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chuluoyi · 8 months ago

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࿐ ࿔ 🕰️ 「 08:12 A.M 」

based on a suggestion! a bit short and i ran out of gojo headers :') i think i've used all them up...

a part of gojo's love entries

“why me not here?”

on one fine morning, your three-year-old son, perched on satoru’s lap, pointed at one picture during your wedding day in the album and dropped the question curiously.

“hmm, why, you ask?” satoru’s lips curled into a wicked grin. “heh. that’s because you weren’t invited. booo.”

your toddler son turned to him with wide eyes as if betrayed, shocked. “...why?”

“we ran out of invitations for you, kiddo. sorry~”

“...” your son, all with his white hair and blue eyes, looked conflicted for one minute straight, before his eyes went glassy. the very sight got satoru almost crack up.

“hey minion, don’t fry your brain over it,” he chuckled, pinching both his cheeks.

his pumpkin merely glared back at him before focusing back on the album. “evil papa!” he accused, pursing his lips into a huge pout. “what papa and mama do...?”

satoru glanced at the picture of you in your traditional kimono, smile forming in his face. “well, i married mama then.”

“what is marry?”

hmm, now that was unexpected. “well...”

“why marry?”

pressed for a decent answer but failed to find any, he blurted the first thing that popped up in his mind. “to... produce you, of course.”

“huh...?” your boy's eyes positively lit with total confusion, staring back at him with so much incredulousness.

“well, simply because it’s wrong to produce you if we are not married~”

“...” your baby son didn't understand, that much is clear with the frown in his little face, and satoru really thought he would question him further until—

“mamaaa!” he bolted out of his grasp and ran to find you. satoru immediately followed him suit in half-panic.

meanwhile, you were about to check out your cart in the online shopping platform in the living room when your son crashed himself to you. “oh my god, what did papa do to you this time?” you caught him and pulled him to your lap, somewhat surprised that his eyes welled with tears.

“papa, bad!”

“yes baby, we know that already.”

“papa said... papa and mama marry to produce!”

your eyes widened in surprise when you heard your innocent baby, and you immediately shot an irked glance at your stupid husband as he approached both of you with a snarky smile.

“he always tells on me, hmph,” he puckered his lips in defiance. “what i told him is true though, i have to marry you first to put him in the oven, no?”

you couldn't believe what he said in front of your three-year old, and were about to sentence his punishment when he suddenly pressed an index finger to your lips, silencing you.

“no, no! you can’t couch me tonight! why? because i’m paying for your cart!”

#𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒 𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑠 #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #gojo fluff #gojo satoru #satoru x reader #jjk imagines #jujutsu kaisen x reader #satoru gojo x reader #gojo satoru fluff #jjk fluff #gojo x you #satoru gojo fluff #jjk x reader fluff

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void-my-warranty · 2 months ago

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Soap Warms You Up (18+)

Service Dog Johnny Part 20 (full part list here)

Pairing: Simon Riley/Fem Reader/Johnny MacTavish Content warnings: Sexual contact, she/her reader Word Count: 2.7k

It makes you cry harder.

Frozen, bitterly confused, Johnny’s words just turn you into more of an emotional mess. You devolve into gasping those deep, undignified sobs onto his shoulder, because all you know is it hurts. Being near him is a suffocating grief, and he’s as close as can be now, wrapping you up even tighter and muttering, “It’s okay,” over and over, as if saying it enough times will somehow make it true.

You attempt to stop crying long enough to apologize, but every time you try, your lungs seize and your voice breaks, and the tide continues. You must really be concerning Johnny, because at some point he starts babbling confused assurances that it’s not a big deal, and there will be other nights to do stuff, and are you upset because you’re cold?

“I’m s-s-s-s-sorry,” you manage explain through jackhammering teeth. “I know it w-asn’t— didn’t go the w-way I—”

“Let’s get these sorted,” comes a familiar, gruff voice from the front seat, and fingers grab for the sticky fabric of your leggings to start pulling them down.

“It was fun,” Johnny insists, petting your hair in a clumsy sort of way. “Maybe one of these days—”

“Trousers,” barks Simon, giving your leggings two irritated tugs.

