without the danger of drowning- you’ve had to haul a few corpses out in the past, and that was enough to dissuade most of the other prisoners, it seems. Good for security, but boring for you, as there’s little else to do but watch water drip from the ceiling and skirt around the jagged bits and edges of metal left on the walls and floor. Occasionally a gardemek going through its initial testing will join you, and you’ll idly teach it to play rock paper scissors- so far, you’ve kept up a 50% win rate against the robotic soldiers- but nothing more. At least it smells of rain here instead of smoke and fire. You’re alone on the day that the noises begin, sitting on a crate and mistaking them for distant ocean waves and the clanging of hammers against metal. They’re simple at first- vague splashes and a faint scratching sound- but as you listen they morph into something else, like echoing cries, or perhaps a song through the sea. Something beautiful, for once, one corner of your mouth twitching up ever so slightly- what few friends you have call this expression your “almost-smile”, and know it’s as pleased as you’ll get. Something close.

Your almost-smile vanishes as your ears pick up the distinct sound of something swimming through water, the water that flows through this small passage, scrambling to your feet and snatching your weapon from its spot on the floor as whatever-it-is turns the corner, the water’s surface rippling. You really should’ve taken up on His Grace’s offer to get you a rifle. You’re expecting the aquatic thing to burst forth from the sea, attacking you first and asking questions once you’re dead, but instead you’re greeted with the sight of two crimson horns poking out into the air, the water stilling if not for slight movements. Slowly, steadily, your gaze follows the horns down as a head rises out of the water, a single crystalline eye blinking curiously and settling on your form. There’s a moment of silence, and then the creature chirps. You can only freeze in place, brows furrowed in deep confusion as the beast- Archons, it’s big- hauls itself onto shore, tilting its head this way and that as it cautiously approaches. The hand holding your weapon tightens, your heartbeat almost painful, and the monster’s eye widens as it pauses, glancing nervously from you to your weapon and back again.

With slow, deliberate movements, you watch as the beast lowers its head to your height, letting out a soft trill. It almost sounds apologetic, hunching its shoulders inward shamefully, and something in your heart, the one you molded and fixed into being cold and quiet, cracks. You lower your weapon, eyes narrowed, and you swear you hear the creature purr. Legacy is its name, his name- Foul Legacy, a monster from beneath your world. But he’s a monster only in appearance, you’ve learned, navigating the ocean with boundless curiosity and a demeanor sweeter than any Fontainian dessert or cake that you’ve ever eaten. Tell me everything, he begs, scratching his claws through the dirt in a language you only vaguely remember from an old book. Tell me anything and everything- about this world, about here, about there, about you. He likes you, you’re kind and caring and gentle, so unlike the countless stars he’s seen before. You try to protest. You’re not caring, or gentle, or kind- you’re a guard of Fontaine’s prison, someone who was stabbed through your spine and constructed walls around your fragile heart, watching the Fortress to make sure that no one could ever be hurt like that again. You’re not soft or loving, you’re not. But Foul Legacy merely chitters, fluttering those sparkling wings that you swore used to be fins and staring at you so sincerely that you’d think he adored you.

And he does adore you, loves you, even. Ah, if only he spoke your language, the language of mortals that his tongue can’t seem to wrap around, if only he could say three simple words and hug you close, showering you in affection. But he can’t touch you. The last time he tried you had clamped your teeth down on your tongue, a drop of blood falling from your mouth as your skin burned like acid, a sickly heat creeping up before you had jolted away, gasping for air. Legacy whined in concern, trying to nudge your seemingly-unblemished hand, but you’d simply shaken your head and stepped away, slightly feverish. Every person in Fontaine is born with sin. No matter how the Nation of Justice holds trial after trial, this sin cannot be absolved. He didn’t touch you after that, merely curling his body carefully around yours during your visits, hanging on to your every rambling word and always parting with the same question- Tomorrow? Yes. You’d return tomorrow, despite your chilly expression and flat words and tone. You always return tomorrow.

