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immajustvibehere · 19 hours ago

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Job Gone Wrong

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x gn!reader

Summary: Arthur had taken you with the gang on a job that didn't turn out as easy as it should have been. You get hurt and lose your horse, Arthur has to deal with the consequences.

Warnings: a bit of angst, a bit of fluff, happy ending ofc, mentions of blood and wounds

about 2,7k words

yo, writing motivation somehow came back?? And I thought I'd finally finish this draft, though I'm not satisfied entirely but hey...something's better than nothing ig

"What the fuck?!", you jumped off Arthur's horse before he had fully brought it to a stop.

By the way you glared at him, eyes lit up in rage, he could tell you were about to start yelling. As you looked up to Arthur, who enjoyed his position of power and distance on the horse's back for a while longer, you were a sight to behold. The shirt and jeans clung to your body, dirty and torn in more places than one. Blood that had poured from your nose a few minutes earlier had now dried all over your face. You didn't look good, by any means. You didn’t even look like you should be standing. There was also fresh blood seeping through your clothes on your shoulder and leg, but apparently you hadn't taken notice of those wounds yet. You were just angry.

"You told me it was an easy job!", you accused Arthur.

The job hadn't gone how you would have liked. Though there was a sack filled to the brim with bills dangling from Arthur's horse, your horse had been shot and left to die. A bullet had hit it when the law had chased you. You had been thrown off ungraciously. Hence the bloody nose and scrapes all over your body.

"You said 'in and out, and we'd be fine!'", you yelled, stomping angrily in a circle. It looked rather pathetic. Arthur had parked you in the woods, off a beaten track amidst bramble and thicket, your circle wasn’t particularly big. Arthur dismounted and looked at you. His eyes were fixed on your injuries. The dark patches of blood worried him.

After taking the sack of money, he clapped the rear of his horse to make it run away. You were meant to hide in the woods. This was your cover, surrounded by scrub and in the shadows of the low sun. But your temper alone would alarm the law to your location if you kept on yelling.

"How could you let me come along to this shitshow?", you asked furiously, not even trying to keep your voice low.

"You insisted on coming", Arthur reminded you, his voice calm in comparison to yours.

"Because you promised it'd be easy!", you yelled back.

"Keep it down, y/n", Arthur warned, his voice authoritative but worried. You had just shaken the law five minutes ago, they might be close.

"Don't tell me to keep it down", you were grinding your teeth, shaking all over, "it’s easy for you to say, ain't it? You didn't lose everything back there!"

He nearly did.

When you were thrown off your horse, he thought you were done for. It was pure luck that he was riding behind you and you were on your feet quick enough for him to extend an arm and heave you onto his horse. He had imaged the bullets hailing into your back or your neck snapping the moment he saw you hit the ground, but you had been fine.

"It's your fault! You have no idea-“, you huff, not even sure of what you are accusing him of. It wasn't his fault, of course not. Nobody could have known the law would be on you so quickly, but Arthur was the only one around to blame. The group had split up when the law came.

"Y/n", Arthur hissed your name, trying to set the tone for a quieter conversation.

You just glared at him as if you were about to challenge him.

"Boadicea-", Arthur started, but you interrupted him angrily.

"That was months ago! My girl was - just now! Maybe she's okay…", and when you turned to leave the thicket and waltz towards where your horse might still lie, suffering and fighting for its last breaths, Arthur's "Don't!" cut through the air so sternly that it made you hesitate for a second.

But when you overcame the momentary hesitation and took another step, Arthur extended a hand and grabbed your arm. You tried to break free, physically squirming under his grip and mumbling the worst insults that came to your mind. The feeling of having been wronged had overwhelmed you, it didn’t matter that in quieter moments, some of those words you called Arthur now, you would have not even dreamed of calling him, but since your bodily resistance didn’t do much…

Arthur redid the hold on your arm, now going for the shoulder where blood was soaking through your shirt.

The searing pain was so intense, your vision faded and your knees buckled, and you also opened your mouth to scream in agony. Barely had the first tone escaped you, when Arthur swiftly muffled you with his free hand. For a few seconds, you struggled, trying to break free of his binding, but Arthur didn't let loose for a second. He huffed a "Be quiet" and when you didn't listen but continued to moan and scream into his hand, he pushed you into the next tree.

His body was pressing against yours, his hand still muffling your mouth, not caring that his hand now was a mess of saliva, snot and blood. You went quiet for a moment, desperately trying to breathe. Your mouth was covered firmly, your nose blocked with dried blood from the fall earlier and Arthur's weight compressed your lungs. The only thought you still managed was the fear that Arthur would choke you until you faint.

"Listen", Arthur breathed into your ear. Over the blood that was pumping through your ears you heard voices in the distance. The law. With your attention and silence secured, Arthur slowly lifted his hand off your mouth, more carefully holding you upright against the tree.

You were crying and choking, biting your lips to try not to sob loudly.

Arthur slid down the trunk with you until you both sat in the moisty earth. You waited in absolute silence, or as much silence as you could muster. At one point, Arthur put his hand protectively on your head and pressed it gently against his shoulder. He again didn't mind that his shirt was getting dirty but he realized that it muffled your sobs and calmed you down somewhat.

Even when the voices had stopped, none of you said anything for another minute. In the meantime, Arthur had cradled you in his arms. You had been hiding your face in his jacket. The man was itching to care for your wounds, whenever he looked at his hands which were by now crimson with your blood, he got nervous. But your hands were holding onto his shirt for dear life, so he didn't dare to move.

"I'm sorry 'bout all the things I said. I didn't mean them, you know?", you finally whispered, somewhat calmed down.

"I know", Arthur answered, though not entirely convinced. Without asking or explaining what he was about to do, he let go of you and took out his knife to cut your sleeve off to reveal the wound underneath. It was still bleeding, but it didn't seem too deep. Arthur lost no time in taking some gauze out of his satchel and patching you up to the best of his abilities.

You were still crying; it was simply hard to stop the tears.

"I just want to go back to her...what if she's suffering?", you tried to explain as calmly as possible.

Arthur, being done with your shoulder, now observed your leg. On your outer thigh, blood had soaked through your jeans. Another grazing shot, it seemed.

He sighed, fighting with himself to either slice your pants open or ask you to take them off. The jeans were definitely...in a condition, but they weren’t beyond saving just yet – in contrast to your shirt.

Arthur replied rather harshly, "They'd kill ya. The law's just waiting for anyone to come back and maybe collect a sack of money we lost. They won't have sympathy for someone wanting to check on their horse.”

"I don't care", you sobbed. You had loved that horse, dying next to it didn't seem so terrible, especially now, that Arthur pressed down on your leg to prevent you from kicking him, while slicing a gaping hole into the denim. You noticed that Arthur grew rather impatient as he handled your wound, as if he was growing angrier.

"I should have died back there-", you started quickly but Arthur interrupted you by squeezing your leg, which made you yelp in pain.

"And I'm god damn glad you didn't!", he hissed, "now will ya shut up for just a minute?!"

You held your breath as the man in front of you handled your wound. You didn't dare to make another sound, rather choking on your saliva than sighing too loud, watching Arthur struggle as his hands began to shake. He somehow managed to clean the wound before bandaging it, but when your curious gaze became too much as he struggled to knot the gauze, he stood up and showed you his back.

Arthur sniffled, than cleared his throat and you watched as his hand dipped into his satchel, fishing out a cigarette and lighting it. You didn’t exactly see his face, but you thought his movements seemed agitated.

"I'm sorry," you whispered again, your voice hoarse.

"God damn it, y/n," Arthur cursed, turning around to stare at you, "I thought I'd lose you back there."

You didn’t know how to reply to that, so you stared at him blankly.

"It's fine. ‘s my fault yer horse's dead. 's my fault ya got hurt", Arthur admitted, taking a big drag from his cigarette and looking down at you.

"No...", you shook your head in disbelief. Yes, you had accused him ten minutes earlier. But by now, all the rage and adrenaline had left your system, you felt nauseous and weak and regretted all the things you had called Arthur. Him of all people.

"It's fine", Arthur said, threw his barely started cigarette away and added softly, "I'd rather ya never forgive me. Had you died, I wouldn't have been able to live with myself. So, I’m fine if yer angry at me."

Somehow, all of it was too much. You hit the back of your head into the bark of the tree. It only made your nausea worse, but you much prefered to simply pass out and wake up when all the agony was over. When you were back in camp, satisfied from dinner and with everyone in a good mood, happy and healthy. Not like this.

Arthur's eyes found the ends of the gauze he hadn't managed to knot, quickly kneeled down again and tied it into a knot. It was way too tight; you winced but didn't say anything. You simply closed your eyes and breathed, swallowing the bile that made your throat burn.

You heard Arthur pacing around in the small clearing that you had before he seemed to settle down at the spot furthest away from you, judging by the ruffling leaves.

The tears stopped coming after a while, but so did the feeling that you might drift off to unconsciousness, the nausea and your aching body held you wide awake. Only slowly did you dare to open your swollen eyes, who immediately fell on Arthur. He sat opposite of you, indeed the spot furthest away, his hat deep in his face, arms crossed in front of his body and only leg angled.

You raised yourself slowly on your shaking legs. Finally, the movement made you stagger and dizzy, only managing to turn to the nearest bush to be sick. Arthur stirred, putting on his hat right to get a better look at you. You saw that in the corner of the eye, so you dared to pose a question, though your voice was hoarse and strained: "Think I can go to the stream to clean myself up?"

"Sure. Don't wander off", Arthur answered. You thought he sounded somewhat patronizing, but honestly, you didn't blame him.

The stream wasn't far, when the wind came from the right direction, you had heard it gurgle in your little hideout. It was barely two feet wide and very shallow, but the cold water still revitalized you. You washed your face properly, until you were sure that the dried blood was gone, then you put your whole head into the water. The coldness was biting, but it distracted from your other injuries. You cleaned around the wounds on your shoulder and leg, trying not to get the gauze wet.

You felt much better. After drinking your fill and finally getting rid of the urge to gag every couple of minutes, you took off your boots and socks to put your feet into the cold water. Your body felt hot, as if it was running a fever already, with your face swollen and head pounding, but the icy water around your feet seemed to help a bit, even if it made your feet numb.

Before long, you walked back to the spot where Arthur was hiding. The sun had dipped behind the horizon and the light was quickly fading.

Arthur had gotten up: "I was gettin' worried."

"I'm alright", you nodded, "better."

The man in front of you nodded and swallowed back a snarky remark that would have been something like 'ya look almost human again'. Instead, he took off his hat and played with its rim.

"'m sorry, y/n. I-," Arthur started but you interrupted him by raising your hand and shaking your head.

"Don't. I am sorry. I gave you a hard time, but you still took care of me. You're way too kind to me. After all the things I said...", you admitted quietly. You wanted nothing more than to forget what had transpired between you earlier.

It didn't sit quite right with Arthur, because he knew he had been at fault for squeezing you to the brink of consciousness earlier and he was also aware that he tied the gauze around your leg tighter than he should have. And after all, it had been his job and his intel. But he knew that discussing this now would get you nowhere.

He chuckled instead: "Ya didn't give me no hard time. You were jus' hurt 'n angry. I would've been too, in yer position."

You gave him a lopsided, tired smile. Arthur whistled for his horse, which loyally appeared seconds later. He helped you on it and as soon as you both were secured on the horse, Arthur whispered softly: “Try ‘n rest a bit. Ya look like you could use some sleep.” But you had barely heard him, your eyes fell shut the moment you could rest his head on his back.

#arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan fanfiction #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x gn!reader

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mbruben-stein · 3 days ago

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Okay so it decided to post the request before I got the chance to finish it. So can I please get the AOT veterans with their s/o being the doctor of the scouts? Like their poor s/o has to work overtime trying to keep them from falling apart.

AOT characters dating s/o who is the doctor of the Scouts would include.

~Eren~

Eren would experience a constant internal battle between immense pride and crushing worry when it comes to his doctor S/O. On one hand, he deeply admires their dedication and skill, watching with quiet awe as they work tirelessly to patch up wounded scouts and save lives that might otherwise be lost. Their steady hands and calm demeanor in crisis situations would remind him why he fell for them in the first place. However, this admiration would be overshadowed by his protective instincts going into overdrive. Every time he sees them rushing between patients, blood on their clothes and exhaustion etched into their features, his heart would clench with the familiar fear of losing someone precious to him.

His guilt complex would reach new heights knowing that his own reckless behavior directly contributes to their workload. Each time he returns from a mission with injuries, seeing the worry flash across their face before they slip into professional mode would eat away at him. Eren would start becoming almost obsessively careful about minor wounds, trying to treat cuts and bruises himself before they could notice, not wanting to add to their burden. He'd probably hover anxiously whenever they're treating other scouts, torn between wanting to help and knowing he'd just be in the way. The sight of them working late into the night, struggling to save a comrade's life, would trigger his deep-seated helplessness and make him question whether his presence in their life brings more pain than joy.

Despite his worry, Eren would become fiercely protective of his S/O's wellbeing in ways that might sometimes border on overbearing. He'd make sure they eat regular meals, practically forcing food into their hands between patients. When he notices them pushing themselves too hard, he wouldn't hesitate to physically carry them away from their work for mandatory rest, despite their protests about patients needing care. His own disregard for his safety would create tension, as they'd constantly worry about him while trying to focus on other patients. Eren would struggle with the irony of wanting to protect someone whose job it is to run toward danger to help others.

The relationship would fundamentally change how Eren approaches missions and combat. Knowing that his S/O would be the one treating wounded comrades would make every expedition feel more personal and urgent. He'd find himself fighting not just for humanity's freedom, but to ensure fewer people end up on his partner's operating table. In quieter moments, he'd be incredibly gentle with them, understanding better than most the weight they carry. He'd become their anchor when the losses become too much to bear, holding them when they break down after losing a patient, and reminding them of all the lives they've saved when they doubt their abilities.

~Mikasa~

Mikasa would initially struggle with the constant worry that comes from watching her s/o work tirelessly to save the lives of their fellow soldiers. Every time she returns from a mission, bloodied and battered alongside her comrades, she witnesses firsthand the toll it takes on her partner - the exhaustion etched into their features, the way their hands sometimes shake after particularly difficult surgeries, the quiet moments when they think no one is looking and allow the weight of lost lives to show on their face. Despite her own physical and emotional wounds, Mikasa finds herself more concerned about her s/o's wellbeing than her own injuries, often downplaying her own pain to avoid adding to their already overwhelming workload.

Her protective instincts would manifest in subtle but meaningful ways throughout their relationship. Mikasa would make it her personal mission to ensure her s/o eats regular meals, often bringing them food during their long shifts and sitting quietly beside them while they work late into the night. She'd learn to recognize the signs of her partner pushing themselves too hard and would gently but firmly insist they take breaks, sometimes physically guiding them away from their medical supplies to rest. When her s/o inevitably protests about having too much work to do, Mikasa would simply state that they can't save others if they don't take care of themselves first - a lesson she's learned through her own experiences of nearly losing herself to grief and exhaustion.

The sight of her s/o's dedication would fill Mikasa with a complex mixture of pride and anguish. She deeply admires their commitment to preserving life in a world that seems determined to destroy it, seeing in them the same fierce determination that drives her own need to protect others. However, she also recognizes the parallel between her s/o's overwhelming sense of responsibility for every soldier's life and her own desperate need to keep Eren and Armin safe. This understanding creates a deeper bond between them, as Mikasa realizes that her partner carries the same heavy burden of caring too much in a world that offers little mercy to those who fight to save others.

During the quieter moments between expeditions, Mikasa would become her s/o's sanctuary just as they serve as the scouts' lifeline. She'd wrap her red scarf around both of them during cold nights, holding her partner close while they decompress from the day's losses and victories. In these intimate moments, Mikasa would allow herself to be vulnerable, sharing her own fears about losing the people she loves while listening to her s/o's struggles with the impossible task of trying to heal everyone. Their relationship would become a mutual source of strength, with Mikasa providing the emotional support and grounding her partner needs to continue their vital work, while her s/o offers her a different perspective on what it means to fight for others - not just through violence, but through healing and hope.

