#poor! reader

[jiminomenon]

model! karina gets sick

pairing: model! karina x assistant! female reader

word count: 926

tag(s): karina being stubborn, y/n is tired she literally needs a break now gang-, sick! karina, princess aka their child makes an appearance, just a really soft moment between these two

from my series: the devil wears prada

if y/n had known jimin was going to be this insufferable when she was sick, she would have never let her step out in the rain yesterday. in fact, she should’ve just grabbed her by the wrist and dragged her under the umbrella instead of letting her prance around like she was immune to basic human conditions. but no, jimin had insisted she was invincible, brushing off y/n’s concerns with that same haughty confidence she wore like a designer coat.

“you’ll catch a cold,” y/n had warned, holding the umbrella over them as jimin strutted toward the car, completely unbothered.

“i don’t get sick,” jimin had scoffed, flipping her damp hair over her shoulder before tossing her equally soaked coat at y/n. “only weak people do.”

fast forward to today—jimin was curled up in bed, nose red, voice hoarse, and shivering beneath a mountain of blankets. weak people, huh?

y/n stood at the bedside with her arms crossed, staring down at the miserable lump that was once the almighty yu jimin. “i told you so.”

jimin peeked at her from beneath the covers, her glassy eyes narrowed into a glare. her voice was raspy, almost pitiful, but her bratty attitude remained intact. “shut up and make yourself useful.”

y/n exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of her nose. “so bossy even when you’re practically on your deathbed.” she set down a tray on the bedside table, pushing a bowl of steaming porridge toward jimin. “eat this.”

jimin wrinkled her nose, shifting further into her blankets like a petulant child. “no.”

y/n’s eye twitched. “yes.”

“don’t want to.”

“jimin, you’re literally sick.”

“so? i don’t like porridge.”

y/n clenched her jaw, inhaling slowly as if it would give her the patience not to smack the stubbornness out of this woman. after a moment of internal struggle, she scoffed and threw her hands up. “fine. starve, then.”

she spun on her heel, making her way toward the door. she wasn’t going to coddle someone who refused to help themselves—jimin could sit in her self-inflicted misery all she wanted. but just as y/n reached for the doorknob—

“wait.”

y/n paused, glancing over her shoulder. jimin wasn’t looking at her directly, her fingers fiddling weakly with the edge of the blanket. her voice was smaller this time, almost hesitant. “where’s princess?”

of course. leave it to jimin to refuse basic human nourishment but demand to see her cat. y/n sighed, but she left without protest, heading toward the living room. sure enough, princess was curled up on the couch, a tiny bundle of fur nestled into one of jimin’s designer pillows. the kitten barely stirred as y/n scooped her up, her soft little body warm against y/n’s palm.

when y/n returned to the bedroom, jimin was watching her expectantly, her expression softening the moment she saw princess in y/n’s arms.

“here,” y/n muttered, setting the kitten down gently on the bed.

princess blinked sleepily before stretching her tiny paws, letting out a delicate meow as she toddled over to jimin’s side. jimin immediately reached for her, stroking her fur with weak but affectionate fingers.

a small, satisfied smile graced jimin’s lips as princess nuzzled against her chin. “at least someone still loves me.”

y/n rolled her eyes, arms crossing over her chest. “you’re impossible.”

princess purred, rubbing her cheek against jimin before curling up into a tiny ball beside her. jimin let out a contented sigh, her body visibly relaxing as she snuggled into the blankets. but just when y/n thought she could finally leave—

“this is nice,” jimin murmured, peeking up at y/n. “all that’s missing is—”

she patted the empty space beside her, her meaning very clear.

y/n blinked. “oh, no. absolutely not.”

jimin pouted, her bottom lip sticking out in a way that would’ve been cute if y/n wasn’t so tired of her antics. “y/n, i’m cold.”

y/n deadpanned. “you have five blankets.”

“and yet, i’m still freezing.” jimin’s voice was thick with faux suffering, her lashes fluttering dramatically.

“what do you want me to do? magically turn into a human heater?”

jimin didn’t answer—just kept staring at her with those expectant, slightly fevered eyes.

y/n exhaled through her nose, already regretting what she knew was about to happen. “seriously?”

jimin didn’t blink.

there was a long moment of silence, a battle of wills that, to y/n’s dismay, ended in her eventual sigh of defeat. “fine.”

grumbling under her breath, she kicked off her slippers and crawled into bed, slipping beneath the covers with a reluctant sigh. the second she was within reach, jimin latched onto her like a heat-seeking missile, tangling their limbs together as she buried her face into y/n’s collarbone.

“you’re warm,” she hummed, sighing in satisfaction.

“if you get me sick, i swear—”

“shhh,” jimin hushed, her breath tickling y/n’s skin. “let me enjoy this.”

princess let out a tiny yawn, stretching out her paws before snuggling further between them, her warmth adding to the cocoon of coziness surrounding them.

jimin sighed again, a lazy smirk creeping onto her lips. “we should do this every night now.”

y/n scoffed, shifting slightly but making no real effort to pull away. “not happening.”

“we’ll see,” jimin murmured, already halfway to sleep.

y/n rolled her eyes, but as she felt jimin’s breathing even out and princess’s soft purring vibrating between them, she figured… maybe this wasn’t too bad.

[sixeyesonathiel]

satoru absolutely baby talks you when you’re sick.

not in a mocking way. no. this is full-blown softie satoru, disgusting levels of wife guy activated, baby voice on max, coddling you like you’re the most precious, fragile little thing in the universe—and not because he thinks you’re weak, but because it’s the one time you let him get away with it without putting up your usual walls.

because you’re sick. hot forehead, flushed cheeks, big watery eyes that blink up at him like you’re seeing god—or worse, like you might actually cry if he leaves the room. like you need him. and honestly? that does something to him. wrecks him, even.

and you do need him. you’re fevered, shivering, curled up in bed in one of his oversized shirts, your hair a mess, nose stuffy, brain thoroughly fried. your fingers twitch like you want to reach for him but can’t be bothered to try, lips parted in a weak sigh as you breathe through your mouth. your usual bratty, mouthy, too-proud-for-help self? gone. obliterated. absolutely bulldozed by the flu. all that’s left is a miserable little lump of a wife who clings to his sleeve like a koala and mumbles, “’toru… i feel like a soggy towel…”

his whole body stills. there’s a twitch in his brow, like his heart has physically clenched. his lips part, just a little, before curling up in the softest grin. eyes soften behind pale lashes—just a hint of red at the corners from how tired he is too—but none of that matters. not when you’re looking up at him like that. the corner of his mouth tugs upward, not in amusement—but in something far gentler. reverent, even. and then god. he melts. instantly. his heart shatters into a million pieces and reforms just to explode again.

“awww, my poor widdle baby,” he coos, already pressing a kiss to your damp forehead. his breath is warm, his nose brushing yours. “does my soggy towel need her soup? wanna be spoon-fed by the hottest nurse in the world?”

you don’t even roll your eyes. you nod. actually nod. sluggish, dazed. and then flop into his arms like dead weight, forehead nudging his neck, skin hot against his collarbone. you let him hold you like you’re made of glass.

he almost cries. really. because you’re letting yourself be coddled. cuddled. taken care of. no sass. no biting remarks. just tiny, pitiful sniffles and pouty faces and your arms wrapping around his waist like he’s your anchor. like you don’t want him to go anywhere. like you can’t function without him.

and satoru eats that up like it’s a feast.

“you want juice, angel? how about some water? apple slices? forehead kisses every ten minutes? medicine with a kiss as a chaser?”

“mmm… apple. but peeled…” you whisper, voice small and hoarse, eyes half-lidded and glossy.