The Fortress has been buzzing with energy- not that it isn’t always- but the arrival of a certain golden Traveler has kept everyone on their toes, the dread and anticipation of something happening seeping into your bones, because it’s always something whenever that Traveler and their tiny, floating companion are around. You almost prefer your monotonous routine from before, but a small smile blooms slowly on your face when you watch Foul Legacy happily splash around in the water, shaking his head and cooing as the droplets rain down around him. He chirps at you curiously, your quiet, fond expression reflected back in his sapphire eye, and you just let out a small laugh and wave your hand as he stares at this new facet of you in awe. With a soft plink, a bead of water falls and lands on your cheek, a hiss of annoyance escaping you as you quickly swipe it away, settling between your nail and finger. It burns, and your throat closes up in horror. Not a minute later, Wriothesley’s voice rings out through the building. “All residents, evacuate immediately.” There’s a crackling pop and a split second of silence, before the alarm blares and your ears ring with pain. Until one day, the water levels in Fontaine will rise, and the sinful people will slowly be drowned.

Your hands slam against the barred door, tearing desperately at the metal that mercilessly rips into your fingers and closes off the room you always guard so carefully from the rest of the Fortress- they forgot you. They forgot you. They forgot you and left you here to drown and rot, and your eyes burn with repressed tears, fear enveloping your senses like a sticky, jagged web. No no no- you swore you’d never be this afraid again, that you’d never surrender so easily again, that you’d never cry ever ever again. A soft, concerned whimper snaps your head around, Foul Legacy standing behind you. His wings droop at your damp eyes, claws twitching and curling from the urge to hold and hug and comfort you as is right and proper, banish the panic away because it scares him to see you, normally so composed and quiet, this terrified; instead he shakes his head and trills, hastily beckoning for you to follow him, boots splashing in the water stretching into a long passage. Out. It leads out. It leads out to the sea and the surface, where you can breathe and cry and admire the sun, and your feet move forward before you can even think. You want to live- yes, finally you want to live. You want to live and be able to smile and laugh again, keeping the warmth that this strange, otherworldly monster brought to your life and never let go.

With a deep breath, you plunge into the water, kicking your feet and pushing yourself in the general direction of the path. Foul Legacy guides you with his chirps, now turned to eerie, song-like notes under the waves. His tail and fins- weren’t those just wings?- propel him faster than you could ever dream, yet still he slows his pace and stays behind with you, and your heart feels like it's joining in on his melody. The water swirls around you like oil, lungs burning as a few stray bubbles trickle out of your mouth and you taste salt on your lips. What little you can see in your murky vision flickers black, and Legacy lets out a sudden, terrified shriek. In the end, the people will all be dissolved into the waters, and only the Hydro Archon will remain, weeping on her throne.

It’s just salt in your mouth now, the taste coating your tongue in a horridly thick layer. Your fingers twitch as they burn, pushing through the water with arms heavy as lead. Foul Legacy whimpers and sobs in despair, grasping his claws around your wrist to try to pull you out, get you to the surface away from this sickened water only for the ocean itself to sink its teeth in and hold fast. What’re you trying to do, again? You’re having trouble remembering where you are, what you are, who you are, scrubbing your eyes again and again and swallowing gulps of salty seawater. This is where you’re supposed to be. This feels safe, comforting- you’re going home after all this time, see, somewhere less confining and fleeting. Finally, you’ll be where you belong, free from the bindings that hold all of Fontaine in their grasp. There’s a vague sense that someone has wrapped their arms around you, faint, anguished wails echoing through the depths, and when you finally open your eyes again you see stars dancing across ripples and tides. You return to the Primordial Sea, and Foul Legacy’s talons close on only foam and bubbles. Only then will the sins of the people of Fontaine be washed away.

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kanene-yaaay · 2 months

Text

He started it!

Kanene's notes: I think my brain is no longer able to grasp what a 'quick, small fic' is kjhgfdfghjjhgvjhgf somebody this was supposed to be just a small drabble but the cuteness broke me. Somebody save me from the Dogday brain rot please somebody save me...

But anyway! Can't say when I will be able to post again, college just started and so my days are going to be very full :') Still! Hope you all like this!

Warnings: Plenty of raspberries, nibbles and teasy nicknames. Around 3,500 words. Ticklish!Dogday and Ler!Reader. Other than that, nothing, this is pure tooth-rooting fluff. Rip da boi. Also! Once again, I'm obsessed w Felix's writing style where the dialogues and narration are mingled together so all the hugs and thank you's to her :D

[~*~]

Dogday had started it.

Of course it was him. Just like a ray of sunshine, your own personal star, shining and chasing the dark shadows away, he did and now there was no other way this could’ve played out.

