#i need to write more for him
Text
in my feelings - tommy shelby
summary; you hate tommy shelby. tommy shelby hates you. from the way he walks to the way he talks, you hate him. and from the same things, he hates you, too. infinitely. imagine your dread when you are put in a position where you are forced to gain thomas’ help.
warnings; smut, angst, enemies to lovers, angry sex, rough sex, piv, and all around dirty fucking filthhhh, oh yeah and a shit tom of cursing☺️
a/n; angsty enemy’s to lovers with tommy shelby?? me thinks yes
PART TWO OUT NOW -
as your father tells you that he has to sell the farm you grew up on, the soil that held so many memories, the land that raised you to be the woman you are today, your heart broke into a million pieces.
because, see, without the land, there would be no places for your horses or other beloved animals to go, meaning you would have to sell them, too.
when the tears began taking a seemingly permanent residency in your eyes, he pulls you into a hug. “no, no, there has to be another way!”
and as the tears stained your fathers coat, he spoke. “there is one thing,”
and that is exactly how you got here. sat across from your mortal enemy since your schoolgirl days, tommy shelby, in his office.
he had that stupid, smug, annoyingly hot, smirk on his face.
“so, you’re telling me, that you need to marry me,” he practically laughed in your face.
“i don’t need to marry you, the farm does. if we get married, then a portion of your income goes to my family. and then, after saving enough, if everything goes right, we can get divorced and we never have to speak again.” you explained.
he nodded. “okay. say i do accept this outrageous proposal, what’s in it for me?”
you figured he may ask that. “my late mothers brother is the chief of police in birmingham. i can make a few calls, get them on your payroll, only without the pay.”
“but i am paying, aren’t i?” he furrowed his eyebrows and nodded once, making a statement more than a question.
he’s a smart man, so you figured he may say that, too. and here came the most humiliating part.
with a sigh, you spoke. “as my husband, you can… have me whenever you want,” you memorized what you were going to say earlier when it came to this, and only spoke from that script.
your voice was low, static, the humiliation of having any emotion in your voice would be too unbearable.
you honestly couldn’t believe the words coming out of your mouth and apparently, neither could tommy.
you weren’t so bothered by the prospect of fucking thomas, as much as you hated to admit it. it was just knowing that he would definitely hold it over you to the worlds end.
“you’re so desperate to save this farm, that you would let me fuck you whenever i want, however i want? if i pay you? you do realize that’s the definition of whoring?” he was genuinely amused at your proposition.
you scoffed, in disbelief kf his immaturity. “yes, i do realize, thomas. and yes, i really am desperate,”
he seemed to be in thought for a moment before speaking. “and what makes you think i want to fuck you? you’re really so narcissistic?”
you genuinely laughed at this. “you’re one to talk about narcissistic. and you’ll fuck just about anything that moves, i can’t imagine i’d be much of an exception,”
thomas chuckled lowly at this, his face seemingly challenging you. you wouldn’t let yourself be bullied, so you straightened your posture and finally asked. “so?” your voice was flat, almost disinterested.
he stared at your face for a few moments, like he was trying to break past your stoned demeanor.
“alright. we have a deal.” he confirmed. you nodded, fighting back happy tears.
as he held his hand out to shake, you glanced at it once with a silent decline.
“what, you’re ok with letting me fuck you like a whore whenever i want but you don’t want to shake my hand?” he stood, and because you wouldn’t let him have power over you- ironically enough- you stood, too.
“i didn’t realize you were so sensitive, shelby,” you spoke up.
“and i didn’t realize you were so headstrong, shelby,” he enunciated the last word, letting the epiphany set in for you.
oh god, you were going to be a shelby. for at least a few months, you were going to be a shelby.
you tried to make peace with the fact, but the it was just gnawing at you that all of this was plain unfair.
nonetheless, you shook his hand.
—
“what’s she doing here?” arthur’s thick accent sounded throughout the room.
tommy decided it’d be best for you to be there when he informed his family of the arrangement.
“well, brother. that is because she is my soon-to-be wife,” he cut straight to the chase and your eyes widened at his directness
polly nearly spat out her tea, john bursted out laughing, and the whole room was generally in an uproar.
ada, too, was puzzled, but quickly sedated the energy in the room with a loud “shut the fuck up and listen to the man!”
you were sat on a chair next to thomas’ standing body, not speaking.
“you two are getting married? you two? has hell frozen over? can pigs now fly?” john joked, but was serious in his disbelief. and he was right to. it wasn’t a secret that…
it all started in year nine. tommy was a 10th year and obnoxiously ‘cool’. he would hang out with the secondary school boys, sleep with their sisters, and torture anyone who’d let him, and most people did.
he was smart, but so were you, and you would not let him.
you were the only 9th year at the top of a predominantly year 10 class, tommy being a close second.
see, the shelby boy wasn’t used to anybody being better than him in any sense, but you made him get used to it.
he couldn’t stand you. from your way-too-short plaid skirts, to the way your hand would shoot up at every question asked.
he hated how he couldn’t tear his eyes away from you in class when you had your hair tied up in a pretty ponytail, gnawing on the eraser of your pencil, your eyebrows twisting in confusion when you couldn’t figure out an answer on a test.
just looking so innocent.
and most of all, he hated the nights he spent with his hand wrapped around his aching cock, whispering your name to himself like a prayer until he came hot strings of cum all over his heavy chest.
tommy rolled his eyes at his family’s immaturity. “it’s an arrangement. she needs money, and her uncle is the chief of police. we can take the coppers off our payroll,”
he left out a small detail but you weren’t complaining.
“after a few months, we’ll get a divorce and we can forget we ever crossed paths.” you spoke for the first time in the meeting.
the transaction seemed simple enough to most people in the room, and they all seemed to accept it.
“anyone have a problem with it? speak now or forever hold your peace,” he called out to the room, waiting for a potential objection.
and one never came. “alright, family meeting adjourned,” tommy waved everyone out of the room.
