#MOTHER N O-

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

COME REST YOUR BONES NEXT TO ME ; SATORU GOJO, SUGURU GETO

synopsis; satoru shares the first snowfall of the year with the two people he loves most. 

word count; 4.6k

contents; satoru gojo/reader/suguru geto (poly relationship!!), gn!reader, you're all whipped, reader referred to as spouse, fluff fluff fluff!!, sickeningly domestic, just comfy vibes all around, mostly from satoru’s pov, suguru has a favorite (its you) (but also not really he just likes bullying toru <3), satoru gojo may or may not have unresolved mommy issues

a/n; happy satosugu holidays to those who celebrate <33 geto died today isnt that crazy. dont u think its fucked up how love figuratively and literally killed him. anyway! help urself to two very whipped husbands <33

”holy shit!”

the raspy tilt of satoru’s voice echoes throughout the bedroom, stirring you from your comfortable slumber. a soft groan spills from suguru’s lips, deep and husky, as he pulls you closer into his embrace — smoothing a warm palm down the back of your head. trying to soothe you back to sleep, muttering under his breath.

”satoru, it’s too early for this...”

”it’s snowing!” said man continues, unperturbed. unmistakably giddy. he’s standing by the window, hands pressed flush against the cold glass; entirely entranced by the sight in front of his cerulean eyes. 

your eyelids begin to flutter. a tiny tug of your subconscious, a pang of something excited flowing through your veins, an alert to your sleepy brain.

(snowing.)

with groggy movements, you wriggle out of suguru’s grasp — a displeased grumble leaves his throat, almost a whine — allowing you to scramble out of bed. ”really?” you chirp, rubbing the sleep from beneath your eyes. a raspy, meek little voice spilling into the air.

satoru grins, watching you move closer, watching as a tiny gasp pushes past your lips. watching as your droopy eyes widen — brightening, glittering, starlight and snowflakes painted on the interior of your iris. a breathtaking sight, he thinks. 

maybe even more breathtaking than the winter wonderland reflected in it; beyond the pure opaque frosting of the window’s glass, out into your backyard, buried beneath a thick layer of snow. soft and fluffy, covering the city, suguru’s long-frozen tulip garden, the bare branches of your apricot tree. every roof in sight. all of it dyed a pure white, glittering in the light of a morning sun yet to fully rise, tiny snowflakes descending down to earth. 

it’s beautiful. 

satoru loves winter. he always has, he thinks. it comes to him as a memory — blurred at the edges, gleaming even still, the first time he saw those snowflakes up close. someone held him in their arms, he recalls. a warmth long faded. 

all he can properly remember is that sight. one that knocked the breath from out his tiny lungs, all glitter and something almost other-worldly, something frightening in its majesty. like it broke through a rift in the stratosphere. 

the first snow of the year.

and he’s loved it ever since; the soft crunch of snow beneath his feet, an air heavy with the scent of cinnamon and candied apples, bouts of laughter to be heard from faraway apartments. red and green glimmers of artificial light, sweet frosting on the christmas cake he would always gobble up alone in his room. the cold wind, nipping at his bare fingers — a reminder of his capacity for ache.

there are lots of things to love. lots of memories to cherish. and every single year, he gets the chance to make more.

like this; the light in your eyes, the smile on your face, the excitement in how hurriedly you turn to meet his giddy gaze. a nostalgic kind of joy simmering in the space between you.

and before either of you know it, satoru’s pulling you towards the hallway, intent on dragging you outside to see it all up close. almost tripping over his agumon plush, lying unassumingly on the floor, kicked off the bed once again. 

(probably by satoru himself, though he’ll always insist it was suguru’s doing. overcome by his jealousy, surely, unable to stand the sight of his cute husband cuddling up to a plushie instead of him. satoru understands, he does — he feels the same when he sees you hug that 3’0 cat plushie of yours.

and, sure, maybe once or twice he’s been lucid enough to register the subconscious kick of his leg and agumon’s subsequent fall to the floor — but he’ll still blame suguru in the morning. if only to see the way said man rolls his eyes, clicks his tongue, maybe flicks his forehead if he’s really lucky.)

high on the spirit of christmas, spurred on by childlike elation and sleep-deprivation, you stumble towards the door. satoru pulls one of his jackets over your shoulders, delighting in the way your hands don’t fully reach through the sleeves. wrapping you up in a cozy scarf when suguru shouts at you both to dress warmly, barely awake and already tired of your antics.

and the moment you step through the door, satoru is engulfed by it. that mystical, mystical feeling. 

a little lonely, a little too satisfying to pass up. a cold breeze that nips at his fingertips, snowflakes that brush against his cheeks and stick to his white lashes. a warm hand in his, as you cling to his side, shuddering — but smiling, as you look up at the sky, putting a hand out just to feel the snowflakes melt against the skin of your palm.

he feels you let go of him, but doesn’t mention it. a little too mesmerized to tug you back. dipping his toes into the bittersweet nostalgia of it all, staring at the flurry of white all around you, the skeletal branches of your apricot tree. suguru’s poor tulips. humming a jolly tune, subconsciously. a little delighted.

— until something cold and wet hits the exposed skin of his neck.

satoru twitches, a chilling shudder trickling down his spine. the snowball just thrown at him begins to melt, droplets sticking to his nape, and he turns to you with a raise of his brow. a devilish grin on his lips, when he hears your muffled laughter, sees the crinkle of your eyes.

(you’re cute, he thinks. but you need to be humbled.)

”oh, so that’s how you wanna play?” he drawls, eyes gleaming with amusement. taking a step forward, reaching down to gather some snow in his palm. a wide grin on his glossy lips. ”fine by me.” 

he's fast, but you act quickly, running towards the apricot tree with laughter in your throat. feeling the pitter patter of your heartbeat resound in your ears, as the snowball misses its mark by just a hair — and you waste no time in making your own.

it’s a hard-fought duel. snowfall blocking your vision, nerves beginning to numb, red cheeks and runny noses as you chase each other with giddy breaths. unfortunately for you, satoru’s arms are unfairly long, fingers unfairly nimble, and his stamina never even seems to falter.

so before long, your energy begins to dwindle. chest heaving, hands too cold to form a proper snowball, while your husband seems like he hasn’t even broken a sweat. they just keep on coming, snowball after snowball colliding with the fabric of your jacket, and when one of them hits your collarbone you squeal — falling backwards, right into a fresh pile of snow.

satoru moves forward, a triumphant smirk on his handsome face. you’re out of breath, and your hands are red, and he’s fairly certain you’re gonna catch a cold. suguru’s going to scold him, but right now all he can think of is you. the frown you’re wearing, the little huff that slips from your lips.

”ready to admit defeat, sweetheart?” he practically purrs, standing above you with his hands on his hips. smug. and you grin right back.