“A-angel, please!” His voice glitched, getting lower at the end of his plea, however immediately growing higher again as giggles began filling the space, crackling and buzzing in both despair and delight. “Think about what you’re about to do!”

You hummed and smiled at his squeal, fond and sweet and absolutely devilishly as you remembered how this entire game began.

Every single corner of this factory was dangerous. Even so, there were hostile places where any kind of sound, whisper or even a poorly suppressed gasp could attract the worst kind of attention and immediately break in pieces the fragile peace that warily followed you and Dogday in your path. At the time, you both had been walking through one of these areas for far too long, bathed by complete silence, careful to keep your steps silent and with an alerted kind of tension clinging to your form with each passing second.

That was when, for some reason, Dogday decided that enough was enough. It was his moment to shine.

Where even did the idea come from? Has he been bored?

“You just seemed so stressed!” His tail was wagging so much you could feel the wind it created hitting your legs. An involuntary coo left your mouth at the playful, a tad proud glint in his eyes, which only made his smile bigger and loopier. He tried to tug his hands away to hide his face. Needless to say, it was an unsuccessful attempt. “No, no, no! Don’t!”

Anyway, it had been confusing at first. When the giant sentient toy turned in your direction, making fingerguns with his paws and pretending to be firing at something, you immediately spun around in a quick and swift movement, grabpack and firing hand ready to attack pointing in the same direction as him, eyes searching for the danger he was gesturing.

… Stopping to think, he did almost laugh at you that moment, didn’t he? You bet that if you both didn’t have to conceal any and every sound his crackles would’ve rang free and joyfully across the whole factory.

You took an exaggerated deep breath and blew slowly in a faux disappointment, feeling his muscles under you tense and shake with barely concealed titters, a tiny protesting half whine and half plea flying around, his torso squirming.

(Away or closer to the sensations? Both of you knew the answer very well.)

Tsk. You hummed again, only to hear that adorable squeal once more. It took everything to not let him go and dig, to listen those high pitched squeals over and over again and see how many of them you could collect, letting them dance in harmony with his glitching laughter and rumbling chuckles until happiness and joy were the only thing filling his mind and actions, until his smile were wide enough to light up the dark pathway ahead and each tiny, almost imperceptive wiggle, scribble or twitch of your fingers was followed by the lovely, lovely melody of his tickly delight, prompting more and more expectant titters and pleas without you even having to lay a single finger on him.

But the game couldn’t be over so soon. And it was quite fun to see how much giggles you could get even though you weren’t actually doing anything.

(Yet.)

So you pushed down the adoring smile that tried (again) to take over your features and let it morph into a sad expression, slowly shaking your head in a fake disappointment.

Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. Such a good friend and he almost laughed at you like that… After everything you both have been through, after all the fights and the talks, the hugs and the vents… You see how that is.

“P-please! Angel, just, please!”

No. Nuh-uh. You went back to your previous position, shoving your face in that soft fur. Don’t start with the sugarily sweet nicknames. You were brooding. Moping. Sad. Devastated. Betrayed. In absolute and total pain. There was no angel available right now, please return later.

His only answer was a series of even more glitched squeaks and titters growing stronger and giddier at any second with your silliness, especially when his body involuntarily jumped, already in alert for any attack and still not doing anything to scramble away.

That could be your fault, but in your humble opinion, it wasn’t very clear. Okay, maybe he couldn’t just bring himself to stop and stand still when you kept using every opportunity to nuzzle and mumble on his belly non stop, easily following his torso and quivering stomach around as he wiggled and squirmed in the same place, trying with all his might to not lose himself already with all the ticklish shocks that bolted across his entire midriff with such a simple action. Words (and teases) continue to fall like waves from your lips.

Maybe he just had been bitten by an awful ticklybug! Who would know?

“There is no tick-” Dogday gasped and snickered when you blew air against his fur again, freezing for a second in preparation for a raspberry that didn’t come. Realizing that, he let his head fall on the floor and trashed even more. He tugged his arms again, playfully growling when you kept your hold firm on them and wiggling even more as he turned to stare back at you, a funny kind of energy and antecipation racing each other in his nerves. “There is no ticklebug! It’s you!!”

Oh well.

A pity.