—
the weeks leading up to the wedding felt like they went on forever.
polly dragged you by your wrist to what seemed like a million different modistes and boutiques, dress shops and spas.
it was exhausting, but in bad there is good.
ada became your closest friend. she was the only person who knew about the other condition to you and tommy’s matrimony.
you were friends even as schoolgirls, despite you and thomas’ disdain for each other.
and now she was your best friend, and you felt inclined to make her your maid of honor.
the hours before the wedding were the worst of it. at least six women were in the room at all time, scrutinizing you to the moon and to saturn. they studied and judged every crevice and line on your face and body.
after being poked and prodded at for forever, it was finally time to walk down the aisle and see your soon-to-be husband.
you were in an over the top, yet elegant gown, the purest color of white you’d ever seen, with a sheer veil covering your face.
you did look quite beautiful, you thought as you looked in the mirror. but you couldn’t help but begin to cry.
you cried because you thought the day you’d see yourself in white would be under much different circumstances. you wanted to marry someone you loved, and for that someone to love you, too. and lord knows, thomas shelby did not love you.
even despite your own feelings for him.
ada came up from behind you in the floor mirror and rested her head upon your shoulder. “you look beautiful,” she spoke, noticing, yet disregarding your tears.
“thank you,” you sniffled. “it will all be okay. i spoke to tommy, he’ll treat you well, i promise,”
her words provided some much needed console to you. “thank you, addy. i wouldn’t have made it had you not been with me. thank you, and love you,” you turned to look at her face.
she just smiled and hugged you. “in less than an hour, we’ll officially be sisters. that should prove some motivation to get your ass down that aisle!” she exclaimed, already tugging on your arm to leave the room and enter the chapel.
you laughed and allowed her to pull you away, long since forgotten your woe.
—
“with the power invested in me, i now pronounce you man and wife. you may now kiss the bride!” the priest announced, signaling for you and tommy to get off of your knees and kiss.
as you both rose to your feet, thomas brought his face to yours in a seemingly disinterested kiss, it almost seemed practiced.
it caught you off guard, and caused a deep sadness in your belly, but you shut it down as ada, polly, esme, and all of the female shelby’s came to congratulate you.
you and your new husband were dragged outside to the car, destined for tommy’s estate, where festivities would begin.
the drive was short, and your patience was thinning, as you just wanted this all to be over.
you knew you were in for a long night as people began flooding into your new home.
and like every shelby-hosted event ever, an all-out rager-like party commenced.
thomas would not speak to you. unless, of course, somebody who was none the wiser to your contract would mention how in-love the two of you seemed. then he could not stop smiling at you, holding your waist tight, even sometimes kissing you.
you had never wanted to die more.
you must have drunk atleast eight glasses of champagne by the end of the night, just trying to get through it.
and that is how you spent the rest of the evening. you got through the first dance, you got through the kind old women talking about what an attractive couple you both made, and you got through seeing tommy flirt with other women at his own fucking wedding.
and at last, it finally came time for the party to end. you practically shoved people out of your door, ready to sleep in your no-doubtedly own bedroom.
you knew it was an arrangement, it was a tale as old as time, and yet you still couldn’t help but feel disappointed. nothing went the way you wanted, nothing. and at the end, all you had to show for it was a farm. it was actually kind of hilarious.
a maid hurriedly showed you where you’d be sleeping, and as you walked into the room, you realized it was indeed thomas’, with the way papers were stern all over the desk and the whiskey on the tray beside the bed.
she was gone before you could turn and ask any questions.
you groaned and sat down on the settee across the room from the bed, your dress making it impossible to see your feet as you tried to remove your heels.
your hair was next, pulling the many pins out of the intricate hairstyle.
you were almost out of this nightmare of a dress, before your zipper got stuck. “fuck,” you groaned.
“couldn’t wait for me before you started undressing?” your heard thomas’ deep voice from the door. he was teasing you, obviously, but you really weren’t in the mood for it.
“thomas, i’m tired. you try spending 8 hours in a dress of this size, then see if you want to tease me for trying to get out of it as soon as i can,” you quickly snapped back, and also quickly getting frustrated with the zipper.
he seemed to understand that you were not be messed with at the moment, so all he did was approach you, turn you around by your shoulders, and tug the zipper down until the dress pooled at your feet.
you hurriedly stepped out of it and sighed, feeling like the weight of the world was off of your shoulders.
“thank you, thomas,” you said contently, rubbing your shoulders, not realizing your compromising position.
you were half naked, only covered by your meticulously created and tailored white lingerie, and knee-high white socks.
apparently, thomas’ eyes could not force themselves to your face, because even as you realized his gawking and called him out for being so materialistic, he wasn’t seeming to follow what you were saying.
instead, all he did was walk over to you, place his hands on your waist like his life depended on it, and kissed you deeply, the kind of kissed you yearned for at the alter.
you almost got lost in it, before all the horrible memories of this past night came flooding in. you quickly pushed him away and slapped him right across his perfect cheekbones.
“fuck was that for?” he’s asked as if he was taken aback, yet made no effort to move away from you.
you scoffed with a laugh, but nothing was funny. “you know, i would be surprised had i not known you,”
“what are you talking about?” he seemed as though he was getting mad at you being mad, which you caught and fueled your anger further.
you got up in his face, sticking your finger in his chest and spoke condescendingly to him.
“you know, you could at least wait until after the fucking wedding to start to begin practically sticking your dick in every woman you see!”
“we never agreed on loyalty! that wasn’t part of our arrangement!” his voice began to increase in volume as well.
you glued your eyes to his piercingly blue ones and leaned closer to him. “i hate you, thomas shelby.” you whispered, yet your tone was anything but gentle.
“yeah? well, you can bet i hate you more,” he stood straighter, his height forcing to you look up at him.
the two of you stood there, waiting to see who would break eye contact first. he did, looking down at your lips, but just as quickly, he was right back onto your eyes.
“fuck it,” his thick accent almost growled, grabbing your face and smashing his lips unto yours.
this one was different from the one earlier. that one was a feigned love, a lust. this one was angry, hateful, and sultry.
oh, how you hated him, however his aggression intrigued you, making you kiss back even harder, forcing your tongue into his mouth.
your lips stayed connected as tommy walked you back to his desk.
your tongues fought for dominance and only disconnected for air. he fumbled with his belt before sliding off his jacket and removing his shirt.
he roughly pulled down your panties and unclipped your bra with one hand.
“jump,” he muttered into your mouth. you do so and he catches you, preceding to sit you on the desktop.
tommy runs his middle finger down your slit, collecting the embarrassing amount of wetness from you.
he chucked lowly before gripping your hips and lining his cock up with your entrance. “hate me, huh? i don’t think this cunt quite agrees with you,” he teased, but you were quick to rebuttal.