~Armin~

Armin deeply admired his partner's unwavering dedication to keeping the Scout Regiment alive, though it filled him with a complex mixture of pride and concern. He understood better than most the weight of responsibility that came with protecting others, and he recognized the same selfless determination in his s/o that he saw in commanders like Erwin Smith. Their medical expertise was invaluable to the regiment's survival, and Armin often found himself marveling at their quick thinking during emergencies and their ability to remain calm under pressure. However, his analytical mind also picked up on the subtle signs of exhaustion—the slight tremor in their hands after particularly difficult surgeries, the way their shoulders sagged when they thought no one was looking, and the dark circles under their eyes that seemed to deepen with each expedition.

His protective instincts, usually reserved for Eren and Mikasa, extended fiercely to his partner, though he struggled with how to help without overstepping boundaries. Armin would quietly observe their work patterns, mentally cataloging when they skipped meals or worked through the night, and he'd devise small but strategic interventions. He'd bring them carefully timed cups of tea, sit with them during brief breaks to provide silent companionship, or offer to help organize their medical supplies—anything to ease their burden without interfering with their crucial work. His naturally empathetic nature made him acutely aware of the emotional toll their job took, especially when they lost patients despite their best efforts, and he became expert at recognizing when they needed space to process their grief versus when they needed comfort.

Armin's tactical mind proved invaluable in supporting his s/o's medical practice, as he'd often help them strategize about resource allocation, patient triage, and efficient treatment protocols. He understood that their work required the same kind of calculated decision-making that he applied to military strategy, though the stakes were measured in lives rather than territory. During quiet moments between expeditions, he'd listen intently as they discussed challenging cases or new medical techniques they wanted to try, offering thoughtful questions and observations that helped them think through problems. His ability to remain level-headed during crises also made him an ideal assistant during medical emergencies, following their instructions precisely while keeping other panicked soldiers calm and out of their way.

Despite his admiration for their strength and competence, Armin worried constantly about his partner's tendency to prioritize everyone else's wellbeing over their own—a trait he recognized all too well in himself. He'd gently but persistently remind them to rest, sometimes using his tactical knowledge to point out how their exhaustion could compromise their effectiveness and, by extension, endanger more lives. His own struggles with self-worth made him particularly sensitive to the moments when his s/o questioned whether they'd done enough or blamed themselves for losses beyond their control. In these vulnerable moments, Armin would draw on his growing confidence and hard-won wisdom to remind them of their irreplaceable value to the regiment and to him personally, using the same logical arguments and emotional insight that made him such an effective strategist to help them see their own worth more clearly.

~Erwin~

Erwin's relationship with the Scout Regiment's head doctor creates a unique tension between his role as commander and his personal feelings. He watches with a mixture of pride and concern as his partner works tirelessly in the medical bay, often going days with minimal sleep to tend to wounded soldiers returning from expeditions. The sight of them frantically moving between patients, blood staining their uniform and exhaustion evident in every movement, stirs something protective within him that conflicts with his typically calculated demeanor. He understands better than anyone the weight of responsibility his s/o carries - every life saved is a victory, every life lost a burden they both share.

The commander finds himself torn between his duty to maintain professional distance and his desire to ease his partner's overwhelming workload. During strategic meetings, Erwin's mind occasionally wanders to the medical bay, wondering if his s/o has managed to eat or rest. He begins subtly adjusting mission parameters when possible, not enough to compromise objectives but perhaps routing squads closer to medical supply caches or timing expeditions to allow for better preparation. His stoic facade remains intact in public, but those closest to him notice the way his jaw tightens when casualty reports come in, knowing each number represents another sleepless night for his beloved.

In their rare private moments together, Erwin reveals the softer side of his nature that few ever witness. He takes to quietly tending his partner's needs - ensuring they have proper meals, drawing baths to wash away the day's blood and trauma, or simply holding them when the weight of lost soldiers becomes too much to bear. His large hands, typically used for signing death warrants and battle plans, become gentle as they massage tension from tired shoulders or brush hair from his s/o's weary face. These intimate moments become his anchor, reminding him of what humanity is truly worth fighting for beyond the abstract concept of freedom.

The relationship fundamentally changes how Erwin views sacrifice and loss. While he maintains his ability to make the hard choices that define effective leadership, he struggles with the knowledge that each decision potentially puts more strain on his partner. He becomes more invested in soldier training and injury prevention, not just for tactical advantages but because he cannot bear to see his s/o break under the endless stream of casualties. When his s/o inevitably reaches their breaking point - perhaps after a particularly devastating expedition - Erwin's composed exterior finally cracks. He holds them as they sob, making quiet promises about a future beyond the walls where their healing hands won't be needed for war, even as he knows such promises may be beyond his power to keep.

~Levi~

Levi's relationship with his doctor s/o is built on a foundation of mutual respect and shared dedication to preserving human life, though he'd never admit the latter part out loud. He watches with quiet admiration as they work tirelessly to patch up his fellow soldiers after each expedition, their hands steady even when treating the most gruesome injuries. What strikes him most is how they never seem to lose their composure, maintaining the same clinical focus whether they're treating a minor cut or performing emergency surgery. He finds himself drawn to their competence and unwavering commitment, qualities he values above all else. Their shared understanding of the weight of responsibility - his in keeping soldiers alive in battle, theirs in keeping them alive afterward - creates an unspoken bond between them.

The captain becomes increasingly protective of his s/o as he witnesses the toll their work takes on them. He notices everything: the dark circles under their eyes from sleepless nights in the medical bay, the way their shoulders slump with exhaustion after particularly brutal expeditions, the tremor in their hands when they think no one is looking. Levi starts bringing them tea during their long shifts, never making a big show of it but simply setting the cup down within reach before leaving without a word. He also begins assigning scouts to help with medical supply runs and equipment cleaning, claiming it's for "efficiency" when really he's trying to lighten their workload. His concern manifests in practical ways - ensuring they eat regularly, forcing them to take breaks, and occasionally threatening other scouts who might interrupt their rest.

What frustrates Levi most is his s/o's tendency to prioritize everyone else's wellbeing over their own, a trait he recognizes all too well in himself. He's witnessed them work through their own injuries, skip meals to tend to patients, and push themselves past their limits time and again. This leads to some of their few genuine arguments, with Levi's blunt nature clashing against their stubborn dedication. "You're no use to anyone if you collapse," he'll tell them harshly, though the worry in his grey eyes betrays his true feelings. He's learned to be more subtle in his approach, sometimes literally picking them up and carrying them away from the medical bay when they refuse to rest, his actions speaking louder than any gentle words ever could.

Despite their demanding schedules, Levi treasures the quiet moments they manage to steal together. Late at night, when the medical bay is finally empty and the base is quiet, he'll find his s/o organizing supplies or updating patient records. These are the times when his walls come down slightly - he'll help them with mundane tasks, work in comfortable silence beside them, or simply sit nearby while they finish their work. He's surprisingly gentle when tending to any injuries they might have sustained during their duties, his usually steady hands becoming even more careful when touching them. In these intimate moments, Levi allows himself to show vulnerability, sometimes resting his forehead against theirs and whispering his gratitude for everything they do, not just for him, but for the people he cares about most.

~Hange~

Hange would be incredibly affectionate and attentive when her s/o is tending to other injured scouts, watching with genuine admiration as they work. She'd brag constantly about her partner's medical skills to anyone who'd listen, much to their embarrassment. During quieter moments, she'd curl up in the medical bay while her s/o works late, content to organize files or clean equipment just to be near them. Hange would also insist on being her partner's personal test subject for any new medical techniques, claiming it's "for the advancement of medical science" when really she just enjoys the gentle attention.

Hange would be absolutely smitten with her doctor s/o, though she'd probably drive them to the brink of exhaustion with her reckless tendencies. She'd constantly show up to the medical bay with cuts, burns, and bruises from her Titan experiments, always with that sheepish grin and a hurried "It's just a scratch!" Her s/o would have learned to keep extra supplies on hand specifically for Hange's frequent visits. Despite her casual attitude toward her own injuries, Hange would be incredibly protective of her partner's wellbeing, often staying up late to help organize medical supplies or assist with patient care when the scouts return from particularly brutal expeditions.

The dynamic between them would be both exasperating and endearing. Hange's s/o would have developed a sixth sense for when she's about to do something dangerous, often appearing at her lab with a first aid kit before Hange even realizes she needs it. They'd have gentle arguments about Hange's safety protocols, with her partner trying to implement basic protective measures while Hange insists that "science requires sacrifice!" Her s/o would have learned to hide behind Hange's workbench when she gets that particular gleam in her eye that means she's about to test something potentially explosive.

When Hange gets seriously injured, her usual bravado would crumble around her s/o, showing a vulnerability she rarely displays to others. She'd be an absolutely terrible patient - fidgety, trying to get back to work too soon, and constantly apologizing for worrying her partner. Her s/o would have to use a combination of medical authority and romantic persuasion to keep her in bed long enough to heal properly. In return, Hange would shower them with small gifts from her research - carefully preserved flowers, interesting rock samples, or beautifully detailed sketches of Titan anatomy, each accompanied by rambling explanations of why she thought they'd find it fascinating.

~Jean~

Jean initially finds himself torn between pride and worry when it comes to his s/o's role as the Scout Regiment's doctor. On one hand, he's incredibly proud of their medical expertise and dedication to keeping everyone alive, often bragging about their skills to fellow soldiers. However, his pragmatic nature makes him constantly anxious about the toll their job takes on them. He sees firsthand how they work through exhaustion, patching up soldier after soldier following expeditions, and it conflicts with his desire for both of them to have some semblance of safety and normalcy. Jean often catches himself wanting to suggest they transfer to a safer position, but his respect for their commitment and his understanding of how crucial they are to the regiment keeps him from voicing these concerns too forcefully.

The sight of his s/o's hands, perpetually stained with blood and trembling from overwork, becomes something that haunts Jean during quiet moments. His brutal honesty, usually directed outward, turns inward as he struggles with guilt over not being able to protect them from the emotional and physical strain of their work. He starts paying closer attention to the casualties during missions, not just for tactical reasons, but because he knows each wounded soldier means another sleepless night for his partner. Jean begins taking on additional responsibilities around their shared living space, handling chores and meals without being asked, understanding that their time and energy need to be preserved for saving lives.

Jean's natural leadership abilities manifest in how he becomes fiercely protective of his s/o's wellbeing, often stepping in when he notices other soldiers taking advantage of their dedication. He's not above using his blunt personality to tell exhausted soldiers to handle minor injuries themselves or to remind officers that his partner needs rest between missions. Despite his own aversion to dangerous situations, Jean finds himself volunteering for riskier assignments partly because he knows that fewer casualties mean less work for his s/o. He starts viewing mission success not just in terms of strategic victory, but in terms of how many soldiers return unharmed, knowing that each healthy return is a small gift to his overworked partner.

The relationship deepens Jean's understanding of sacrifice and duty in ways his earlier self-centered motivations never could. Watching his s/o work tirelessly to save lives, even when their own health suffers, gradually shifts his perspective from wanting an easy life to wanting a meaningful one. He begins to see their work as a form of heroism that doesn't require grand gestures or dramatic battles, but rather quiet, consistent dedication to preserving life. Jean starts leaving small notes of encouragement in their medical supplies, brings them meals during long shifts, and learns to provide the kind of steady, reliable support that his s/o needs to continue their vital work. His love becomes expressed through understanding when they're too exhausted to talk, holding them when they've lost a patient, and being the calm presence they can return to after witnessing humanity's fragility day after day.

~Sasha~

Sasha's relationship with her doctor s/o is a beautiful blend of understanding and gentle chaos. She quickly learns that her partner's dedication to keeping the Scout Regiment alive means long, unpredictable hours and constant worry. While initially frustrated by the missed dinners and interrupted conversations, Sasha develops a deep respect for her s/o's unwavering commitment to saving lives. She becomes incredibly protective of their rare moments together, often bringing meals directly to the medical bay and creating a small sanctuary where her exhausted partner can find comfort between emergencies.

Her nurturing instincts, usually reserved for food and close friends, extend completely to her overworked s/o. Sasha makes it her personal mission to ensure they're eating properly, often sneaking extra portions from the mess hall or hunting fresh game to prepare hearty meals that can sustain her partner through their demanding schedule. She learns to read the subtle signs of her s/o's exhaustion - the slight tremor in their hands after a particularly difficult surgery, the way they unconsciously massage their temples when overwhelmed with casualties. During these moments, Sasha becomes remarkably gentle, offering wordless comfort through simple gestures like warm embraces or quietly braiding their hair while they rest.

The unique challenges of their relationship teach Sasha patience in ways she never expected. She learns to find romance in stolen moments - brief kisses exchanged in supply closets, her s/o falling asleep against her shoulder during rare quiet evenings, or the grateful smile her partner gives when finding a carefully wrapped meal left on their desk. Sasha's naturally intuitive nature helps her anticipate her s/o's needs, whether it's preparing medical supplies before they ask or simply being a steady, comforting presence during the aftermath of particularly brutal expeditions.

Despite the difficulties, Sasha finds immense pride in loving someone so selflessly dedicated to protecting others. She often brags to her fellow scouts about her partner's skills and dedication, becoming fiercely defensive if anyone suggests the medical corps doesn't face the same dangers as field operatives. Her s/o's compassion and skill inspire Sasha to be more mindful of her own safety during missions, knowing that her injuries would only add to her partner's already overwhelming burden. Their relationship becomes a source of strength for both, with Sasha's unwavering optimism and warmth providing the emotional support her s/o needs to continue their life-saving work.

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cilleatandserve · 2 days ago

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ꜱɪᴍᴘʟᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄʟᴇᴀɴ

Masterlist

Summary: After a life-altering event, Y/N has to start her life over. But she’s gotten involved with the wrong people.

A/N: requested by @lucecitasdebel, “Thomas Shelby x Enigmatic Courtesan.” Requested fluff will be in the next part, just had to get the climax done.

Timeline: Not accurate! Starts after Grace leaves for London, Thomas is fighting Kimber in this.

“What have I done?” I groan, wiping the red blotch off the now ruined painting, a portrait of the beautiful black cat, with a red patch conveniently placed as a wound. Vernon was his name, and sleeping seemed all he could do. But I appreciated his presence, provided since I was sold to this god awful household, robbed of my hobbies, although I continued in secret, desperately clinging to the fragments of my former self. I was forced into lustful interactions by the man that would be home right about... now. My heart races as I quickly tidy up my milkmaid dress, which clings to my still-growing body, a constant reminder of the life I never chose. Running up the stairs, I drop Vernon on the floor, and he quickly scatters at the intimidating man’s presence, his instincts sharper than mine.

“Where’s lunch?” The man hunches over me, his breath hot and suffocating, and I scrunch my face in disgust. If you couldn't tell, I detest men, and I would rather die than obey such a creature. But I’m only 20—trapped in a world that feels so much bigger than me. “I get it. You were fuck’n painting again, weren't you?” I stand before the basement door, blocking his path, my heart pounding in my chest as I nod my head. “Useless bitch.” His words cut deeper than any blow, and spit flies directly behind me as he raises his hand to hit me. But at the look of my watering eyes, he hesitates, instead cupping my neck with a grip that feels both possessive and tender, a confusing mix of emotions swirling inside me.

“Don’t be mad at me. I’m only acting like this because you give me no choice.” His voice drips with a twisted sense of justification, and I can feel the heat radiating from his body, a warmth I both crave and despise. With no response, he prods me more, lavishing me with the closest thing to an apology he knows how to give. He pulls out two train tickets to London, and my heart leaps at the sight. A cheap flat, yes, but it earns him a smile, as London was my dream home—a place where I could escape this nightmare. “Now, I’ve spoiled you. Go make dinner.” I nod, the flicker of hope igniting within me, but it’s quickly snuffed out by the reality of my situation.

I wake up abruptly to the sound of thrashing downstairs. Panic surges through me as I run to find years of built-up painting equipment stuffed in garbage bags, my heart sinking at the sight. “Theo!” I yell, my hands waving around in desperation. The chaos of my life feels unbearable, a whirlwind of anger and confusion, and I can’t shake the feeling that beneath all this turmoil, something deeper is stirring—a longing for connection, for understanding, for love that feels as unattainable as the stars outside my window.

“I am getting rid of this bullshit. Don't you see, honey? I’m the only thing you need.” He stands tall, revealing his 6 foot figure. I furrow my brows, my misunderstanding making him angrier. “Me! Not this stupid, unrealistic dream you have engraved inside your inexperienced little head. Not this stupid fucking cat.” He raises his voice, his fury distracting him from my hands searching for my hidden item behind my back.