“of course, peeled! only the finest fruits for my fevered little dumpling,” he gasps, hand dramatically on his chest like he’s been knighted for a sacred quest. there’s a shine in his eyes—something starry, something stupidly in love.

he tucks you in like a burrito, tugs the blankets up to your chin, and then scoops you onto his lap because apparently that’s where you sleep best. his fingers comb through your hair, slow and tender, while your cheek rests limp against his shirt. he puts on your comfort show, even though you barely keep your eyes open long enough to register the sound.

he hums something soft—tuneless and low—while cradling you like a fevered woodland creature. his tone dips lower when he leans in again.

“do you still love me even if i’m gross and sweaty and my nose is red?” you mumble, lips wobbling, brows pinched like the thought genuinely upsets you.

his hand smooths along your cheek. “i love you way more,” he says instantly. “you’re my sweaty, sniffly soulmate. cutest germ gremlin i’ve ever seen.”

“you’re lying…”

“baby, i would kiss your snotty nose right now if you asked.”

there’s something almost reverent in the way he says it—like it’s a vow. and he means it. he’d do it without hesitation, wouldn’t even flinch. because if it’s you, there’s no such thing as gross. not when he’s this stupidly in love. not when every part of you, even at your messiest, makes him want to wrap you up in his arms and never let go.

you groan into his shirt, muffled and pitiful, and he grins like you just serenaded him.

“who’s the most handsome man in the world?” he asks out of nowhere, fingers curling behind your ear, brushing tenderly as if coaxing the answer out. his voice dips low, honey-sweet and just a little smug. not because he expects the answer—no, he needs it. his entire self-worth depends on your silly little validation right now.

“you are,” you mumble, cheeks squished slightly against his chest, nuzzling closer without shame.

his fingers twitch where they cradle your skull. his whole face lights up like a sunrise. pale lashes flutter, and his pupils dilate like he’s just been told he won a lifetime supply of you.

“louder.”

“toruuuuu… it’s you…”

the pleased little noise he makes is downright sinful. his lashes flutter shut as he closes his eyes in smug bliss, and he tilts his head back like he’s soaking in the warmth of your praise. if he had a tail, it would be wagging.

“that’s right,” he beams, practically preening, fingers now stroking under your chin. “say it again. for my health.”

“you’re the handsomest… in the whole world… even when your hair’s stupid…”

he gasps, clutching his chest with a hand like you just shot cupid’s arrow straight through it. “rude and true. i’ll take it.”

his heart is doing somersaults. he’s convinced there’s never been a more fulfilling moment in his life. not the promotions, not the accolades, not even the recognition. just this—this feverish little version of you, croaky and honest and too tired to pretend you’re not as in love with him as he is with you.

he whispers the dumbest, softest shit while holding you against his chest like you’re something sacred. calls you every pet name in the book and then invents new ones on the spot: baby, sweetheart, princess, dumpling, snugglebug, fever bean, coughy cake, angel face mcsweats-a-lot.

you blink up at him between fits of sleep, lips parted like you want to say something else—but all that comes out is a pathetic little whimper. his hand smooths over your spine again, touch featherlight.

“what was that, baby?” he whispers.

“love you…” you murmur, eyes falling shut.

his heart flips. flips, spirals, and lands in a fucking somersault.

he kisses your temple and you go quiet.

and when you finally pass out, nose smooshed into his collarbone, snoring faintly like the most adorable little gremlin, he exhales like it’s the best moment of his life. like the universe aligned just for this. like his purpose has been fulfilled. his hand never stops moving—stroking your spine, combing your hair, tracing shapes into your shoulder blade beneath the fabric of his shirt.

he lives for clingy, soft, unguarded sick-you. because even though he adores the bratty, sharp-tongued, little menace version of you that picks fights and flicks him on the forehead and makes him earn every kiss—this version? this sleepy, dependent little furnace wrapped in blankets and his love? she needs him.

and satoru loves being needed. loves being the one you reach for, even when you’re half-delirious. especially when you’re half-delirious.

he leans down again, voice barely audible now.

“rest up, baby,” he whispers, brushing your hair from your clammy forehead. “you’ll feel better soon. and then i’ll go back to being emotionally bullied by my beloved wife.”

[ceilidho]

apocalypse au but it's Soap who's desperate for companionship and touch starved to the point of delusion

[a11eya]

“Who did this to you?”

Bakugou’s voice is low, dangerous. His eyes are sharp as they stare at you.

“What?” You blink rapidly at him.

After a year of being friends with Bakugou, you’re used to him frequently being at some level of pissed off or annoyed.

But you’ve never seen him look so angry. Like he could tear the world apart.

“This.”

You’re not prepared when Bakugou reaches up to angle your chin towards him, your breath catching as his calloused fingertips grip against your skin. He brushes his thumb, feather-light, against your cheekbone. It’s then you remember the bruise there.

“Oh! I had a practice bout with one of the new kids at our gym. He got in a lucky punch but hit me a little too hard. He’s still learning,” you say.

You smile at Bakugou and raise your hand to pat his, the one cupped against your cheek.

“Don’t worry, Bakugou. It looks worse than it actually is.”

Bakugou grunts. You expect him to step back, let go.

But he’s still, gaze locked on your face, thumb brushing back and forth against your skin like it doesn’t send shivers through your entire body, like it doesn’t make your face feel like the surface of the sun.

Nervous about his intense attention, you bite your bottom lip. Bakugou’s eyes drop to track the movement and stick there.

You can’t breathe. Is he…?

The sound of distant footsteps drawing nearer pops the bubble you’re in.

Bakugou pulls away. He doesn’t go too far, though, and because you’re so close, you can see that the tips of his ears are red, despite his neutral expression.

“Don’t box with that kid again,” he says, voice raspy, a little husky.

You swallow and nod before his words can process. Bakugou nods back, satisfied, before turning to walk away.

He’s halfway down the hallway before you come to your senses. Wait. You make a face.

“You’re not the boss of me!” you call at his retreating back.

He stops. Turns.

“What’d you say?” he asks, eyes narrowed at you, handsome face skewed into a scowl.

You know you should be intimidated, but. You think about the look in his eyes when he touched you. The heat of his palm.

So you just smile at him.

“You heard me.”

[snail-day]

Choso has probably never cuddled before in his life.

So when you climb into his lap, all sleepy and warm, and melt against his chest with a content little sigh, it kind of shuts off his whole brain.

He stiffens at first, arms hovering awkwardly in the air, unsure whether to hold you or push you off out of guilt. You’re so soft and warm that it's making him feel a little weird. When you nuzzle into his neck with a tiny yawn? Oh, he’s done for. Absolutely ruined.

Eventually - tentatively - his arms settle around you. A little stiff and unsure, but he’s trying. And when your breathing evens out and you go limp on top of him, he starts giving your butt the gentlest little pats.

Pat pat pat

He doesn’t know why. It just feels right. Like maybe that’s what you do to someone you love when they’re falling asleep on you.

If only you could see the blushing disaster he’s become. Pink creeping all the way up to his ears, eyes wide, mouth parted because he can't help the little noise that escapes.

You trust him enough to sleep on top of him.

Even though you shouldn't.

However, he swears that he won't move an inch and that you'll always be safe in his arms.

Choso's reaction anytime you move and he worries it's over soemthing he did:

[simonbrain]

love the idea of reader just trying to fuck all her stress out with a random at the bar before returning back to her mundane life, and simon deciding he's going to keep her instead 🙂‍↕️

the prick doesn't budge when you try to kick him out; instead, he drags you back into bed and works his mouth to loosen you up again, and now you've forgotten why you were trying to haul his ass out of your home.

(you attempted to sound stern while telling him to get out of your house, but he merely chuckled, the sound so raspy and condescending that it stroked a heat within you that you thought was sated last night.