”never.”

a hum. something glimmers in his eyes, a devious little glint, and you come to regret your decision when satoru gathers a heap of snow with his overgrown arms; only to drop it all on top of you. too tired to fight back, all you can do is shield your face, silently accepting your fate.

a shiver wracks through your body, and satoru almost feels bad. just a tiny bit. but then you finally relent, murmuring bitterly under your breath. ”fine, fine…” a soft pout forms on your lips. ”you win.”

and satoru smiles. crouching down to meet you at eye level, on his knees in front of you. there’s a teasing mirth in his eyes, when he reaches out to cup the fat of your cheek. ”that’s all i wanted to hear, sweet pea,” he drawls, trying not to giggle when you exaggeratedly roll your eyes.

his voice curls down an octave when he continues, leaning forward to brush his nose against yours. hot breath against your chilled skin. ”now, for my prize…”

his lips meet yours, sweet and chaste — a little cheeky. you scoff into the kiss, but satoru’s smile only grows. honeyed, a little bit adoring. his tongue flits out to lick at your cold bottom lip.

he lingers, for a bit. like he’s trying to savour the way you taste, faded strawberry chapstick sticking to his lips, smudged against your own. and you sigh, softly, melting a little, comforted by the fleeting warmth that blossoms on your face. 

when he's finally satisfied, having dragged his prize out to its completion, satoru helps you up. brushing snowflakes off your jacket, cradling your ice-cold hands in his. they’re not faring much better, but a worried tug of his heartstrings compels him to warm you up. bringing them to his lips, hot breath fanning over your skin, tender little kisses against the knots of your knuckles.

you can’t help but blush, and a raspy chuckle flows from out his lips. 

hazy morning sunshine licks at the branches of the apricot tree behind you, illuminating the contours of your face, the shine of his eyes. a blue smudge on a canvas painted white and gray. the air smells of pine cones and something smokey, crisp. it courses through his burning lungs when he inhales, exhales, a breath of vapour that scatters up into the sky.

satoru loves winter. always has. but now, he’s certain he loves it even more.

because now, he has two people to share it with. two people to drag out into the snow, two people whose hands he can tenderly warm up, two people who’ll laugh and sigh at his antics and still indulge him. two people to pelt with snowballs. 

what more could a man want?

”hey, idiots!” 

the voice that echoes throughout the air is exasperated, a little teasing. yet fond. suguru’s got his hair tied into a messy half done bun, black turtleneck sweater enunciating his broad chest and the curve of his waist. there’s a fatigue in his eyes, the creases of his face, but a lazy smile is playing at his lips.

”i’m making breakfast,” he shouts, voice deep and smokey and soft even still. ”come in and warm up before you catch a cold.”

”is that any way to speak to your husband and spouse?” satoru chimes back, a melodic lilt to his sugarsweet voice. something satisfied. pleased.

suguru shoots him an unimpressed look, but his eyes soften. melting a little, at the words that spill from satoru’s lips, as if they were always meant to be there. 

(husband. spouse. suguru wills himself not to smile.)

with matching grins on your faces, the two of you stumble back towards the door. snow crunching beneath your feet, a happy noise pushing past your lips when you collide with the warmth of your husband’s chest.

”look, suguru. isn’t it pretty?” you chirp, smiling brightly. an expression he mirrors — brushing some snow from the top of your head, warm palms caressing your cold skin, setting a mental reminder to scold satoru later. sparing a brief glance at the snowy veil over reality.

then he exhales. a fond hum. ”it is.”

satoru joins you both by the door, stretching out his lanky limbs. tousled hair, wet strands sticking to his skin, reddened cheeks and a signature pout. ”suguru, my hands are cold,” he whines. ”warm ’em up for me?”

a click of his tongue. ”should’ve put some gloves on, satoru.”

a hum buzzes in your throat, and you put your hands out. itchy, a little dry. a sad frown tugs at your lips when you speak. ”my hands are also cold.”

and, like clockwork, suguru’s eyes soften. a coo tiptoeing on his tongue, engulfing your hands in his larger ones. ”aw, c’mere, my love…” his breath fans over your frozen fingertips. ”let’s get you warmed up, hm?”

satoru gasps, a hand on his chest, and you stifle a giggle. he’s acting, you both know, being a little drama queen. he knows you’re just exaggerating suguru’s double standard as a bit, that your husband would probably set himself on fire to warm either of you up.

despite that, his voice comes out thoroughly offended. ”oh, i see how it is,” he huffs, walking past the both of you. pouting deeply. ”you hate me. you hate me, and you want me to die. i understand.”

”satoru,” you coo. he hmphs, but stills, waiting for you to wrap your arms around him. and you do — a little too eager to appease your giant baby of a husband.

”we’re just joking around,” you assure him, holding back a humorous chuckle. squeezing his waist with palpable fondness. ”love you sooo much. you know that.”

satoru stays silent. but he cranes his neck, to meet suguru’s gaze, standing just behind him. narrowing his cobalt eyes — a meaningful look.

suguru sighs.

”yes, yes. we love you oh so much.” he takes a step forward, ruffling the white head of hair by the door. a lazy smile on his lips. ”now behave and go change out of your pyjamas. they’re soaked.”

his voice is teasing. exasperated, more than a little condescending. but it’s suguru, so satoru accepts it — following you both into the warmth of your home. the scent of cinnamon and vanilla hangs heavy in the air, a hint of espresso and firewood, lulling him into a sweet state of tranquility. rich with comfort, safety.

he changes out of his wet clothes, pulling a black hoodie over his head before waltzing into the kitchen. and you do the same, emerging from your bedroom in one of suguru’s cozy sweaters, knitted and smelling of bergamot. 

when suguru notices, his gaze shifts into something fond. palpable. a look satoru always finds in the scope of those warm eyes, amber and cedar bleeding into something sweet, only ever directed at the two of you. a look said man assumes goes unnoticed. he’s not as slick as he thinks.

the kitchen simmers with hazy sunlight and gentle movements, something sleepy and kind. satoru is a little bit enamored with it; from bowls of cat food by the corner, to camellias by the windowsill, cookie jars and dried lemon slices, the fading scent of baked goods and wishlists stuck to the fridge.

(yours and satoru’s are filled with scribbles, new ideas popping up daily, while suguru’s is almost entirely blank; mostly necessities, one or two things he’d like for himself.

and then, of course, the same thing he writes at the top of his wishlist every year; some peace and quiet.)

suguru shuffles around the kitchen, long strands of black hair cascading down his back, swaying with his movements. he sends you both an affectionate glance when you step in, already in the process of making satoru his cup of hot chocolate — topped with marshmallows and whipped cream, colorful sprinkles in the shape of tiny stars, a touch of cinnamon. satoru licks his lips.

when it's finished, the cup is promptly handed to him, paired with a tender kiss to his forehead. and suguru starts the meticulous brewing of your coffee, steady hands, finely chosen coffee beans, the low purring of the espresso machine. soothing.

that’s when you attach yourself to his back. wrapping your arms around his waist, a sleepy yawn muffled into the fabric of his turtleneck. he places a big palm on your hand, thumb smoothing over your knuckle, and you nuzzle into him silently. suguru smiles.