“What? Are you regretting this relationship now? You don’t have a say. I control you, sweetheart—” He chuckles darkly. I pull out the small pistol, my hands trembling as I aim it in front of me. He laughs, taking casual steps forward. “Go ahead, pull the trigger. You don’t even know how to use a fucking gun.” He snatches the weapon from my grip, holding our shared suitcase as he skips down the stairs, muttering, “useless.”

“You’re the fucking useless one!” I shout, causing him to turn around, slip on the mud, and accidentally pull the trigger, shooting himself in the jaw. I freeze, shaking, then rush over, hunching over his lifeless body, clutching my ticket out of this hellhole. A single tear stains my powdered face as I cradle his head, the eyes that once threatened me now rolled back.

“What have I done?” I choked, gaping at my bloodstained hands in horror.

The meows of the cat break me out of my nightmares. As much as I felt guilty, I also felt- Happy. This was a blessing in disguise. A chance to paint, to gain respect, and to never take commands from foolish men again. A blessing that got me and Vernon on the trains almost immediately, after a good hour of dragging my ill-fated ex husband into the cut, disguised as one of the many suicidal soldiers. Although, murder is never clean.

…

London was bright and loud, a stark contrast to the country I grew up in. I stepped into the big city with just a small wad of cash and a dream—a dream of living comfortably, even if my idea of comfort is pretty basic. Basic, but definitely unrealistic. Finding a job on the street in this day and age feels impossible, and I certainly won’t resort to.. pleasing men. Eugh.

As I make my way to what’s supposed to be my flat, I pass through the richer suburbs and accidentally bump into someone—well, two people, actually. I’m momentarily stunned by the sheer beauty of the woman in front of me. Her eyes are piercing, yet her smile is bright and warm, adorned with apologies. I didn’t have many friends growing up, especially not female ones, but I knew I had to be friends with her.

“I’m Y/n,” I say, extending my hand and shaking hers, completely ignoring the man beside her.

“Grace. Grace Burgess. This is my husband.” I smile and nod my head at him in greeting.

“Are you lost?” she asks, tilting her head.

I giggle and sheepishly grin, showing her the address scribbled on a crumpled piece of paper.

…

I drag my small suitcase into the squeaky flat, still carrying the furry ball of black. Is this the best that stupid fucker could buy? I must look like a complete spazz stick. London isn’t as scary as I thought. An hour in, and I’ve already got an invite to a house party. But not like this. I pick at myself in the dirty mirror. After a quick bath, I put on my finest—well, my only—dress and comb my fine black hair. My heels clack against the littered sidewalk as I arrive at the house. It’s massive. I’m welcomed in by the woman herself, and I can’t help but admire the mansion. Fucking huge. They probably have a room just for painting.

“I’m so glad you could come. All my husband's gatherings are so male dominated.” I laugh, having been in such a situation before, not that anyone would find out.

A drink goes by, then several. I comfort Grace as she cries about some insolent dickhead, Timothee or something. Timothee Shellie? “This is why I don’t trust men. Especially ones who just… don’t value you as a fucking… person!” My words slur and rotate between volumes as she agrees. I needed to go home before I embarrassed myself. First fucking day. Pull yourself together. One more drink.

I step back into reality. God, it’s probably 1 am. I furrow my brows as I find myself hugging Grace tightly as she mumbles, “You’re welcome.” What could she have possibly said? At least I sobered up quickly, I think, as I assess the drunkards on the floor around me. I thanked Grace and her husband before leaving, heading straight for my bed.

…

I wake up to a knock on my door and the sun in my face, makeup still on and still dolled up. I stumble to the door to see Grace. God, this girl is clingy. And she’s holding… croissants? She pushes herself inside and starts happily speaking, “You got the job!!” I smile and celebrate with her before bursting her bubble. “What exactly for…” I nervously grin as she crosses her arms.

“Last night, I said I’d hook you up with my friend. She’s a courtesan.” I gasp immediately. I truly didn't mean to contribute to the stigma, but that wasn't my field. Did I have a choice though?

“Prostitution?” I yell, more surprised than angry. She quickly reassures, “No! Sex work, yes. But better pay, no strings attached. And you can choose!”

“Almost everyone in this field seems to have a disdain for men. It’s a great opportunity, though! And hey! They really appreciate women with charm and skills.” Grace's gaze falls on my few painting brushes.

I gently usher her out of my house, trying to cut through her argument, “You’re a stunning woman, they’ll-,” “I’ll think about it. Thanks, Grace.”

Sitting in silence, I nibble on a croissant. A courtesan. I’m quite the catch. But, men…

…

“I’ll do it,” I tell Grace as we sit at a café, sipping coffee. She beams and explains, “There’s an event on Friday where you’ll introduce yourself to potential clients and impress them. And voilà.”

…

What have I gotten myself into? I cross my arms in front of the mirror, wearing a red silk dress and with my hair pinned up. Just as I reach up to loosen my look, girls burst in from all sides, showering me with compliments. If only I could see the beauty they see. Well, time to stop overthinking. I gracefully enter the gala, holding a champagne glass, joining the other girls as we claim our men and gossip about them. If there’s any type, working men do it best.

Before long, a tall, snobbish man approaches me, and I find myself being coaxed into another drink, maintaining the fake smiles and small talk. “Are you from around here? I’m sure I would remember such a,” he looks me up and down, “beautiful face.” Do I really need to share how the night ended?

Soon enough, I became the temporary talk of South London, an enigma that no one could quite figure out. Some called me mysterious, while others said I was hard to get. It wasn’t as bad as expected

It wasn’t as bad as I had expected; it felt simple and clean. My personal life would remain just that—personal. My room was filled with pictures of birds, and for the first time, I felt liberated from the constraints that place had imposed on me.

…

I gasped for air as I sat up urgently under the blankets of my bed, the warmth fading as fear seeped into my mind. That was the first time the nightmares began—cold sweats and blood pooling in my thoughts.

…

Knock knock. I woke up, my hair a mess and my vision still foggy as I opened the door, having no time to react before Grace barged in.

“Pack your bags. We’re going on a trip.”

I sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing my eyes. “Where exactly?”

“Birmingham,” she replied with a bright smile. Delaying work was one thing, but Birmingham? What a specific destination.

“Is this about Timothee?” I asked nonchalantly while combing my hair in front of my smaller mirror.

“Thomas,” she corrected. “Please, I need you with me.”

“Just for the weekend, babe. Okay?”

…

It smelled familiar, but it felt like home. I lifted my head from Grace’s shoulder after sleeping majority of the bumpy trip.

“We’re here?”

My clean heels stood out against the average muddy shoes, but I didn’t mind getting them dirty compared to Grace; it reflected our different upbringings. I was similar to these people, but that didn’t mean I trusted them. I followed Grace as she glided effortlessly through the streets, finally bringing us to this “important” guy’s business place. The foggy windows pronounced the name “Shelby.” It was a name I had heard whispered along the way. How influential could this guy really be? She entered the bustling room first, and I cautiously followed.

A scruffy, middle-aged man steps in front of us, nearly blocking the big yellow lights hanging from the ceiling. I can see Grace shifting uncomfortably, so I take the lead. “We’re looking for Tim—” I’m poked in the shoulder. “Thomas Shelby.”

“You’re not welcome,” he says, his gaze fixed particularly on Grace.

Just as I’m about to lose my temper, a figure emerges from the office at the top of the stairs. “What’s all this ruckus, Arthur?” His voice echoes through the now-silent room. He looks at Grace, then at me. With a flick of his hand, everyone returns to their “productive” work.

“Thomas. I just needed to s—” Grace starts, but he cuts her off with a loud command. “Office.”

I lean against the wall beside the door, arms crossed and wary doe eyes. “What’s yer name, love?” the unremarkable man in front of me l

“I don’t have time for your meaningless confessions, Grace. I have business to do.” Tears well up in her eyes as she pleads—not for a romantic relationship, but for any connection at all.

“Talk to me, Thomas.”

“You want me to talk? Fine, I’ll fucking talk. I’ve got an angry man waiting for me at the races tomorrow, ready to shoot my brains out if I make one wrong move.”

As soon as I feel the cold hand slipping up my thigh, after countless hints. I lose it, my hand meets Arthur's, so hard it could’ve pushed his facial hairs in. My hand snakes to his ear as I pull it, scolding him like I would a kid. “Have you no decency?”

Thomas abruptly moves his head to the sound, witnessing the scene through the transparent, foggy glass.

“Who’s your friend?”

“Y/N. Courtesan. Quite the character.” She tries to make a joke, her smile fading as soon as he looks a moment too long at me.

“Introduce me, will ya?” He asks, plucking the cigarette off his mouth

“Apologise, Arthur.” He says as he walks towards me. A face to the name, at least.

I look down at both of them before grabbing Grace’s wrist as soon as it’s in reach.

“Thank you. We were just leaving.” What a first impression.

“Grace. Stay away from men like those two. Imbeciles, they are.”

“Come on, Y/N. It’s only the first day.”

“Almost the last. I mean it.”

…

Poor girl. I think as I watch Grace from afar. I remember my married days, not that they were long ago.

“I’ll go get us some breakfast,” I say before stepping out of the apartment she somehow managed to get. She recommended this café down the road; the least I could do was buy her something for all the good she’s done me.

I enter the café and place my order, settling into a seat across from the window. Just then, I notice the sunlight is blocked. I look up to see a cloud of smoke in my face before I see him—Shelby.

“Miss L/N,” he says casually as he takes a seat.

It felt strange not hearing my husband’s last name attached to mine anymore.

“Want one?” he offers, extending a cigarette.

I shake my head, maintaining my composure.

“I’d like to do business with you.”

“What does this business consist of?”

He glances around before replying, “We can discuss this—”

“Here,” I finish for him. There’s no way I’d be alone in a room with this guy.

“All i need you to do is accompany me to a gala and be a distraction.”

“That’s not my line of work.” I get up and walk past him, exiting the cafe without the food. One job y/n.

…

That night, the nightmares returned, heavier this time, something sinister lurking beneath the surface. Goosebumps prickled my skin as I rose from bed, the chill seeping through my thin night slip.

"Y/N."

The whisper brushed my ear. I whirled around—empty space. "Theo?" I murmured, careful not to wake Grace.

Downstairs, I opened the door to a biting breeze that raised the hairs on my arms. Drawn by the whispers, I found myself at the edge of an open lake. Kneeling, I gazed into the dark water, tears joining the flow. "I'm sorry."

A burst of harsh laughter made me spin around. The Shelbys. Of course. As soon as Thomas's eyes locked onto mine, I retreated into the apartment, vanishing like a phantom.

…

The next morning, I told Grace about the offer, surprisingly refreshed despite the night's disturbances.

"Just hear him out," she urged. If she trusted him, maybe I could too. That was enough.

"I'll go now, then."

"Thank you."

Leaving the house, I was more composed, more presentable. As i stroll down the street, in the far distance I see a familiar face. Tall. Brown hair. Theo? Flashes of his bloodied hair, his cheeks going cold flickered through my mind . I stumble backwards before i’m running, focusing on speed rather than location. Once i’m severely out of breath, I stop, finding myself in an alleyway, mud splattered on the back of my legs.

"Hey, missy." A voice from the shadows.

"Theo, I didn't mean to. Please." I pleaded, but the figure stepped into the light, face hard, knife glinting.

"I can be Theo," he snarled, before crumpling to the ground, pummeled by Shelby. I watched, paralyzed, as Shelby turned to me, as if this violence was routine.

"How convenient. I was looking for you." I said, clutching my purse, trying for confidence.

"Sure? Seemed like you were running for your life back there?" He gestured back to the street, but he knew—he knew about the nightmares. he had nightmares too often, just like that.

“Let’s talk. Payment.”

"50k. If it's successful." I didn't dare ask about failure.

Two hours of small talk for 50k. Easy, Y/N. A piece of cake.

"Okay. I'll do it. But," I continued, needing to set the boundaries, "no sexual interactions, unless I have notice and consent."

He agreed, then drove me home before heading to his office. I was something, alright. He walked into his office, "Arthur, get a report on that new girl."

…

The gala. Today. I slipped into the dress delivered by "T. Shelby." A touch of rouge, my hair in curls. Grace wished me luck as I descended. Why not Grace for the job? Safety? Huh. I nodded to Thomas as he held open the car door. The ride was silent, ending at a huge mansion ablaze with lights. My arm linked with his, I was swept inside, introductions coming so fast I couldn't breathe. Finally, after meeting half the city, we sat down. After a droning speech, jazz filled the room—not my taste, but bearable. Thomas looked at me expectantly.

"Do you dance?"

"Only when asked nicely," I said, a grin tugging at my lips.

"Will you dance with me, Miss L/N?" Fuck. When had I become so easy?

I took his hand, letting him lead me to the dance floor. We moved together, bodies aligned, until his steps subtly guided us toward a specific table. The music hadn't stopped when he began to speak. I turned and introduced myself. The main target, no doubt.

"Mind if I have a turn?"

I glanced at Thomas as my hand was taken by the man. He was polished, but my instincts screamed danger. Back on the dance floor, joyless this time. Once the music ends, we stop dancing. Thank God. I think everyone in the room saw that monstrosity. I watched the two men converse before being whisked away into Thomas's car.

“You’ll spend the night with ‘im.”

I turn to face him. “What? No way.” I say, as i harshly open the car door. Conveniently locked.

“Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

“Why. Why couldnt you use a fucking whore you saw on the street.” I yell, tears welling up in my eyes

“Nobody wants to fuck a diseased common whore.”

“Fuck you. I’ll fucking kill him.”

“Like you did with your husband? Theodore. Theodore DeLongi?” He reveals as he lights his cigarette.

“Get the fuck back inside.” He barks.

#thomas shelby x reader #cillian murphy x oc #thomas shelby x oc #cillian murphy x reader #thomas shelby #tommy shelby x reader #cillian murphy #tommy shelby #tommy shelby x oc #cilleatandserve

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seelie-buddy · 10 hours ago

Text

this is how you fall in love…

summary : one second, mydei, you remain within my grasp, and the next moment you flutter away

contains : implied affections (platonic/romantic) ; teensy- vaguely implied injuries (scratches, wounds) ; implied character death– (MYDEI MY SWEET IM SORRY) ; gn!reader, this drabble is written in second person ; IT'S ALL FLUFF MOSTLY I SWEAR!

song inspired !! this is how you fall in love by Chelsea Cutler and Jeremy Zucker

word count : 1.2k

“sun in my eyes, navy-blue skies

you are the reason I can survive”

Spear lodged next to your head, you pant heavily as a palm shelters your eyes from the brazen sun. And then, a shadow comes over you, a hand outstretched down towards you

"Audacity will get you nowhere," his voice rings from above, and your hand reaches up to clasp his, allowing him to heave you back to your feet. His palm was hot against yours, blazing like a fire as scaling as the colour of his robes, or maybe it simply was the sun-caressed warmth on his skin.

But his gaze was blazing— depths as the secrets of the sun. It burned into your skin as he examined the scratches over your own robes and skin: his doing; scratches, but injuries nonetheless. (And, just maybe, you felt a little huffy that, once more, you could hardly land a single blow on him.)

"Let's get you to a healer," and his hand, still clasped around yours, was already pulling you away before you could find the voice to protest; if you did want to protest, it was still futile in the face of a man as stubborn as this Kremnoan.

And he stood, crossed arms, at the edge of your bed as the healer rubbed salve over the roughed skin— as if the process needed to be done under his scrutiny, not one spear-brushed patch of skin could be overlooked.

"Nurse me to health yourself, Your Highness." A taunt, of course— a mask for gratitude perhaps; a veneer to hide away the 'thank you for the spar', the 'thank you for the worry'.

"Do you think the healers are incompetent or do you plan on being reckless once more?"

An unspoken 'don't overthink it'; silent acknowledgement.

And, maybe because you did feel a faint bit generous (or rather: grateful), you throw him a lazy smile, stretching your limps once the healer goes away. "Maybe I should return your benevolence by hosting you a meal; not poisoned, that much I can try."

"Ridiculous," but he suppresses a laugh to a smirk.

––

“this is how you fall in love

let go and I'll hold you up”

"Done playing hero?" You peer down at where he had been laying on the bed himself, torso wrapped with bandages that still caught colour from his still healing wounds (forcefully made to rest— by the healers, not you).

He scowls at you, and if his eyes could kill, they would have bled you.