Anyway. Back to the story. That had been how everything began. He later explained his idea for the game, when you were able to exchange words again. From that moment, in total random occasions, one of you would make a gesture in the other’s direction and they would have to quickly react to it. In the most silly and unexpected way, preferentially, as long as you didn’t make any sound while at that.

See, Dogday? No sound.

He yapped in protest, letting out a single surprised, an offended yelp at the accusation. “We don’t need to be quiet here. You’re just teasing me!” Dogday’s hands fell to his sides, no longer trying to pry you away, shoulders shaking with every giggle and eyes watching your every action with joy and expectation.

You keep going.

The playful exchange became a habit between you two at this point, even filling the moments you didn’t exactly need to be quiet. It was a nice way to interact when there were no more words, memories or promises to be exchanged. That is why Dogday didn’t even bat an eye at you when you called his attention by innocently offering both of your hands in his direction, tail lightly wagging as he immediately placed his own paws on yours, a fun, tiny grin appearing on his previously serious and protective expression when you intertwined your fingers.

Which quickly morphed to a wide stare when you locked your grip and jumped on him, bringing both of you to the ground.

So, yeah, Dogday was the one who started it. And now he was trying to shoot his shot again, pulling out the saddest, sweetest puppy eyes in your direction.

“Angeel, please. Mercy!”

Awww.

(That was a bit adorable, you couldn’t lie. It kind of melted your heart. Just a tiny, little bit.)

(Ok. A lot.)

But that was the thing, Dogday, you were being merciful already. Because if your hands were free, you would give him the entire special attack. You would just claw and knead on that cute, truly adorable tummy, taking some precious time to give your attention to his sides and all the scribbles and scratches to his ribs, being sure to go and tickle aaaall of his favorite, ticklish spots over and over and over again, for as long as he wanted.

Wouldn’t that be nice? And, of course, during this your hands would be very, very busy, so he would have to keep his arms nice and snug out of the way. But he could do this for you, right? Even if he was laughing and squirming and crackling his heart out, not even pretending to not love every single moment of this game, or that he wanted it to be over any moment soon.

“Eek! Wait, wait!”

You grinned. See? That was what not being merciful would be. But, stopping to think, those are not bad ideas at all. He really couldn’t stop getting any more adorable, could he?

“Sweetheart!” He squeaked and shook his head, partially in a way to disperse all the restless energy taking over his body and partially in a hopeless attempt to make his big ears cover his flaming face.

Oh.

(It was quite endearing, actually, how he didn’t exactly blush. His smile would get wobblier and the light in his eyes fuzzy and lightly trembling all while he couldn’t decided if he tried to hide his face or kept staring at you with a gaze so full of complete trust, an excited desperation conquering all his features… Honestly it was just as crystal clear as if his face got completely taken over by a strong shade of red, truly.)

Your entire demeanor softened. That nickname was a new one.

(You wouldn’t mind listening to it being giggled out like this again in the future.)

You decided to return the favor.

Yes, gigglebug?

For a piece of time, Dogday froze with wide eyes and a slight ‘bzzz’ sound escaped from his voicebox. Then his squirming grew anew, no longer being able to look at your soft gaze and trying to press his dazzling, gigantic smile on his shoulders, now with his entire body bouncing with barely suppressed snickers.

His tail hit the floor with an endless and quick pace of ‘thump thumpthumpthump’. The confusion in your expression immediately gave place to a wicked smirk.

Hm.

Gigglebug?

He jolted with a yelp.

Silly giggly gigglebug?

Dogday snorts and tries to pry his hands away from yours with a bit more energy than before. Still, his efforts were still half heartedly at best. In turn you just hold them a bit tighter, thumbs lightly rubbing the back of his paws as your tipped your head to the side, - not unlike he himself watched you from time to time - chasing his gaze and maybe or maybe not giving his belly a tiny - so quick and small that it was over in less a blink - nibble until he turned back to watch you with wide fuzzy eyes.

Nope. No hiding that beautiful smile, huh?

His ears perked a little bit and his wide eyes captured yours for a moment, then jumped to your kind hands, your amused, playful glare, his defenseless belly, his captured paws, your suspecting eyes and, eventually, your eyes again.

Then, without breaking contant, he shut his mouth, firmly pressing his lips in a tight line as he lowered his head to his shoulder, successfully hiding, indeed, that beautiful smile.

Ah.

You see how that is.

