#someone write it im begging you

[drawnfamiliarfaces]

i... wrote a smol fic (っ´▽`*)っ

also!!!!! If you haven't seen it - shoutout to first ever published fic in Ninja Showdown/My Immortal Soul tags - Lustrous Red by @missadmyre !!!

[tomshivendgame]

tomshiv - romcom edit (uptown girl by billy joel)

pov: Succession AU where Tom works at Waystar Royco as Shiv’s assistant

[b4tm4nn]

NASCAR GOJO NASCAR SATURO NASCAR BLUE EYED BOY

[possamble]

Thank you for writing the (messy but neccessary) farcille breakdown. You handled it so wonderfully aaaaaaaah!! Like the other anon I was wondering how far "rock bottom" could get (because chapter 4 already felt pretty rock bottom) but. Yeah. That's pretty rock bottom, huh. The tragedy of loving someone but the other person not understanding <- this applies to both of them.

I think it was really neat how you flipped the question on who's reaching out to who with the academy flashback and the final scene with Namari, because... Marcille clinging onto Falin really is just a reversal of their academy days, isn't it? To everyone who met them after they reunited, it was always Marcille chasing after Falin, but to those who were at the magic academy, it was Falin chasing after Marcille. From picking flowers and berries to eat together, inviting Marcille out to see a play, and generally monopolizing her free time... I'm sure any of them would say the same thing as Namari, but in reverse. No wonder everyone thinks Marcille is just another friend to Falin. They weren't there to witness her pining /j. Idk!! I was rereading the chapter and the academy flashback girl was like "why do you hang off of Marcille so much" and I screamed to myself, "hey wait. HEY WAIT."

[satorisoup]

people will think im ordinary until they say one (1) thing about tmnt and all of a sudden im explaining the entire lore starting from the 1990’s movie & why donatello is the best turtle i fear… T^T

tag limit fights me… i must yap… please listen… SOB </3

[procrastinatingsoicanreadfanfics]

call of duty tumblr hear me out rn. i'm kind of busy writing other things rn but if i wasn't i would write this.

okay okay so its like a 19th century au or smth and the reader is betrothed to simon. but like. simon is in love with johnny his gardener/groundskeepers son (inspired by timblr user valiants au!! check it out fucks so hard btw) so the reader (who's guardian NOT father is john price) is just. struggling. a lot.

but. her childhood best friend kyle is also captain price's protégé and coincidentally served alongside simon. and then simon hosts a ball at some point (Read: the reader hosts a ball at some point bc hes not keeping up with the social scene lol) and guess who shows up

GAZ

mhm. now, the reader has been suppressing her feelings and also shes married/betrothed to simon now, and cant admit them to him, but hes also really really in love he just got home from the war too late. oh no.

so he stays longer to "catch up with simon" (such a lie. also kyle knows that simon and johnny are a thign somehow and also respects it bc hes just that girl) BUT he is really staying for the reader. gasp. (also also reader probably walked in on simon and johnny in some mildly compromising situation and also knows but struggles with it bc thats supposed to be her husband, right?)

maybe some other unmarried woman gets invited/stays at the riley manor for a while and makes pretty eyes at kyle, and the reader does not fuck with that but oh well. shes married. shes not in love with her childhood best friend. like at all.

and then they cross paths in the library or something and she goes

"I can't. i'm married, kyle. I need to be a good wife, i need to try to make him love me."

and kyle goes. "You cannot. it's not your fault and you know it."

and hten they make out or smth but its all a massive problem BUT they somehow end up together. okay idea end but the gasp i gusped at that when it entered my brain. delicious.

[pearlypeacepeacock69]

Bing bong fuck your life✨️

[the-innefable-idiot]

Something something Armand being whitewashed from history something something

[ehlnofay]

Pax should have said no.

Damn it all, they should have said no. Should have said go to hell and fucked off back – stop contacting me, sort out your own shit – but they didn’t, fuck knows why, and now they’re stuck here.

(They know why. They know exactly why; absolutely anything would be better than fucking off back to Cyrodiil. What’s for them there?)