"this is our home. now get your arse back in bed, i'm fuckin' hungry.")

you had to really fist at his hair to pull him off of you, and that only turned him on if the deep groan rumbling out of him was anything to go by—you swear his tongue sunk deeper inside you. he only relented so he could fuck you dumb in the shower after, leaving you with trembling legs and feeling more dirty than clean (atta girl, don't you waste any of tha'—keep it all in).

you blink, and now suddenly you're seated as he spoon-feeds you a nice, hearty breakfast, huffing something like messy girl when toast crumbs get all over your face and the wooden table.

words can't express how flustered you are; you're too stunned to even continue telling the big man who's now feeding you scrambled eggs that he needs to leave. all you feel like you're capable of doing is opening your mouth to accept another spoonful, ignoring the ache you feel between your thighs when you catch his heavy stare and hear a low hum of approval.

then he's leaving (and it's not because of your nagging), muttering something about having to work those mutts to the bone today, all while you're trying to make sense of what's happening. he gives you a sloppy kiss to silence your questions and exasperation, one that makes you feel hot all over and almost melt into a puddle had it not been for the firm grip he had on your ass.

he licks his lips when he pulls back, eyes darting to where your shirt just barely covers where he'd rather be all day than having to go and train recruits. he stares for an uncomfortably long time and before you can speak up, face growing a little hot from the tension, he's turning around to finally leave.

before the door shuts, he says, "be a good girl, ay? see you tonight, birdie."

you're left with your thoughts and feelings of dread and anxiety. there definitely isn't any underlying interest or anything; the freak has fucked your brain out of your head, that's all. you're sure he didn't even mean it anyway. maybe. hopefully.

a drop of his come rolls down your thigh, and arousal shame burns through you. since when did you let one-night stands finish in you?

(your so-called one-night stand came home hungry and pissed, so worked up that he dragged you over to the nearest surface and played with you for a good hour. by the time you had half the mind to tell him about the dinner in the oven—your eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets at how much money he had sent you for groceries earlier, nevermind how he got ahold of your account details—he grunted and finally gave your poor pussy a break, scarred mug all slick and flushed.)

good luck when he takes you to meet his mates at the bar a week later, the same bar you brought him home from; the comments from them make you wish a hole in the ground would just swallow you right up.

"pretty thing ye caught, lt," johnny grins, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. he's a bit over the top, ogles your chest too hard, but overall he's... alright. you'd probably notice how perverted he really was if you actually looked at him longer than a few fleeting glances, but his stare is kind of unnerving.

kyle—perfection personified—hums in agreement, a warm smile on his face that puts you at ease. somehow you don't pick up on the ulterior motive behind his gaze running over your body, eyes roaming over your chest more discreetly than johnny but just as appreciative. "pretty indeed. you don't mind sharing, do you ghost?" kyle teases, pretty eyes glancing over at simon, who only huffs at that and shakes his head (much to your confusion).

who the fuck is ghost? you only know big guy and simon.

there's a deep chuckle and your focus flits over to the man seated in front of you, captain john price. if you thought simon was scary, john's a man who demands respect and attention just by being in his presence. "you chose the wrong dog to bring home," john hums, voice deep and gravelly and making you shamefully squeeze your thighs together.

"but that's alright, sweetheart. you have three others now, yeah?" the purr that comes out of his mouth is sinful, and when you nod and stammer out a yes, sir as if you were one of his soldiers and not the sweet girl that simon has brought to his captain, looking for approval of his newest toy, he only smiles.

simon's hand squeezes your thigh underneath the table, trailing upwards, and you're slowly understanding what it is that you've gotten yourself into.

[specsthesecond]

Werewolf boyfriend who tries to be dominant with you but fails every time.

He wants to be the growling primal Dom he thinks you want but he just can't because every time he's pounding into you his brain short-circuits and he just becomes a good obedient puppy for you.

He's trying so hard to keep his dominance while he fucks you and then you just have to look up at him with your beautiful fucked out eyes and moan,

"Ah~ so good, such a good boy."

And he crumbles instantly, whining into your neck as you giggle and scratch behind his ear. He knows your little "Awww" isn't supposed to be condescending but it still makes his cock twitch and his pace quicken. He whines and cries as he frantically pounds your addictive pussy. You hold him so close to you, breathlessly panting out praises as your climax approaches.

"That's it", "So good for me", "Making me feel so good, baby"

He hates the way his growls always trail off into whines when he's about to cum. His stupid tail wagging and his tongue lapping at your throat like the dumb dog he is. He hates that he cums before you, he thinks it's weak, even though he always keeps pounding until you cum around his knot no matter how overstimulated he gets.

He hates the way you control him even when you're getting fucked dumb on his cock, and you don't even know it! You don't even know how much he loves it when you cuddle him close, kiss his face and say things like,

"Thank you, thank you baby." "Love you s'much" "Treat me so well"

The way you sing these praises and don't even notice the effects it has on him makes him so mad. It makes him want to fuck you even harder, makes him want to assert dominance and put you in your place. But he knows that if he tried he would just end up being a whining drooling mess, mindlessly bucking into your pussy like the needy puppy he is.

🦴υ´• ﻌ •`υ

[irishmammonagenda]

Sometimes you forget just how immensely powerful Diavolo is. Which is why you should be careful with your words.

Not in the way that other demons are, when they tremble in front of his regal form.

No; you need to be careful with your words because mentioning in casual conversation that you need to get a Netflix subscription again (because you'd cancelled it the first time you were transported into the Devildom) had ended in the Demon Prince buying the whole fucking company.

God forbid you even look at a piece of jewellery or clothing for more than a split second, or else it'd end up on your windowsill the next morning.

You don't need to fear the Demon Prince like the others do, you do however, need to visit him later and thank him for the necklace that'd shown up on your windowsill today.

[salarymanwaka]

[ophelieverse]

when my girl talks,you listen to her!

[sacr1ficialang3l]

⌖They all wanna take her out⌖

⌖ (but no one ever wants to take her home)⌖

SUMMARY: Dean has always been just along for the ride. Getting around town, flashing his fuck me eyes and feeling good for a night. When he's suddenly confronted with something real, he doesn't know how to act. 3.8k

WARNINGS: angst. john winchester's A+ parenting. mentions of parental abuse. dean's unhealthy coping mechanisms. hurt/comfort. using sex to replace intimacy. dean winchester is bad at feelings and incredibly traumatized. angst with happy ending.

now playing: fuck me eyes by ethel cain.

Dean Winchester learned from a very young age that love is conditional.

He would only ever be loved for what he could give, for what he might provide. If he ever was loved at all, that is.

Because, yes, Sammy loves him. But that’s because Dean made him dinner every night, kept him safe during cases, and read him bedtime stories. Dean would let him have the last bit of store-bought pie, and Sam would look at him with those shiny puppy eyes. He would calm him down after a nightmare and get him to fall back asleep, and Sam would smile at him a little more gently the next morning. Dean would save his life during a hunt while their father was busy chasing the monster, and Sam would press himself to his side during the ride to the motel.

Sam loves him because Dean provides for him, the way a son is conditioned to love a parent.

His father… he prefers not to think about that one too much. John loved him—Dean knows he did—in his own way.

And maybe his father only ever looked at him with anything akin to affection when Dean ganked a creature in record time. Maybe he only ever acknowledged him to order him around, to scold him, or to demand he take care of Sammy.

Maybe his father would come back to the motel rooms angry, his hand always fisted around a gun or a bottle. And Dean had learned quickly that his rage would soon be redirected toward him if he didn’t act fast. If he didn’t perform.