Dogdayy ~

He let out a muffled giggle, only pressing his face even more on his shoulder, turning away from you.

Well, since he was insisting so much…

You discreetly adjusted your position, took a deep breath and immediately attacked his lower belly.

His entire torso spasmed, almost throwing you out of him with the sudden move, a loud peal of laughter instantly filling the air as the horrible, awfully ticklish vibrations fuelled his trashing, the raspberry spreading across every single of his nerves, leaving each and every one of them tingling and buzzing.

Another deep breath. Another long, long raspberry and a crackling squeal was ripped from his voicebox, more and more following suit as you chased every sensitive path of fur non stop, not losing a single opportunity to shake your head to increase the sensations, giggling a bit at how that never failed to glitch his words and bring more squeaks to the lovely melody of his laughter.

You spared a couple of tiny raspberries for his sides, literally feeling how they made him arch his back. That only gave you even more access to plenty of sensitive, ticklish spots that you were more than happy to latch on and tickle as if the future safety of the entire world depended on sending him to a total madness and increasing your collection of “cute-sounds-that-Dogday-does”.

You experimentally began nibbling that spot that connected his back and side, right below his belt, if you were not mistaken this would…

Snorts took over the giant toy and in a blink his back immediately clued back on the floor, torso trying and failing in curling into a defensive ball. The new round of raspberries vibrated across his side and teased his entire ribcage, tickling each bone and nerve.

Dogday tried to muffle his reactions on his shoulder, but with each nibble, each raspberry, tease and nuzzle he felt his mind getting more and more overpowered by the realization that it tickled. It tickled so, so, so much and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Not when his face seemed to be set aflame and his entire body kept getting closer and closer from giving up completely from his squirms and wiggles to let himself succumb to the joyful, insane, funny and fun sensation. Not when his angel kept looking at him with so much amusement and fondness that only succeeded to make him feel even more ticklish and the fact that his giggles weren’t the only ones filling the room made him feel extra silly and made his heart melt with delight. When he was able to just laugh and squeal his heart out, carefree and loud and happy.

How could anyone blame him, then, when he saw with the corner of his eyes you lift your head and so he decided to push his luck more, continuing to hide his big, gigantic, loopy smile.

Ohoho.

So, your dear gigglebug was trying to keep all those sweet reactions away from you, even after you worked so hard for every single one of them? Now, that really wasn’t fair, was it?

You gave him a break, no longer tickling him. Still, having your voice so close made his torso instinctively try to wiggle away, which in itself seemed to only re-alight all the reminiscent tingling on his skin, making the tickly sensation it go back to buzz and dance on his nerves, increasing the phantom tickles, each passing second and taunting word making them feel worse than before. All of this only kept Dogday stuck into an infinite sea of unstoppable, hysterical titters and snickers.

Do you think this is fair at all, gigglebug?

He shook his head and stopped, then nodded and then shook it again, giving you a glimpse of shiny eyes for a second before it disappeared once more on his fur.

Well, you think this isn’t fair at all. But that is fine. You both can stay here all day long if needed, as long it takes until you get to see that beautiful blushy face and dazzling smile. Yep. That sounds like a good, no, perfect idea! He would love this, right? To keep giggling and laughing and squealing here while being tickled silly forever and ever?

“Sweheheart!”

Oh! You wonder who said that! It sounded like your dear friend Dogday, but it couldn’t be him, right? No, not really. He was too busy hiding away from his best friend, as it seems.

Aw, that was a pity, truly. He was such a kind, awesome presence in your life. With a personality able to brighten everyone’s life and a trustful companion that was incredibly kind and strong. Always ready to help without a second thought or a blink of an eye, to give a hand, a comforting hug or a remark that would bring you straight to reality.

Besides, he was kind of cute, too. Like a sweet, excited puppy. He had this loud, booming laughter that, when you got him laughing for long enough, started to descend into a series of crackles that never failed to make him snort and bounce around in joy until his voice box began to glitch in the most endearing and funny way.

“No more teasing! No more!” Dogday’s titters grew to hysterical high pitched giggles and he scrunched up his neck, trying to best to curl up and disappear as more and more heat spread across his face. His tail would make a hole into the factory’s ground at this rate.

See? It was the most adorably adorable thing, honestly.

Actually…

You adjusted yourself again and his bubbly giggles developed to chuckles, paws tugging from your grip once again. He knew very well what that tune of yours meant.