But there’s nothing worth staying for here either, and now she’s crammed in between strangers on a long table, everyone dressed in fabrics she’s never seen with dyes so saturated they seem almost gory, eating stuff that isn’t food and talking loud enough to make her want to hurl a glass into the wall. It’s bizarre. The woman next to her, ruddy-faced and bald, wears a headpiece that shines like the sun the Isles doesn’t have; the other side is taken up by a stranger in a bone-white porcelain mask who has not moved but to swill the wine around in their glass. There’s scarcely room for Pax’s chair. It all feels like such a baffling pantomime of aristocracy (she's known the real thing well enough – feasts and toasts and luxurious gifts she had no use for, and if she doesn’t stop thinking about it she actually will throw a glass), bright colours and rich settings and a god taking offerings at the head of the table.

At least, Pax thinks, no-one tries to talk to him; they’re too busy fawning over their lord. Which is probably to be expected; but it all feels so strange, so unsettling, the way they all lean in towards it like flowers turning to face the sun, like seaweed dragged at by the inescapable pull of the tides. They grow towards it through the cracks in the air, matter moving toward the inevitable centre, as if they can imagine nothing more than this.

(Even more unsettling is the way it responds in kind, listening attentively to anyone who speaks to it, leaning in as though to kiss them, as though to swallow them whole. All hell, why did Pax agree to this? Why did they come?)

(They should have told it to fuck off. Should have said no way, I don’t want to help you, don’t want to get involved in anything you’d need my help for. I don’t owe you anything. I don’t need anything from you. I don’t want anything to do with you. I’m done.)

(Pax is done. Pax is sick to death of all this shit; doesn’t want to deal with this, the vaguely described problems of a god that picks people apart like it’s unravelling a thick yarn shawl. Doesn’t want to deal with anything like this. He’s had his fill of gods.)

(Why is he still fucking here? Why did he agree to this? This is no better than eating in that weird fucking inn in town. This is no better than –)

(That’s a lie. It’s a bit better than Cyrodiil. Just as much a shithole, but it pulls the rug out from under him often enough that he doesn’t have time to think too much.)

“Not hungry?” says a prowling voice, coiling catlike into the plaits in their hair, and Pax jumps enough to jostle the masked bastard sitting ramrod straight next to him.

He looks up.

At the empty placemat across from him sits a figure veiled in gossamer, glittering in the glow of the lit-up lichen on the distant throne; the fabric of its endless shawls pulls apart at the ends, peeling away from itself, shedding patches like iridescent insect wings every time it shifts. If Pax squints, they can see through it to the grand marbled wall behind.

She glances back at the chair at the head of the table, where something lounges, eyes dripping gold, intricately carved cane laid across its knees; its too-many fingers are laced with the hand of a man whose gown blooms floral. Flatly, she says, “What the fuck?”

“Aren’t you hungry?” Sheogorath asks, pouting; she can hear it laughing down the other end of the table. “It’s a proper feast. We pulled out all the stops.”

Pax shifts their eyes away to peer down at their plate. “You have served me worms,” she says. She flicks the dish with a fingernail. “In jelly. With flowers.”

“Larva, actually,” Sheogorath replies. It’s still at the other end of the table. It doesn’t seem eager to explain this. When it smiles, the gossamer falls away; its whole face splits in half.

It’s all so fucking stupid. Pax takes a deep breath – in through the nose, ignore all the odd spiced smells, and out – and does not yell at it, or try to hit it, because she’s gotten herself into a situation where that’s not really an option, because she’s a fucking idiot. Why didn’t she just say no?

(She knows why.)

The Mad God’s teeth flash bright as the ornate silver cutlery. Its chair scrapes back from the table. “It melts in your mouth,” it tells her, eyes glittering, “but I won’t make you try it. Walk with me?”

The figure still sits at the head of the table, snatching something from someone’s plate, always, always laughing. Its limbs sprawl like tentacles, like the silken threads of a tapestry, to encompass the whole room. The dinner guests stare as though bewitched, bedevilled, beguiled. Not one of them is looking at Pax. If he were to drop dead with his face in the food his corpse would not be discovered until sunrise.

Pax sniffs and shoves his chair back from the table. He lets Sheogorath (the second Sheogorath – but it must be, what else could it be?) lead him through a narrow door into some winding hallway, the walls lined and rimed with ornate coloured-glass windows. (It’s so much quieter. Still as garishly bright, but Pax is getting the sense that that is inescapable, here; the clothes they wear, as crumpled and covered in travelling-grime as ever and startlingly out of place against the odd jagged finery of the dinner party, seem unimaginably dull in comparison. Everything seems unimaginably dull in comparison.) Outside the windows, they can catch glimpses of the city – its winding, lamp-lit streets, the jumbled mess of its architecture, the sky arcing above it like a child’s attempt at watercolours. Pax wants to smash it, tear it down.