”still sleepy, baby?” he questions, a coo on the tip of his tongue. his voice is soft, palpably so, buzzing with warmth and safety and something that makes you want to stay cuddled up to him forever.

satoru senses an opportunity to insert himself into the conversation, and forces out a yawn of his own. stretching his limbs like a big cat, blinking drowsily, eyelashes fluttering. hoping it’ll come off as endearing. ”mhm.” 

but suguru shoots him an unimpressed look. ”not you,” he tuts, patting your arm, ”this baby. i wasn’t asking you.”

a pout. ”why are you so mean to me?” he whines, shooting you a doe-eyed look. bottom lip jutting out slightly, a feigned glassiness to his eyes. ”sweetie, tell your husband to stop being so mean to me.”

you smile. indulgent, as always. ”don't be so mean to him, suguru. you know he’s sensitive.”

a sigh. deep, tinged with exhaustion. satoru shares an amused look with you — stifling a shared chuckle at suguru’s exasperation.

and suddenly, he feels something warm flutter in his ribcage. a sunkissed butterfly, wings brushing against his ribs, coaxing his lips into curling up. unmistakable fondness, almost too much to bear. the need to reach out and touch you creeps up on him, a hunger he can’t deny, but he holds back; you look comfy like that, curled up against suguru’s spine. so he only inches closer, without a word. 

his husband casts him a glance, but satoru stays silent. lips pursed, waiting for something. patient.

and suguru relents. he reaches a hand out, to tuck a stray strand of white hair behind his ear — an excuse to touch him. a silent apology. 

(i'm sorry, you big baby.)

satoru grins.

you shift from foot to foot, leaning over to see what suguru is doing, pressing buttons and taking two ceramic cups out from a wall cabinet. your eyes zero in on a particular shelf, narrowing in suspicion, before flitting over to meet your husband’s gaze.

”satoru, did you use up all my peppermint sweeteners again?”

he stiffens. just a tad, before swallowing a gulp — followed by a silly chuckle, sheepish and performative, eager to wiggle his way out of your cold gaze. ”… which sweeteners do you mean, honey?”

”don’t pull the ’honey’ card.”

”and don’t play dumb, either.”

a pout crosses his lips. betrayed. ”suguru, who’s side are you even on?”

said man gives him a look. that one look, characteristically suguru, the same one he always sends satoru’s way. one so thoroughly unimpressed it makes him feel like the world’s biggest clown. 

and satoru plays along. your dutiful, beloved clown, his posture wilting like a sad flower. suguru exhales through his nose.

”don’t steal their sweeteners.” he smooths a thumb over your knuckle, absentminded, meeting the cold metal of the ring on your finger. smiling a little at the sensation. ”buy your own.”

satoru huffs, drawn out and childish. crossing his arms, leaning against the kitchen counter. ”ah, i see how it is. leaving your sweet husband to buy his own sweeteners?” he clicks his tongue. ”chivalry is dead.”

you bite back a little chuckle — satoru recognizes the cute noise you make when you do — and suguru rolls his eyes. fondly, always. ”remind me next time i go to the store and i’ll consider it.”

”hmph.”

suguru is smiling. it’s small, but genuine, worth a thousand words. and you are, too, the vague crinkle of your eyes giving you away. even as you bury your face in the curve of suguru’s back.

and ah, satoru thinks. there it is again. 

that sickeningly sweet sense of deja vu; the sensation of a certain something flourishing deep inside his chest. warming him up, trickling through his frost-bitten veins. that one little itch he never manages to satisfy, that never goes away, something that took root inside his heart years ago — watered by the sweet looks on your faces.

this everyday slice of heaven, right in front of him, that he’s been greedily partaking in ever since he moved in with you. since he married you.

(married.)

sometimes he still can’t believe it. 

”it’ll be done in a minute,” suguru hums, and satoru blinks. broken out of his syrupy stupor. ”you two go wait by the kotatsu, okay? must be cold, poor babies.” 

and, as always, his voice is a little teasing. a tiny bit condescending, if you really strain your ears, in typical suguru fashion. but it’s laced with a touch of sweetness; one that would be too much for either of you to stomach, if it were to drip out of his lips with nothing to water it down. so satoru accepts it. welcomes it, even.

and you follow his suggestion. making your way towards the living room, satoru trailing behind you, continuously enamored by every little thing he sees. every little piece of the home you’ve built for yourselves.

your living room is cozy. several potted plants seated here and there, a thick quilt to cover the kotatsu, a bowl of satsumas on top of it. a sleepy cat on your couch, golden sunshine ruffling her fur. a santa hat lies beside her, and satoru snags it without much thought. pulling it over his head.

his gaze shifts to the christmas tree over in the corner, eyes filling with a childlike kind of wonder. it’s decorated to completion, weighed down by colourful ornaments and lights, a star at the very top. suguru cut it himself, bringing the biggest and prettiest one he could find back home.

(satoru had gone with him. partially to help carry it back, mostly to get a glimpse of suguru's biceps flexing with the swing of the axe. he’s a simple man.)

and beneath it, presents are already beginning to pile up. carefully wrapped, in bows and silken paper, growing more each day. shattering suguru’s hopes of maybe having a more lowkey christmas this year — but satoru couldn’t be more relieved. this is the only time of year you let him get away with pampering you both to his heart’s content.

a smile blooms on his lips. he plops down on the floor, crossing his legs, right as suguru walks in with a coffee pot in hand. their gazes overlapping.

and something mischievous begins to brew within the blue of his eyes, something that makes suguru narrow his own. satoru pats his thigh, twice, a coo on the tip of his tongue. santa hat sitting pointedly on top of his head, fluffing up his hair.

”c’mere, suguru! sit on santa’s lap.”

”— you’re disgusting.”

the words are playful, but a pout still slips into the curve of satoru’s lips, and he huffs out a displeased little breath. his husband pretends not to hear it, so satoru turns to you — sitting so prettily to his right, already anticipating his next move. puppy dog eyes on full display, he gives you a soft tilt of his head, snowy tufts of hair falling over his eyes.

and you sigh, in what he knows is resignation. his faux pout turning into a satisfied grin.

you curl up in satoru’s lap without much of a fuss, letting him circle his arms around you. an indulgent smile rests on your lips, but he knows you love this; his broad chest against your back, the heat of the kotatsu warming your feet. breathing in the fading scent of your shampoo, he leaves a peck on the sensitive spot right behind your ear, and you try not to shudder.

then satoru smiles. squeezing you, lightly, sweetly, eyes rich with honeyed affection. voice dripping with playful endearment. ”there we go,” he coos. ”what does my angel want for christmas, hm?” 

”i want you to stop stealing my peppermint sweeteners,” comes your answer. instantaneous.

silence fills the room. a moment passes. outside your frosted windows, a bird takes flight from the branches of your apricot tree. and satoru clicks his tongue.