"There, there," you grin, seating yourself on the edge of his bed, brandishing a small knife to slice the apple in your hand. "Have this: an apple a day keeps the healer away."

And your tone reeks of patronization as you prod the slice of apple to his lips, to which his expressions turn delightfully foul.

He snatches the fruit slice from you, but he pops it into his mouth nonetheless.

And in the brief shadow provided by a stray cloud, the rays brightening your frame dims, and— only maybe— your expressions soften too. Was it concern? Worry?

Certainly not.

You pass him another apple slice.

"Maybe this time you would prefer supper to the bland rations these healers feed you?"

He only clicks his tongue, accepting the apple from you.

––

“I had a nightmare…”

The evening buzzed a little too loudly. People fluttered around like butterflies in a garden, and you stood at the terrace of the cluster of homes, and you tried to busy yourself into drying the berries under the never-setting sun's light. But something nagged at the back of your mind, pulling away your attention from the garnet of berries in your palm to the familiar flutter of crimson robes—

"Mydeimos!" And you wave your berries-clutched hand wildly. "Supper?"

And you expected him to shake his head and move on, pretending he didn't know the mad one waving at him— but he doesn't.

A little nod, and he had detoured from whatever his original path was.

And you lean over the stone banister, baffled that he had indeed weaved through the small houses, and towards the front door of yours.

And, just maybe, your steps had been a bit swift as you skipped the steps down from your terrace to open the door for him.

"Finally came around, did you?" And your grin was not reciprocated with a flick to your forehead; your teasing drops, noticing the invisible weight on his shoulders as you let him in.

Supper was readied and served in a short while that stretched on in a silence as long-lasting as forever.

And as he sat across from you at the table, his eyes were focused on the dish in front of him. It wasn't unlike him to remain silent for the most part, but this time there was something else to the silence— something that made you want to dread having called him in. Something unsettling— like a rock tossed into the ocean, tearing through the tranquil surface to disturb the life within; dread, and it weighed your chest down heavy with every exhale.

"Did I add too much salt?"

An attempt of conversation; the weight of all things became too unbearable. Thankfully, he responds.

"No."

"Then did you burn your tongue with how impatient you were to eat?"

And— you'd praise whichever Titan blessed it— when the corner of his lips twitched; perhaps a scowl, maybe a smile.

And, it relieved some of the weight off your chest. And because you could not hold back the genuineness anymore: "what's on your mind?"

"I am going... on an expedition."

It was a lie, you knew it instantly. "For how long?"

"Not long," he says, and his eyes turn upwards to you— for the first time since he arrived. And his gaze told you what his words didn't.

Liar.

"And you'll return safe," you chuckle, ignoring the tugging at your heart— your words more declaration than question because you don't want to acknowledge this horrid jest that fate was pulling on you. "Because, after all, who in all the world could defeat you?"

And this time, he does allow a smile.

"And you'll know that another supper will await you when you come back home," you add in, keeping the illusion of alright despite how the world had already begun to crack and crumble away.

––

The sun is still warm as you kneel by the strayed brook of a river. The sky is still cloudless, and the air is still fresh when you breathe.

Your fists unfurl, allowing the crimson flowers in your palm flutter, the wind dropping it into the stream. And you watch it go, bouncing, bobbing, rippling against the surface as it went away.

And perhaps, just maybe, you dared to hope that it would find its way to him.

...Or whichever grave he sleeps in.

“I had a nightmare

but now that I'm not scared

this is how you fall in love

let go and I'll hold you up

so pull me tight and close your eyes

oh, my love, side to side...”

a/n : I WROTE THIS ON THE SAME DAY AS MY FINAL HIGHSCHOOL EXAM; I'M FREEE!!! (I'm posting this a few days later because life happened) THIS IS MY FIRST HSR FIC–

p/s : I wrote this before I even found out that Mydei was immortal and went 'oh, it's not matching up with his lore–' and then 3.3 trailer dropped. I haven't played it yet BECAUSE I CAN'T BRING MYSELF TO WHY DID HOYO DO THAT–

#leaf : writes #astronetwrk #—stellaronhvnters.#honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #mydei x reader #mydei x you #hsr x you #hsr x gender neutral reader #hsr x y/n #mydei x y/n #hsr mydei x reader #mydeimos x reader #mydeimos x you #mydeimos x y/n

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dioslesbianwife · 2 days ago

Note

Can i request a platonic team bucciarati with reader who came back as a zombie or a frankenstein's monster kinda thing? They just casually show up as if nothing happened.

sure, hope you enjoy and thank you for requesting <333

Bucciarati

He literally stops breathing.

“...No. No, that’s impossible. We buried you. I closed your eyes.”

Touches your face like he’s making sure you’re real- and flinches when he feels the unnatural cold of your undead skin.

“Who did this to you?” His tone sharpens. “Who brought you back?”

But once he sees you’re still you, still warm-hearted and kind beneath the whole “stitched together corpse” thing, he lets you stay near him again.

Makes sure you’re taken care of. Keeps your bandages clean. Buys you gloves so people don’t freak out.

Still scolds you like a mother hen. “Being undead doesn’t mean you can run headfirst into danger again, Y/N. Don’t make me zip your arm back on.”

Giorno

He senses it before he sees you. A ripple in nature. Something… off.

When you appear, shambling into the hideout with your patched-up limbs and dull eyes, Giorno immediately raises Gold Experience.

“That’s impossible. You died.”

You blink at him. “Yeah but like… I got better?”

Stares at you with that thoughtful mafia prince intensity before slowly lowering his Stand.

“Fascinating. Your soul has returned, but the body- who did this to you?”

Studies you like a scientist. Pokes your stitches. Has so many questions about necromancy and cellular resurrection.

But lowkey… is relieved you’re back. Really relieved. He just doesn’t show it.

Mista

SCREAMS.

“BRO- BRO- SOMEONE GET A GUN- ”

Literally hides behind Narancia. “IS THAT A GHOST?? IS THAT YOUR GHOST??”

When you roll your eyes and flip him off with your slightly-rotting hand, he loses it.

“OH MY GOD THEY ARE BACK. AND RUDE.”

Takes a WHILE to get used to it. He pokes your stitches constantly and asks a million inappropriate questions like “So like, do you still fart?”

Eventually brags about you to strangers. “This is my bestie, they died and came back. No biggie.”

Narancia

FREEZES when he sees you.

“Wait… no way… no way…”

Runs over and hugs you so tight your arm pops off.

“AHHHHHHHH I BROKE THEM- ”

Apologizes a hundred times and then refuses to let you out of his sight.

100% treats you the same as before, even if you have to sew your leg back on mid-conversation.

“So like, are you still hungry? Do you eat brains? Can I give you my pudding cup?”

If anyone stares at you funny in public, he yells “WHAT YOU LOOKIN’ AT, HUH?! THAT’S MY FRIEND YOU FREAK.”

Trish

At first: screaming. Then: silent horror.

“...This is a prank, right? A Stand illusion?”

When she realizes it’s really you, she bursts into angry tears. “You DIED. You DIED and no one could fix it.”

And now you’re just standing there. With stitches. With cold hands. But the same smile.

“You absolute idiot,” she sobs, hugging you.

Immediately becomes your undead stylist. “You might be a zombie but that doesn’t mean you can’t SERVE LOOKS.”

Buys you custom arm warmers and makeup to hide the decay. “If you’re gonna cheat death, you better do it fabulously.”

Abbacchio

“...You’re dead.”

“Yeah,” you say. “But I got better.”

“Tch.”

Refuses to believe you’re real for days.

“It’s a trick. It’s Moody Blues showing me something I want to see.”

Won’t talk to you. Won’t look at you. Then one day, when you patch up a wound of his and smile, he just sighs.

“Only you would come back from the dead and still boss me around.”

Quietly watches over you. You catch him looking every now and then, like he’s still waiting for you to vanish again.

Secretly grateful you came back. Will never say it. But he brings you hot cocoa sometimes and mutters “Don’t lose another limb.”

Fugo

PANIC.

“No. No, this isn’t right. This isn’t NATURAL.”

Tries to push you away at first- afraid you’re some twisted trap, or worse, a puppet.

“What if this is hurting you? What if your soul’s trapped?”

But when you touch his hand- cold and shaky- and say “I missed you,” he just crumbles.

“...You dumbass,” he whispers, eyes wet. “You shouldn’t be here. But I’m so glad you are.”

Becomes the one constantly reminding you to rest and take care of your gross undead body. Packs you little first-aid kits and spare thread “just in case.”

#jojo's bizarre adventure #leone abbacchio x reader #leone abbacchio #fugo x reader #panacotta fugo #trish una x reader #trish una #bruno bucciarati x reader #bruno bucciarati #giorno giovanna x reader #giorno giovanna #mista x reader #guido mista #narancia x reader #narancia ghirga

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ickbite · 2 days ago

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IN TOO DEEP! Idol!jake sim x katseye!y/n

01. lip gloss and chaos masterlist. next.

The green room buzzes with energy. Hairdryers hum, stylists dart around with lip tints and hairspray cans, and the air smells faintly of citrus-scented dry shampoo. Daniela Avanzini sits cross-legged on a makeup chair, twisting strands of her blonde hair between her fingers absentmindedly. Her outfit—an iridescent denim two-piece with silver chains—is half zipped, and her stage mic is clipped but not yet turned on.

You lounge on the floor across from her in an oversized hoodie, glitter eye patches under your eyes and a pen hanging out of your mouth like a cigarette. Your stage gear hangs neatly on a nearby clothing rack—violet mesh sleeves, cargo pants with too many buckles, and a neon orange cropped jacket you lovingly named “Garfield.”

“So let me get this straight,” you say, pointing the pen at her like it’s a mic. “You said good morning to him and he just walked away?”

Daniela huffs, trying to look annoyed, but the blush creeping into her cheeks betrays her. “He didn’t walk away. He bowed… politely.”

“Okay, but did he say anything?” you deadpan, dropping the pen on a nearby stool. “Like a ‘Hi,’ or a ‘You look stunning today, Miss Avanzini, may I have this dance under the twinkling LED lights of Inkigayo?’”

Daniela rolls her eyes but can’t hide the grin spreading across her face. “He said, ‘Morning,’ and then bowed and walked away.”

You gasp theatrically. “Morning? From the ice prince himself? Daniela, that’s practically a love confession.” You laugh as you stand and grab a nearby pack of strawberry Pocky.

“You’re being dramatic,” she says, laughing as she dabs a bit of highlighter onto her cheekbones. “It’s not that deep.”

You crawl over and plop down beside her, chin in hand. “Okay, but let’s be honest: you’ve been smiling at your phone all week after every rehearsal. That can’t just be from checking Weverse comments.”

“I was watching cat videos.”

“Cat videos don’t make you clutch your heart and whisper ‘oh my God.’” You nudge her playfully. “Be real. You’re totally online-stalking Sunghoon.”

Daniela opens her mouth to argue, then closes it again. She catches her reflection in the mirror, sees the slightly dazed expression she’s been trying to hide for days, and gives up pretending. “Fine. Maybe… I like him. A little.”

You don’t say anything right away. You just grin and reach into your hoodie pocket.

“What are you doing?” Daniela asks warily, setting her phone down to focus on you.

“Texting the wedding planner,” you reply, fingers flying over your phone. “Gotta book the venue before Enhypen’s fans get to him first.”

She smacks your arm, laughing so hard her eyeliner brush falls. “You’re insane.”

“Insane for love,” you sing off-key, standing up to do a slow twirl, your hoodie sleeves flapping. “Or at least for other people’s love lives. Mine is as barren as our fridge the night before grocery day.”

The room shifts briefly as a stylist leans in to adjust Daniela’s mic. You return to the vanity, allowing the makeup artist to start your look with precise flicks of eyeliner. For a few minutes, you sit in companionable silence—except for the occasional sound of lip gloss tubes clicking open or brushes clinking on the counter.

You glance sideways and catch her smiling faintly to herself again. This girl is down bad, and you’ve seen enough dramas to know where this plotline is headed.

“Okay,” you say finally, voice casual, “if—and this is purely hypothetical—if I were to help you, what would you want? Like, just an introduction? Or should I throw in a dramatic hallway encounter, a spilled drink, maybe some slow motion?”

Her eyes go wide. “No. No missions. Don’t you dare, Y/N.”

You clutch your chest. “You wound me. I am but a humble wingwoman, eager to serve.”

“Last time you ‘wingwoman-ed’ for Megan, she ended up accidentally confessing to the barista and his manager.”

“She said it made their coffee better for a week. You’re welcome.”

Daniela laughs, but there’s a nervousness behind it. “I don’t know if I want anything to happen. What if he’s not into idols? Or if I misread everything?”

You turn serious for a moment. “You didn’t misread it. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. Like he’s trying not to get caught staring.”

She bites her lip, unsure whether to believe you. “Even if that’s true, we barely talk.”

“Then we’ll fix that,” you say, popping your lip gloss open. “He’s always hanging around that one guy anyway. I’ll get him to help, friendly-friend, infiltration-style.”

“That sounds extremely unnecessary.”

“Unnecessary is my specialty,” you wink, smacking your lips together. “Also, he’s like… wildly charming. Befriending him is a win-win.”

She laughs. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I know. And you love me for it.”

Before she can reply, a staff member peeks in. “Five minutes!”

“GNARLY time!” you whoop, grabbing your outfit and spinning behind a curtain to change. “Are the other girls ready?”

Daniela follows behind. “They’ve been practicing in the hallway.” The familiar pre-performance adrenaline starts to bubble up. She pulls on her jacket, adjusts her in-ears, and gives herself one last look in the mirror.

“You good?” you ask, emerging from behind the curtain in full costume—neon orange jacket, violet mesh sleeves, and a glitter accent under one eye. You look like a pop-punk Barbie who could kill with a wink.

Daniela nods. “Nervous, but good.”

“Channel it,” you say, bumping her shoulder. “Nerves mean you care. Just like your crush on Sunghoon means your heart hasn’t turned to stone.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re impossible.”

As you both make your way toward the stage, heels clicking rhythmically against the floor, the sounds of the audience grow louder—cheers, chants, and the familiar opening synths of your comeback single “GNARLY.”

You glance at Daniela, then at the bustling staff and bright stage lights ahead. Something clicks into place in your mind.

Daniela likes Sunghoon. Sunghoon maybe likes her back. Jake is the key to Sunghoon. And you? You’ve got charm, wit, and absolutely nothing better to do.

Operation Get Daniela a Man is officially underway.

SYNOPSIS: Deemed the ultimate cupid, Y/N L/N had never failed at matchmaking — not once. From hallway crushes to idol staff romances, she could spot chemistry a mile away. So when she saw the way her best friend Daniela Avanzini looked at Park Sunghoon, she knew it wasn’t just a harmless crush. Daniela’s entire vibe changed around him — soft smiles, dreamy sighs, and nervous hair twirling like clockwork. And the worst part? Sunghoon had no idea. They saw each other all the time — same company, same shows, same green rooms. But Y/N wasn’t about to wait around and hope. She needed a strategy. A secret weapon. Enter: Jake Sim — Sunghoon’s best friend and the easiest way into his orbit. Y/N had barely spoken to him before, but she wasn’t worried. She was charming, determined, and always ready for chaos if it meant helping Daniela. Was this slightly unhinged? Maybe. Was she still going to do it? Absolutely.

Operation: Get Daniela a Man has officially begun.

GENRE/WARNINGS: written maybe some some smau, strangers to friends to lovers, you're stubborn and oblivious, fluff, crack, kys/kms jokes, friendly bantering, cursing, mentions of alcohol consumption, posted this on wattpad @cupify if you wanna read all of it rn:3

FEATURING: enhypen, katseye + mentions of other idols

STATUS: STARTED JUNE 25, 2025

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ganondoodle · 2 years ago

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i have a deep hatred for how media thats also aimed at kids are totally fine with having characters die on screen but allergic to show even a little bit of blood

(yes this is about how sonia died in one little punch, you could have had gan use some magic miasma weapon that goes through a body but doesnt open a wound or something anything like its already shitty that sonia is the embodiement of anime mom that dies bc shes the mom who dies but then also in such an insulting way, i dont even like sonia in canon bc she doesnt really get to have a personality so tbh whats there to like besides her design which i also dont care about really but im still mad on her behalf nggbjkfnnbgdshydvayhg)

#ganondoodles talks #zelda #totk #pretty sure i said it before #but it keeps annoying me to no end #like oh having people die over and over is totally fine but somehow a drop of blood is baaaad #is this a new thing?#it kinda feels like espeically zelda has become so much more sanitized(?)#to be clear i dont want it all to be gory #but like #how sonia died like that and the way to show that a character is exhausted and wounded is ... dirt patches on the still perfect model #given how alot of anime go i dont think its cultural thing now is it?