So he’d abandon his comic books, his cartoons and carton of chocolate milk, and he’d approach his father with careful steps—the way a dog approaches the hand that hits him. Dean would speak in a low voice, just a few sentences at first, testing the waters. If his father spat a “go to bed” at him or if his fist clenched, Dean would get up from the couch and go lay down on the stiff motel mattress.

If John closed his eyes or rubbed a hand over his mouth, Dean continued. He would reassure his father, try to comfort him. He had figured out exactly what to say to make him put the bottle down just halfway through it. He knew what not to say unless he wanted to get yelled at and find his father gone the next morning.

When he excelled at hunting, when he followed orders without questioning, when Sam was safe—that was the closest he ever felt to being loved by John.

Any mistake, any selfish request, any bit of his true self that slipped through his mask would make any warmth evaporate, and he’d be left frozen—sometimes with a bruise—and wondering why. What did he do this time?

So, yeah. Dean knows that love is conditional.

That’s why, when you came into his life, he didn’t know how to handle you.

There’s a lot of things Dean struggles with, but women have never been one of them.

He knows what they want, and how to give it to them.

From a very young age, women of all ages have looked at him a certain way. He quickly realized that he was attractive. Hot, even. Sexy. Women would approach him—his classmates in school, ladies at the bar his dad brought him to long before he was old enough to enter, witnesses during cases—and they all batted their pretty eyes at him, spoke to him in soft voices, and touched him with gentle hands.

At first, he would get attached. There was something in his chest, something snarling and salivating, that went crazy at their attention. At their affection. Some girl would run a hand through his hair, and Dean would already be wondering what their kids would look like.

Then he got old enough, and the touches became a little more lingering. Women would slide their hands up his arm, wink at him after pouring his whiskey, lean down until all he could see was their cleavage. They kept the soft voices, but now there was an undertone to it. Something sticky, sweet, and velvety. It would wrap around his brain and make him fuzzy.

The first night Dean woke up alone in a messy motel bed, he understood.

He would only be wanted for what he could provide. Girls would look at him with caring eyes as long as he made them moan and squirm in the sheets. They would caress his face and hold him close as long as their legs ended up shaking and their pupils blown out. They would offer him nice words, comforting him and complimenting him, as long as he could offer them a good hookup.

They wanted him—as long as he was gone by morning.

So when he met you, he knew exactly what to do.

Sam and Dean had already crossed paths with you in previous hunts. After the first time you almost stabbed him during a poltergeist case, the brothers called Bobby and asked if he knew anyone with your name.

Bobby’s voice had turned the most affectionate they had ever heard it as he told them about the time you came to him for help with a spell. He went on a little rant about you staying in his house after you got hurt and how he woke up to breakfast waiting for him on the dinner table and his fridge full of beer and fresh produce, before he realized he sounded way too fond of you and grumbled something about you being a good kid and to keep you safe if they ever crossed paths with you again.

And they did—over and over again. Sam bumped into you at a library in Nevada, and you joined them in a vampire hunt once in Massachusetts. Dean bought you a drink in upstate New York about three months after your first meeting, and he could never have guessed how it’d go.

“Here you go, sweetheart,” he grinned at you with his signature confident smile. You murmured a thank you and grabbed the margarita from his hand, your fingers brushing.

But the smile you gave him was a little too neutral, too actually grateful. You didn’t shudder at the touch of your fingers, and your gaze quickly returned to your phone afterward. Your words weren’t flustered or alluring—just normal.

Still, he didn’t give up. He slid onto the stool next to you, and the moment you turned to face him, he tilted his head and looked down at you in that way he knew would make his lashes look longer and his green eyes shinier. He added just the tiniest bit more arrogance to his lopsided smirk, and he even went as far as to wink at you.

But then you laughed—not flirty, not mean, just amused—and sipped your margarita as you turned around and shared some small talk with the bartender.

So you weren’t interested, then.

That was okay. Dean knew how to handle rejection.

But then you found Sam and Dean again later that night.

The bartender had ended up pulling some tarot cards from behind the counter, and you offered to give her a reading in exchange for a free drink. Dean had never seen anyone handle psychic bullshit the way you did—so effortless, so sharp. You joked your way through it, laughing as you laid the cards down, but your words still carried weight. Each sentence landed with the kind of quiet gravity that made people go still.

You told fortunes like you were spinning stories, your voice lilting between casual and cryptic. You winked at the girl behind the counter, did little sleight-of-hand tricks with the deck, and flipped each card like it had something sacred to say.

Halfway through it, five people were already lining up behind you, drawn in like moths to a flame.

You drifted through the bar like smoke the rest of the night—laughing, glowing, throwing back drink after drink without ever seeming sloppy. You didn’t take a dollar for your readings and kept reminding people not to take you too seriously, but it was impossible not to. Dean couldn’t stop watching you.

And then, you’d found your way back to the brothers, your cheeks flushed with tequila and your eyelids a little heavy. “I think I’ll call it a night, guys.”

“Let me drive you back to your motel.” Sam threw Dean a weirded-out look, and he could hear his little brother’s question in his head.

You’re leaving a bar, alone, before two?

Dean didn’t turn to face him, scared his real self would slip through his mask. Instead, he led you out of the bar and into the passenger seat of Baby, thanking the God he didn’t know if he believed in that he decided to stop after his first beer.

He didn’t let himself wonder why he stopped. Why the sight of you dancing around the bar, beaming at every client and being admired by everyone had suddenly killed his hankering for the one thing that had always been good to him in his life—even when it burned washing down his throat.

Dean was ready to drive you to your motel in silence, make sure you got in safe, and head back to the bar to get hammered. He wouldn’t try anything again, because he knew better than to push after being rejected.

“You know, you really saved my ass back there,” you murmured when Dean stopped the Impala in front of your room, turning to stare at him under the dim streetlights.

When Dean met your eyes, they were kind in a way he had never been on the other end of.

“Don’t mention it,” Dean said with what was meant to be a bashful smile, but he couldn’t help the way his chest puffed out. He was of service. He did something good. “It’s what we do—we have each other’s backs.”

You seemed to study him for a second, your eyes scanning every inch of his face. Dean squirmed in his seat, not loving the way he could almost feel you sinking in, making your way through his walls, analyzing him on an almost psychic level. Maybe you actually did know what you were talking about.

“Still. Thank you.”

This was the moment. It was dark, late at night, and the two of you were alone in Baby in some desolate parking lot. You were slightly buzzed, and he had just given you something. Had just performed.

Your eyes were still on his, and this was when you’d lean in and kiss him, or invite him into your room. He got ready for it, almost desperate for the gratification it would bring—for those few minutes he would finally feel fulfilled. Feel loved.

But then you chuckled, shaking your head slightly before opening the car door.

“Stay safe, Dean,” you whispered into the night, right before getting out of the car and walking into your motel room.

To this day, Dean doesn’t get it.

He saw you more often after that. Something happened to you—something ugly and tragic—that you wouldn’t talk about with anyone but Bobby. It left you morose, a little broken, and with a whole new set of scars.

Bobby called Sam and Dean the day you tried to put scopolamine in his beer so you could go on a hunt.

“She’s goin’ stir-crazy, but I’ll be damned if I let that girl go on a hunt alone after—that.”

So a deal was made. You could work on cases, but you had to go along with Sam and Dean. You seemed to actually like the brothers, because you only rolled your eyes once before accepting.

That was the moment everything went downhill. 

Because suddenly, he was trapped with you at every waking moment—during long drives in Baby, in every moldy motel room, in every library and morgue and graveyard. You became a constant in his life, in the way only his brother, his car, and his whiskey had ever been.

And Dean could’ve dealt with it, if you weren’t so goddamned confusing.