”… santa can only do so much, baby.”

two deep scoffs fill the air, heavy and bemused. one from you, one from suguru. satoru only giggles.

”just kidding!” he chirps, planting a kiss on the top of your head. ”don’t you worry. santa’ll give you all the peppermint sweeteners you could ever want.” 

you raise a brow, exhaling amusedly. craning your head to meet his gaze. ”and he won’t end up using them all himself?”

”of course not! blasphemy.” 

a moment passes.

”… maybe one or two. as a treat.”

a string of protests slips from your lips, and satoru tries not to burst into a fit of giggles. suguru just watches, silently, smiling lightly as he pours hot coffee into two ceramic cups. steam wafting up to the ceiling, a cat jumping down from the couch to curl up in his lap. he places one in front of you, not taking a single sip of his own until he hears you hum blissfully at the taste — pink lips against white ceramic. a bitter taste on his tongue, sweetened by your approval.

then he starts peeling three satsumas, absentmindedly, and satoru swallows down the love-ridden honey choking up the back of his throat. pretending the domesticity of such a simple action doesn’t melt his heart down to the marrow. 

he turns his attention towards the window. frost sticking to the glass like spider-woven webs, soon to be melted by the glow of the mellow winter sunrays. flitting in through the curtains, cascading over the room, splattering across the floorboards. framing the hue of your hair, the smile on suguru’s lips.

and a memory comes to him. sudden, hazy, faded at the edges. ghosting his subconscious.

he remembers the frost, the biting wind, the frightening majesty of the snow that fell that day. breaking into his world through a rift in the stratosphere. he remembers the contrasting warmth of the person who held him, who cradled him close; the soft lull of a woman’s voice. 

for a moment, satoru thinks he can almost, almost see it before him. hear those gentle words, see her tired smile. why was she always so tired?

(look, satoru. isn’t it pretty?)

— he can’t recall how it sounded. if it was melodic and soft, or raspy and broken, happy or sad. but he does recall that it made him feel safe. safe enough to find comfort in a sight so other-worldly, so very foreign.

it should’ve been frightening, but it wasn’t. the first snowfall satoru ever saw knocked the breath from out his lungs, stole his heart with cold hands, left him with a suffocating nostalgia. but the memory is precious.

and now, he feels that sense of other-worldliness in this; a kotatsu for three, a warm house, peeled satsumas and promises of a christmas cake soon to be baked. one lovely spouse in his lap, the other gazing at him with that fond look he always assumes goes unnoticed. a cocoon of safety — a ghost he doesn’t need to chase anymore.

warmth. enough warmth to make up for the snow and frost outside your home, all the experiences he missed out on as a child. warmth, warmth, warmth. funny, how that happens to be satoru’s favorite thing about winter. 

he looks at the two of you, hoping you won’t pay any mind to his silence. for once, he hopes you’ll stay wrapped up in your awful, awful coffee, so bitter that just looking at it makes his throat feel dry. just so he can get away with admiring you for a little longer. from the contours of suguru’s face, to the skin of your collarbone, to the rings on your fingers. ones he put there himself. 

and ah, satoru thinks, there it is again. again and again, as always, forever. that warm, warm feeling flourishing in the depths of his chest. 

he hopes it never goes away.

[shima-draws]

HELLO????????? I NEED THESE YESTERDAY

[slashingdisneypasta]

Grandma: *Texts me: Has your mother any plans for her 50th birthday?

Me: *texting back: Not apart from driving off a cliff, apparently.*

Me: ... *backspacing* you cant send grandma that-

[cancerian-woman]

Tyler was at his worst and explaining he couldn’t let Klaus get away with possibly enslaving more werewolves or siring hybrids again and all Caroline had to offer was no support. “Love me more than you hate him” girl that man is in pain??

[dramarants]

i only want love triangles if it's whatever fucked up polygon junmo kicheol and euijeong have going on

[luck-of-the-drawings]

ehehe i had this saved as 'you tellin me theres blood in this bayou??' anyway WOW i drew this (FOREVER AGO) with only pen (ONLY PEN) and fixed mistakes by gluing paper over them. fuckinnnn WITNESS MY PEN SKILLS LOSEERRRR!! also i loooove blood in the bayou guys i miss these characters so much.... i looooved watching them all get just so so scared and clinging to eachother for dear life while crying and crying and bleeding and crying

[deus-ex-mona]

monachan haul has arrived ✨safely✨

[slocumjoe]

I thoroughly enjoy your takes on the relationship between Danse and Hancock post-BB, with Hancock being the local cat and laying on Danse every chance he gets because He Gets Him. It's very, very sweet and it really seems like the kind of reaction I'd expect out of Johnny given his personality.

YOU FOOL, YOU GAVE ME AN EXCUSE TO TALK AT LENGTH ABOUT MY ENEMIES-TO-FRIENDS FANFIC ARC

Trigger warnings for suicide, self-harm, drug use, alcoholism, sexual assault/groping, and a mental breakdown. This is not fun.

Also this is insanely long. It's so long. This took me 4 hours to type with a single 2-Taco break. Is if fanfic if there's only, like, 5 bits of dialog? Is this fanfic? Oh my God what is wrong with me

Hancock's (and the others') opinion of Danse starts shifting sometime during the Minuteman arc, when Augustijn starts really greasing the wheels to get the Minutemen up and at 'em.

So, they've all had some time to get to know Danse on a basic level. Hancock, in particular, knows him enough to know he fucking hates him. Everything about him. The way he talks, the tones he takes, his goody-two-shoes speel when he's an asshole. Everything. Hancock cannot fucking stand him and is constantly going at Danse's throat, sometimes just because he's bored and it's so easy to piss him off, sometimes he's genuinely hoping Danse starts a fight that Hancock can and will finish.

But then they go through one of the settlements, one day. Hancock kind of wanders off. Not too far, but away from the gang. A few people see a ghoul on his own and try it. He gets swarmed, they're trying to make him throw the first hit thinking he won't but there's a lot more of them, and Gus and the others have moved on. So, Hancock's in a bad fucking way—

—until a big, metal hand blocks a bat aimed at his dome.

Danse gives the assholes one hard look, and very few wastelanders will look up at a T50 helmet and think they stand much chance. But Danse gets in front of Hancock anyway, arm still out and over him. His would-be attackers slink off quick.

Danse makes sure Hancock isn't injured, then asks he not wander off like that again, for that very reason. Not even angry, or annoyed, or derisive. Just genuinely worried about his safety. And walks him back to the others.

Hancock has no fucking idea what to think of that exchange.

Danse sees Hancock wander off, he follows him, he sees he was in danger, he helps him.

Hancock would not have done the same for Danse. And it fucking bothers him that, despite everything, Danse still went out of his way, looking out for him. Next time they camp for the night, he has Isadora go ask the big guy about it. Fuck no, he's not asking himself.