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koropukgoro · 1 year ago

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Actually I will ramble a bit cuz my friend & I do have a hc we’ve been playing off of that involves tiny Vash but since it’s canon in stampede that Vash can change the density of his Gate & in maximum (my preferred trigun) how Vash can grow really Big and Monstrous (so can Knives) if he adds to his mass so he can support his size that maybe an Opposite effect can happen. While growing, Vash needs added mass to support his weight, but the bigger he gets, the more inhuman and more of a flesh singularity he becomes; that growth also causes him to lose his identity and get consumed by himself temporarily. Because I’m a silly guy who likes thinking his GT with logic… but also… maybe when Vash overuses plant juices, or his body needs to fall into recovery mode after extreme body harm / near fatal situations (or extreme psychological stress), he goes into what my friend and I call “power saving mode”. Back up battery. His body shrinks. Size varies but the smallest he’s gotten is 2 inches. There’s an inherent fear he has if he pushes himself over his limits he might go quantum & never recover… like how in stampede he shrunk his Gate into a quantum state… it’s a very round about kind of canon aligned hc to make Vash shrink and be tiny. And cuz he neglects his plant powers so much he can’t control it… not until much much later in maximum… but he mostly can’t… also reflects his plant ability to absorb / store energy and release it.

Something something we’ve had scenarios where Vash’s body & mind gets so stressed out mini psychotic break or physical issue just causes him to shrink in his hotel room in front of Wolfwood & the Girls… and basically whatever’s on him at the time shrinks too so what he’s wearing n stuff… hehehe itty bitty & a lil squeaky and definitely extremely nervous exchanges between handling & being handled. Also accidentally freaking out his companions. Being small reminds him he’s not human & it makes him feel a lil self conscious…

#Txt #long ramble… my friend and I have done lil timelines too…#This is all from manga events btw but like #Him shrinking after Monev the Gale’s fight in manga in front of the Girls… having them take care of him for a few nights before his body -#-decides to grow back. And then after the colony 3 fight & during hospital arc he also #Has another shrinking spell. Post adrenaline and body’s like catching up with lack of energy. The colony scientists & doctors know this #About Vash so they can still treat him but he’s flustered about it. Luida loves her teensy son…#And then there’s just little incidents when traveling with Wolfwood…#Scared him sooooo bad when it happened at first. Watching Vash just shrink after suffering a dangerous wound he #Patched up hours before. Hehe. Oops.#And then shrinking in front of both Wolfwood and the girls after this scenario where Vash absorbs radiation from a dying plant before it #Explodes but it causes him to explode into a Cronenberg flesh monster & after they pull him out his own rapidly decaying massive body & hes #In a coma does he shrink 2 days in and wake up tiny and they’re just Overwhelming him and trying to #Take care of him proper… Meryl and Wolfwood bicker about how to do it right…#Milly is very sweet and gentle with him though… but Vash overwhelmed… so easy to overwhelm.#Anyways big ramble #Trigun gt #Hehehehejehe explodes

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greedhopesyndrome · 9 months ago

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3D3N sketchdump………some may get finished some may not……..some have been sitting there for months…………..

#apocalypse world #original characters #2024 #3d3n #gil #1. 3D3N carrying raven after she choked her out and french guy after she umm started pulling at his already flayed skin #and her eye has been pecked out by raven’s ravens #2. the girlies and one of their bombs #3. after last session she was so mad i had to draw her mad to see what she looked like. very cutey is the answer #4. her wounds before last session - she has managed to patch herself up a bit #5. i’m going cazy drawing pre-game 3D3N and gil interactions it’s so fun to meeeeee

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merwynpersonalhub · 5 months ago

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Tbhhhh. Mace x tord is like. The most weirdest and freakest duo/silly

Bc mace and tord are both verrry violent towards eachother and fights a bunch but will kiss and be chill together afterwards while messing with their brusies and whatnot from the fights.

Like yeah they coooould love eachother normally but they are usually aggressive towards eachother its funny.

#merwyn posts #before you ask this is like. my hc tord and mace lmao tord likes fighting and mace likes it too and then they either mess with da wounds or #just patch eachother up and kissie kissie

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syluses · 3 months ago

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separation anxiety

⤷ caleb experiences a rut after a long time, and it just so happens that you’re in his path.

cw. 18+ smut, hybrid! caleb, knotting, dubcon if you squint, breeding, obsessive/possessive behavior, perv caleb, fem human! reader, ruts, size difference, also a lil breeding, 3.5k words because i physically struggle to write smut without a preamble, reader is ovulating and it triggers his rut this time for whatever reason

an. saw this trope going around & wanted to try it <33 he’s got that DAWG in him 💪 also i cant decide if hybrid caleb gives german shepherd vibes or samoyed vibes…. that moments post lives rent free in my mind tho idk (>_<)

𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔, 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔, & 𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅! (๑´ `๑)♡

Caleb would say he hates you for the time you’re gone, but it’d be a big fat lie. His love for you, big and bursting in his chest, deepens in the quiet windows where you’re present at work or running errands throughout Linkon before returning home to him.

There’s a permanence of you in his mind and being. He wants it no other way.

His devotion for you doesn’t necessarily drown him- no, you’re always there with a lifering waiting- but it certainly sweeps him up and threatens to.

He gets a bit ahead of himself sometimes, he’s aware of that; energetic, bulging at the seams with vigor; whether it’s an integral part of his personality or just a consequence of his breed, the pound he came from never quite knew. Your Gran never figured that out, either, and for as sweet and trying as she was, she soon realized she couldn’t foster him for long.

Because he was a big boy, hungry for attention and wired to please, well-meaning but oft over involved with personal space— and he brought a loaded package that your Gran just couldn’t sign her name off on, not after a few months, anyway. She tried her best before nudging him into your care, because she sure as hell wasn’t about to give him up to that squalid pound or the streets again- and besides, the mutt liked her granddaughter; all those visits she paid throughout the summer obviously endeared Caleb to her, and quickly.

You admit, it’s a mite difficult to juggle between long days at work, little tasks that drag you from point to point throughout Linkon, and your own personal life on top of caring for a hybrid stowed away in your shoebox apartment— but your grandmother was all but sapped of her energy then, turning to you for aid although she seldom ever did, and you’d always lend a hand where you could.

The mutt- Caleb, is his name (and you call it fondly even as he’s pawing at your thighs for attention or drooling on your collar)- has grown on you considerably in the past half year, anyway.

You won’t let him down or leave him at the curb. He’s yours. The red collar you bought him says as much, printed with your number on a silver plate, and he wears it not because you make him but because he’s proud of it.

He’s a good boy, he is. He always has been and for that you’re thankful.

Except, this week he’s… different.

As of a few days ago, it’s like he’s been testing the waters- and your patience- on just how far he can go before you tell him off or say bad dog. He must find them warm because he’s just been diving deeper as the week progresses.

You don’t know what to do. He’s oddly aggressive. It’s not rare at all for him to follow you all around your apartment, but he’s foregone the very last shred of respect for your personal space and nips when you try to push him away. Not hard enough to actually hurt- the yip you make is more surprised than anything when he pulls you back in and licks at the small red patch- but you look wounded at it.

Because Caleb doesn’t bite— he just doesn’t.

He wraps you up in seemingly endless embraces and breathes your smell in until he’s dizzy, laughing into your neck like a giddy child. He does this every time you try to leave for work and he’s made you late for it.

Maybe it’s just because you’re ovulating and a little hormonal, but it makes you quite sour and the mood stays even when you return in the afternoon. He’s never liked when you’re gone, sure, but he’s always been there to see you off at the door with a pout as you scratch behind his ear- more or less tame about it.

Your patience really frays at the odd uptick in his possessiveness, though. It’s hurtful.

You’ve always treated him less like a pet- a hybrid- and more like a friend, and you feel quite indignant for it when he growls and tells you that he hates the smell of other men on you, hearing none of your excuses that it’s ‘just coworkers’, glaring at you like some brainless extension of him. You feel less like a person and more like an object, a streetlamp in which he emerges from the shadows for just to piss on to show it belongs to him.

He’s touchy. Snippy. Glued to your side at all times. It’s concerning and frustrating and confusing all at once.

By the fifth day mark, on Friday night, you’re tuckered out by it and don’t question where he is when you return home early from a shift and he’s, uncharacteristically, not there to greet you.

A red collar however, laid on the floor, its tag glittering under dim hallways lights, strikes you as both curious and unsettling.

He never takes that off. No- says it’s his way of showing you and the whole world that he belongs to you, and— have you been too impatient with him lately? Brusque? Maybe you’re a little hormonal but it’s no cause to get short with him, even when he’s acting up, and what if he no longer wants you as his owner—

A gasp.

You find him in your bedroom, humping your pillow, yowling as he comes undone- unawares- and the walls spin as you nearly faint.

You drop your purse. “Caleb!” You shriek, and a visible shiver rolls down his spine as he turns around.

“Bad dog!”

✦

You sleep on it.

Well, you wash your sheet and your pillowcases- and then you sleep on it.

Maybe you overreacted. If anything, you should be grateful for what you walked in on because otherwise, he wouldn’t have known how to tell you he’s been going through a bit of a hot phase- the first of his you’ve experienced- and doesn’t know how to control himself.

You blush just thinking about it, shame knocking in your chest as your heart beats heavy. You feel awful for walking in on him for a number of reasons. One of them being he came all over your bed- and his tummy- and you had to clean both up through furious tears as you peeled your covers off the mattress and pointed him off in the direction of the bathroom, telling him to run the faucet and quick.

A pass of guilt, the fear of you being angry with him, made its round across his kicked expression but he held off on arguing.

For the first documented time in the whole week, Caleb appeared mellow- not agitated, restless, or tense- and rather crestfallen, and you noted it only vaguely as you irately turned on the washer.

Now, it’s in the forefront of your brain.

Well, if he’s been going through some kind of rut lately, it only makes sense he’d be all kinds of pent up, and that his release (albeit in an inconvenient way and place) would provide some relief.

It’s closer to noon when you finally exit your bedroom and meet him at the sofa- the same one you’d all but banished him to last night. He prefers to spend his nights with you, either curled up at your side or splaying his full weight over your back- a breed-relative habit, you’re sure. You’ve heard of some other kinds who enjoy a room to themselves or do just fine with the couch, on their lonesome— But not Caleb.

He looks tired but perks up when he hears you patter down the hall, violet eyes lighting when you timidly take a seat.

With a bit of hesitation, he inches closer until you sheepishly wave a hand and he barrels into your arms.

“Ah- Caleb-“

Before you can even apologize for your jumping the gun last night, he beats you to the punch. “M’ sorry. You don’t hate me for it, do you?” He sighs into your collar and you shiver, “I wish you could understand what it feels like- I wouldn’t have done it if it was somethin’ I could control, I hope you realize that.”

You swallow, digesting his words as you belatedly place a hand on his head to pet. He positively melts. “Y-Yeah,” you mumble back. “It’s okay. I actually wanted to say sorry too. I- I didn’t understand what was going on…”

A deep groan looses from his throat, his chest swelling with content as you itch that spot behind the furry ears say upright on his head. They give a few twitches as he leans against you and wraps his muscular arms around your middle, resting his chin by your shoulder.

“It’s my fault, though, not yours. I didn’t know how to tell you- I was worried you’d just end up scared’a me, or…”

His pause instills interest in you. Your fingers smooth back his brown locks, mussed from fitful sleep, and he sighs. “Or what?” You press softly.

You pull him back just enough to get a look at him, his cheekbones almost shiny with a dusting of pink. His thick brows furrow together.

“Or that you’d leave,” he whispers.

Your eyes widen. You lasso your arms around his neck and pull him to you, your head slotting above his shoulder as his fingers quickly move to support the position, one hand perched at your thigh and the other braced at your side.

“Nonsense,” you grumble at his ear, a bit angry at the suggestion. “I’d never leave you.”

Something hard, then, prods at your middle- too fleshy to be something in either of your pockets- and you stiffen at the realization as it comes a beat too late.

Caleb’s voice is breathy at your ear, low, his tail thumping on the cushion. “Yeah?” He murmurs, a pang of heat stirring in your belly at the sound. Suddenly aware, you gently go to push at his broad chest but he stops you with an imploring look- although the desire, brewing in dilated pupils, isn’t lost on you- and musters a pout.

It looks out of place, the wholesome gaze marred by hunger as it reshapes his puppyish look.

“Even when I am no better than a bad dog?”

Your brow quirks, “I didn’t mean it,” you whisper, wide-eyed as his eyes bore into yours. Every micro expression you make is being catalogued and noted with utmost care, his pink tongue darting out to wet his chapped lips as they grow dry.

“It’s okay if you did,” he murmurs back. “I’m just glad I have you around to remind me of my place…” Long, slim fingers reach up and you watch, unseeingly, as they stroke your cheek, his other hand creeping dangerously close to the waistband of your sleep shorts.

He chuckles, but the humor wanes quickly.

“Otherwise, I’d always be misbehaving. Do you even know what you do to me?” His voice is meaningful, torrid, as he draws in and the tip of his nose brushes with yours. You can’t find it in you to move as your thighs- the ones he slithers a singleminded hand in between- begin to roil with unexpected warmth.

You plant a hand to his chest, shying away, “C-Caleb-“

“Don’t worry,” he says sweetly, “M’ not gonna hurt you. I just….” He lets out a sigh, long and perhaps just a bit exaggerated- but it has the intended effect on you. You purse your lips and feel a trace of guilt twist in your heart.

“You drive me crazy. Y-Your smell- I don’t know why this is happening, either. Honestly? I haven’t had a rut in a couple years. But this…”

Caleb lets out a soft noise of pleasure, lending his full weight to you when he breathes you in and shakes.

When he speaks next, his words come out raspy and so low you hardly register them as his breaths grow labored- they’re all you can hear as the living room space shrinks down to just him and the knuckles that dare to dip into your panties.

“This is just too unfair. You won’t leave me hangin’, pretty,… w-will you?” Breathy. With an undeniable streak of need. You can’t miss the lust that usurps the softer parts of him and makes him look less puppyish and cheerful and more wolfish, calculating.

And, well, when he puts it like that, how could you?

✦

He doesn’t fuck you on the couch. He takes you to your bed and fucks you there like a lover would.

He fucks you deep and fast- to his credit, he doesn’t hurt you, staying true to his word, but the possibility of bruises becomes a nearer thing when he folds your legs back and his grasp becomes constricting, plunging in and out of your cunt with rapt focus. Indigo eyes glow with something feral, like you’ve given him no choice but to claim his ownership over you through sloppy kisses and clinking teeth as he pounds into you, driven him into a corner- but his touch turns worshipful when he presses his forehead to yours and moans.

“Ah- y-you feel so good, so tight,” he compliments, words almost slurred. His pupils expand and he looks no different than a drunken, babbling man, his cheeks a rosy red.

His murmurs are wet against your lips as they graze and mush with his, Caleb’s face so close to yours that his lashes tickle your brow as he gawks at you, so entranced by whatever it is he’s seeing to look away.

A fluffy tail sways unevenly behind him and touches your leg on occasion, almost like it’s trying to curl around you, prickling and eager. Every part of him gravitates to you. You’re the ground beneath his feet. Fertile land.

“And you’re all mine, okay? Nobody else’s. I want you to wear my scent- to carry me with you no matter where you go. You have to promise me you will- mmph- That sound good-?

“C-Caleb—“

You groan when he stuffs himself deeper inside and you swear you feel his length throb inside your walls, stretching. The veins running along his shaft carve out a new pathway in you, one special and just for him, as his balls- heavy and fat, with a hell of a lot to give- slap against your ass. Slick oozes out from the squelching seam of you, coating his thick cock but you still struggle to accomodate his size despite the lubrication.

He’s made to make you feel as if you’re losing your mind. You snatch your jaw with your own hand to keep the flurry of high-pitched sounds from spilling out lest they embarrass you, but he shoos it away and cuffs your wrists with a hand splayed over them.