Because you patch him up sometimes, and your hands on his skin are delicate and soothing. You murmur reassuring words in the dark of night, brush his damp hair off his forehead, and ask him if he’s okay—and Dean actually believes that you care about the answer.

But you still don’t want him.

You stare at him with shiny eyes—wide and compassionate and beautiful—but you still take a step back if he tries to slide closer. You run toward him and cradle his face in your hands when he gets stabbed by a wraith, you keep his head on your lap the whole ride back to the motel, and you insist on holding his hand as Sam sutures the wound. Still, the moment he makes a suggestive joke, you roll your eyes and hand him another shot of whiskey to shut him up. You stay by his side that whole night—but you won’t let him touch you.

Dean doesn’t get it. He keeps waiting for you to leave one day—to get tired of this. Of him.

But you don’t. You keep complimenting him—and not just his looks. Maybe you sneak in one or two comments about his eyes, but you praise him. The real him. Not Sam’s parental figure. Not his dad’s perfect soldier. Not the playboy. Somehow, you glimpse beneath the mask.

“You care, Dean. Not a lot of people do. They pretend they do, they offer empty condolences and claim to have tried their best. You—you feel it, deep in your bones. I love that about you.”

“The way you talk to kids—you’re so gentle, Dean. You make them feel safe. You make your way into their hearts in a very special way. The way sunlight filters through the rocks of a cave. The way flowers bloom between cracks in the pavement. You have that effect on people. I love that about you.”

“You always put people before you, Dean. You’re so quick to jump into danger, to use yourself as a shield. You have such a big heart, no matter how much you try to hide it. You’re one selfless motherfucker, and it’s fucking annoying. I love that about you—but it’ll get you killed one day. Again.”

Caring. Gentle. Selfless.

Dean doesn’t fucking get it.

Because you’ve got his back during hunts, and you always find your way to the foot of his bed after a really bad nightmare, and you never get mad when he makes a mistake. You can see all the darkest parts of him—the ugly, scarred, putrid parts—and you look at him with so much… affection.

But you don’t fucking let him give back.

Dean doesn’t understand why. What did he do to deserve this? Why have you decided to give and give and give and take nothing? Why do you keep him around? Why won’t you just let him be of service?

He needs to offer something. Be of use somehow. Before he loses this. Before he loses you. Before you realize he’s no good when he’s not performing—and you leave.

But you’re so fucking impossible.

“I just don’t fucking understand why you won’t let me do it!” Dean yells, slamming Baby’s door shut.

“Guys—”

“Because it’s not fucking worth it, Dean!” you cut Sam off, getting out of the backseat and storming around the Impala to stop right in front of Dean. “The motherfucker is dangerous, okay? You can’t keep throwing yourself in the line of fire like that!”

“He hurt you,” Dean spits your name, eyes frantic and his grip on the revolver desperate.

Turns out, the demon they’d been hunting in this town happened to be the same one you encountered months ago—the one that left you cracked and weak.

Dean had lost it when he found out.

But the son of a bitch had formed a cult. At least a hundred demons, all following him around like starving dogs and hanging onto his every word like he was God—or Lucifer, Dean figured.

You three had barely made it out of that destroyed liquor store alive. The demons had cornered you, muttering something about sacrifices and “he’ll love some hunter blood, it’s his favorite.”

Then he appeared. Some long-haired guy with circular dark glasses and bell-bottom pants. Dean had wanted to snort, a snarky one-liner burning at the tip of his tongue—until he felt you.

At the sight of the John Lennon wannabe, your breath caught in your throat and your hand clamped around Dean’s arm tightly, nails digging into his skin like you were gripping a rope that was the only thing keeping you from falling into the abyss.

Dean had never seen you that scared—face pale, lips trembling. He didn’t need to ask. He knew. That was the bastard responsible for the scar down your spine you still tried to hide. For the nightmares that left you gasping in the backseat of Baby.

Dean was going to make him bleed.

If only the bastard hadn’t disappeared. He saw you, said something about still remembering the taste of your blood and how, “You’re still my favorite. A feisty one, huh? So let me do something for you. For old time’s sake.”

And just like that, every demon started vanishing. One by one, they melted into shadow. The demonic lost Beatle was last, still grinning at you in a way that made Dean’s skin crawl and blood burn.

Dean had grabbed the first blade he could find—a simple silver one, since Sam had the demon knife. It wouldn’t do shit. Would barely leave a scratch. But Dean had to do something. Anything.

So he charged, blinded by the pure-white rage pounding in his chest. He was close—just a few more steps—when you stopped him. You wrapped your arms around his middle and yanked him back.

The demon’s laughter still rings in his ears. And when Dean looked up again—he was gone.

Just the three of you. In a shattered liquor store. And once again, Dean had failed you.

“I know he fucking hurt me!” you say through clenched teeth, hands still shaking. They haven’t stopped since the encounter. Dean needs to do something. He needs to kill. He needs to perform.

“But he would’ve fucking incinerated you the moment you got too close!”

Your voice shakes. Dean tells himself it’s just from the memories. Just that.

Dean scoffs, shaking his head. “I know you still have nightmares about what he did! You need—I could’ve gotten rid of him for you. I could’ve made him pay!”

He’s yelling now. He doesn’t want to. He’s terrified he’ll scare you. If you ever flinch at him, he thinks he’ll lose what’s left of his mind. But he’s burning. Itching. Dying to earn it. To earn you.

“That’s not what I need, Dean!” your voice echoes through the parking lot. Somewhere behind you, Sam slips into the motel room.

He’ll find out how this ended in the morning.

Dean snaps. He slams his palm against the hood of Baby—because violence has always felt more comfortable than whatever the hell else is simmering in his chest.

Still, you don’t flinch. That makes it worse.

“Then what?” he screams, stepping closer. “Tell me—what the hell do you need from me?”

“Nothing!”

You break too. Arms flailing. Voice raw—raw in a way Dean’s never heard before. And just like that—he freezes. “I don’t fucking need anything from you, because my love for you isn’t transactional!”

Love.

Your love.

For him.

Transactional.

You both stand there in the dark, your breathing ragged from the outburst. He’s staring at you, blank and wide-eyed, frozen in place. He can’t speak. He can’t breathe. He can’t perform.

He’s waiting—for you to yell again. Or hit him. Or turn around and leave.

But instead, you sigh. Drop your head. Take a deep breath. Then step forward and cup his face with tender hands—and Dean shatters.

Something inside of him breaks. Suddenly. Gruesomely.

“I love you, Dean Winchester,” you say again, voice soft and balmy, coating every single one of his scars and soothing him. It hurts. It hurts so fucking good.

“And it isn’t something you have to earn. Or something you’ll lose. You don’t have to fight for it. And you sure as hell don’t have to kill for it.”

Dean doesn’t understand. His throat locks up. A pain unlike anything—not even Hell—explodes in his chest. His breath stutters. His mouth opens and closes, again and again. All his wit, his charm, his clever little lines—gone.

There’s a loud clatter, and when Dean looks down, he sees that he’s let go of the revolver. 

It lays there on the asphalt, lonely and shiny. Violence, pain, struggle.

You guide his face back up, cold fingers drumming on his cheekbones, and he meets your eyes. Compassion, softness, love.

His eyes sting, and a lonely tear slides down his cheek. He fights the urge to wipe it away, to pull back and hide his face, to break something. His father’s face flashes before his eyes—his anger at any sign of weakness, his usual “Pull yourself together, boy.”

His tough love.

But maybe love doesn’t have to be tough.

Because there’s nothing tough about the way you’re holding him. There’s not an ounce of harshness in your eyes. No disappointment in the way you wipe away the tear. No disdain when you kiss the wet stain on his cheek.