Isa reports back that Danse just...thinks he has to. It's his job to make sure all of these civilians are safe. He does it for everything else, why wouldn't he then? Hancock was in danger. Danse is the guy who gets in front and takes the danger himself. It's that simple to him.

See, Danse is the dude in Power Armor. Danse takes the hits in a fight, because they bounce right off. Deathclaws? Danse gets in front. Mutants? Danse gets in front. And, apparently...bigots? ...Danse gets in front of those...too...despite...what the fuck?

If Hancock didn't hate Danse before, he certainly does now, because now Danse has gone and made shit complicated. He likes his jackasses nice and simple with nothing deeper than the skin, and...whatever that was, that was layered. And Hancock doesn't like thinking too much about people he can't stand. Especially not when he might just think they're not that bad.

The same thing happens with Nick, somewhere in Diamond City. Someone scared and mistrustful and thinking old Valentine went and turned coat, they attack Nick in broad daylight, take a shovel at him. Danse is there before they get a hit in. Nick. He goes out of his way to keep Nick safe. And where Hancock loathes him for it, Nick gets something of a respect for the guy.

Hancock talks to others, when its private. Preston isn't sure what to think of him, but Preston keeps his cards close to his chest, so who knows. Bobby thinks he's fine when he isn't talking. Piper gets irritated when he fusses over her, her recklessness. No one really knows what to make of this one fucking guy, beyond finding him pretensious and self-righteous.

So it's just Hancock, who's really turning Danse over in his head. But Nick, he's clearly got an opinion, got a read on crew-cut. He just doesn't share with the class. But Hancock thinks Nick sees something in him, because he takes utmost care to make coffee the way Danse seems to like it. Hancock confronts him on this, and the old bag of bolts just shrugs, says, "Well, he deals with things we don't want to deal with. We owe him that much, don't we?"

On Danse's side, Hancock isn't notable. Hancock is one of many in this motley group that dislikes him and wants him gone. Danse keeps to himself anyway, and is used to being the odd one out. To him, it doesn't matter. His job is to protect them and join Knight Reinier on his mission. What he thinks of Reinier's group is irrelevant. He does his job even if they don't want him to. What, is he supposed to let them die? Just because they don't like him? Abhorrent. Even if Hancock seemingly wants to gut him and is a nightmare to deal with, he is under his protection. Regardless how either of them feel about it.

Hancock notices this about Danse and fumes. He doesn't want to be taken care of by someone he fucking loathes. He hates debts. He hates morality and shit not making sense. He hates feeling like he doesn't have all the answers already.

This confusion...continues? Worsens? When Danse's nature is revealed.

Augustijn is off in the Institute, tentatively trying to broker peace, get Isadora the title of Director, when the gang gets the word. They're waiting at the Boston Airport at the teleporter. Danse was left at the Sentinel Site. Maxson storms down from his blimp, asks if any of them knew about Danse.

The Brotherhood is hunting Danse, now.

Haylen catches them as they leave to find him. Tells them where to go. Hancock can't stop making jokes and laughing. It's funny. It's ironic. It's a great joke to play on someone. It's perfect. It's the best punishment ever. It might just mean Danse finally—

Danse might—

The others, some of them saw it coming. Hancock didn't. If he did, he'd have rubbed it in Danse's face, stuck it in place of his name, spat it out at him with a grin.

They get to that bunker, Nick, Dogmeat, and Curie take the elevator down. X6-88, a courser who should really be trying to capture Danse, is off to the Institute to get Gus and Isa.

They wait outside. Nick and Curie don't come up the elevator. Cait wonders if Danse really did kill himself. She turns the thought over in her head, and says it seems fitting even if she hadn't thought of it before. Preston turns green where he stares at the setting sun and agrees. Says he always thought about it. Danse almost always took nightshift. So did Preston. They'd argue over it, insist the other one needed sleep more. "Most people want to sleep," Preston says, and by his face alone, Hancock really does think Danse is fucking dead down there.

He takes the elevator. He has to know.

Maybe he's—maybe it's because of himself. Maybe Hancock remembers sitting in an old ruin, huffing poison, so desperate he actually prayed that it'd kill him. He hates Danse. Hates him. Does he hate him that much? Maybe its principle. I want to kill you myself, so you can't—

He gets down there. Hears Nick. Hears Curie. Doesn't hear Danse. But Nick is talking, addressing him, the situation, so he must be alive. Curie promises Augustijn should be there soon, please take a moment to breathe. Danse laughs and Hancock about shits himself because that isn't a noise Paladin Fucking Danse makes, and he never wants to hear that fucking noise again.

It takes so long. Nick talks and talks and talks, and so does Curie, and Danse barely says anything. Danse rarely talked, anyway. It's normal for him. He's a quiet guy. Keeps to himself. He never joined in conversation. Hancock liked that about him, he knew when he wasn't wanted. Hancock wonders if he would have ever spoken to them if they didn't try and fuck with him. Deacon would move his tools in garages. MacCready pestered him with inane questions to see how deep he'd scowl. Cait and Hancock both loudly discussed if he was a virgin.

It sets in, there.

Hancock tried to, too. Hancock went through with it and it didn't take. Danse was still going. He was letting Nick talk. Letting Dogmeat whine at his legs. Letting Curie check his arms, take his weaponry.

Danse had every reason to do it. Every reason, and no reason not to. No one would miss him, pity him. It was his job, anyway. He could have done it and Hancock would have thrown a party celebrating that the fuckhead was dead. But he didn't. He didn't. He wasn't going to. He fucking wanted to, God knows that, Nick never stopped talking him down, but Danse didn't do shit and Hancock didn't know if that made him a coward or—or—

Gus and Isa showed up. Augustijn threw himself at Danse. Isa told Hancock the old man, his baby? Shaun. Gone. Gone for good. They were at his bedside. Saw him off.

Hancock hears Augustijn sob, turns to peek into the window. Danse holds Augustijn like he himself has no problems in the world, like he's already forgotten he's a synth. Hancock leaves and Isa follows him out. Everything after that is a blur, save for Maxson showing up. Then things are a blur again. Danse tries to stay the bunker. Preston, shaky in the legs after his General tried to fistfight the Elder of the Brotherhood, says fuck no.

Curie and X6 took Danse back to Sanctuary. The rest of them got to watch Maxson and Desdemona agree, for once, as Isadora insisted they not blow up the Institute. Hancock remembers jackshit else.

The Minutemen take over the Institute with the Brotherhood and Railroad's help, and Isa gets her very own group to boss around. Synths get taken care off, the Institute stops being shitheads, the Brotherhood sticks around to make sure Isa keeps her promises.

Hancock pretends it didn't happen. He still torments Danse. He still pesters him. Danse reacts...better. He lets Hancock do it, doesn't defend himself. Hancock brings it up, teases him, regrets it immediately even if Danse doesn't react. He doesn't do that again.