There’s no sun here, but still it’s night. The sky has shifted to purple and black.

“Isn’t it nice?” says their companion; when they look back, it’s nothing more than a shifting impression in the stained-glass window, a series of hairline cracks. It still manages, somehow, to smile at them.

It’s not. The sky is a shadow and the flamboyance of the palace is scraping at their spine. “Sure,” Pax says flatly. When she flexes her fingers, the bruising staining the base knuckle of her thumb aches.

Sheogorath looks at her – an ancient man leaning on a stick, a flickering painting, a bloody corpse, a little girl in velvet-red skirts, a breath. In its mercurial shifting she catches the flowery blossom of the man at the table’s collar, an unpleasant glimpse of her own braided hair, the smell of sulphur. It tips its head. She can’t focus on it anywhere but for the eyes.

“You don’t like my dinner parties,” it announces, as though it’s a revelation, a tragedy; its body crumbles like sea cliffs slowly eroded by the ways. It’s annoying – bloody obnoxious, and incomprehensible, and kind of weird that it noticed, that it would even care. (She’s never liked dinner parties. Nobody ever commented on it before.)

I’ve had well enough of them, Pax could say, or no, I don’t like you, but it’s the fucking Mad God, Daedric Prince of – Pax doesn’t even know what, he’s never known much about this shit, only that it’s well worth avoiding. Prince of the mad and the missing and the foolish, of breaking and breaking and putting yourself back together backwards. She should have said no, but she didn’t, and who knows what would happen if she went back on that now?

It's slinking closer. All that stay static enough to make out are eyes and teeth.

“Pax, yes?” it says, soft-voiced – a hand lands on his arm, small and dry and shivering, the skin as thing as a mouldering leaf. “You have no obligations here. If you want to be on your own, be on your own. We’ve plenty of space for it.”

Pax’s eyes narrow. He does not jerk away from it.

In the light of the coloured sky, the coloured windows, its face is phantasmagorical. “If you don’t want to be here,” it continues – still so skin-pricklingly gentle – “then your hand will not be forced. I’ll speed your way home if you wish.”

They can’t help but twitch at that. It’s setting their teeth on edge. (It’s lying – has to be. After its ages of coaxing them in, meting out information, not telling them where they were until they were on its doorstep, it would not give them the chance to leave.) Rough, still covered in road-grime, Pax asks, “Why should I believe you?”

(None of them have ever given them the chance to leave.)

Sheogorath, a figure of hollow skin and bone, inclines its head. “I wouldn’t lie to you, Pax,” it says. Its eyes are wide and bulging, whites on full display like a frightened horse; it grins again. “Others might. But we’re not a monolith. We’re not even especially similar.”

Pax bites down on the flat edge of their tongue. “That doesn’t mean anything to me.”

The light coming in through the windows flickers. The Mad God turns to meet it.

“I’m the youngest,” it says, its voice glittering like mist on the air. “Did you know that? I don’t remember the world without you in it.” Its form spasms, volatile, wings and limbs and eyes like a snail’s on stalks sprouting and choking and subsiding back into its mass. “I’m closer to you than any. I understand, almost.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Pax repeats. She’s gritting her teeth, tonguing at her gums where two are missing. Are two devil-gods not enough to deal with for a lifetime? Is there really going to be more of this now, too?

Rolling through the air like smoke, the voice says, “It will.”

Pax presses purple-green knuckles to her mouth. Her teeth dig into the soft meat of her lip.

Sheogorath turns to face her, hair moving as though blown by the wind, as though tugged by the tides. It sighs. “You don’t believe me,” it says. Its tongue pokes through its teeth. “That’s perfectly fine. Clever, even. But if you want to leave, all you need to do is tell me so.” It pauses, then; the train of its strange, gnarled crown shifts over its shoulders when it moves its head. “Or just leave. The door is still open.”

“You’d be fine with me just leaving,” Pax rasps around his knuckle, “after weeks of not leaving me alone?”