He leaves the revolver on the ground, pressing his forehead to yours instead.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispers into the night, his eyes holding yours like they’re the only thing keeping him afloat.

“You don’t have to.”

And it’s as simple as that. It could be as simple as that—if Dean lets it.

And when you finally lean forward and your lips meet, it’s not lustful. It’s like two galaxies collapsing, two parallel universes crossing paths. Mystical, celestial—something Dean thought impossible.

There’s definitely something psychic about you, because you’re otherworldly.

Dean has met angels, demons, dragons. He’s met gods and the devil. He’s been to Heaven and Hell. But still, the most unfathomable creature he’s ever seen is this girl who sees right through him—who he would never be worthy of, but who still loves him.

“Come on, darling,” you pull him forward, away from his father’s car, and his guns, and his ever-haunting ghost.

That night, you two don’t have sex. You let Dean hold you through the night. You run your fingers through his hair, play with his hand, and pepper soft kisses all over his face. You don’t expect anything from him. It doesn’t matter that he lays there and lets you take care of him—lets you love him.

Because the next morning, you’re still there. Because the next morning, you still want him.

And he doesn’t have to perform anymore.

NOTES: can you tell that i love character studies? this is my favorite kind of thing to write. Ethel released fuck me eyes and y'all expected me not to write about dean??? anyway, I know i've been a bit MIA but I'm trying to find motivation to finish my WIPs.

I love you all! hope you liked it<333

TAGS: @mostlymarvelgirl @pink-ghost666 @h8aaz @otteropera @xoswiftieprincess @tinas111 @blossomingorchids @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @losers-clvb @pieandflannel @southernimpala @jays-bonnie-on-the-side @that-stanford-girlie @immodestly-marina @angellust333 @cupidzbunny @mimiimmii @scatorcciosbabe<3

If you wanna be tagged in future works, let me know!!

[shotmrmiller]

size difference where the one afraid to fuck you is simon. he thinks you soft. which is what you are. soft. fragile. small.

you're not like him. nothing like the guys. battle-scarred. muscles carved by relentless missions, scars that speak of duty.

your skin divots under his fingers, yielding to his weathered touch and if he squeezes hard enough, you'll have marks by morning. (he needs to be careful, he can't hurt you, won't—)

and so simon watches you touch yourself in the beginning, clever fingers swirling over your slippery clit with practiced movements even though his cock is straining against his trousers painfully. he can hear you mewl his name through bitten lips and it takes all of his self control to not tug his jeans off, slot himself between your spread, inviting thighs and push— stretch open your fluttering walls, so hot and slick, until he meets resistance, until he can push no more but—

he can't. you'd hurt. and he'd hurt because he hurt you. he won't.

after, when your eyes are heavy lidded, mouth slightly parted in exertion, you remind him that you aren't made of glass. that you won't break. you'll shatter— in the way you do when his tongue replaces your fingers— but not break.

"not a virgin either, for christ's sake," you groan.

maybe he's thinking too hard about it. he knows your teeth have edges, knows your bite is swift when deserved. but all he's truly good at is making things give. biology made it so with his bulky frame and raw mass.

his eyes trace the contour of your collarbone. delicate. then it darts to the pulse on your wrist. vital. his hands, the size of dinner plates don't coax. they demand. he'd snap you like a twig, leaving nothing but splintered remains in his wake.

you don't seem to mind, however. it slightly alarms him. where's your self-preservation? do you enjoy pain? is this some masochistic thing?

he looks at you, all glassy eyed and dewy skinned (ethereal; you're practically glowing under the soft light of the full moon that paints the room silver) and he thinks of how it's going to take work to make it work. his cock is large (he's seen the guys' eyes pop out of their heads in the showers once they caught a glimpse of what's between his legs) but you're persistent in the end. one too many nights of having him without having him.

he understands. simon knows better than most what it's like to yearn. to want and not have. he'd cause you pain by not giving in, and cause pain by giving in. damned if he does, damned if he doesn't.

so he caves. promises to go slow. careful.

"i can take it," you bravely say but he's barely pressing himself to your entrance and you're already making noises that tug at his pathetic little heart. the way your teeth sink into your bottom lip-- you look so pretty, how'd a twisted creature like him get someone like you to come home to-- as his cock fills you has him feeling lightheaded. it takes every ounce of self control to not sink into your heat, to hook your legs around his thick waist and let gravity do the rest.

an unsteady hand weaves its way down to your stuffed cunt, fingers splitting into a vee, feeling how he splits your puffy lips, and the view makes him buck his hips involuntarily.

his hands tighten around your calves when you keen, a high pitched noise that swells the lust he feels burning white hot at the base of his spine, tips of his fingers, deep within his loins. he feels ready to burst.

and he's only halfway in.

your voice cuts through the ringing in his ears. "m-more, simon, c'mon," the n is low and drawn out.

his fingers bite into your flesh as he pushes slow, oh so slowly, until your vise-like cunt envelops him completely. the sibilant hiss you let out makes his hair stand on end. (shame pricks at his nerves like a thousand tiny needles when his cock twitches at the sound of your slightly pained moans)

simon doesn't move, feeling your swollen walls around his cock ripple, tighten and slacken, like it's got a pulse of its own. he could be here, in you, cock deep in paradise for the rest of time.

"fuck me," you warble out, hand rubbing your swollen clit to well up the pleasure that's being smothered by the searing pang of discomfort.

when simon cants his hips back, he watches his cock come out of you, glistening with slick. his jaw aches from how hard he's clenching it. control. got to keep it slow, gentle. slow, simon, slow, slow--

"harder."

he feels the sudden sharp sting of your nails and jerks forward in surprise, filling you completely in one fast movement.

your moan this time is needy, thick with want, arousal dripping from your voice as it does your pussy, coating him in creamy white, a frothy ring at the root.

simon can see the barest of bumps below your navel, or maybe he's seeing things, your hot cunt putting him in a state of delirium but the way you take all of his cock and continue to beg for more, beg him to fuck you like he means it even though he's twice if not thrice your size well...

you'll just have to forgive him on the finger-shaped bruises they're going to be on your body after.

(you'd looked so cheeky before he flipped you onto your knees, grabbing onto your delicate neck like a lifeline as he pulled your hips to meet his. you'd taken him easier here, cunt sodden with slick but the angle had him reaching a devastating depth no one else could ever dream of reaching and even though it'd sprung tears to the corners of your eyes at the pinch, "mama ain't raise no bitch.")

[ceilidho]

Ghost going to masseuse!reader because his back is beyond destroyed from years of manual labour, and not bothering to muffle his groans and grunts at all during the massage. full on groaning like he's balls deep in pussy. like even reader, who's used to people making involuntary sounds when they've never gotten a massage before, is uncomfortable not even twenty minutes into their session. and god forbid she try to move on after finding a spot that really makes him light up, he'll snatch her wrist and glare up at her until she gets back to it.

[sparklykaminarii]

PATCH UP DUTY! ༉‧₊˚.

synopsis: your shinobi boyfriend got hurt on a mission, and luckily for them their trusty girlfriend is here to help! (mentions of wounds and blood, SFW) FT. Gaara, Naruto, Sasuke, and Shikamaru

a/n: finally im back!! missed writing more than I expected lol also sorry naruto fans I didn't know what to do with him really!! (⁠ ⁠≧⁠Д⁠≦⁠)

☆ SILENCE. (FT. GAARA)☆

"You don't have to do this, (Y/N)." Gaara murmurs, resting his arm on the table. You ignore his comment, unraveling a roll of gauze. Sitting there patiently, he watches as you carefully formulate your supplies with precision.

Grabbing a chair next to him, you begin to treat his wound. A large slash down his forearm, yet shallow enough to not cause any substantial issues. But the bleeding alone was enough to make you pout.