“i don’t think your dick agrees with your supposed hatred for me, either,” and you were right, his cock was painfully hard.
he suddenly decides he’s tired of teasing and pushes his full cock into you, bottoming out when he feels his tip prod at your gummy wall.
a choked gasp was emitted from you, and it sounded like heaven to thomas. he groaned as he pulled out almost all the way, then slammed into you again.
his speed is relentless, showing no mercy for your unprepared pussy. as much as you wanted to, you couldn’t deny how good it felt.
you wrapped you legs around his hips and tangled your hands in his hair before whispering in his ear, “i fucking hate you, hate you so fucking much,”
his growls were animalistic as his thrusts became more determined. “fuck you,” tommy gritted, right before a long since held in moan fell from his lips.
as much as you hated to admit it, you found your orgasm building in your stomach, the heat becoming unbearable.
“oh, shit, i’m gonna cum, oh my god,” you moaned loudly, your pussy tightening around him.
your release came to you in a hot white flash, your back arching impossibly more, your chest pressing against his, and you were on the very edge of the desk now.
a string of curse words and moans flowed from your lips like chords from a song tommy never wanted to end.
you whined at the sensitivity of your cunt, tommy not ever slowing down. “sh, sh, shhh. i know, i know, doll. i’m almost there, just hold on a little longer,”
soon, his hips met yours in one final, deep, long, thrust as he released bands of warm hot cum into you.
“fuck me, y/n,” he let out an exasperated laugh as he pulled out of you, watching the both of yours ecstasy pour from your abused hole.
“i believe i just did, thomas.”
#tommy shelby#thomas shelby#peaky blinders#tommy shelby x reader#tommy shelby smut#cillian murphy#tommy shelby fanfic#oneshot#kaia writes! 💌#this was sooo fun#i need to write more for him#send asks you guys !!!!#kaia writes tommy
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
what is the point in life if i don't have gyutaro's head in my lap while i run my hands through his hair, whispering gentle praises to him and telling him that hes beautiful??? WHAT IS THE POINT?????
guess who didn't sleep at all last night
#kny#demon slayer#gyutaro#gyutaro x reader#i need to write more for him#desperately#rose rambling#i promise im normal
64 notes
·
View notes
Note
I post from a side blog so I have to be on anonymous. Anyway I was quietly reading your post asking the OP gang to get your supplies & when I got to Kid I laughed out loud & scared my cats. I wasn't expecting that but it really fits him so perfectly. Thanks for the giggle
Oh my gosh, hi!!
I'm sorry about your cats! I'm so glad I could make you smile with the "Supplies Headcanons".
Eustass Kid is just ridiculous, and I adore him. At least he's trying to be supportive, in his own unique way 💀.
And look at him. Handsome man. Handsome (clueless about his afab!crewmates) man.
#one piece#x reader#eustass kid#ask snail#snail answers#i need to write more for him#he's so much fun to work with
40 notes
·
View notes
Text
hearing the sounds maul makes when being forcefully grabbed by his horns and then watching him smile darkly in satisfaction after being scratched on his cheek -
#tcw rewatch#whew lordy#i got a thing for that dramatic monologue giving former sith#maul#i need to write more for him
73 notes
·
View notes
Text
❄.·˙「The Feeling's Mutual」˙·.❄
Christmas Week day 4
Y/N needs to learn to knock.🤦♂️
First Hobi fic also, but I have many plans for him, being my ult!! Enjoy >:)
Tags: Jung Hoseok x male reader, smut
Warnings: 18+, being walked in on, voyeurism and shared masturbation
"Hey Hobi!" You open the door to Hoseok, your best friend's room. You swear he jumps a foot off the ground shrieking.
"Y/N! Don't scare me like that!" Despite his scolding he laughs. Hoseok always knows how to laugh and create a bright mood in the room. It's part of why you love him. Plus, he is used to you usually barging into his room without warning.
"Heheh, sorry. I just had to come get you. I want to host the christmas party next week and need to talk to you about it." You and Hoseok share a generally large apartment and the other members come over often, making it the mutual home base for everyone.
"Okay, I was hoping we would do something. Not much planning to be done if it's just going to be the eight of us though." He laughs. "We already know the drill."
"True, but I want to make it interesting! We do the same things every year, we need to spice it up a bit this time." You sit down on his bed while he sits down on his swivel chair. Suddenly, the both of you look at each other with bright eyes and a shared braincell.
"Drinking games!"
---Christmas Eve---
"All right guys, it's time to liven the mood a bit." You stand up and gather the attention of the seven guys all dressed in various festive attire. The chattering and laughing dies down as their interest is piqued.
"We went all out this year." You pull out the bottles of tequila blanco from behind your back.
"Yess, shots!" Taehyung grins and claps.
"Not just any shots, my friends, but along with a twist. We are going to play a game called 'drink or death.'"
"That is NOT what you called it when you explained it to me." Hobi sits down at the table, giggling.
"I like it! Sounds daring. How do we play?" Jungkook pipes up from his end of the table.
"Basically it's like truth or dare, except if you don't want to tell the truth or do the dare that someone told you to do, you can take a shot." You explain.
"Ah, okay, I get it. So we either inevitably humiliate ourselves or get blackout drunk." Namjoon reiterates.
"How do we decide who asks who and how turns work?" Yoongi asks.
"We can let the maknae go first. You can ask whoever you want, you just can't have the same person involved in a question twice in a row. Jungkook, you ask somebody!" You point at the youngest at the end of the table.
"Jin hyung! I dare you to go and get me a snack from the kitchen." Jungkook grins. Jin groans and rolls his eyes exaggeratedly.
"Ah, this is how you treat your hyung, eh? With my old aching bones, you make me go through so much?" He gets up and retrieves JK a very raw potato.
"Hyung, I can't eat this!?"
"You should have been more specific then."
The boys all laugh, Hobi slaps the table and any nearby shoulder as usual.
As turns go by and the night gets darker, the christmas party is going well and everyone has at least 2 shots in their system. Jimin speaks up, asking Yoongi.
"Yoongi hyung, tell me that you love me." The table erupts in laughter as Yoongi doesn't hesitate to pour himself a shot. "Ah hyung, you can even text it to me, I'll be happy with anything!"
"Zero hesitation, did you see that?" Hobi is dying of laughter.
"Ok, my turn." Yoongi sighs after taking his shot. "Y/N, you have to do a lap dance for someone of your choice."
"Bet. Hurry and choose a song. Hobi, come here." You pull a chair out from the table and beckon for him to sit. He looks surprised.
"M-me?" He stammers.
"Come on let's choose a song." The maknae line crowds over Yoongi's shoulder as they decide on a song. Across from them Jin tries talking to Namjoon, who you are pretty sure is fast asleep, face down on the table.