They go back to Sanctuary. Augustijn is a wreck. Isadora is below ground, hard at work. Hancock finds Danse. It's like nothing happened. He acts the same. Seems the same. Augustijn frets over him before duty calls him away. Gus and Isadora are gone, trying to figure out the new political sphere of the Commonwealth. The rest of them take a well-earned break.

Danse kind of vanishes.

They know he's there, he's around. Just working. Always on guard duty, always performing maintenance. They don't see him. That's usually how it is, so Hancock thinks it's fine. He goes to buy more chems. Lady there says hey, that guy you always bitched about? I think he's loosening up, finally. Been buying grape mentats.

He knows he should say something and he doesn't. He likes chems. Its good that Danse is doing them, now. Its good. And grape mentats! Maybe he'll finally make friends, be tolerable. Maybe he'll even get laid. Next time Hancock sees him, Danse has dropped too many pounds. He tells himself its fine.

The wasteland gets its peace. The Institute is going to actually help, now. The RR and BOS won't go to war with anyone. To celebrate, they all go drinking. Preston and Curie drag Danse along but they all lose him in a corner pretty quickly. Hancock sends some shots his way but doesn't pay attention. No one does. They party and forget that Danse is there at all. Hancock turns around and Danse is gone. He asks the bartender if he noticed where he went. Out the door, he says. Got himself a friend for the night, looks like. Danse doesn't do that. Hancock trips and breaks his stool, he's out of that bar so fast. Finds Danse barely standing in the alley and his 'friend' is far too handsy. Cait deals with her. He didn't realize Cait was behind him but he focuses on getting Danse...somewhere. Fucker is pretty light. He shouldn't be.

Hancock ends up dropping him anyway. Sees his face and almost pukes because he knows that fucking look and this is his fault. He kept sending him shots. He didn't look at him once, or invite him over to the bar. He left him to chug alone in a corner when all of them were partying. Danse was in trouble and just like he thought he would, Hancock didn't do shit.

He tries to pick him up again. Danse takes one heaving breath and drops his face in the dirt and cries. Hancock looks at Cait and she's off to find Nick, or Curie, or anyone who doesn't hate Danse.

He doesn't know what to do. He just pats his back awkwardly. Danse, whenever one of them was upset, always offered a hug. They usually took it. MacCready took it. Isadora took it. He even hugged Curie, the first time she couldn't save someone. Danse admitted, once, that he just never knew what else to do.

So Hancock pulls him up and hugs him. Tries to. Danse is heavy even if he's dropped a third of his weight and Hancock goes stumbling down against the wall, with a drunk, hurt Danse in his lap. He thinks its working, having his arms around him, until Danse starts babbling.

It's exactly what you would expect and yet Hancock isn't ready for it. You hear it from yourself, its normal. You hear it from someone else and its the worst thing you've ever heard. But the worst part is that Danse keeps saying sorry. Sorry for crying, for being drunk, for being heavy, for being awful, for being alive. He's sorry, a million times he's sorry.

Hancock never once wanted it. Not before, when he really did hate him, and not now, not like this. He tries to quiet him down, tell him its fine, but then Danse starts begging him to kill him. Thats when his heart starts beating so loud he can't hear anything else, when everything gets blurry again.

Nick shows up. Helps drag him to a hotel room. Shushes him when he begs for death because he can't kill himself, he promised Augustijn he wouldn't, and just flops him on the bed. Hancock throws up in the bathroom.

Nick says he'll stay and keep an eye on Danse. Hancock digs through Danse's coat, finds the key to his apartment somewhere in the Concord district.

It's not as bad as he was expecting, but worse in a different way. There's a present for Piper's birthday half-wrapped, a box of her favorite lemon candy that's so expensive, she doesn't even look at it when they find it. A photo album of his time in the Brotherhood. Booze everywhere. No decor. It's lonely and small, like Listening Post Bravo. What worries Hancock is that there's weaponry. He finds an empty box and shoves all of Danse's kitchen knives in, his forks and spoons too so he can't stab himself or scoop out his eyes. He even debates taking his coffee machine. They're like toasters, right? Could he kill himself with one? But then Hancock says fuck it. He isn't letting Danse stay here period. Not like this. The knives and forks and spoons can stay. He takes the coffee pot anyway, because it made a truly rancid noise when he unplugged it and it stinks of burnt circuitry. Danse deserves better.

He finds Nick the next morning and tells him everything. The mentats, the weightloss, Danse's shitty apartment, everything that Hancock's been worried about and then some. Nick tells Hancock that he already knew about the mentats. Danse woke up in the night and puked and it was purple. Neon purple.

Hancock laughs at it, tells Nick he kept sending Danse shots when he was on chems and wonders when he'll stop being a shitty friend. Nick claps him on the shoulder and tells him shitty friends don't care about coffee pots.

He goes to see Danse, first thing when the sun is up. Big guy's face down on his pillow, face pickle-green and scrunched up as Curie lists off various coping mechanisms in place of alcohol and drugs. Hancock shoos her away. Danse asks Hancock if he's willing to tell him what the fuck happened. Nick won't. Curie doesn't know. Cait only said she 'dealt with it' and 'it won't be happening again' and 'they'll never find her' and 'she had pineapple gum on her, do you want some?'

Hancock tells him, and over the retelling of the shitshow from last night, comes to appreciate just how expressive Danse can be. His scowls were always incredible to watch, like his very skull was scrunching up. The thought is all he has to get through it without...puking again? Crying? Grabbing him by the shoulders and screaming at him for the love of fuck, we don't hate you?

Danse blinks owlishly. Clicks his tongue. Shrugs, slaps his knees, and stands to leave. Says it was unfortunate and he won't be doing it again, he's so sorry for the inconvenience—wait, why do you have my coffee pot?

Hancock looks at the fucking coffee pot under his arm, and looks at Danse, and gives it to him straight. He's too exhausted for anything else. He has it because it's shitty. Its a shitty coffee pot from a shitty apartment in a shitty part of Sanctuary. Danse is a fucking tech genius, or whatever, if he wanted a good coffee pot he could make one. He could spend money on one, and not lemon candy for Piper. He could borrow one, or get coffee at the little Cafe down his street that gives it free. Its a shitty machine and its shitty that he puts up with it, just like he puts up with all of them being shitty, even long after he arguably deserved it. He doesn't deserve shitty coffee. Nick got that before anyone else did. Danse doesn't deserve half of what he's ended up with. Hancock hates him but he hates himself more, so that just means he fucking hates that Danse is ending up the same way Hancock did. Burying everything in chems and booze and acting like nothing is wrong, or if it is, it doesn't bother him. He hates that he got what he wanted, Danse miserable and hating himself as much as Hancock does and one bad day away from killing himself. Most of all, he hates how little he could blame him if he did, and he hates how Danse really did end up being the better, bigger man who had to decency to feel bad about it all.

They stare at each other for a minute.