(Of begging him to come, poorly-hidden agitation giving way to blatant franticness, half-swallowing the fear that choked its face in every mirror it spoke to him through. Of begging him still, after he got here, after he met it – begging in a roundabout manner, casual as anything, its every motion reeking of fear. Its abject terror when he turned to leave. You’ve come this far. Why not hear an old man out? Pax told it that it wasn’t an old man, that he didn’t give a shit either way, and it slid through a child, a monster, a sulphur-burned body coughing blood, his own shuddering form in armour he hasn’t seen in months, and it said please.)

(Regained its composure, its gentleman’s face, immediately afterward. But it – the Mad God, unknowable, inconsolable – said please. Pax still doesn’t know what to do with that.)

The Mad God, now, shrugs. Taps at the hairline cracks in the stained glass windows. “I’d prefer you didn’t,” it says, one pair of hands braiding something intricate into its beard. The hand on the glass slips down. “I told you. I do need a champion.”

“And I told you,” Pax bites, something aching and ugly surging in their gut, “not to call me that again.”

A smile, bloody-mouthed and beaming. “But we will abide,” says Sheogorath, and digs its fingers into the cracks of the stone. One brick slides loose, mortar dug up under its nails. It offers it up.

Pax licks their teeth and takes it.

The brick shivers, momentarily – crumbles, in their hand, like sand slithering through their fingers, and left in their palm is a hardy slip of bone. Spiked and sprawling, carved with intricate patterns; it arranges itself around an oval of empty space, the perfect size for four sharp-knuckled fingers.

“You can always leave,” the Mad God tells them, and for a moment it does look so very young and strangely, staggeringly hopeful. “But give it a chance. I think you could love the Isles, if you choose to.”

[popponn]

i'm this close to opening discussion whether (is it possible that) kaiser is a playboy or not

[thewhitcrow]

▪︎ 》fic idea《 ▪︎

SHIP: James "Bucky" Barnes × Steve Rogers [stucky]

I had this fic idea, but I absolutely HATE writing fics and for the life of me can't write books or even draw. If anyone is willing to use this as a prompt, I would love to see it! Better yet, if a fic of this already exists, I'd love a link.

Idea:

It starts in the 40s - pre-war. Steve and Bucky have had this relationship for a while now, and only the Howling Commandos know.

And then obviously, Bucky falls and then Steve crashes the Valkyrie in the ice, blah blah blah...

Fast forward to Bucky meeting the twins - Pietro and Wanda. He takes them in immediately, acting as if they're his own. He cares and loves them, but Bucky is sent out on a mission, and then never returns to the twins. They mourn the loss of the man who became their father. Then the Avengers raid, all of the Age of Ultron stuff carries out, yada yada yah, and then obviously Pietro dies. and Wanda now mourns her parents, Bucky, and Pietro. She returns back with the Avengers afterwards. Everything carries out.

Then Civil War starts. Bucky and Steve talk again, and is convinced to help fight. When meeting with the new teammates, Bucky hears the unmistakable sound of Wanda's voice. He turns around, and sees her. She stops immediately, before running to him and speaking in Russian. They cry. Bucky looks at her and asks, "Where's Pietro?" And she immediately breaks down again. She explains what happened and his heart breaks.

Then the rest can be interpreted by the writer. That was just the main idea.

[averagemorrowindenjoyer]

if your favorite Link is Wild consider yourself an opp

[venusbby]

i was thinking and then i thought and then uh... yeah lets talk

imagine being bachira's childhood friend !!!!!

haha so nice two weirdos just hanging out. he tells you everything and you tell him everything and by the time you're in college you'll still be two weirdos just hanging out. and then one day he asks you "do noses collide during a kiss?" and you're just like "what.. :D"

but then he explains that he spent so much time in his sport that he hasn't had his first kiss yet. and you're confused too because you're pretty focused on your studies so you haven't had your first kiss either??? so both of you are quite curious even though you've watched hundreds of romance movies together (some you had to bribe him with food to watch with you)

and silly little bachira is just like "why don't we find out?"

and again you're like "what. :D"

[fbfh]

good news wildcats, I'm finally watching hsmtmts s4. I just finished episode 1 and I am SCREAMING.

toxic ricky is back!!!!!!!!!!! unhinged unstable season 1 ricky my darling!!!! my beloved!!!!!!!!! my pathetic soggy prayers have been answered!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[theworstcreature]

Fanfic authors will write the most beautiful profound heart wrenching interesting piece of fiction ever and be like “Ik this isn’t very good and it was kinda rushed but I hope you guys enjoy it anyway” like my brother in Christ this is BETTER THAN THE CANON FUCKING CONTENT IM CRYING ON THE FLOOR AND SCREAMING OVER THIS WORK WITH QUALITY LOVE AND THOUGHT PUT INTO IT COMPARABLE TO THAT OF AN ANCIENT GOD OF WRITING AND STORIES

[waterfallofspace]

Entertainment Comes In Many Forms.