You kind of missed listening to his laughter…

And so, with a swift move you freed your hands, fastly shoving them on Dogday’s armpits before he could even react.

Without wasting a single second, you digged.

A shriek took over every other sound in the place. And then other as you pushed your face right in the middle of his tummy, nibbling and pressing raspberries on it without mercy all while your fingers scratched, scribbled and drummed on his pits with no abandon, nimble fingers dancing on the spot for a few minutes before jumping to other one, to prevent him to get used to the sensation.

Dogday just fell limply on the floor, his shoulders, torso and belly shook with the force of his laughter, and his arms kept jumping from hiding his face to cluing on his sides in a futile attempt to stop the wiggling from worming their way, once more, to his ribs or neck. Each snort, squeal, yelp, snicker, crackle and every other sound swirled freely in the air, especially when a raspberry found a new sensitive spot that even he didn’t know about - since when his collarbone was so ticklish? - and focused all their attention there until all his cute and fun reactions slowed to a string of bubbly, hysterical giggles and his friend went on the look for another sweet tickle spot.

His neck, ribs, armpits, stomach, even his own ears had not been safe from the playful attack. A few pieces of time passed until it slowed to an incredible, horrible kind of soft tickling that led to a series of tittering sniggers to spill from his lips and to a beginning of tears to gather in the corner of his eyes.

At this point, his paws came and gently rested on your hands, engulfing them completely, glimmering eyes finding yours as the light scribbling instinctively squirm lazily from one side to other.

You stopped, entire form melting, the playful smirk plastered on your features losing the sharpness of its corners as a proud fondness took over. You freed one hand to caress the fur of his head, chuckling with drops of amusement and care when he closed his eyes and all his muscles relaxed completely at that, his tail now going back and forth in a tired but content wag. He nuzzled your hand.

There is it. My beautiful smile.

He groaned, pulling his ears until they covered his face. “Angel… You’re ruthless.”

Hey, it’s not teasing if it’s true!

Another groan. He muttered something under his breath but didn’t shy away from your touch.

The silence fell like a soft blanket on you, bringing to that dark, horrible place a feeling of safety and care that used to be just a pointless, futile dream, before.

(This was nice. Safe.)

Suddenly, two paws flew like a blur of movement in your direction and you felt your entire world tumble and turn upside down.

You blinked and as your eyes focused, only to find a giant sentient toy who resembled a dog and slowly became your trustful companionship on the last days (hours?) in this factory. Someone you knew that would be right by your side and fight for your safety almost as much as you fought for his.

Although, by the way his mischievous gaze found yours and big arms embraced you in a firm, but still gentle, hug, you must admit you weren’t feeling that safe anymore.

…Dogday?

“No. You’re in friend hug jail. Paying for your friend crimes. You can’t get out.”

You snorted. Glad that you had the sense to start that playful game in the safe area you and Dogday had been clearing and taking care for some time since the ‘You Got To Be a Human and Rest’ episode.

Getting comfortable, you let out a relaxed sigh, snuggling closer, letting your hand softly run on his back in a soft, nice rhythm, not taking too long to feel him melting under the caring touch.

Well, you may be in jail, but your consciousness was clear.

Dogday had started it.

#Ticklish!Dogday #Lee!Dogday #Ler!Reader #Ler!Player #poppy playtime tickles #poppy playtime tickling #Kanene's fic #Kanene's fanfic #DOGDAY IS A DEAR HE DESERVES TO LAUGH AND BE SILLY AND PLAYFUL AND HAPPY OK I COULDN'T HELP IT #I like to imagine that Dogday is all giggles and half pleas and protesting babbles and giddy snickers until he actually gets tickled #then he just let everything else go and start laughing non stop without a single care in the world #if i had a nickel everytime I had to be careful while describing raspberries and nibbles w a character that had trauma related to being-#well-#nibbled on but not in a tickly fun way. I would have two nickels. Which isn't a lot. But it's weird that happened twice...#lkjhgfghjkolploijuh anyway!! hope you all have a nice week! take care <3 #xreader #they are both incredibly silly you honor #I was writing another fic where reader and dogday find his own small smiling critter toy version and befriend it but this one will be super #-long and time is scarse so I decided to finish this playful idea here first and then try to write the other when I can #Let's see how that plays out :D

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