Meticulously dabbing a cloth over his wound, not a single word escapes from either one of you. Steady breathing fills the empty silence, a comforting phenomenon that always came along with Gaara. He wasnt the type to speak unless he had to, even then his sentences remained short and meaningful.

Picking up a swab coated in sterile saline, then patting it along the gash, You glance up to check Gaara for any signs of discomfort, an instinct that came along with treating injuries.

Suddenly, your rhythmic movements halt abruptly.

Your eyes meet.

For a moment neither of you move. His cold teal eyes grasp yours, indecipherable but fierce. Almost like he was studying you, memorizing the way your eyebrows furrowed with concentration, the way your eyes squint slightly as you focus. There's no falter nor embarrassed look away—only fixed tranquility.

He still doesn't look away.

Gaara isn't the type of person to shy away when he's caught staring, especially if it's something he's infatuated by. Instead his gaze intensifies, as if he's trying to understand something—himself. Why does he feel this odd warmth in his chest every time he's around your vicinity? Why does his heart slow but his breathing quicken as soon as he feels your delicate touch? It's all so new to him.

You catch a glimpse of something that crosses his face. Although hard to catch, you still caught it. A rare tenderness he rarely allowed himself to show.

"...Does it hurt?" You ask gently.

Immediately, his lips part, like he wants to say something. But instead, he simply shakes his head "No. It's fine."

However, his eyes still haven't let you go. At least not yet. Not until you look away first, flustered by his silent potency. And even then, he's still watching, his thoughts unsolvable, his heart struggling to make sense of feelings he's never felt before.

☆ BIG BABY! (FT. NARUTO) ☆

"Ow, ow, OW— (Y/N), you're killing me!" Naruto whines throwing his head back like he's just been stabbed in the chest.

You glare at him, pressing the antiseptic soaked rag against the scrape on his cheek. "It's just a tiny scratch, you big baby."

"A tiny scratch?... Do you see the SIZE of this thing? I was fighting for my life out there!" He puffs, pointing at the scrape. You sigh loudly, muttering about how ridiculous he is, Naruto crossing his arms childishly at the comment.

Tossing the rag aside, you grab a glass bottle filled with ointment. "You literally get punched through walls, but this is where you draw the line?" You retort, leaning in closer to spread the ointment more precisely

But unknowingly, you closed in the last bit of space between you two, the lack of air making Naruto's brain go fuzzy. Actually, he was completely frozen. Too stunned to speak. His usual goofy demeanour falters for just a moment, his breath pausing as heat rises to his face. He's blinking rapidly, unsure of where to look. He's lost in the way your fingers gently grasp his jaw, tilting his head slightly backwards. And he's fixated on the pacing of your breathing too, feeling the warm air against his cheek.

Fuck. You were way too close. He swallows hard, "Uh..." He scrambles to find his words, for the first time, the Ultimate Knucklehead Ninja is speechless.

You raise an eyebrow, feigning innocence as if the close proximity wasn't a part of your plan. "What? You were just talking a mile a minute, and now you're quiet?" You spit, lips curled slightly as you spread the thick medication across his cheek.

Naruto quickly averts his gaze, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. "N-Nothing... Just... uh... you must be really focused, huh?" He lets out a nervous chuckle, trying to slow down the sudden pounding in his chest.

Rolling your eyes, you twist the cap back onto the bottle. Adjusting himself on the couch, Naruto tries to retrieve his cool, as if his face weren't a bright tomato red. You continue patching Naruto up, still bickering back and forth with him. Only this time, he seemed to be a bit more jittery and shaky with his responses.

But later, when you're finished and packing away your supplies, you swear you hear him mumble something under his breath. Something that makes you smile not matter how much you stifle it back.

"Man... I think I just feel for you even harder..."

☆ STUBBORNESS (FT. SASUKE) ☆

"I'm fine."

You exhale sharply, ignoring Sasuke's regular resistance. Placing a cloth over the gash and then applying mild pressure, you attempt to stop the bleeding from his neck. "You're bleeding, Sasuke."

He doesn't flinch, nor does he wince. Instead he's just sitting there, stuff but compliant. His arms are crossed, like this whole situation was just some minor inconvenience. Of course. It wasn't unusual for Sasuke to act so detached, always pretending to be unaffected yet his body always said the opposite.

You shake your head, "Just let me help, okay?"

Sasuke sighs through his nose, but doesn't dispute with you any further. That was the most compliance you'll ever get out of him.

The wound on his neck wasn't deep, simply messy. Dried blood strips near the opening, and despite his bluffed collectiveness, you could tell he's exhausted. It wasn't uncommon to see Sasuke injured, oftentimes training tirelessly, or engaging with enemies he underestimated way too much. But this time, you could tell he wasn't just worn out physically.

Too lost in your thoughts, you accidentally prod the cloth a bit too harshly, making him tense up for a moment. Not a flinch, but you swore you heard his breath quietly hitch.

"Sorry," you murmur.

Sasuke though, doesn't say anything. But as you continue, grabbing other materials, you treat his wounds with extra care. Fingers grazing his skin with gentleless, you begin to notice something. His breathing slows. His once taut shoulders are now relaxed under your touch.

He isn't just tolerating this, but he's allowing it.

There's something strangely intimate about this silence. Perhaps it's the way, you're the only one he lets close like this.

Then you feel it. His gaze locked on you.

Holding the gauze in your hand, you pause.

"Sasuke?"

But still, no answer.

You peek up at him, expecting his eyes to rush away like they always do, but he doesn't. His distant black eyes are now fixated on you, unreadable, steady, yet softer than usual. They lacked their usual sharpness, but instead grew of quiet observation.

The sight sends your heart into your throat.

"...What?" You ask, voice barely above a whisper.

He blinks, laggard and calculated. His lips part ever so slightly, like he's about to speak but he doesn't. Instead, after a moment, he exhales and mutters, "Nothing."

Taking in his answer, you continue on with patching him up. But his gaze lingers, still focused on you. Even after you finish patching him up. Because as he stands to leave, his lips part open again, like there's something on his chest that's dying to come out.

And then, he turns away, his voice—low and nearly inaudible.

"...You don't have to worry about me so much."

☆ GENTLE (FT. SHIKAMARU) ☆

"This is such a drag..."

Shikamaru groans, resting his head against the wall as you kneel beside him, tending to the slash across his chest. He's always complaining and always acting like everything takes up so much of his precious energy. But he hasn't moved an inch since you've started.

"You say that like I'm the one who got you hurt," you mutter, blotting a rag over his wound.

A long and slow breathe escapes his lungs, "Tch. Guess that's fair."

His voice is low and sluggish, like sitting here was simply exhausting. Despite having a fresh injury, he seems to be half asleep. Typical. You should've expected him to act like this was more tiring than the actual fight.

"Hold still," you say, pressing a bandage against his skin tightly.

Shikamaru doesn't even flinch. Doesn't really react at all, really—except for the way his eyes flicker downwards watching the way your fingers dance over his chest, you brows knitting together in silent concentration.

You don't notice at first, only until the silence begins to grow way too suspicious.

You glance up, only for him to be looking back at you.

You waver, gripping the roll of bandage.

"What?"

But, he only blinks at you, hushed but calculated, unbothered at the fact you just caught him staring. In his eyes, there's no sign of embarrassment nor instant divergence. Just quiet deliberate eyes, like he's studying a foreign topic.

"You're being weird," you comment, focusing your attention to bandaging him up.

Shikamaru's lips twitch into a lazy smirk. "Nah. Just thinking."

"Thinking about what?"

He pauses, and so do you. His eyes dart towards something—not away but lower, to where your hands are still resting on his chest, rising up and down as he breathes.