"I'm no pussy. This is going to be a lap dance you can't get anywhere else. ARMY would kill for this Hobi, you're lucky." You smile and wink at him. Hobi's face is red, but you're pretty sure it's just from the alcohol. As the music starts to play from Yoongi's phone, you get to work, unbuttoning your shirt just enough so that it's scandalously fluttering with your movements. You sway your hips and drag your hands across yourself seductively, then turn to Hobi, who is staring at you wide-eyed. You put a hand on the back of his chair and hover above him, lifting his head to look at you while you grind over him, making sure to shoot smug glances behind you at the other members, who are both laughing and cheering you on. The music stops and you take a bow, resulting in claps and laughter from the others.
"Wow, our Y/N is something else." Jin shkes his head in feign disappointment. "See, even Namjoon is disappointed." He gestures toward a snoring Namjoon.
"Who you gonna ask next Y/N?" Jimin asks.
"Ah, right! Hobi, might as well." You turn to talk to Hoseok, but find he is rushing out of the room.
"I uh, actually have to go do aomething. I'll be back." He doesn't meet your gaze.
"Oh, okay. Go ahead." You watch him hustle away, slightly confused. "Taehyung, take my turn, I'm gonna go check up on him."
As you walk down the hallway to Hoseok's room, your mind races. What if you upset him? Maybe you went a little too far with the stupid dare. Did he even ever agree to it? You shake your head and open his door.
"Hobi, I-" You stop in shock. He is sat on his bed, face flushed and head back, pants unzipped and a hand around his cock. Upon you opening the door, his head whips to you and his eyes go wide in panic.
"Y/N!"
You immediately slam the door and turn your back. "Oh god, Hobi i'm so sorry. I should have knocked." You hear rustling and quick movements from inside.
"No its fine. Hang on, please don't leave, I can explain-" You listen to Hobi's panicked voice and suddenly it clicks for you. Your lap dance earlier...
"Hoseok... can I come in now?"
"Uh, y-yeah..."
You open the door slowly and see Hoseok sitting in his swivel chair, face buried in his arms on his desk in embarrassment.
"Listen, I just, this is definitely not how I wanted you to find out..." Despite his face being hidden, you can tell he is red. "But I like you Y/N. A lot. You're adorable and so much fun to be around and you lift me up everyday, your perfect smile and eyes and body, I just couldn't handle it..." He sighs sadly. "I'm sorry. I hope I didn't ruin your christmas eve with this..."
"Hobi, look at me." You pull up another chair in front of him. Hoseok peeks out from under his arms. "It's okay, because I feel the same."
"I- huh?" He sits up and cocks his head.
"Ever since we moved in together. I can't believe I never noticed you felt the same. I mean, I noticed some things, but I thought it was just wishful thinking."
Hoseok's eyes light up, his mouth slightly agape. "I didn't think you liked guys."
"Me? A straight man? How dare you." You smile and feign offense. Suddenly he moves forward in his chair and holds you in a tight hug.
"I'm so happy..." He melts into you. You hug him back. You get that giddy feeling in your chest just like in middle school when you have a crush. Hoseok breaks away from the hug, only to lean forward again, this time planting his lips on yours. You reciprocate, closing your eyes and putting a hand on his thigh. You both get into the kiss, deepening it and exploring each other's mouths, breathing heavily in between. You break for a moment to breathe.
"Here, let me help you finish." You look up devilishly into Hoseok's eyes as they watch your hand reach down and touch his erection behind his pants, still sloppy and half-zipped from earlier. Almost instinctively, Hoseok's hand moves too, towards your own growing problem. You both undo each other's pants and pull down your shorts. You are sitting across from each other in different chairs, erections exposed and eyes locked on each other.
"Y/N, can jack you off? Please?" You nod as Hoseok's long, beautiful figers wrap around you.
"Together..." You whisper, wrapping your own fingers around Hoseok's cock. You lean forward again, passionately making out with Hoseok as you both work at getting each other off. Your moans and kisses filling the room with obscene noises as the sound of your mutual masturbation only turns you on more.
"F-fuck, this is so hot Y/N, sunshine..." Hoseok's voice is deeper than usual, putting your stomach in knots.
"Awe, Sunshine, that's a new one... hnnnn..." You smile as you pant and put your free hand to Hoseok's face as you continue to kiss. Hoseok's free hand finds a spot in your hair, tightly gripping a lock and making you moan into his mouth. Your kisses become sloppier and more hurried as you can feel his hands working you closer to orgasm. "Hobi, you're so good at this, hng, youre gonna make me come, ahh..."
Hoseok's face has a dazed, pleasured expression as he looks down into your eyes from slightly leaning back. "Shit, do you touch yourself just like this baby? Just like how you're touching me? Show me, show me what you look like when you come."
Hoseok's words set your heart on fine and you feel a pit of pleasure slowly rise. The feeling of his hand touching you and the thought of your roommate getting you off only helps bring you to the brink.
"AH, fuck, coming! Hngh!" Your voice cracks and you whimper as your cock twitches and you come into Hoseok's hand.
"That's it sunshine, fuck, holy shit!" Despite your orgasm, you continue to pump Hoseok until he squints his eyes and throws his head back, stifling a moan.
"Hn, ahha-" Hoseok orgasms not long after, his release shooting on your hand and a bit on your shirt. The both of you sit there, chests heaving and eyes locked on each other.
"Holy fuck." You breathe.
"Yeah." A smile creeps onto Hoseok's face as he looks at you.
"We should probably change and clean up before our guests wreck our place." You laugh and point to your shirts, both messy with each other's come.
"Yeah, they are definitely going to notice." Hobi smirks and lifts his shirt over his head.
"Frankly, I don't care." You reach for his face and plant a cute, tender kiss on his lips while his arms are still in the air, stuck in his shirt. You can feel his grin while you kiss him.
"Me either." He takes off his shirt and stands up, holding out his hand to help you up and lead you to the bathroom. "You really need to learn to knock!" He jokes, a face full of smiles.
You can't help but laugh at his adorable personality in contrast to his seductiveness earlier. It's going to be a fantastic year.
Send me suggestions on what to write next! ~ <3
--Masterlist--
#i need to write more for him#im literally in love with this man#shaking and crying rn#j-hope x reader#j-hope smut#hobi x male reader#hobi x reader#hobi#hobi smut#j-hope#hoseok x male reader#j-hope x male reader#jung hoseok x male reader#jung hoseok x reader#hoseok x reader#hoseok smut#jung hoseok smut#hoseok#jung hoseok#bts smut#bts x male reader#bts fanfiction
172 notes
·
View notes
Note
Just a ramble. Thinking about tallman! Chilchuck so badly, like imagine you see him like that for the first time and he is so fricking tall, like??? I'd stare at him in awe and tell him he is so handsome. Plus a modern AU with him??? And as a tallman???? I'm passed out. Bye.
`✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹ IM ABOUT TO PASS OUT TOO FR TALL MAN CHIL THOUGHTS ARE SOOO GOOD. just looking up at him, having to blink a couple of times bc holy hell… not only is he handsome but he’s got so much height over you now, and suddenly you’re swallowing hard and blurting out just how handsome he is. definitely expect that to knock a bit of air out of him for a moment. also the thought of taking his hand and comparing it to your own just out of curiosity, still holding onto that bit of bravery you somehow managed to conjure up. AUGHHHHHH
A MODERN AU WOULD BE SO SO AMAZING…. i saw someone do a dnd au with tall-man!chil and it made me giggle and kick my feet. the idea that they all come from different backgrounds but get together to play dnd with each other in modern day is such a cute one, and maybe you see they’re inviting people to join and that’s how you meet him…… chil with that stubble and his hair a lil messy from running his fingers through it, plus the height, the modern clothes, AND he’s a nerd playing dnd?????? AND A DAD???? need this so bad.
never not thinking about these panels. XKJZOXJOSJXKN
#✦ lilia speaks 🌱#୨ chilchuck my beloved ୧#always so happy to see you in my askbox!!!#AND TALL MAN CHIL THOUGHTS……. AUGHGHGHG#i NEED to write more for him#there’s some rqs for it so.#rubs my hands together
15 notes
·
View notes
Text
Killer Masterlist:
ꜰɪɴᴅ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴏꜰ ʜɪᴍ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇᴜꜱᴛᴀꜱꜱ ᴋɪᴅ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ
nsfw: *, dark themes/content: ✧, fics: ★
𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐬, 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐬:
Killer with a s/o who gets anxious during sex
how Killer would cheer up someone who's family is treating them like a punching bag
Killer x female reader, cuddles with a little bit of spice*★
Killer x female reader, body worship and praise kink with Killer being the center of attention★
ɢᴇɴᴇʀᴀʟ ʜᴇᴀᴅᴄᴀɴᴏɴꜱ
Who is most/least kinkiest Kid Pirate?
ꜰᴇᴀᴛ ᴇᴜꜱᴛᴀꜱꜱ ᴋɪᴅ
How a threesome with Kid and Killer would work | Version 2
Gender bent Kid and Killer
Killer being the only one to stop Kid sulking
Killer calling Kid a twat
Kid not showering and Killer having to make him
How Kid tries to impress Killer
Is Killer's hair softer than Kid's coat
Are Killer's or Kid's tits bigger? | @4law's addition | analysis of their chests | more analysis
ᴋɪᴅ ᴘɪʀᴀᴛᴇꜱ ᴀꜱ ᴀ ʙɪᴋᴇʀ ɢᴀɴɢ
Asking him to hold your drink at a party
ᴘʟᴀᴛᴏɴɪᴄ/ʙᴇꜱᴛ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅ ʜᴇᴀᴅᴄᴀɴᴏɴꜱ
What it's like to have him as your best friend
ʜɪꜱ ꜱ/ᴏ ʜᴇᴀᴅᴄᴀɴᴏɴꜱ
How he prefers his partner dresses
Killer dressing you when you're sleeping
Calling him a good boy in the bedroom
Leaving lipstick marks on his helmet
How he shows affection/emotion
Him being pussy drunk
#i need to write more for him#kid pirates#kid pirates x reader#kid pirates headcanons#kid pirates masterlist#one piece#one piece fluff#one piece smut#one piece x reader#one piece masterlist#killer#killer x reader#killer one piece#killer masterlist#killer op
74 notes
·
View notes
Note
mii i am losing my absolute shit over your professor yang, I WANT TO SIT IN HIS LAP
also this line, '“Again,” Welt says with a clear of his throat.' JUST HITS SOME KIND OF WAY, i had a very visceral reaction to it /pos
THANK YOU FOR THE FOOD, I AM TEARING OUT THE DRYWALL, WHY DID THEY MAKE THIS MAN SO BEAUTIFUL
- 🍪
🍪 anon profesor welt yang is in my brain and I cannot get him out. I just love LOVE the slow tear down of the composed man. Having him show a little bold initiative and request more advances because oh… he likes this actually. I need more of that in writing 😭 Corrupting the composed gentleman really gets me. The thrill the adrenaline the moral dilemma of a student/professor relationship 🤩 you’re so right we need to be seated prettily and comfortably on his lap right now !!!
I imagine some little rendezvous initiate with a coffee you drop off— caramel macchiato, hot with a sprinkle of cinnamon. Under the sleeve he sees something smudged poking out that piques his curiosity— another thing you expected all too well. Your address neatly written in sharpie under the cup sleeve and a kiss print with your newest or his favorite lipstick. His last lectures on those days are guaranteed to end a little early and he wastes no time heading to your place.
#ask stuff 💌#🍪 anon#welt yang x reader#I need to write more for him#he’s my everything#professor welt yang alters my brain chemistry
45 notes
·
View notes
Note
YOU ASSOCIATE ME WITH SHIZUKU???? IM SO BLESSED LOLOLOL. YES SHE'S MY PFP ON THIS ACCOUNT!!!!!! ugh good eye.
also you literally just. I see yuuji and I'm like oh!!! it's Mello's boy!!!! her boy!!!
REECE I DIDNT SEE YOUR ASK IM SORRY FOR LATE RESPONSE ILYYY
YES LOVELY I DO. you also look kinda similar to her irl. super cute.
hes litterally my dog bf i love him to pieces it makes me sick
#💌 - love letters#reece darling#i need to write more for him#well i am#but u guys havent seen it#lol
3 notes
·
View notes
Text
The fucking fact that i can recite most of Thranduil's lines shows how much of a simp I am 💀
#nat speaks#the hobbit#thranduil#i need to write more for him#also i just wanna talk about the tag that popped up when i was writing the one before this#i need to be put down#lmao#i wonder if i've ever used that one before 💀
2 notes
·
View notes
Text
Writing Prompt #12
Bruce is reading the paper when the pour of Tim's coffee goes abruptly quiet. It would be hard to pinpoint why this is disturbing if it wasn't for the way the soft, tinny sound the vent system in the manor makes cuts out for the first time since being updated in the 90s. The pour, Bruce realizes, has not slowed to a trickle before stopping. It has simply stopped. And there is no overeager clack of a the mug against the marble counter or the uncouth first slurp (nor muttered apology at Alfred's scolding look) immediately following the end of the pour.