Hancock throws the stupid fucking coffee maker across the room and stands and screams we never fucking hated you either! They just didn't know him! He never let them! They never let him let them! It was an endless cycle of Danse being stand-offish, so they'd keep away, and then he'd take the hint and stand even farther away, so they'd keep fucking doing it, and look where it's led, you're so far away, we don't even know where the fuck you are to reach out and fucking help you!

Danse asks why Hancock should feel bad. He looks at Danse and asks how the fuck he ever got that T50 helmet on, having a skull that fucking thick. Danse was a shithead but so were all of them, so was Hancock. And then the big idiot shakes his head, looks like a kicked puppy, says he never hated them, did they all think that? He was hard on them but he never meant to—

You'd think he'd spoken in tongues, or grown his nose back. Danse looks a mix of hurt, confused, and guilty. Hancock doesn't want him to be any of that, he wants him to fucking understand. He wants him to see that it isn't just Augustijn who's scared for him. And he doesn't know how to make him see that, if Danse could ever see that.

Danse just...looks at the corpse of his coffee machine.

And again, apologizes for the heinous fucking crime of not doing a good enough job at powering through the worst time of his life for all of their comfort. How dare he bother them. Hancock wonders if this is how people feel looking at him, listening to his bullshit. But at least Hancock can look people in the eye while he does it. Danse stares at that broken, thrown away piece of garbage with a lump in his throat and looks like he wants to crumple into a ball and die on the floor.

"I know you're weird about the ghoul thing, but seriously, man, do you need a hug?"

"...pardon?"

"Do you want a fucking hug?"

His eyes water and widen and he flinches like he's been shot, and Hancock decides fuck it, if he doesn't like it, he can chuck me across the room.

Danse...probably likes it? He does—well, he doesn't do a lot of crying, he cried everything out last night. But there's crying. Buries his big stupid head in Hancock's shoulder and clings to him like a kid does a teddy bear after a nightmare. Hancock has always been a hands-on, touchy guy. He doesn't mind cuddling this asshole if that means he won't hop off a bridge come lunch. But his spine doesn't like the weight of Danse nor being bent to accommodate his height. Tall asshole. Hancock just kinda...shoves him at the bed. Makes to sit down. Sitting down becomes laying down. Hancock accepts his fate. He didn't sleep last night anyway.

Later, Curie re-enters and finds Hancock underneath a cried-to-sleep brick shithouse of a man. She only barely manages to not smile.

Once Danse wakes up, Hancock has made note of three things: Danse is very cuddly and honestly, is a top-tier cuddle-buddy, warm as hell; Danse is very pliable when he's just woken up; he's accepted that maybe he and Danse aren't so different, and if Danse is as stubborn as Hancock, getting him to knock off the destructive shit will take bartering.

Danse is not an easy man to barter with, Hancock knows. And he'll catch on if Hancock starts at 50, and if 50 doesn't cut it. Hancock goes right to 100 and tells Danse he'll cut way back on chems if Danse starts taking care of himself again, or at least lets himself be taken care of.

If there's anything that can get Hancock to do something, it's vindication. Danse has always been iffy on Hancock's liberal chem use. Of course the idea of getting his way, of winning that little battle, would be too tempting. Danse takes the bait. Hancock resigns himself to chem use only on weekends and holidays, and takes some pride in having convinced the prickliest cactus to let himself be vulnerable.

Augustijn comes back a week later. No one sees either of them. But the next time Hancock does see Danse, he's put some pounds back on. The chemist says he's stopped coming in. Hancock siccs Piper and Codsworth on Danse's apartment to decorate it. Piper finds her birthday present. Danse spends two hours scrubbing her red lipstick off his face, complaining about the surprise being ruined the whole time.

Shit gets weird when the little synth kid shows up. Given everything with Shaun, and who Augustijn is, just as a person, that kid was always gonna be weird and messed up. Danse takes to him immediately. If the kid isn't with his dad (adopted dad?), he's with Danse, in the garage, at the river, down at the farms, walking Dogmeat. Hancock thinks its a good look on him, a kid on his shoulders, in his arms, holding his hand. Even more so when Danse gets back to his old weight. And then a little more. Then quite a bit more, especially in the chest and thighs. And then Danse starts smiling, gets laugh lines. Cait and Deacon make a drinking game out of swatting away the 'honeyflies' whenever they start surrounding. Something about a big, bulky man being fatherly to a skittish kid just drives people fucking wild. Danse develops a taste for ugly ass button ups, and not even his fashion sense scares them off.

Hancock takes him for beer, occasionally, through it all. Buys him dinner just to be sure he's eating. Watches how Danse changes bit by bit. He puts fat on in the legs before anything else, then the stomach, then the arms. His cheeks fill out quickly, too. He makes a lot more jokes than Hancock thought. They're just delivered so straight, you don't notice if you don't know to look for them. Once Hancock starts looking, they're everywhere. He wonders how many he's made that Hancock took as an earnest remark, and gave him crap for. He asks. Danse just grins, all shit-eating.

They go out for drinks. It starts as Hancock just wanting to check up on him. It turns into Hancock's favorite part of the week. He finds him fascinating. Danse is a history nerd, of course he is. He's wistful for simple pleasures, like live music, or fishing, or sports, if only for the fact that they're symbolic of peace. He has strong opinions on mirelurks. He actually isn't a virgin and admits that his first and only time was so his at-the-time squadmates would stop giving him shit for not having sex. He has reoccurring nightmares about his best friend, and he still misses the guy so much, he doesn't want the nightmares to stop because they're all he has left of him. He has it bad for Gus but he loves Theo so fucking much, he feels like the kid's Pops whether he gets with his dad or not. He's better with the synth thing, what really bothers him is how he acted and treated others, and how it took being one of them for him to see it was wrong.

Hancock finds him sweet, dorky, heartbreakingly sentimental, underneath all those scowls and grumbles.

He has to admit that he likes this guy.

What really sells him on Danse is how much he'll let you do, if you're close enough.

Hancock is touchy. Hancock is always cold. Danse is very warm and, having gained a lot more weight than he lost, very soft and comfy. Danse is touch-starved.

Danse becomes his travel mattress, portable chair, teddy bear, space heater, pillow, et cetera. Giant soft thing filled with fluff and warm. And Danse lets him. Danse lets Hancock play with his surprisingly soft hair, rub his shoulders, tuck under his chin, lay across his shoulders like a scarf...

It's a cosmic joke.

It's more of a cosmic joke than Danse being a synth. Hancock could have been using this fucker as a bed the whole goddamn time. He'd seen Danse be cool with ghouls before. Wiseman at the slog. That ghoul kid near Quincy. Kent. Even fucking Daisy, hell, Daisy liked Danse. The whole time, the whole fucking time, Hancock could have had a giant, warm, soft teddy bear. But no. But no. The teddy bear had to go through the the fucking wringer first.

He tells Danse as much. Danse laughs, loud and rosy-cheeked, in a flamingo print shirt, and says it fluffed him up.