Sadly, Johnny joins him in ridding you of your pants, instead of staying on the very important topic of whether or not you’re a massive let-down.

You’re pudding-brained by it all. By the time you remember you can actually help undress yourself instead of sitting there uselessly, your hands just get in the way. So you get stripped in the car like a toddler, and then Johnny takes his coat off to tuck it around your thighs, and wraps you up in his arms again. If only you weren’t so cold, so you’d know if it’s a hug he actually wants to give.

But you are cold, and your legs greedily suck up his coat’s residual body heat. Even his stupid warmth feels good, like it’s got a delicious taste of who he is stored in it. Johnny’s heat, and his body pressed to yours, and you can finally breathe, just a little.

He sighs into your hair, as if he understands. You wish he wouldn’t.

“Once the car warms up, you can take the coat back,” you whisper. “I’ll be fine.”

“Nae bother, I’m warm blooded.”

“Okay, well, Simon can give it back to you on Monday—”

“‘S alright,” cuts in the third voice, “we’re going round to Johnny’s after this.”

You can tell by the sudden rigidity of the body against yours that this is completely new information to Johnny.

If you had some emotional strength left, you might worry about that. Might try to figure out some way to diffuse the situation and make sure he’s not offended by Simon’s glaring overstep, but you don’t. Your boyfriend has chosen this day of all days to go around Mr. Collins-ing Johnny, and you’re not in a position to do anything about it.

Besides, it lights a little spark of hope in your chest, that you’ll get another chance to make everything alright.

“Yeah,” Johnny says slowly, like he’s still processing the idea. “Yeah… alright.”

The first spot of heat from the car begins to warm your feet, and all you can do is exist.

----------------------------------

“Got one of those speed settings,” Johnny promises, rummaging around his dresser for a pair of sweatpants. “Have ‘em clean and out the dryer in an hour.”

“Thank you. Really.” Your bare legs clamp together a little tighter for warmth, peeking out from beneath Simon’s enormous black coat. “And thanks for letting us crash your place in the meantime. I know it’s— Well, I know Simon didn’t exactly ask first.”

You keep your eyes on his face, on that vaguely happy expression that you suspect now is just his usual mask to keep people out. You should have known, really, but he’s different from other people you’ve met. He’s figured out how to avoid suspicion unless you look really close.

“It’s nothing. Get these on, and I’ll make you a tea.” He glances a little too long at your eyes as he hands you that bundle of clothes, as if they look as tender as they feel. His expression slips a little right then, the corner of his mouth going tight with concern.

So you hold his gaze, attempting to convince him with some excessive eye contact that you’re actually doing much better, and he doesn’t need to worry at all. “Tea sounds great.”

Tea does not sound great. Cocooning yourself in blankets and scrolling on your phone until you forget why you’re sad sounds great. Getting kissed and cuddled and then sleeping for about twelve hours sounds great. But anything is better than the evening you thought you were going to have, crying into your pillow over your monumental failures.

To his credit, Johnny doesn’t hover. The door soon clicks shut behind him, and you can finally exhale. Tossing the sweatpants onto the bed, you eagerly flop yourself down beside them, squashing your face flat to the mattress on purpose so you won’t be able to breathe.

You’re on Johnny’s bed, in the least sexy situation you can imagine. Bare, slightly sticky thighs, one sock coming off a little bit, hair messed up and eyes raw. And now your lungs are also burning, because you’ve decided to hold your breath, because you’re dramatic.

Absently, your fingers curl open and closed on the blanket, giving you pleasant sensory feedback to counter the ache in your chest.

You want someone touching you. Not necessarily in a sexual way, just some kind of contact to focus on and settle your nerves. You didn’t get to cry quite long enough to reach a state of numbness, and now you’re just unsatisfied, exposed and hungry. Your skin feels like the rough side of velcro, waiting for someone to brush up against it so you can snag them.

Too soon, you’re forced to raise your head and suck in some air. Your eyes land absently on Johnny’s bedside table, and you frown in confusion.

Is that?...

No way.