The one in which G/ojo has a cold, a meeting with someone he despises, and a boyfriend with a snz!kink who will also be in attendance. Also known as, G/ojo teases N/anami endlessly while in public, and also gets to torment principal Y/oshinobu (who has ‘a thing about germs’). Two birds with one exaggerated cold.  WELP, it was sure to happen, G/ojo (and J/JK in general) has been SO on my mind recently. Bear with me, it’s my first time writing these guys, so I don’t claim to have them down yet!! Buuuuut, I’m absolutely in love with G/ojo, so I had to do something with him~~ Bit of a shorter one this time, though I have a few ideas for longer J/JK stories if anyone’s interested! To anyone who bothers to read this, thank you! And I hope you enjoy~~ (References to swearing, and snz!fucker play (borderline smut), in case anyone doesn’t like those)  Characters: G/ojo, N/anami, Principal Y/oshinobu, and G/ojo’s cold.  Word count: 2k

It wasn’t like Gojo had planned to have a cold for this meeting. He’s good, but he’s not that good. It just so happens that fate was on his side this blessed fall day. He’d woken up with a scratchy throat a few days ago, which had morphed into congestion and a slight cough the next day, and by today, had grown into a full fledged cold.  The meeting with Nanami and the principal of Kyoto’s school had been planned for weeks, so technically if he had wanted to, he could have prepared for this, which honestly just made it feel sweeter to him. The fact that he hadn’t planned, everything was just working out his way. “Ihh’shuue-! haHH’TISHH’ieww-! hH’ISHH’iew-!” And then there was that. That had started yesterday, but came back in earnest today, just in time for the meeting. A smile breaks across Gojo’s face as he rubs his nose against his hand, delighted at the level of tickle that still buzzed within his sinuses. He was planning to put on a bit of a show, even wore his sunglasses instead of a blindfold for easier access to his eyes, but it was starting to look like his body was prepared to play its part all on its own.  Fashionably late, as always, Gojo takes his seat on the couch, the principal seated across from him on a chair, and Nanami to his left, leaning against the wall, seemingly waiting for Gojo to arrive before choosing a seat. “Aw, were you all waiting for me? How sweet!” Nanami sighs, taking his seat on the chair set just to the left of the couch, reclining just enough to cross one leg over the other. Gojo follows suit, offering a drippingly sweet smile. “We had to wait for you. You can’t have a three person meeting with only two of the people.” Gojo puts on a shocked expression, bringing his hand to his mouth. “You can’t? Oh my, that’s certainly news to me! I’m so sorry for the wait then gentlemen.” The principal remains silent, eyes clouded, but Gojo notices the twitch in his hands against his cane, smirking to himself. ‘Oh, this is gonna be even more fun than I had planned, he’s already on edge!’  “Shall we get started then, principal?”  “Yes. First item to talk about is-” “hhEH’ISHH’CHOOO-!”  Gojo let loose with that one, tacking on a ‘choo’ at the end for good measure, making sure to bring up a wrist to cover with. Gotta start off easy, can’t have them clueing into the game before it gets good.  “Wheew, sorry guys, snuck up on me. I’m battling a bit of a cold, been quite sneezy today.” His eyes flick over to Nanami as he practically purrs the word. His boyfriend shows no real reaction on the surface, but Gojo doesn’t miss the way his eyes trace Gojo’s nose, down his neck, and back up again. The principal, meanwhile, has leaned back in his chair. It’s slight, but it’s enough to get Gojo’s blood pumping. ‘Let round one commence.’  “Well, you can’t exactly be blamed for that. Though, you’d think one as powerful as yourself would have a better immune system.” Gojo just smiles, fake and full of chocolate-coated spite. “One would think that, wouldn’t they? Turns out, not the case, I’m still human after all.” “So it would seem.” The conversation is polite, but each word drips with alternate meanings and tones of deceit. Gojo lets a wet snffff- escape as the topic turns back to the meeting. He’s fairly uninterested in whatever nonsense the principal and Nanami are on about, good thing he expected this. “And so when it comes to training new sorcerers, we’ve decided on-” “Huhh-! heH’ASHHH’OOOO-! Oh scuuhhhse- hEH’KTSHH’CHHOO-! Scuse me!” This time Gojo pretends to bring his arm up, very obviously, and purposefully, missing it entirely. It delights him to see the principal physically wince, pulling back even further in his chair. Nanami, however, let out a noise that, on anyone else, would be classified as a whimper, before clearing his throat and offering a weak blessing. “B-bless you…” “Thank you! Snnfff- guhhh… Still itchy, but I think it’s done for now. What were we talking about before I so rudely interrupted?” The principal starts up again about, well to be honest Gojo doesn’t even know what they’re on about at this point. He’s much more focused on letting the wet cough pour out into his hands. It shakes him enough that the couch rattles, and Nanami gives him a look of sympathy. “You need some water?” Gojo clears his throat, coughing finally tapering off, making sure to give a light sniffle to relight the tickle that was starting to burn through his nose again. He subtly turned his head, making sure Nanami had a full view of his twitching nose, finger rubbing against it. The principal however, would have a great view of his hands not reaching up to cover these ones. “Snnfff- Nah, thank you though Nanami, what a dear! I’m ahhhlriight… heHH-! Uhhh… hAHH- hh’hEHH-! HAH’TISHHH’OOO-! ISHH-TSHHH-hH’ISHHH’CHOO-!”  “Disgusting, at least co-” He cuts the principal off with another shaky inhale, making direct eye contact with Nanami, and taking notice of the way his legs are nearly trembling, before succumbing to another,  “AHH’KSHHH’OOO-!uhhhh hehH! hH’ISHH’iew-! Ishh’iew-! Hh’tishh’iew-!”  A few smaller ones slip out before he can add anything to them, but that’s more than alright. Giving Nanami another glace, Gojo smirks at the way his mouth is practically hanging open. ‘Well well, if I didn’t know better Nanami, I’d say you’re drooling~’  His nose is still trembling, and he brings up a palm to rub at it. While this is all very entertaining, he’s still actually sick after all, so he takes a sip of the water Nanami had set beside him earlier. It delights him when this brings another round of harsh coughs, making sure to aim towards the principal. The man is practically sweating, his knuckles full white as they grip his cane. He’s even showing his eyes, a sure sign of how offput he is. They are wide, and almost vibrating with anxiety. Nanami’s are also fixed on him, but he’s vibrating with a completely different emotion. “Bless you.” It’s soft, weak even. Not a word normally associated with Nanami, but given how his teeth chew at his lip, it’s the best he can do. “Thank you!  Jeez sorry, it’s juhhhst so tickly. Really don’t know why it’s… ihhts… heH’ISHH’SHOOO-! Why it’s this bad today, guess it’s just a fast acting cold.” Gojo smirks yet again as his last words seem to pierce right into the principal, helped along by his utterly uncovered sneeze. The man is practically shaking, sweat dripping from him as he attempts to push his chair right back through the wall. Finally he’s had it, and Gojo gives an innocent smile with a questioning glance as the principal stands up. “Leaving so soon? Don’t we have more business to attend to?” The congestion that’s seeping into Gojo’s voice coaxes a slight moan from the direction of his boyfriend, but the principal seems too preoccupied with fleeing to notice. ‘Probably for the best, I doubt Nanami wants an audience to what, undoubtedly, he has planned for this next part.’  “It can wait for another day. I have… uh… urgent matters… to attend to…”  Normally Gojo would have called him out on such a bullshit excuse, but today he was eager for the principal to take his leave, so he remains silent. Silent, aside from another harsh set of coughing he aims towards the gap between the principal and the door.  Another smirk works over his face as he watches the principal’s eyes narrow, trying to find a way to get out of the room without crossing the line of fire. Eventually he just decides to brave it, quite nearly running out of the room.  