[xhanisai]

not a hot take but it still needs to be said

An antagonist finally sharing/showing their tragic backstory and doing one or two good things is NOT a redemption arc. Especially if they continue to be bad or become even worse.

[spotsupstuff]

Now Pebbles and Zephyr live rent free in my head too. God that interaction is so heartwarming and sad and AHHHHHH!!!!

YEA YEA YEA FUCKIN HRHGHRHGHRH

back like. a month or so ago when that chancla post was happening? i kept thinkin about a scenario where Zeph hints at her whole intention of completely disregarding the Great Problem and focusing on the iterators themselves (her whole!!!! plan is called Mission Self-preservation!!!!!!!!) around the group and Suns, the usually apathetic brick of a fucker, just shoots up and attacks her about it n starts an argument

and as they are arguing about it and Zephyr's whole point of view is more n more revealed, Pebbles in the back starts shaking about it as if he's on the verge of crying and when the two arguing notice they stop and Zeph asks "...you know what i mean. don't you...?"

BECAUSE YES HE DOES. HIS RAGE IS A VALID ONE. ITS AGAINST SUCH A BLATANT INJUSTICE AND INSTEAD OF HAVING THE PERSON HE LOOKS UP TO A LOT AGREE WITH HIM OR TRY TO SEE HIS POINT OF HIS VIEW AT IT HE GETS TOLD THAT HES SUPPOSED TO JUST *ACCEPT* THIS UNFAIRNESS. that its Okay and How It Is Supposed To Be- them dying for this. them suffering for this. but its fucking *not*, nobody should be suffering like that ever

and here comes Zephyr- someone who understands even better than he understands himself right now in this. she Gets it and she's the first and she won't ignore this pain and anger. she wants to hear about it, she wants to guide him through it and offer him the hope that things can be alright yet

[svtskneecaps]

friends and fiends if this truly spells the Over for the qsmp i may let the brainworms that have been festering in me for MONTHS--A YEAR, EVEN--win.

i may summarize the goddamn fucking lore.

[nguyenfinity]

Me when I get a little silly and commit extreme child neglect

Here’s mother Shiina as promised but okay he had to get the blep from somewhere right--

Bonus made with malicious intent (to inflict emotional damage):

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

oh oh and sugu in formal clothing... i'm so nsjsbdjjdjsjd. like you mentioned comfort is definitely a priority for him! so nothing too fancy, maybe a pair of slacks that are. a little tight on the waist and the Ahem.. a thick (black) button down paired with a worn out leather belt... which feels So sugu to me in every way. AND OF COURSE THE TOP FEW BUTTONS ARE UNDONE

i feel so crazy the way i need him he's so effortlessly handsome and cool. imagine getting ready with him, brushing and tying his hair (he trusts your judgement more than his own! he'll let you handle his precious beautiful long hair because he trusts you soooo much :(() maybe he helps you put on perfume/cologne. and gives you a dozen too many kisses while he's at it I PROMISE IM SO NORMAL ABOUT GETO SUGURU!!!!!!!!!!!

and ending the day with him... tbh i always think suguru is the perfect person to end the day with or lay down or... he's just so comforting and calm and you can absolutely feel at peace just hearing him near you! i can totally see like... both of you passing out on the bed before changing or showering and just finding your way into each other's arms, because who can resist home?

gah sorry for yapping i'm kind of extremely tired from formal event myself... always has me thinking... what if.. what... Geto BUTi'm making myself sick. i've caught the suguru virus and i'm severely ill... the little mice in my brain.. cannot tell if they are happy or sad

from 🌖 anon! ^ ^

ANOTHER 🌖 ANON ASK HEHE it’s my lucky day <333333 THIS MADE ME SO INSANE BTW…

PHEWWWWWWW SUGU IN FORMAL CLOTHING be still my beating heart ……… YOUR DESCRIPTION MADE ME FEEL SO VERY ILLLLL THE TIGHT WAIST??? THE BELT????? COUPLE BUTTONS UNDONE??????? 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫 you’re trying to kill me…. i KNOW you are…….. no bc you’re so objectively correct it’s crazy . he’s just. classy and comfortable. he doesn’t even need to Try.

he looks so fucking good in a suit it’s insane ……. LOOK AT HIMMM

sick sick man . he’s so pretty . :(((((

AND PLSSSSS THE WAY OUR BRAINS R SO LINKED 😭😭😭😭 me seeing this right after yapping abt how suguru trusts you w his hair in the last ask you sent …… real recognizes real 🫡🫡 NO BC THAT CONCEPT IS SOOO SICKENINGLY SWEET you’re making me yearn for him so hard yk… getting ready w him…… and him trusting your judgement 🥺🥺 honestly sugu strikes me as the kinda bf who’d wear something he didn’t really like just bc you picked it out for him. bc he only really cares about your judgement anyway!!!! might bully you a little but . he does so lovingly <333 and still wears it proudly <33333 bc his baby picked it out just for him……..

OKAY STOP we’re getting too close to me. melting through the floorboards 😭😭 WAHH he’s just such a sweetie…… AND HIM HELPING YOU PUT ON PERFUME/COLOGNE 🥺🥺🥺 he would kiss you so many times it’s crazy…. and i think he uses the opportunity as an excuse to sniff your neck LMAOO. he’s so sly. ”want me to check if it smells okay? :)” <- he just wants to bury his nose into your neck and inhale your scent,… but he can’t do it unless he has a Reason bc he doesn’t want to come off as weird. (satoru on the other hand has no shame and will sniff you randomly and incessantly <333 he just loves your natural scent sm. freak.)

AND THEN . ending the day w him 🥺🥺🥺 ohhhh 🌖 anon you know the way to my heart……… you really really do………… i agree completely :’3 he’s the perfect person to relax and unwind with. helps you shower or take off your makeup if you wear any…. lets you take care of him if you want bc he can’t say no to you and your soft hands…….. and then curling up next to you under the covers and tucking you into his chest. ”because who can resist home?” <- I GENUINELY CRIED I HOPE YOU’RE HAPPY :((((( this line reached through my screen and turned my heart into mush…….. who can resist home:(((((((( have you considered a career in poetry my sweet anon. bc i’d gladly read it. he’s your home!!! and you’re his!!!!!

sniffleeeee i feel so sappy today T_T i love him…. and i love you……. never apologize for yapping i love hearing you yap and forcing you to listen to me yap in return <33333 we’re making the sugu brainrot worse for each other aren’t we…… AND PLSS THE MICE IN YOUR BRAIN 😭😭 i hope they’re okay. mine definitely aren’t. terminally ill….. the only cure is suguru geto jjk….. sniffle……….

[kkrazy256]

not saying i want to see Mother Goose, Pinocchio, and Pib die next episode, but I do want to see their next degree of fucked up/thrice upon a time

[randomwriteronline]

good evening to the four people who like these (who's who in alt)

[deus-ex-mona]

i miss her…