You quickly army crawl across the mattress to peer down at – exactly what you thought it was – the same sort of hobby things you have at home, shoved haphazardly into the top drawer so that some of it is poking out. So that’s how he’s able to show up to your house all those weeks ago, immediately proficient. ‘Never done this before,’ your ass.

Maybe it’s a little spiteful and childish, but you use that as permission to snoop. You open the drawer all the way and quickly glance over the annoying, perfect lines of his project, before casting your eyes over the other contents.

Johnny’s got a similar knife to the one Simon has in his night stand, along with some mismatched notebooks and pencils, a few receipts, and condoms and lube. Two boxes of condoms and two different types of lube, to be specific.

You shove the drawer shut as fast as you can, but it’s too late. There’s no avoiding the uncomfortable vision of Johnny having sex with someone else, in this bed.

It should have been you.

Stop it.

It should be you, tonight.

He said he’s done, though.

You’re pretty sure you could convince him.

Respecting people’s boundaries is the bare minimum standard for loving them.

Do you love him?

Suddenly, you can perfectly hear Simon’s voice in your head, scattering the flurry of thoughts with a long suffering, ‘Fuckin’ ‘ell.’

He’s right. You’re being dumb, and you aren’t in the right mind to make any sort of important decision. So you do the smart thing, and wander into Johnny’s bathroom to wash the sugar residue off your legs. You fix your hair as best you can, rid yourself of the coat, and then pull on Johnny’s soft, spare clothes.

You need Simon. That’s exactly what you need, because that’s an actual resource you have, with no strings attached. You don’t have to think, when you’re with him.

Like a heat-seeking missile, you make your way out of the bedroom in search of a comforting pec to rest your cheek on. There’s Johnny, busy doing something in the tiny kitchen. There’s the TV, playing football of course. And there’s Simon, relaxed and spread out in the only chair, which is a huge problem. He’s not supposed to be sitting by himself, he’s supposed to be saving you a spot on the couch, as your designated comfort person.

You judge your options as you walk, glancing at the leather couch, and practically shivering at the cold isolation of it.

Surely Simon knows you’re sad. He must realize he needs to be available to you, so it’s the reasonable thing to go out of your way to get extra close as you walk past his chair. You calculate your steps to slow at the right moment, so he can reach out and pull you into his lap.

No dice. You make your way over the entire stretch of carpet without a single movement from Simon, or greeting, or any other of the hundred ways he could invite you over to himself.

Hurt and annoyed, you plop your ass down on the couch as far from him as possible, and stare resolutely at the commercial playing on the TV.

Boyfriend, what a joke. More like boy-acquaintance who shares a bed with you. Can’t be bothered to give you a hug on the worst night ever, obsessed with watching stupid footballers run down a stupid field and never score any goals.

Naturally, you curl your feet under you and cuddle yourself into the corner of the couch to cope. Best to compress yourself into a ball and communicate that you don’t need him, either. You’re fine. You’re at your ex-fuck-buddy’s apartment and he’s been fucking other people in his bed, and everything’s totally, completely fine.

There’s a movement in your peripheral vision, and you’re such a bleeding-hearted sucker that you instantly whip your head around, hoping Simon has finally—

Nope. He meets your eyes with that familiar, disaffected stare as he finishes raising a bottle of beer to his lips.

Motherfucker.

“Are you avoiding me?” you shoot at him, whispering the words quietly enough not to carry past the two of you.

Simon does that slow blink that’s his version of an eye roll, swallowing his sip. “Negative.”

Okay, but there’s an expanse of cold, empty cushion next to you, and you’re lonely.

“Hungry?” Johnny asks, emerging from the kitchen area with a mug of something in one hand, and a plate in the other.

He doesn’t wait for your agreement, just sits right down next to you and puts his socks up on the coffee table. “Got some bread and cheese, and tea. Not sure how you like it, but G–uh–Simon puts all sorts of sugar in his, and I thought I’d spare you.”

You can’t help but smile over at Johnny’s offerings, the way he’s using his thigh as a table for your snacks. “This is… very nice. Thank you, Johnny.”