As they’re left alone ‘at last’ Gojo lets his attention fall completely on Nanami. The man is still sitting, but his entire body is trembling, his eyes hungry with desire. “Just us now. Anything in particular you wanna d-” He’s cut off by Nanami springing up from his chair, and grabbing Gojo up off the couch. He spins him around, pressing him against the wall, before letting a faint whine escape his lips with his next words.  “You cruel bastard.” “What~? That’s no way to talk to your sick boyfriend, I’m miserable over here. I’m just so tiiihhhckly, and itchy, and I ha- ahhhh- hAH-! Have to sneehheze.”  “No.” Nanami responds, pinching Gojo’s twitching nose between his fingers. “You’ve been tormenting me for this whole meeting, it’s time to return the favour.” Now it’s Gojo’s turn to whine, his nose practically trembling at the feeling of Nanami’s grasp. “Oh come ohhhn Nanami, you can’t b- be sehhhh- hEH-HDT-!uhhhh serious! Touching it juuhhhhh- hehhh- ihHheHH!uhhh just m- makes it tiihhhhckle so much more… you know how se- hehhh- sensitive I am.”  Nanami gives Gojo a smirk, a wicked look in his eyes, before starting to gently rub his fingers back and forth. Gojo gasps, hands suddenly twitching as he fights the urge to pull Nanami’s fingers off. His eyes flutter shut, tears starting to pool in them at the desperation of the tickle.  “When I give you permission, you aim them where I tell you to.” “hehH- ihh…haaahh… hAH-! Guhhhh…”  “Okay, go ahead.” And with that, Nanami releases his grasp, giving Gojo’s nose one final flick, which at this point, was completely unnecessary.  “heH’NNGT-! Knngt-! hh’dngt-! nngxxt-! hEH-!uhhh… hhihHH’knNGT-! hH’NGTT’shoo-!” A low growl breaks loose from Nanami’s throat as Gojo directs the onslaught of ticklish stifles against his neck, biting his lip hard as he feels the warmth of his twitching nose press just under his ear. “Let them out.” “Hmm~? I’m snehhh- sneezing, what else could you possibly mean?” Gojo whispers, his hitching breaths blowing gently against Nanami’s ear. In response, Nanami practically moans, the only thing stopping him is Gojo’s hand pressed against his mouth. “Uh uh uh, not yet. I’m n- hahhh! not quite through with you just yet. Patience is a virtue, Naahhhhnami.” Hearing his name hitched through is almost enough to send Nanami over the edge, but he holds on, Gojo’s hand promisingly close to his hips. Gojo’s nose, on the other hand, is trembling. He gently rubs it along Nanami’s neck, letting a few desperate hitches escape against the warm skin. Feeling a desperate twitch, he presses his nose into Nanami’s shoulder, using it to stifle the next fit. “hH’NNgt-! nNGT-! ehh’DNGGT-!hehh… ihh-HEH’NGXT-!”  Nanami whines, pressing his waist into Gojo’s and biting his tongue hard to keep from moaning at the sensations of the warm trembling nose being rubbed back up to his ear. In response, Gojo lets out a purr, giving Nanami’s ear a soft bite, before finally offering some relief to them both. He lets his breath hitch, gently blowing on Nanami’s neck, before finally releasing against him with a moan that Nanami soon echoes. “hIHH’ISHH’IEW-!  Oh dea- hAH’ASHH’IEW-! Ishh’uee-! So tickly… itch- itchy… hheH’Tishh-tshhh-kshhh-ishhhh’iew-! hahH’KISHH’UUE-! I can’t s- hAH’ASHH’IEW-! Can’t sto- stop- hH’ESHH’ooo-! mMMFSSH’IEW-! Bless mehehhh- Eh’shh’uue-! ESHH’IEW-!”  Both of them are panting by the time he’s done, with Nanami practically licking his lips. “Bless you.” “Guhhh- thank you. Must be one hell of a cold, snfff- I don’t think I’ve sneezed that much without allergic interference snff- or inducing it along in, hmm…heH’ISHH’IEW-! Oh, scuse me- Probably years now.” “You’re all stuffy now.” Nanami purrs, lightly nibbling on Gojo’s neck, and relishing in the whimper it elicits from the sniffly man. “So it would seem. Any- snnffff- any remedies you can think of?” The question is laced with deeper meaning, and Nanami sinks his teeth into Gojo’s lips in response, letting their mouths meet with a deep, hungry kiss. Only breaking it when Gojo needs to gasp for air, no longer able to breathe through his nose. “I can think of a few things.”