Bruce fights the instinct to use all of his senses to investigate, and instead keeps his eyes on the byline of the article detailing the latest set of microearthquakes to hit the midwest in the last week. Microearthquakes aren't an unusual occurrence and aren't noticeable by human standards, which is why this article is regulated to page seven, but from several hundred a day worldwide to several hundred a day solely in the East North Central States, seismologists are baffled.
Bruce had been considering sending Superman to investigate under the guise of a Daily Planet article requested by Bruce Wayne (Wayne Industries does have an offshoot factory in the area) when everything had stopped twenty seconds ago. That is what he assumes has happened (having not moved a muscle to confirm) in the amount of time he assumes has passed. His million dollar Rolex does not quite audibly tick but in the absolute silence it should be heard, which confirms the silence to be exactly that—absolute.
While Bruce can hold his breath with the best of the Olympian swimmers, he has never accounted for a need to remain without blinking without being able to move one's eyes. Rotating the eyeballs will maintain lubrication such that one could go without blinking for up to ten minutes. But staring at the byline fixedly, he estimates another twenty seconds before tears start to form.
These are the thoughts Bruce distracts himself with, because he doesn't dare consider how Tim and Alfred haven't made a (living) sound in the past forty-five seconds. About Damian, packing his bag upstairs for school after a morning walk with Titus that was "just pushing it, Master Damian".
There is a knife to his right, if memory serves (it does). In the next five seconds—
"Your wards and guardian are fine, Mr. Wayne," the deepest voice Bruce has ever heard intones. For a dizzying moment, it is hard to pinpoint the location of the voice, for it comes from everywhere—like the chiming of a clocktower whilst inside the tower, so overpowering he is cocooned in its volume.
But it is not spoken loudly, just calmly, and when he puts the paper down, folds it, and looks to his right, a blue man sits in Dick's chair.
He wears a three piece suit made entirely of hues of violet, tie included. He has a black brooch in the shape of a cogwheel pinned to his chest pocket, a simple chain clipped to his lapel. Black leather gloves delicately thumb Bruce's watch (no longer on his wrist, somewhere between second 45 and 46 it has stopped being on his wrist), admiring it.
"You'll forgive me," the man says with surety. "Clocks are rather my thing, and this is an impressive piece." He turns it over and reveals the 'M. Brando' roughly scratched into the silver back. He frowns.
"What a shame," he says, placing it face side up on the table.
"Most would consider that the watch's most valuable characteristic." Bruce says, voice steady, hands neatly folded before him. Two inches from the knife. To his left, there is an open doorway to the kitchen. If he turns his head, he might be able to get a glance of Tim or Alfred.
He doesn't look away from the man.
"It is the arrogance of man," the man says, raising red eyes (sclera and all) to Bruce, "to think they can make their mark on time."
"...Is that supposed to be considered so literally?" Bruce asks, with a light smile he does not mean.
The man smiles lightly back, eyes crinkling at the corners. He looks to be in his mid thirties, clean-shaven. His skin is a dull blue, his hair a shock of white, and a jagged scar runs through one eye and curving down the side of his cheek, an even darker, rawer shade of blue-purple.
The man turns the watch back over and taps at the engraving. "Let me ask you this," he says. "When we deface a work of art, does it become part of the art? Does it add to its intrinsic meaning?"
Bruce forces his shoulders to shrug. "It's arbitrary," he says. "A teenager inscribes his name on the wall of an Ancient Egyptian temple and his parents are forced to publicly apologize. But runic inscriptions are found on the Hagia Sophia that equate to an errant Viking guard having inscribed 'Halfdan was here' and we consider it an artifact of a time in which the Byzantine Empire had established an alliance with the Norse and converted vikings to Christianity."
"The vikings were as errant as the teenager," the man says, "in my experience." He leans back in his chair. "I suppose you could say the difference is time. When time passes, we start to think of things as artistic, or historical. We find the beauty in even the rubble, or at least we find necessity in the destruction..."
He offers Bruce the watch. After a moment, Bruce takes it.
"The problem, Mr. Wayne, is that time does not pass for me. I see it all as it was, as it is, as it ever will be, at all times. There is no refuge from the horror or comfort in that one day..." he closes his hand, the leather squeaking. And then his face smooths out, the brief severity gone. He regards Bruce calmly.
"You can look left, Mr. Wayne."
Bruce looks left. Framed by the doorway, Tim looks like a photograph caught in time. A stream of coffee escapes the spout of the stainless steel pot he prefers over the Breville in the name of expediency, frozen as it makes its way to the thermos proclaiming BITCH I MIGHTWING. Tim regards his task with a face of mindless concentration, mouth slack, lashes in dark relief against his pale skin as he looks down at the mug. Behind him, Bruce can see Alfred's hand outstretched towards the refrigerator handle, equally and terrifyingly still.
"My name is Clockwork," the man says. "I have other names, ones you undoubtedly know, but this one will be bestowed upon me from the mouth of a child I cherish, and so I favor it above all else. I am the Keeper of Time."
"What do you want from me?" Bruce asks, shedding Wayne for Batman in the time it takes to meet Clockwork's eyes. The man acknowledges the change with a greeting nod.
"In a few days time, you will send Superman to the Midwest to investigate the unusual seismic activity. By then, it will be too late, the activity will be gone. They will have already muzzled him."
"Him."
"There is a boy with the power to rule the realm I come from. Your government has been watching him. The day he turned 18, they took him from his family and hid him away. I want you to retrieve him. I want you to do it today."
"Why me?"
"His parents do not have the resources you do, both as Batman and Bruce Wayne. You will dismantle the organization that is keen on keeping him imprisoned, and you will offer him a scholarship to the local University. You and yours will keep him safe within Gotham until he is able to take his place as my King."
This is a lot of information to take in, even for Bruce. The idea that there could be a boy powerful enough to rule over this (god, his mind whispers) entity and that somehow, he has slipped under all of their radars is as frustrating as it is overwhelming. But although Clockwork has seemed willing to converse, he doesn't know how many more questions he will get.
"You have the power to stop time," he decides on, "why don't you rescue him? Would he not be better suited with you and your people?"
"Within every monarchy, there is a court," Clockwork. "Mine will be unhappy with the choice I have made," he looks at Bruce's watch, head cocked. "In different worlds, they call you the Dark Knight. This will be your chance to serve before a True King."
Bruce bristles. "I bow to no one."