“Nah- I wanna hear you, baby. You can’t keep holdin’ out on me like this... I’m giving you my all right now, so it should be pretty obvious that you can do the same, yeah?”

A mewl punches out from your lungs half a second later and he seems quite contented at that. He sighs, closing his eyes, saying,

“I’ve been good all along. Can’t you play the part, too? I just want you to see how much I really love you,” his confession is by no means considered casual what with the passion in which its conveyed, but you can’t help but feel it’s a little sudden, said a little too quickly, and you wonder if he means what he says or if the rut is responsible for all these novel, amorous feelings in him.

I mean, he’s probably too wrapped up in the moment to even contemplate his own admissions as they all spew out—

“Caleb, too big—“ you gasp, cutting him off, and he lets out a strangled kind of noise when your walls clamp around him.

Holyfuck holyfuck holyfuck do it again, he wants to say, suffocate me, but nothing comes out and he realizes after a long second that his vision has whited completely. He can’t see anything; he’s in a fuzzy, dazzling world with the blinders on and all he can smell and feel is you- your scent, sugar sweet and about as inviting as a barstool pulled out, envelopes him and he can’t breathe. Can’t speak.

He fucks into you with reckless abandon, huffs you in like it’s his final breaths, and then lets it all go without care for anything else. Far as he’s concerned, everything he knows is defined by you. This is a give and take relationship: he actually gives a damn about your opinion of him and takes all you have to offer.

He’s in love, puppyish and clumsy but fuck you lead the way and lead him on.

“Shh, I know,” he rasps out, steaming up your neck like a fogged window pane as he insinuates himself there. Your whole body feels like a furnace, burning up for him as he opens you up and tucks himself inside.

“I know it’s big, but you gotta be ready for-“ he clips his sentence short, thinking better of it.

He wants to warn you of his impending knot- the one that’ll no doubt leave you yelping and writhing away from him- you certainly deserve as much of a foreword to it, but part of him is just so terrified you’ll reject him or deny him the priviledge of shoving it inside you and fuck he can’t have that.

Caleb’s nothing if not loyal. He’s also nothing if not selfish. That’s always been a wriggling bug he’s tried to stomp out but it remains in the baser part of him, only amplified by the intense rut that came right out of the blue.

He wants you singing his name and bonded to him (or as much of a bond the two of you can form), and so that’s what he’ll get.

He’ll apologize later, and you will forgive him. So all’s fine.

“Y-You can take it,” is the simpler thing he settles on, and you let it pass, because between the fat cockhead splitting you apart deliciously and the sweet, somewhat perturbing nothings he gushes at your ear, you’re deaf to most of everything.

But when you come- unexpected and sharp, overwhelming your senses as your hips ruck up and he has to pin you down in place and ride it out with you as you cream around him- the scream you let out rings in your ears and so does his ferocious grunt. It’s loud and you’re so numb as seconds pass that feel like eons; pointed teeth teasing at the squishy chunk of your shoulder, invoking a buried sense of alarm.

And then he’s biting down hard- not just nipping- the pleasure thankfully driving off the pain as he ploughs inside, muffling a string of curses as he picks up his pace. Caleb gets sloppier and sloppier and then he’s burning white-hot inside you and moaning like a pornstar, pelvis juddering as he comes.

“Mmh- f-fuck- Good girl!” he rewards with half a brain, fucked out into perfect oblivion, and for a second you wonder why his voice sounds more meant for comfort than praise- until you expect him to pull out but he doesn’t, something big and round forming at the base of his cock that has his eyes fluttering back as it pops in. He goes boneless on top of you as every limb of yours stiffens and coils around his broad back.

You scream his name. He shivers.

It feels enough to shatter your mind- the pain searing you, but the ghost of pleasure that creeps up along your nervous system makes you go like jelly beneath him, helpless to whatever he’s got planned for you.

“C-Caleb, you-!”

“Yeah, a bad dog, a bad dog,” he stammers, whimpering at your earlobe, “I know, baby, I know. Just- don’t shut me out, okay? I- It’ll be over soon, just- ah- loosen up around it, okay? It’ll feel so much better that way. Just… hold on to me.”

“I-It hurts-!”

“Ngh, shhh…” He trembles out, shifting to sample a broken mewl from your lips, cupping your jaw with all the love in the world and staring at you as if you told the sun to rise this morning. “Be a good girl and take it, mm? Your pussy’s squeezing me so tight, I think she wants it too, but she has to relax a little first, yeah? Mm… I could give you a whole litter of pups. Give your Gran a bunch of cute lil granbabies to drive her crazy.”

You choke on your own spit, the brunet letting out a near delirious chuckle at the idea and your reaction to it before his brow gives a wince, your walls instinctively trying to push his swollen knot out.

“Wha- Caleb, is that even-?”

“I don’t know,” he kisses your forehead tenderly, his tail giving a heavy, excited thump behind him on the bed as you grab the sheets for dear life and they wrinkle, pinched like your conflicted expression.

“But I’ve been dyin’ to try it out for myself.”

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rottingpink · 7 days ago

Text

cod men with fussy wives

cw. fluff, innuendo, cunnilingus, lovemaking, reader is a bit insufferable but she means well. SMUT

synopsis. price, simon and johnny with very naggy wives who show them love and care they've never experienced before

john price

john is the typical gruff, stern guy who knows when to be serious, calm, or regulated, but around his wife, all he is is soft. he spends all day gritting his teeth during combat, pushing through with wounds the size of golf balls and scolding recruits when they fuck up, and so when he's on leave for a few days to see you, all he wants to do is relax, make love to you, eat your cooking, and maybe go fishing or do some home renovations. you, however, have a different plan. you're on his ass the second he gets home. not that he minds too much. you're too beautiful to be annoyed at.

he's sitting on the couch trying to eat a biscuit, and you gently pry it out of his hands mid bite. "john, did you take your omega-3s today?"

he signs, hand grazing your hip as you stand in front of him. "no, love. not today. but i used that nicotine patch you told me to use to help with the smokin'."

your eyes light up. "you're using them, darling?"

his heart thuds pridefully at your reaction, like it usually does when you call him darling in that dreamy little tone of voice.

"wore 'em everyday for ya, m'love," he murmurs, reaching for your hips so he can tug you gently to stand between his knees. "damn if i don't like a good smoke, but i like my woman's happiness a little more."

you giggle, nuzzling your nose into his hair, relishing in the pleasant, clean scent. "just a little?"

he laughs, bringing you into a sitting position on his knee. "a lot, love. y'said it's no good for m'lungs, and i wanna be around long enough to see our grandbabies. can't have that if 'm coughin' up ash everyday."

your lip wobbles. "oh john," you coo, lacing you arms around his neck tightly. you're so proud of him that you feel your eyes start to well up. you nuzzle your face into his neck to hide the way you're getting so emotional. you're so proud of him. "there there..." he bounces you in his lap a little to soothe you. "you're the sweetest lil' thing, aren't ya? takin' care of me so good. wouldn't know what to do without you."

you sniffle and snuggle into him so tight that you're nearly suffocating.

he tries to act like the fussing annoys him most times, but really, he relishes in it. he rarely smokes unless he's very stressed and isn't a heavy drinker. after all, you told him, "don't drink if you're looking for an escape from your problems, m'kay? 's what i'm here for."

his health's never been better.

what happens if he doesn't wanna be nagged one particular day?

he's been on edge all morning. one of the younger dogs knocked the sheep pen open early this morning and let half a dozen of them loose, and price has been running around like his head's on fire trying to corral them back inside and soothe the other distressed sheep. he just got back in all sweaty and stressed, drinking a large mug of coffee. then a second. third. on the fourth, you stepped in, suggesting that he might wanna slow down, and he snapped. "god's sake woman, d'you ever let up? i don't need a bloody nanny all the time. enough with the naggin' "

you shut up immediately, drawing your hand back with your brows scrunched.

slowly, you stop asking about his vitamins. stop shoveling extra greens on his plate. stop massaging rosemary oil into his hair at night. you stop. it's relieving for about fifteen minutes. then, he's disturbed. the silence brings him no peace whatsoever. he lasts until the evening of the same day, and he corners you while you're making dinner, hugging you from behind. "darlin'," he murmurs into your ear, mouthing at the lobe.

no answer. he huffs, dragging you against him and pressing soft, open mouthed kisses down your ear, along your jaw, to your throat, where he licks a broad stripe back up to your sweet spot. "c'mon darlin', 'm sorry. you know i get heated fast, hm?" his big hands travel along your body, his left now splaying on your breast, and the right squeezing your hip. "just had a terrible morning, nearly lost our sheep, had to run around like an idiot for an hour... 'n i lost my cool with you. 's not okay, i know."

"hate it when you raise your voice at me, john." you say softly, and his heart just about breaks. he didn't mean to, really. he loves when you're bossy with him. it shows you care and it's incredibly sexy. he'd just been very irate this particular morning. he's been with you years and hasn't complained seriously about the nagging ever, and he's not about to start now.

he squeezes your tit in his palm and kisses your cheek. "i know beautiful, i know. i love you s'much, hm? gonna make it up to you..."

he's on his knees behind you soon after, eating your pussy under your dress while you try to cook. his tongue laps at your soaked hole, causing his beard to get soaked with your juices. the thick hair scratches pleasantly against your folds while the spoon you're holding clatters onto the counter, your eyes fluttering shut and hands scrabbling forwards for something to hold - you settle on the heavy stand mixer ahead of you.

he's apologizing with a mouthful of your pussy, hands squeezing your ass and giving your thighs a little pinch any time you try to close 'em.

" 'm sorry. need you fussin', darling, alright? don't ever stop." your breath hilts each time his tongue drags upwards and flattens over your clit. his nose keeps nudging your ass because his big hands keep you spread wide for him.

you sway a little, thighs trembling with the overwhelming amount of pleasure he's inflicting on you, but all he does is grunt and pull you back against his face harder. "this what it takes t'get you talkin' to me again?" he rasps against your cunt. "fine, i'll eat this sweet fuckin’ pussy 'til you forgive me."

you gasp when he sucks on your clit and tips you forward so you're fully presented for him, tongue fucking in and out of your sloppy hole. the food you were tying to make is long forgotten at this point, but he doesn't care at all. all he wants to stuff his face with anyway is your sloppy cunt.

"john, mmh!" you cry out, thighs clamping around his head, but he smacks your ass hard and shoves your thighs wide once more.

"no, no, you'll take it," he grunts. "this is my apology, yeah? let me make it right an' show you how much i love your fussin'. "

you cream onto his face with a loud whine. grinding against his chin and into his mouth, and even then, he continues for a second round, mouthing at your folds and mumbling, "couple more, wife. apology's not done."

johnny "soap" mactavish

johnny's a firecracker and a wildcard. he lives on the edge and likes the unknown that comes with being reckless and unprepared. but when he met, dated, and then married you, he did have to learn to exert some degree of control over himself and his life, because damn you're a very meticulous, bossy little thing. not that he minds. having his woman fuss over him and baby him and give him extra special treatment all day, every day doesn't really feel punishing. your fussing is basically foreplay for him.

you'll tell him, "johnny, you're not going on a run with a level 6 UV outside with no sunscreen on. cmere so i can put it all on you."

"...whatever tha' means."

you frown. "johnny, you're not funny. a level 6 is dangerous. cancerous without protection."

he chuckles. "you just want an excuse to rub y'lil hands all over me, ain' that right?"

"johnny!"

you literally have to tackle him onto the living room floor sometimes to rub sunscreen on his face, because he keeps dodging you and laughing. squirming like a kid while you try to get his ears and nose. "you won't wanna shag me if i've got white goo all over m'cheeks, lass, 'm not havin' it."

"you'll thank me when you don't have skin cancer in twenty years," you huff, massaging the liquid into his cheeks while you straddle him. it's the only way he'll ever sit still anyway. his hands reach up to paw at your hips, and he tilts his head, smiling up at you.

"y'look s'cute on top o' me, don't ya?" he coos, giving your ass a playful slap. you roll you eyes and squeeze his cheek in retaliation, and he laughs and continues. "do y'love me more now that i've been properly slathered?" he teases, raising his brows as you finish rubbing in the last bit of cream.

you kiss his forehead. "only a little."

he smiles. "hm. maybe i should scald myself in the sun so you can love me up more."

"johnny."

"…right, right. responsible. m'havin' a growth arc for m'wife,"

"are you?"

"…no. but m'health has improved dramatically since y'started bullyin' me into slatherin' my skin twice a day."

you lean in so your lips brush his "that's cause i want you around forever, dummy."

johnny smiles softer at your words, tugging you down so your forehead rests on his and his beefy arms wrap around you. "i know," he hums, kissing your lips softly. " 'm not goin' anywhere, bonnie. not if i can help it."

what happens if he doesn't wanna be nagged one particular day?

he'd got home only yesterday from being deployed for several weeks. he hadn't seen his loving wife in ages, and the distance didn't do to well on him mentally. he's really not in the mood for fussing. he just needs to eat, fill you up with his cum a few times tonight, and go to bed.

you, however, had been nagging him the minute he came home. needing a breather, he offered to go grab groceries and run errands, hoping that the little break would help him cool off so he didn't snap at you. he's never raised his voice at you, and he doesn't plan on it today.

but when he got back with a dark bottle of bourbon...

"baby? did you only offer to go so you could buy that nonsense? i told you i hate when you drink-"

he interrupts you. "for fuck's sake, can I breathe without you hoverin'? you're not my mum."

you glare at him. not the sweet glare when you're admiring him, or the shy one, or the deadpan one when he does something dumb and you pretend to be mad at him, the angry wife one. oh, he is not a big fan of this look.

weirdly, though, instead of telling him how rude that was and that he knows you're just trying to look out for him, you turn and walk away in an eerie, icy silence. fuck, this isn't good. "bonnie, c'mon. i didnae mean that. c'mere,"

you swat his hand away lightly, deciding you won't be "mothering" him anymore. and so in the following days, you don't tell him to put on sunscreen. you don't pout when he only sleeps four hours. you barely touch him or look at him.

he tries to charm you at first, knowing how much of a sucker you are for his flirting and pretty words, but it doesn't work this time. you don't bite or get on his case or boss him in the way that makes him hard as hell. no shoving his chest when he gets too close or mewling "johnny please," when he teases you. none of it.

you've been eerily polite, and it's driving him mental. on the second day of this, he tries to nuzzle into your neck while you're folding laundry, whispering, "miss you s'much baby, 'm gonna make it up to you properly tonight."

you pull away and hand him rolled up socks. "drawer." he watches you for a moment, hands slack by his sides, socks limp in his grip.

you're distant. johnny's not good with distance from you. the next day, he's extremely restless, wandering around you like a lost puppy in only a pair of sweats sitting low on his hips, hoping you'll come put that greasy spf you always fuss about all over him. he even lies out on the balcony chair for a full twenty minutes in the sun just to bait you, but you give him nothing. you do spare him a glance periodically through the glass door, but you say nothing. he ends up with a sunburn on his chest and the bridge of his nose.

that night, when you dont wiggle into his chest like normal or ask if he had a vitamin after he ate dinner, he turns to his side to face you, needing to put an end to your stonewalling. "bon."

you hum. he can't tell if it's acknowledgement or just the sound you make when you're falling asleep.

"c'mon," he murmurs, wrapping his arms around you and tugging you into his chest. "i wasn't nice to you, i know that. didn' mean to be a dick. just been so stressed 'n on edge 'n i spoke outta turn."

while you're deciding whether or not to believe him, he gets closer, forehead nudging yours. "i'll pour the bourbon down the sink tomorrow," he says quietly. "swear it."

your fingers toy with the hem of his sleep shirt. it's the first time in days you've touched him without pushing him away. "you can drink if you want to." you murmur, twisting the fabric in your hands. " 'm sorry if i'm being overbearing."