"You're pretty gentle," he murmurs.

Your breath catches to the back of your throat. But before you can respond, he leans his head back again, shutting his eyes like he's done speaking.

Shaking off the unexpected heat in your cheeks, you huff "You say that like you expected me to be rough."

"Didn't say that," He mutters, eyes still shut.

"Then?"

He exhales a small tired sigh. And then without opening his eyes:

"I think I could get used to this"

Your hands still for half a second, but he doesn't say anything else. Instead he lets the silence between you two settle, as if it were meant to be there.

And when you finally pull back, he doesn't move right away.

Like he's in no rush to leave your touch.

[snail-day]

Rahhh I feel like a broken record saying this, but I just, ugh. Satoru is just such a yearner. Masks himself with smiles, pretending there’s nothing behind those pretty eyes. But really, he craves love. Craves it so deeply that the very act of being loved repulses him. It’s too much. He simply doesn't know what to do with it.

I just think Satoru in love is a mess, not in the way people expect. He’s not stammering over his words, not showing up at your door with hundreds of roses. He doesn’t have time for grand gestures like that.

He’s the type to stare at his phone longer than he should, the screen time stacking up in seconds. Just scrolling through your Instagram, pausing on that photo you always say you’re going to delete. He really wishes you wouldn’t because while you see imperfection, he sees someone who might as well have hung up the stars.

He’s the type to hover over his keyboard, those slender fingers typing and deleting the same message five times, wondering what would be too much. Would a heart emoji scare you off? Do you actually care about what he ate today?

Kicking his feet under the blankets, a few roll-arounds, when you text him “Goodnight” or “Good morning.” He bites down on a smile when you call first, just to tell him about a report or how your students are doing.

The Satoru with a crush: waking up earlier than necessary, neglecting the sleep his body begs for just to see if you’re online. If that typing bubble will pop up. If maybe - just maybe - you’re retyping too. If you crave him, even a fraction of the way he yearns for you.

He’s brushing his teeth at 7 a.m., frustrated, because you still haven’t texted. It’s only been two hours but it feels like forever. A foamy grin takes over his face when he sees the typing bubble. He checks, read receipts off. Just in case. He can't be caught looking desperate. Can't break down that wall just yet. Using his ego as a barrier to the real him.

Then the chime. Your message. Choking on toothpaste. Satoru has to pace his apartment like an idiot to calm down. A little circle around the coffee table, just to burn off the nerves. The soft patter of his giddy footsteps. Then he finally types back, “Good morning :)", though what he wants to say is “Did you sleep well?” or “Did you dream of me?”

And then, his smile falters. Do you think of him as Satoru, or as Gojo Satoru? Because there’s a difference. To mask the loneliness, swallowing the negative thoughts, he imagines you still curled up in bed, cheek smooshed into your pillow. Wonders how warm you’d be. If he were there, would you two stay wrapped up for an extra hour? Would you press a sleepy kiss to his cheek? Would you peck his face as many times as he would to yours?

When the silly little crush turns into something more - when it becomes a relationship.

Your mug sits next to his in the cabinet now. You brush your teeth together in the mornings. A playful nudge here and there. Giggling when he tries (and fails) to perfect an omelet. He makes character bentos for you on his day off, baby-blues crinkling with every smile.

And still - Satoru tries to play it cool. He wants to love you like a dog loves its favorite person, unconditionally, shamelessly, wholly. He wants to claim you as his and forget the rest of the world.

But he’s scared.

Scared that if he reaches too far, you won’t be there in the morning. That he’ll lose the luxury of placing his toothbrush next to yours. That there won’t be any more grocery trips where you both pause in the sweets aisle for far too long.

Scared you’ll pull away the second he starts reaching for miles instead of inches.

So he smiles. He jokes. Keeps the Gojo Satoru mask on. Because love is terrifying. It’s carving out your heart and handing it to someone, hoping they don’t drop it.

The first argument starts over something stupid. Most do. But it spirals. You don’t understand why he’s distant. Why he won’t let you all the way in. And he doesn’t know how to tell you that he’s terrified.

Because loving you means showing you the sharpest parts of himself. The ones buried behind smug grins and careless jokes. And he’s not sure you’ll still love him once you see them.

So he says something awful.

“Let’s break up.”

The words leave him in shards, clawing their way out of his throat. Words he doesn’t mean. A defense mechanism that works too well.

You freeze. He sees it in your eyes, shock, then hurt, then that dreadful look like you’re already pulling away.

And maybe… maybe that’s what he wants.

Because if he ends it now, if he’s the one who walks away, then he doesn’t have to know what it feels like to lose you for real. Doesn’t have to picture your body in a morgue because he couldn’t save you. Doesn’t have to imagine the world moving on without you in it.

It’s easier this way. That’s what he keeps telling himself.

Even as he stares at that imperfect photo of you still sitting on your Instagram while all the imperfect ones of you together are long gone. Scrubbed clean, no more cheeky smiles. No more subtle photos of you both on dates. As if pretending you never happened will make it hurt less. But it doesn’t. He’s left behind with nothing but the silence. And the tears that fall quietly onto the screen, threatening to like that photo from ages ago.

You forgot your toothbrush. But you left your house key.

His bed is still cold.

And god, he wishes you’d just send one more text.

[witherby]

For the littlest Wayne series, imagine y/n having the habit of biting Bruce specifically 👀

Alfred, the batboys and the justice League members can hold y/n as long as possible without getting bit but whenever Bruce holds y/n he always ends up with tiny bite marks

Hey this made me laugh for like 15 minutes. I love u

The Littlest Wayne: Teething

Bruce is fine. His sons will tell you he's pouting but he's not, okay.

It's just that you obviously love your brothers more than him. Anybody would be upset by that. But he's not pouting.

"Bruce, get up."

"Can't. I'm injured."

Dick levels a flat look at him. "Up."

Bruce lifts his bare arm, showing off the miniscule little tooth mark you left on his bicep.

"I think it's fatal. I'm sorry, Dick, I know I promised I'd stick around as long as I could, but —"

"Oh my god."

"This may come as a shock, and you're going to need time to grieve, but I've left you a substantial amount of money in the will."

"Bruce, they're just teething, please stop."

"I can feel the life draining out of me. I'll finally see my parents again."

"Whoa."

"Too much?"

"Too much. Dial it back."

Bruce sits up and sighs, running a hand through his hair. He gestures to you as you relax in your brother's arms. "They don't even have a binky in their mouth right now, and they're just sitting there so politely."

Dick rolls his eyes, bouncing you lightly. You look at your big brother for a moment, then direct your gaze to Bruce and stare at him like the tastiest cookie on the planet.

"What's the problem? It's not like anything bad is happening. You're just the person they wanna chew on."

"Chum. It's gotten to the point where they will spit out their teething rings to crawl to me, find the first available patch of skin, and bite down." He lifts up the pant leg of his sweats and points to his ankle. "Eight times. They found me and bit my ankle eight times today. Then I picked them up ten minutes ago and they got my arm. These are targeted attacks."

"They're not targeted," Dick insists, trying not to laugh. He turns to you and tickles your tummy. You squeal and squirm. "They're not targeted, are they? Huh? No, they're not! Bruce is being paranoid again! He's so silly."

"Put them down."

Dick smirks. "Bruce. They just ate. They're not going to —"

"Put them down."

He rolls his eyes, but Dick complies and gently sets you on the floor. You stare up at him a moment, then face Bruce, then crawl up to him and open your mouth, nearly headbutting his ankle in your haste to chomp on it.

"Oh my god," says Dick, "like a heat-seeking missile."

"Like a heat-seeking missile," Bruce echoes, pouting.