"You'll all serve him, one day," Clockwork says, patiently. "He is the ruler of realms where all souls go, new and old. When you finally take refuge, he will be your sanctuary." He frowns. "But your government rejects the idea of gods. All they know is he is other. Not human. Not meta. A weapon."
"A weapon you want me to bring to my city."
"I believe you call one of your weapons 'Clark', do you not?" Clockwork asks idly. "But you misunderstand me. They seek to weaponize him. He is not restrained for your safety, but for their gain."
"And if I don't take him?" Bruce asks, because a) Clockwork has implied he will be at the very least impeded, at worst destroyed over this, and b) he never did quite learn not to poke the bear. "You won't be around if I decide he's better off with the government."
"You will," Clockwork says, with the same certainty he's wielded this entire conversation. "Not because he is a child, though he is, nor because you are good, though you are, nor even because it is better power be close at hand than afar.
"I have told you my court will be unhappy with me. In truth, there are others who also defend the King. Together we will destroy the access to our world not long after this conversation. The court will be unable to touch him, but neither will we as we face the repercussions for our actions. I am telling you this, because in a timeline where I do not, you think I will be there to protect him. And so when he is in danger, even subconsciously, you choose to save him last, or not at all. And that is the wrong choice.
"So cement it in your head, Bruce Wayne," the man says, "You will go to him because I tell you to. And you will keep him safe until he is ready to return to us. He will find no safety net in me. So you will make the right choice, no matter the cost."
"Or, when our worlds connect again, and they will," his voice now echoes in triplicate with the voices of the many, the young, the old, Tim, Bruce's mother, Barry Allen, Bruce's own voice, "I will not be the only one who comes for you."
"Now," he says, producing a Wayne Industries branded BIC pen. "I will tell you the location the boy is being kept, and then I would like my medallion back, please. In that order."
Bruce glances down and sees a golden talisman, attached to a black ribbon that is draped haphazardly around the neck of his bathrobe, so light (too light, he still should have—) he has not felt its weight until this moment.
Bruce flips the paper over, takes the pen, and jots down the coordinates the being rattles off over the face of a senator. By his calculation, they do correspond with a location in the midwest.
"You will find him on B6. Take a left down the hallway and he will be in the third room down, the one with a reinforced steel door. Take Mr. Kent and Mr. Grayson with you, and when you leave take the staircase at the end of the hallway, not the elevator."
The man gets up, dusts off his impeccably clean pants, and offers him a hand to shake.
"We will not meet again for some time, Mr. Wayne."
Bruce looks at the creature, stands, and shakes his hand. It feels like nothing. The Keeper of Time sighs, although nothing has been said.
"Ask your question, Mr. Wayne."
"I have more than one."
"You do," Clockwork says. "But I have heard them all, and so they are one. Please ask, or I will not be inclined to answer it."
"What does this boy mean for the future, that you are willing to sacrifice yourself for him?"
There is a pause.
"So that is the one," Clockwork says, after a time. "Yes. I see. I should resolve this, I suppose."
"Resolve what?"
"It is not his future I mean to protect," the man says. "It is his present."
"You want to keep him safe now..." Bruce says, but he's not sure what the being is trying to say.
"I am not inclined," Clockwork repeats, stops. His expression turns solemn, red eyes widening. In their reflection, Bruce can see something. A rush of movement too quick to make heads or tails of, like playing fast forward on a videotape. "Superman reports no signs of unusual seismic activity. With nothing further to look into, you let it go in favor of other investigative pursuits. You do not find him, as you are not meant to. He stays there. His family, his friends, they cannot find him. His captors tell him they have moved on. He does not believe them, until he does. He stays there. He stays there until he is strong enough to save himself."
Clockwork speaks stiffly, rattling off the chain of events as if reading a Justice League debrief. "He is King. He will always be King. He is strong, and good, and compassionate, and he is great for my people because yours have betrayed his trust beyond repair. He throws himself into being the best to ever Be, because there is nothing Left for him otherwise. We love him. We love him. We love him. My King. Forevermore."
The red film in his eyes stall out, and Bruce is forced to look away from how bright the image is, barely making out a silhouette before they dull back to their regular red.
"I am not inclined," Clockwork says slowly, "To this future."
"Because of what it means in the present," Bruce finishes for him. "They're not just imprisoning him, are they."
"They will have already muzzled him."
Clockworks is right in front of him faster than he can process, fist gripping the medallion at his neck so tight he now feels the ribbon digging into his skin.
"Unlike you, Mr. Wayne," and for the first time, the god is angry, and the image of it will haunt Bruce for the rest of his life, "I do not believe in building a better future on the back of a broken child."
"Find him," the deity orders, and yanks the necklace so hard the ribbon rips—
Clack!
"sluuuuurp!"
"Master Timothy, honestly!"
"Sorry Alfred!"
#i feel like I'm going to reread this and want to add other stuff#but I also just want to post it and get it out there#fun fact i scribbled a bunch of lines down at 2am bc i didn't want to forget them#im bad at multiple drafts#my writing#dp x dc#dp x dc au#dp x dc prompt#dp x dc crossover#danny phantom#batman#i live to make everybody dramatic#but also i subscribe to a world where clockwork doesn't know how NOT to be dramatic#lol he's a ghost from all of time he doesn't know how to speak to humans and tailor it to the century let alone the decade#and his favorite little girl who calls him clocky loves how he speaks so#he doesn't need to change for nobody#nor feels inclined to#also I feel like as god he's way more inclined to threaten to get what he wants than like...be vulnerable#jazz: let's unpack that#clockwork: we never do#jazz: are you saying that because it's true or because that's what you want to be true?#clockwork: ...#also I cannot take credit for BITCH I MIGHTWING#wish i could#that is cash money right there#shoutout to 11thsense
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
the shining sun!! ☀️
#yippie !!!#im mostly doing these for practice but they are so fun like? lookit him hehe#i must do moon next! my boy!!#also!! if you have any pictures of their models…. i would very much like to borrow them please#for reference#i have like. over 80 rn but… i need MORE#anyway!!#fnaf#my art#mita doodles#fnaf sb#fnaf help wanted 2#fnaf daycare attendant#fnaf dca#fnaf sun#sundrop#as i was writing these tags i got my acceptance letter email?? (hooray)
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
Tim in Infinite Realms (Feeling like Alice tbh)
'Note to self' Tim thought as he stared up at the different shades of greens and black shifting sky above him as he ignored the aching his body was in from the rough landing he had to take 'Make sure to give Bart and Kon the slowest and mind-numbing missions for like a week once I get back.'