"y'not, baby." he kisses your cheek. "just wanna do whatever makes you happy. you're the boss, aren't you?"

you wake up the next morning with his head between your legs, slow and steady, taking his time kissing down your body, from your tummy, to your hip, down to your inner thigh, and then your tender core.

his big palms wrap around the backs of your thighs and pull them over his shoulders, locking you in place while his mouth sucks and works at your pussy. he's so focused that he's making pleased little groans, crotch rutting absentmindedly against the mattress. he's grateful to have you back in his arms and your pussy, dripping and sweet as nectar, accessible to him once more, but he needs to make you cum to really feel forgiven.

he's slow and paced, kissing on you like he's starved. the slow drag of his tongue through your folds and the way his lips close over your clit and suck just softly enough to make your thighs tremble is euphoric, and you find yourself blanking on why you were mad at him to begin with.

his arms are wrapped around your thighs so firm you can barely move. and every time you try to squirm, he groans low and pulls you right back down, nose buried, face flushed and mouth messy. you can feel his beard brushing you, scratchy and warm, and your fingers automatically slide into his hair. "that's it, baby," he mumbles between pussy kisses. "lemme say sorry proper."

you whimper, back arching when he flattens his tongue against your clit and gives it a slow, firm swirl. he just groans again with enjoyment when you close your thighs around his head. he loves being smothered. he doesn't even care if he breathes, as long as you're happy and in love with him. when your pleasure crests and you cum on his face, he licks at your folds firmer, dragging that orgasm out of you. he keeps his mouth on you, gentler now. just soft licks and little kisses, tongue soothing over your puffy folds while his big hands rub slow circles into your thighs.

he doesn't stop until your hand in his hair goes limp. you sigh, letting him kiss back up your body to give you a little break before he goes back for more. he rests on your chest, nuzzling into your flesh gently. "you're forgiven, johnny." you huff, a little tired.

he grins, mouth still wet, eyes gleaming with relief. "thank fuck. boss me all you want, love. swear it gets me hard, anyway."

simon "ghost" riley

simon riley is commanding. he’s the most domineering presence in any room he walks in. makes the greatest of men lower their gaze when he approaches. he's taken down large enemy groups all on his own, has killed men with his bare hands, and… he comes home to you telling him "you can't eat that, baby. it's got monosodium glutamate in it. that makes you sick, remember?" and listens every time.

"…right," he'll say after a pause. "forgot abou' that. what d’you want me to eat then?"

he'd drop the bag of crisps he picked up on his way home with the god forsaken MSG in it the second you mentioned it and would nod. "mm. wouldn' wan' to spoil my dinner anyway, right love?" while gently taking you into his arms and pressing his lips to yours.

you're not controlling, either. the fussing is very particular. typically just a soft, offhand reminder from the only person in the world who really knows and prioritizes him before anything else. you love him so much and this is part of the way you show it. how could he complain?

you know everything about him, which is huge, considering he is a man of few words and is dreadful at being vulnerable. you know what wrecks his stomach, what gives him headaches, how he gets irritable and loopy when he doesn't sleep at least six hours in the night. you know his favorite clothing fabric and how he just wants to hold you when he's upset.

your voice is so warm and quietly certain that he has to listen every time. once you advise him not to do something, everything in him short circuits. his brute force logic disappears. because you say no, or "you shouldn't si, take this instead," and it's a done deal.

you don't even realize what it does to him, how something as simple as your concern twists itself into a soft knot in his stomach, how it makes him ache, not because you're bossing him, but because you're taking car and watching over him in a way no one else does.

he often glares at you and raises a brow ever so slightly at the way you, a tiny thing with big, expressive eyes and pouty lips just told a tank of a man what to do and expected him to listen.

he does though. listens to your bossy ass every time. and for all his stoicism, the man melts under your fussing.

he's in the shower with you brought that annoying cleanser you insist he needs to use every night and wash it off after thirty seconds because he's got sensitive skin.

"love. this shit's greasy."

"it's hydrating, si. good for your skin. protects the barrier."

"don't wan' hydrating."

you rub into his cheekbones anyway while his eyes are locked on you and his breath comes out slow and heavy. you're standing between his legs in the steam, having him lower his head slightly so you can reach your hands into his short hair once you've finished with the cleanser. you're squinting up at him, so serious as you massage something into his scalp like you're not both bare, soaked, and pressed up against each other.

simon has both massive hands holding your waist while he backs you into a corner of the shower, letting you fuss about exfoliants and scalp health with your tits smushed against his body and your eyes fixed on his face and not his cock nudging against your body, aching and swollen from the sight of you. he's trying to focus but he's so distracted by your body, the way you smell, and how soft you are in his hands.

you tilt your head up, rub a little cream into his hair, mumbling, "gotta keep your scalp health up to par, si", and he loses it.

simon grabs your face in both hands and pushes his mouth against yours, catching you off guard. you squeak into his mouth, and he groans and takes the opportunity to slide his tongue into your mouth, water pouring down both of you, beard scratchy on your chin.

"god," he mutters hoarsely between kisses, "you fuss over me like I’m your bloody housepet."

you let out another noise in his mouth, not knowing if that means he hates it or not, but he nips your lower lip, trails his lips along your jaw and up to your ear. " 's a good thing, love. don't pout."

you moan softly, tilting your head to give him more access to your neck and jaw. the reassurance felt great, and you find yourself melting into his touch.

" 'm gonna fuck you," he mutters, voice cracked with need, hand already sliding down your back to grip your ass. "righ' now. can't take it anymore." you look up through your lashes, lashes wet, lip caught in your teeth.

"but you still have conditioner in," you stare up at him coyly.

"finish after. s'not like 'm goin' anywhere."

what happens if he doesn't wanna be nagged one particular day?

simon didn't mean to snap at you. the harsh tone came out by itself. it's just that he's so tired and sore, joints in his body stiff with exhaustion. all he needs is a breather for five minutes, but you're there by the kitchen counter when he gets home. "hi baby! why don't you start with some of the stir fry i made! dunno if drinking black tea on an empty stomach is the best idea."

normally, he'd melt for your nagging and let you tug the tea bag and mug out of his hands and shove a plate of the lunch you made and a cup of water in his hands instead, and then kiss you stupid for giving a shit, but today, he bristles.

"jesus christ, can i just eat what i want for once?" his voice comes out sharp and cold in a tone he's never used on you before.

you blink, lips parting as you stand frozen in place with the wooden spoon you were using to cook laying limply in your hand. your mouth opens and then closes, and you give him a faint little nod and turn away.

he immediately notices your silence. you're never silent like this, so when you give him a faint little nod and walk off, he knows he screwed up bad. he stews on his stupidity for hours, up until you're laying in bed beside him and not once have you reminded him to put on that charcoal mask you always insist "draws out toxins."

you're just sitting beside him. not even sulking, just indifferent. you know what you're doing, of course. and it's working. he stares at the ceiling for a while, grinding his molars, heart pounding in his chest. he clears his throat in hopes of getting your attention and fails.

"not g'na remind me about the mask tonight?"

you flip a page. "no. thought you didn't want to be nagged."

he winces.

"didn’ mean it like that, sweetheart."

"right." you're still not looking at him or touching him.

he can't survive without your fussing much longer. he doesn't have your eyes on him or your little giggles or your hands all over him and sweet night routines and it's making him crazy.

he sits up and breathes in deeply, before reaching for you quietly. you glance over with confusion just as he peels your book out of your hands. "what are you..?"

he's already tugging you across the bed, laying you down on the bed before peeling off your clothes. "simon! wh-what are you doing?" you glare up at him with confusion, squirming under him as he shimmies your panties down your legs and tossing it to the floor.

"apologizin' to m'wife."

he scoops you up and places you on his face with no warning, your pussy lined up with his mouth. he holds you there, palms spread over your ass, fingers sinking into your soft flesh, before diving in.

he groans like a starved man the second he licks into you. his tongue is slow at first, sliding between your folds, and lapping at your soft, juicy pussy. you're still half mad but you can't stop the way your head tips back as he sucks your clit into his mouth and holds it there. you squeal, bucking your hips to try and get away from the overwhelming amount of pleasure, but he doesn't let up, tilting you hips up a little so he can slip his tongue into your soaked hole.

he tongues your entrance and licks you open messily, making you squirm into his mouth. you pull at his hair and try to lift yourself off, whining. "s-simon... s'too much..!"

he slaps your ass. "you don't get to leave me like that, love. won't let you be mad at me."

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kthologue · 2 months ago

Text

operation: get over your childhood crush! — gojo satoru

synopsis. in an attempt to move on from your childhood best friend—who definitely doesn’t see you the way you want—you hatch a series of plans to help you get over him. it doesn't go as planned.

contents. hurt/comfort, fluff, nerd!gojo, college au, childhood friends to lovers, mutual pining, unreliable narrator, miscommunication, insecurity, dorky references bc u make him go dumb and digimon inaccuracies probably

notes. i did not proofread this monster!! enjoy :P

The hum of the air conditioning fills the room as night settles in, the light from Satoru’s bedside lamp casting a soft glow over his mess of a room. You’re both sprawled out across his bed, limbs entangled like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Because, for the two of you, it is.

Satoru’s Nintendo Switch is balanced on his stomach, hands lazily tapping away as his little Digimon charges into battle on screen. You’re curled into his side, one leg hooked around his and a blanket thrown haphazardly across you both. The half-abandoned textbooks sit at the edge of the mattress, tragically ignored. Another study session: failed. Not that Satoru needed it. He passed everything with flying colors. It was more of an excuse for you to come over.

“Your room still smells like that cheap vanilla air freshener,” you mumble, nose scrunching.

“That’s because you bought it,” he replies without looking up, thumb expertly guiding his character through an attack.

“Because your room would end up stinking with sweat and whatever freaky stuff you do in here.”

“Hey!” He whines. “I shower everyday and you know it. The stink is all you. Have you ever sniffed yourself, princess?”

You swat at his stomach, and he lets out a dramatic grunt. “Rude. I brought that candle to add ambiance.”

“Ah yes,” he deadpans, “nothing like artificial sugar scent.’”

You snort, settling your head back down on his shoulder, the fabric of his hoodie soft beneath your cheek. There’s a long pause before you say, “You know, if we fail our exams, I’m blaming your Digimon addiction.”

He grins. “I’m raising digital warriors, thank you very much. And I’ve never failed an exam, don’t wound me now!”

“They look like mutant toddlers with attitude problems.”

He gasps, clutching his heart. “They’re champions, you monster.”

You laugh, letting the sound dissolve into something quieter as your fingers absentmindedly trace a pattern into the blanket. His hand rests near yours. Not holding it. Not not holding it.

His glasses are tilted again. Of course.

You reach up and straighten them with a sigh. “Honestly, you’d be lost without me.”

“Not true.” He says it reflexively, then pauses. His voice softens. “Okay, maybe. I’d probably just let them slide down until I walked into a wall.”

You smile faintly. “And there’d be no one there to patch you up.”

“Tragic,” he agrees. “Would bleed out on the floor, probably.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“You’re so bossy,” he counters, shooting you a sideways look.

“Admit it,” he says, voice full of faux-smugness, “you’d miss me if I died tragically and left you all alone.”

You hesitate for a second too long before mumbling, “Don’t joke about that.”

It’s quiet. The game music loops in the background as his Digimon wins the battle with a triumphant fanfare.

He doesn’t say anything.

You suddenly feel too warm under the blanket. The joke had been harmless, stupid even.

But something inside you twists, the same something that’s been unraveling lately every time he mentions another girl.

Another type. That’s not you.

“You know,” you say slowly, eyes peeling from the screen to his phone, which lights up with a notification, revealing one of his favorite gravure model’s latest issues as its wallpaper. “You could probably date any girl you wanted. Why do you partake in freak stuff like this? It’s anti-girl repellent.”

He makes a noncommittal sound. “Doubt it.”

“I don’t. You’ve got that whole genius-who-doesn’t-realize-he’s-hot thing going on.”

He glances at you, skeptical. “Is that a thing?”

“It is. Annoying, but effective. Girls love it.”

He hums, clearly amused, cheeks slightly flushed. “Well, good to know I have options.”

You try to laugh, but it catches in your throat.

You shouldn’t ask. You really shouldn’t.

But you’re lying in his bed. Wrapped up in him like you belong here. And some part of you aches to know the answer.

So you pretend it’s a joke. You tilt your head against his shoulder, voice airy, teasing. “Hey, be honest—do you think I’m cute?”

He goes still.

His hand tightens slightly on the Switch. You think you’ve pushed too far, so you try to backpedal before he can respond.

“Not like… like that,” you say quickly. “I just meant, like, in general. Compared to those girls you’re into. Say, Waka Inoue. You know, long legs, shiny hair, cute face?”

His jaw tightens.

You’re still trying to play it off. “I mean, I’m not fishing for compliments. I just—was wondering.”

He finally turns to look at you.

His gaze lingers. And for the first time all night, he’s not smiling.

You feel your breath stutter in your throat underneath his gaze.

Then he shrugs.

“…Nah.”

It slices through the air with quiet finality.

Your heart drops. You don’t let it show. Not fully. But it must flicker in your face, because he quickly looks away.

You laugh. It sounds forced.

“Yeah, that’s fair. I mean, I wasn’t expecting a yes or anything.”

He’s silent.

You shift away from him slightly, giving him space. “I should head home soon. We didn’t really get any studying done, anyway.”

“It’s late. Why don’t you stay the night?”

Usually, you’d accept his offer with a smile, but you really wanted to go home and wallow in your own self pity.

“It’s fine, I have something to do anyway,” the lie slips out of your mouth easily as you begin to pack your things.

And you miss the way he watches you—guilt in his eyes, frustration on his tongue.

You knew it was time. Twenty years of hopeless, fruitless pining had done enough damage to your heart.

It had started the day your parents moved next door. Satoru had been the loud, obnoxious, too-pretty-for-his-own-good boy on the playground who shoved candy in your hand and asked if you wanted to be friends.

You’d been doomed since day one.

And to make things worse, you’d both gotten into Japan’s most competitive university—together. Same neighborhood. Same school. Same train route. You weren’t just stuck with him. You were haunted.

But you were young and hot. And allegedly in your prime. You couldn’t keep orbiting around a guy who still thought microwave gyoza was a food group and used your shampoo because it “smelled like you, so why not?”

You were sipping coffee with your two closest friends, and today’s topic was—unfortunately—your love life.

“Honestly, I can’t believe you’ve been stuck on Gojo for this long,” Utahime said, disgusted, as she stirred her latte like it personally offended her. “You could do so much better.”

“It was kind of cute in high school,” Shoko added “but now it’s just sad.”

You sighed, blowing on your drink. “I know, okay? It’s not like I haven’t tried. But he’s literally the only guy I’ve ever been close to. I don’t even talk to guys besides him.”

“That’s because he’s been gatekeeping you since the two of you met,” Utahime said flatly. “I swear, every time someone so much as glanced at you, he pulled that overprotective act.”

You wrinkled your nose. “That doesn’t sound like ’Toru…”

Shoko and Utahime exchanged a look. One of those knowing glances.

Utahime cleared her throat. “It doesn’t matter! What matters is you are hot. You’ve got the face, the body, the grades, the personality. You just need the confidence.”

You peeked up at her, unsure. “You really think so?”

Utahime leaned forward, smirking like she’d just won a war. “I know so. And that’s why I’ve come up with a plan.”

You narrowed your eyes. “A plan?”

She slammed her hands down on the table, eyes alight. “Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru.”

You blinked. “That’s… a long title.”

Shoko blew a slow stream of smoke. “It’s either this or pine until you die and haunt him as a love-sick ghost.”

You stared into your cup, sighing. “Fine. I’m in. What’s step one?”

Utahime grinned.

“Whatcha doing?”

Gojo’s voice drifts lazily over your shoulder, followed by the soft rustle of his hoodie as he leans in. He’s far too close, obnoxiously so, his breath tickling your ear and his chin was nearly resting on your shoulder.

You don’t even glance up. “Studying.”

The two of you are supposed to be studying— finals loom overhead like a guillotine, but as usual, very little academic progress has been made. Mostly because your study partner is a six-foot-something genius who insists on sitting sideways in the booth, long legs tangled in yours under the table like it’s second nature.

He hums, skeptical. “Liar.”

You hum noncommittally, thumbing through the dating app Utahime suggested with vague disinterest. The guys blur together: not tall enough, too cocky, too bland, too not Satoru. One makes a joke suspiciously close to a Gojo classic, and you immediately hit unmatch with a scowl.

“Wait,” Satoru says slowly. “Are you on a dating app?!” He practically yells the last part. Half the cafe turns to glare at the source of the disruption.

You hiss under your breath, mortified, swatting at him. “Keep your voice down, idiot!”

His eyes widen dramatically, hands thrown up like you’ve stabbed him. “I leave you alone for two minutes and you’re already planning a life with someone named ‘Keita, aspiring poet and spiritual healer’? I’m wounded.”

“You weren’t supposed to read that far.”