Automatically your eyes flick up to his face, catching on the authentic, happy smile he’s directing at you. He’s never had you over before, not on purpose at least. It feels almost like something important, the fact that you’re here. If only you had the brain power to consider all the possible angles, you’d be able to figure it out.

Instead, you munch on the mediocre cheese and the very good bread, sip on the tea that’s really not so bad. You suspect Johnny just made tea for you the same way he makes it for himself. Sweet, with a little bit of milk. It warms you right up.

“Did you do any acting when you were a kid?” you ask around a mouthful.

Johnny finds the question as funny as you’d hoped, smiling as he steals a drink of your tea. “Nah.”

“You sure? There’s this show called Teletubbies, with this sun that’s a baby…”

“You’re full of it.”

“Do a baby laugh, so we can check.”

Johnny gives you a reproachful look, which you barely notice over the chuckling from the direction of the chair.

“I’ll keep my reputation the way it is, thanks.”

“When we’re alone,” you agree conspiratorially.

Johnny groans with what you hope is pretend annoyance, looping his arm around your neck to lean you into him and kiss your hair. “When we’re alone,” he whispers back, in that joking-but-not-really sort of way.

“I missed you, too,” you mumble, heart starting to race at the risk you’re taking.

And to your surprise, Johnny just leans his head around and kisses you, before the words have even had a chance to land anywhere.

Stubbly lips on your tingly, swollen ones. A blossom of something warm and liquid in your chest. A very male, very happy noise breathed into your mouth.

Balance in the universe.

Fingers find your neck, sweeping comfortingly across your throat. You settle into the kiss, don’t dare stop any of it, because that’s when the uncertainty will take hold. If you stop kissing him, then you’ll have to think, so you just keep pressing your lips to his, respecting the slow pace he’s set, and waiting for him to lick against your tongue.

The plate must have vanished into thin air, because when Johnny pulls your knee up over his hips, there’s just you and him, and nothing in between. Dry and warm and melting into each other, you settle your pussy atop the hard bulge in his pants and hold him tightly in your arms.

It’s okay, your body says to his body, fingers sliding into his hair. Let’s just touch each other, and we’ll figure out the rest later.

His mohawk has grown out a bit since the last time you felt it. It’s turned a little wavy and rough in your fingers, the sides of his head losing that velvet texture it had when it was freshly buzzed.

Things have changed, you can feel it. He’s different now, his movements hesitant, his hands vibrating slightly as they coast down your thighs. It almost feels like something’s wrong, except that every time you try to pull back and get a look at him, he just crushes you closer, gets his hands under your shirt and starts feeling you up.

You let him, because you want it. You want to connect with him again, give him that mindless pleasure and let him feel how right your body is for his body.

Soon you’re topless and braless, basking in his attention, his tongue in your mouth, the dampness between your legs. You don’t want to fuck him in his bed, and be reminded of all the others who came before. You just want to make love to him right here, surrounded by the scattered snacks and tea, the signs of his caring nature. He’s a good person, and you’ll make him face it, see it reflected back at him because you’re the same.

“Need a condom,” he says hoarsely, when you’ve just got the button on his pants undone.

“It’s okay, I’m still on the pill.” Your fingers find him through his underwear, stroking that poor, bunched up cock.

“No, we n-need one, this time. Until I can get tested.”

Oh. Because he must have been having unprotected sex with other people. You draw your head back to get a look at his face, the eyes that suddenly can’t meet yours.

“It’s okay,” you tell him, because it is. Yes, it hurts to know. Yes, you’d like to use a condom for more than just your sake. But you never expected him to stay celibate. In all those days of grief and pain, the thought crossed your mind a few hundred times.

Johnny shakes his head a little, staring down at the cushion beside him.

“Johnny, it’s okay.”

The noise that bursts out of him shocks you — a deep, snorted sob. You gape in surprise as Johnny’s hands shoot to his face, and he does it again, shoulders shaking.

“Baby,” you whisper, and Johnny starts to cry.

Next Part

Dividers by the-aesthetics-shop

#service dog johnny #simon ghost riley #johnny soap mactavish #call of duty #simon Riley x reader #x reader #cod soap #cod ghost #dinnertime #soap x reader #ghost x reader

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