Tim often forgot his parents used to be accomplished archeologists before they died. (He really didnt, he just really didn't like acknowledging the fact they'd rather dig up buried things from ages ago over being in the same country as him for most of his life)
It wasn't until, as he and his old team ("Yeah! Young Just US together again. Time for a new insane adventure! Hey remember that one time with-" "Shh!!" "Ooohhh right... Forgot. What happens in YJ stays in YJ...") were assigned a new mission that he was reminded of this fact.
The mission was to locate a forgotten relic that apparently could open 'doorways' into different Realms, and one of them was a Realm of powerful undead that if controlled would be unstoppable. They were meant to find it before "insert 'creative name' cult of the week here please" Who planned on subjecting the world to its power.
Now knowing about the relic and finding it was two wholly different things. Tim and the others managed to uncover just enough about the artifact that Tim had manged to narrow down the last city it had been last recorded to be seen in.
And the city's old name was something that Tim thought sounded familiar.
It wasn't until they were digging into the countries archeologist permission records, meaning the people who were given the okay to dig in the historical site, that he found out why it sounded familiar, his parents names were some of the last to have been granted permission before their deaths, and it was then Bart had jokelying said
"Hey what are are the odds Robs parents stored the relic away ages ago! Would be a tiny bit funny if this all powerful item is just collecting dust in some warehouse."
And although it was meant to be a joke. Tim stared at the description of the relic and couldn't help but question perhaps there was some merit to it. Tim, for the first time in years, opened up his parents archeologist records and went to looking.
And low and behold they found out. Still sitting in a warehouse outside of Gotham, as if his parents were going to trust Gotham with important and priceless relics unless it was in their house to study later.
So in short, retrieving the relic should had been easy enough, get in and remove it from storage. Lock it away so the cult looking for the damn thing couldn't use it. Simple.
But trust Bart goofing around with Kon and accidently bumping into Tim when he was inspecting the relic and turning it on.
It apparently opened a glowing green portal... a portal that opened under Tim and dropped him into an entirely new dimension of the Undead... Great, just great.
"Ooo a visitor, we don't get breathing guests here all too often." A voice spoke out behind him, it held an echoing in its tone. He turned around and was meet with glowing eyes and snow white hair. "Although you should probably find a way home or else Walker will find you, knowing him he'll toss you in prison for just breathing, and I'm not joking."
#danny phantom#danny fenton#dp x dc#crossover#blue rambles#writing ideas#random idea#danny phantom dc#dpxdc#tim drake#hmmm who find Tim?#Danny or Dani?#or Dan?#one of our Phantoms found him lol#Tim is coming up with plans to get back at Bart and Kon once he gets back#theyre gonna be so bored with what hes going to do#random idea is random#we really need to play with the idea of Tim parents being archeologist more#i feel like people forget that and dont use it often
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
Flowey’s so funny and has me so fucked up like he’s a talking flower. He tries to kill you upon your first interaction. He is ten years old. He is damaged beyond repair. He’s a flower named Flowey. He’s become friends with every single character. He’s killed all of them countless times. He knows everything about everyone. He doesn’t care anymore. He takes care of his mom when she can’t take care of herself. He’s killed her before. He doesn’t care if you kill her. He thinks she’s trying to replace him. He just wants to be himself again. He wants to destroy everything. He hates you. You’re the only one who understands him. He wants his best friend back. He’s terrified of them. He believes in kill or be killed because he died by giving mercy to the wrong person. He believes himself to be the wrong person. He doesn’t understand when you show him that kindness he showed others, even when you know he could kill you for it. He’s tried every route. He asks you if you have anything better to do when you try to do the same. He’s a direct reflection of the player. He’s a fucking talking flower named flowey and his only voice line is by Ronald McDonald and his officially licensed plush does a little dance for you
#‘Flowey would listen to i bet on losing dogs by Mitski and cry until he throws up and Chara calls him cringe from beyond the grave’#-me to my friend when I ranted about this last night#he has me so fucked up like oh my god#how is the best character a fucking talking flower#I love undertale’s writing so much like it’s mastered minimal evidence giving away the biggest parts of characters#i can analyze him i can study him under a microscope#i can put him in a terrarium with a sticky note that says gay baby jail you know#he has me SO fucked up#flowey#flowey the flower#asriel#asriel dreemurr#I’m talking about flowey btw not asriel i know they’re the same person but not to me#like how i consider little baby me and fucked up 13 year old me different people#asriel sits on the playground and cries when nobody wants to play warrior cats with him#and flowey sits in the back of classrooms and answers ‘life is MEANINGLESS’ to every question#not speaking from experience ofc (im lying)#love my edgy flower *puts a magnifying glass up to him and notes how fucked up he is*#i think more characters need to be fucked up beyond repair#undertale#utdr#character analysis
6K notes
·
View notes
Text
okay but you see sam has ALSO fallen for dean's act. sam also believes dean to be the macho, daddy's soldier, beer boobs cars guy he presents himself as. this is why sam makes fun of dean whenever he even lightly steps out of that mold and thinks it's harmless banter instead of attacking an insecurity. it's why he laughs when john talks down to dean in the early seasons and it's why he seems surprised when dean is more comfortable with himself in the later seasons. it's why he just scoffs but doesn't push it when dean puts up a front and refuses to talk about his emotions and just accepts whatever excuse he makes at face value. it's why he offers dean a strip club to make him feel better when cas dies. and this isn't his fault!! dean has spent a very long time perfecting this image in front of everyone and ESPECIALLY to sam because along with it comes safety and security and stability and the only person. who has consistently been able to see through it. is castiel
#charlie also a bit bc dean doesn't have to be desirable to her as a man or as a son#altho i would argue that she doesn't see through him he just doesn't perform as much for her. cas actively sees through it#this is why sam has never caught on to dean being queer also. btw. dean isn't closeted he's just never made a big deal of telling sam#you never really know your parents just the version of them they want you to see etc etc#anyway this is also why sam is thought to be More Sensitive in comparison#by people who have also fallen for the Act. i call this the General Audience Dean Act#because it was who he was SUPPOSED to be from kripke's pen until jensen went ummmmm no. he has trauma :) and forcibly gave him layers#this is also not samcrit btw i always need to clarify that#i am bad at sam studies but i think you could also write posts (and ppl have) about how dean doesn't truly know sam either#bc he has Little Baby Brother zoned him forever even though he is almost 40 by the end of s15
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
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
1K notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
airacreacionydifusionartist-blog
Aira Creación y Difusión Artística
lauwitch
Avyanna
cigarettesbeforelife
Çoban yıldızı
demcnology
ROCKERBOY