“I’m a speed-reader,” he says with a smug grin. “It’s part of the whole ‘genius’ thing.”

Before you can argue, he snatches your phone with a level of ease that tells you this isn’t the first time he’s done something like this. He grins like he’s won a prize.

“Satoru!”

“Relax, I’m not texting anyone,” he says, fingers flying across the screen. “Just optimizing.”

Your heart drops. “What are you typing?”

“Nothing~”

You make a grab for your phone, but he effortlessly leans back, holding it above his head with those ridiculously long limbs. You glare at him from across the table, arm outstretched like a furious cat trying to swat at the moon.

“Give it back!”

“Patience.”

“Gojo Satoru—”

“Okay, okay!” he relents with a dramatic sigh, finally placing your phone face-down on the table like he’s done you a huge favor.

You snatch it up immediately, eyes scanning for damage. No weird messages. No unsolicited likes. No new matches.

“…What did you do?”

“I didn’t message anyone,” he assures, too innocent to be trusted. “I’m not that cruel.”

You narrow your eyes, suspicious.

“But,” he adds with a grin, “I didn’t know you were dating.”

“I’m not,” you mutter, clicking your phone off. “Just considering it. Trying. It’s not going well.”

“Good.”

The word comes out too fast. Too sharp. And his face doesn’t match the light tone he’s trying to play off.

You raise an eyebrow. “Good?”

He shifts, leaning back in his seat, suddenly very interested in stirring the foam in his overpriced coffee. “I mean, it’s good you’re not settling. You should be picky. Guys are the worst.”

You snort. “You are a guy.”

“Exactly. I know what we’re like.”

You smile despite yourself, rolling your eyes. “I’m sure you think you’re the exception.”

“I know I am,” he says, winking. Then he sobers slightly, eyes flickering to yours. “I’m just… looking out for you.”

The sincerity in his voice makes your chest ache. You wish it was more than just him being protective in that big-brotherly, annoyingly loyal kind of way.

You take a sip of your coffee to cool your nerves. It doesn’t help. The words come out before you can stop them.

“You know with the way things are going… maybe you should just date me at this point.”

Silence.

It’s a joke. Supposed to be. But the second it leaves your lips, it tastes real.

Gojo freezes.

You panic. “I didn’t mean—like, I was just joking—”

But he turns toward you, eyes unreadable behind the fringe of snowy white hair. “Maybe I should.”

You blink.

And then, with infuriating ease, he grins.

“Anyway,” he says quickly, swiping your phone from the table again before you can stop him, “Yuto here looks like the type to ghost you after three dates and a karaoke duet. You can do better.”

You gape at him, completely thrown off, your heart slamming in your chest.

You don’t even notice what he’s done until later—until you get home and open your app to find that your bio has been changed.

Taken. Mentally married to a nerd since birth.

You want to scream.

Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru?

Yeah. Not going great.

Not at all.

You weren’t sure why you agreed to it.

Maybe it was the look in Utahime’s eyes, so determined and hopeful. Maybe it was Shoko promising she would help you find true love. Maybe it was the quiet part of you that wanted to see yourself through someone else’s eyes. Someone who wasn’t Gojo Satoru.

“Today,” Utahime had declared, curling the last strand of your hair like she was threading a spell, “is the first day of your Gojo-less future”

You laughed nervously, tugging at the hem of your skirt. It wasn’t your usual style—not the dewy makeup you weren’t used to seeing in the mirror, not the new haircut that made your eyes look almost too bright, not the blouse that left your shoulders bare in a way that made you feel strangely noticed.

But when you caught your reflection, your heart fluttered. You looked beautiful.

When you stepped onto campus, the sun was out, the wind teasing your hair. You spotted him immediately—Gojo, slouched against the wall outside your lecture hall, nose buried in his Switch as he muttered something under his breath about evolving stats and attack modifiers.

He didn’t notice you at first.

Then he looked up.

His game froze mid-battle. His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again, like someone had unplugged his brain.

“Wha—” he said eloquently. “Wh—what did you do.”

You blinked. “Hi to you too.”

He stared, unabashed. His glasses were slightly crooked, his ears glowing scarlet. He looked like someone had just told him Digimon was real and living in your shoes.

He blinked. “You look like… like you skipped two evolution stages overnight. Straight to Mega. Like if Angewomon fused with… I don’t know, some kind of rare, limited-release goddess-type Digimon that only spawns on a lunar eclipse.”

You blinked.

Utahime’s voice in your head: You’re hot. Unstoppable. He’s going to be speechless.

And Gojo was. But not in the way you wanted.

You tried to laugh. “So I look like a cartoon?”

“A beautiful cartoon,” he said, serious now. “Like the kind of boss character they only show for two frames because animating her costs too much.”

Your heart stuttered. It was the sort of compliment only Gojo could give: clumsy and dorky, yet brilliant in its own way.

But the moment passed.

He rubbed the back of his neck and looked away, sunglasses slipping slightly as he muttered, “You just… you look different. That’s all.”

Different.

Not better. Not prettier.

Just different.

You swallowed. “Yeah, well. Thought I’d try something new.”

“I didn’t say it was bad,” he added quickly, but the words felt unsure. Flimsy.

“I should… use the restroom,” you mumbled, turning before he could say anything else.

In the bathroom, you stared at your reflection. Your lipstick looked too bold now. Your lashes too heavy. Despite the change, you were still painfully you— the you Gojo teased during study sessions, the one he let borrow his hoodie when it rained, the one who sat next to him during endless all-nighters. And maybe that was the problem. You weren’t like those girls on the magazines.

What you didn’t see, what you couldn’t see, was Gojo still standing outside the lecture hall, staring after you, Switch forgotten, game over screen blinking on the screen.

He didn’t even notice.

“You good, Satoru?” Shoko asked, walking by.

He blinked. “I think I just saw my best friend… and my final boss… and my future wife… all at once.”

Shoko snorted. “You’re a dork.”

Gojo just sighed, shoulders slumping as he muttered, “I’m so doomed.”

It’s a mild Friday evening when you meet him—Kazuya, the guy from your psychology class. He’s polite, articulate, and kind of cute. The kind of guy who asks if you prefer cats or dogs before ordering his drink, and actually listens when you answer.

Utahime and Shoko had insisted you say yes. “A change of pace,” they called it. “You need a baseline. Not every guy is going to be Gojo Satoru.”

Exactly. That was the point.

You’re sipping a matcha latte and nodding along as Kazuya explains his thesis on cognitive development when a very familiar voice cuts through the air.

“Well, well, well. Fancy seeing you here.”

Your stomach drops. You look up, and sure enough—

Satoru.

In all his tall, obnoxiously eye-catching glory, wearing a white t-shirt that was inside out and a grin like he just won the lottery. He's holding a bottle of ramune and standing directly next to your table, like he’s been there the whole time.

You blink. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugs. “Thirsty. Wanted a drink.”

“At this café? On this side of campus?”

“Yeah,” he says, tone innocent. “Weird coincidence, huh?”

Kazuya offers a polite smile. “You’re her friend, right? Gojo?”

“Oh, best friend. Lifelong. Practically her shadow.” He plops into the empty seat beside you without asking, casually tossing his ramune onto the table. “What’s your name again? Kaname?”

“…Kazuya.”

“Right, right. I always mix those up. You look like a Kaname, though. Or maybe a Yusuke.”

You stare at him, incredulous. “Satoru—”

But he’s already leaning over, squinting at the book tucked under Kazuya’s arm. “Ooh, Piaget. Bold move. Love that for you.”

Kazuya blinks. “Do you… like developmental theory?”

“I like being correct,” Gojo says with a cheeky smile. “Also, [Name] hates Piaget. She called him ‘the Freud of toddlers’ last semester.”

Kazuya turns to you in mild surprise. “Really?”

“I—I mean, yeah,” you mumble. “Sort of.”

Gojo beams. “Told you.”

Kazuya makes a valiant effort to steer the conversation back to safe, neutral ground.

“So, you mentioned you're interested in behaviorism, right?” he says, offering a gentle smile. “I thought Dr. Takeda's lecture on conditioned responses was kind of fascinating—”

“Oh, riveting,” Satoru cuts in, lounging back in his chair like he owns the café. “Nothing like bonding over Pavlov’s dogs to spark romance. Did she tell you she cried during Inside Out because the depiction of core memories was ‘psychologically resonant’? Real charmer, this one.”

You shoot Satoru a look. “I was twelve!”

Kazuya blinks, trying not to smile. “I actually thought that was pretty moving, too.”

“Wow,” Satoru deadpans. “A match made in neuroscience.”

Kazuya laughs politely and continues, undeterred. “So, uh, any research plans after graduation?”

You open your mouth to answer, but Satoru beats you to it again.

“She used to want to be a vet. Cried when she had to dissect a frog in middle school. Tragic day.”

“Is that true?” Kazuya turns to you, amused now.

“Technically, yes,” you mutter into your drink.

By the time your cup is empty, you realize you’ve laughed more at Satoru’s interjections than you have at anything Kazuya’s said. Not because Kazuya wasn’t interesting—he was. He was calm, thoughtful, well-read, and clearly trying. But next to Satoru, whose entire presence seemed impossible to ignore, Kazuya didn’t stand a chance.

Still, to his credit, Kazuya maintains a steady, if slightly strained, expression as he sets down his cup and finally says, carefully,

“So… is Gojo your boyfriend?”

The question hangs awkwardly.

You and Satoru answer at the same time.

“No,” you say quickly.

“Yes,” he says with a smile.

You both turn to stare at each other.

“I mean—no,” he corrects, waving his hands. “Just a joke. Hah. Obviously.”

Kazuya blinks. “Right.”

You can’t meet either of their eyes. Your drink is finished, your palms are damp, and the café is suddenly too warm, too small. You push back your chair and stand.

“I should go. Early lab meeting tomorrow.” It’s the weakest excuse, but neither of them calls you on it.

Kazuya stands too, polite as ever. “Thanks for meeting up. You seem like a really cool person.” He hesitates, then adds, gently, “I just think maybe you’ve already got someone.”

You freeze. You open your mouth, then close it again. There’s nothing to say.

Outside, the cold air kisses your cheeks like a reminder. It stings a little, or maybe that’s just the confusion burning in your chest.

Satoru’s already waiting for you. Of course he is. He’s leaning against the lamppost, silver hair catching in the wind. But his eyes are downcast, trained on the sidewalk.

He doesn’t say anything right away. Neither do you.

You exhale, watching your breath curl white in the air. “You didn’t have to crash it, y’know.”

“I didn’t crash,” he replies without looking at you. “I was invited.”

“By who?”

“Fate. Karma. The gods of poor decision-making.” He shrugs.

You roll your eyes, but it tugs a laugh from you anyway. Stupid, annoying, charming Gojo.

“So,” he says after a beat, nudging your arm gently with his elbow, “how’d it go?”

You glance at him. He still won’t meet your gaze. His lips are pursed like he’s holding back a hundred words and none of them are funny.

“He was nice,” you admit. Despite being rudely interrupted by the white haired idiot beside you.

“Nice is boring,” he mutters, kicking at a loose stone on the pavement.

You laugh, soft and tired. “You’re the worst.”

He finally looks at you then, lips quirking into that smug, too-knowing smile. “But you like me anyway.”

You look away, cheeks burning, heart thudding like a traitor in your chest.

You don’t answer.

You don’t have to.

Despite Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru failing in every imaginable way, things were starting to feel bearable.

Almost good, even.

Satoru still hovered a little too close, always with that same half-smile like he knew something you didn’t. And maybe, just maybe— his constant sabotage, the teasing, the jealousy, the way he looked at you like he was about to say something important but never did. Maybe it all meant something.

You let yourself believe it, just a little.

And that was your first mistake.

It happens quietly, without fanfare or warning. Just a throwaway line between sips of lukewarm coffee and the soft shuffle of paper. You’re both at your usual spot in the library, surrounded by open notebooks and highlighted packets, pretending to study more than you actually are.

You’re halfway through underlining a term in your psychology notes when Satoru leans back in his chair, stretches like a cat, and says far too casually:

“So, guess who asked me out?”

You hum absentmindedly. “Who?”

“Ayane.”

The name hits you like a slap.

You freeze, highlighter paused mid-sentence. “…Ayane? From the biochem track?”

“Yeah,” he says, practically glowing. “You know her, right? She's in your study group sometimes.”

You do know her. Of course you do. Everyone knows her.

She’s beautiful, with this effortless, clean kind of elegance—long legs, perfect posture, and that quiet, poised confidence that makes professors adore her and guys fall over themselves. The kind of girl who posts one blurry bookshelf photo and still racks up a thousand likes. The kind of girl Gojo always jokes about marrying.

But he’s not joking now. He’s beaming.

“She asked me out to dinner this Friday. She’s so smart, too. I didn’t even have to pretend to know what quantum entanglement was. It’s wild.” He laughs, brushing a hand through his hair. “I thought she’d never go for a guy like me, y’know?”

You force a laugh. “A guy like you?”

“Yeah. I dunno. Too much, I guess? But she said I was ‘refreshing.’” He grins.

Your stomach sinks.

This is what you thought you wanted—for him to move on, so you could finally do the same. For Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru to succeed, for real this time.

But now that it’s happening, it feels like someone’s slowly pulling your ribs apart.

“Oh,” you manage, smiling like you’ve practiced it. “That’s great. I’m happy for you.”

He doesn’t notice the way your voice cracks on happy. He just keeps talking, rambling about restaurant reservations and how she likes contemporary poetry and used to live in France. You nod in all the right places, but your thoughts are already slipping away.

Because it isn’t just that he’s going out with someone else.

It’s that he chose her.

Her with her flawless skin and quiet charm and the kind of beauty that doesn’t need to try. Her, with everything you’re not. And more than that, it’s that he made you believe you could have meant more to him, when really, he’d been searching for someone else all along.

You excuse yourself early, mumbling something about laundry.

He doesn’t follow.

You don’t cry until you’re halfway home, the cold air biting at your cheeks as your vision blurs.

For the first time in years, you don’t text him goodnight.

You don’t wait for a meme. Or a dumb joke. Or his usual, “Hey, genius. Sleep.”

You go silent.

And when he texts the next day, you don’t reply.

You skip your library meet-up. You don’t sit next to him in class. You even duck into the stairwell when you see his ridiculous white hair from across campus.

It’s not because you’re mad. It’s because you’re heartbroken.

And you can’t keep pretending it doesn’t matter—that he doesn’t matter.

You weren’t just losing your best friend.

You were losing the love of your life.

And he didn’t even notice.

It takes him three days to notice you’re gone.

Well—no. That’s a lie.

He notices immediately. The moment your usual seat in the library stays empty. When your laugh doesn’t echo in the café line. When your name doesn’t pop up on his screen at 2AM with some stupid meme captioned, “this reminded me of you, idiot.”

But he tells himself you’re busy.

Midterms, right? Stress. Coffee. You get like this sometimes, and he gets it. He really does.

So he waits. Tells himself not to be clingy.

But then Friday comes.

And he's sitting across from Ayane in some expensive, quiet restaurant where the napkins are folded like origami cranes and the water tastes filtered. She’s telling him about her research internship in Osaka, about enzymes and international grants, and all he can think is—

You’d be making fun of me right now.

You’d be kicking him under the table. Whispering some dumb pun about digimon. You’d be pulling faces every time he tried to pronounce the items on the menu. You’d be you.

Ayane is lovely.

But she doesn’t laugh when he says something stupid. She just smiles politely.

She doesn’t ask about why his glasses are always crooked (it’s so you could fix them). Doesn’t tease him for double-knotting his laces like a paranoid grandma. Doesn’t call him “Sato” like it’s some private joke only the two of you get.

He walks her home. Thanks her for a nice evening.

Then he goes to the convenience store. Alone.

And he sees your favorite snack on the shelf and buys two out of habit.

He stares at his phone the entire train ride back.

No new messages.

Just the last one you sent days ago:

“Laundry. Rain check?”

And nothing since.

He waits. Another day. Then two.

You don’t show up to class again.

You don’t like his latest meme.

You don’t comment on the Digimon pun he texted you out of desperation.

You are silent.

And Satoru Gojo—brilliant, blind-sighted, the golden boy of theoretical physics, always five steps ahead realizes, too late, that he’s been a fool.

That he didn’t just lose a study partner.

He lost the one person who knew him better than he knew himself.

The one person he couldn’t replace with rare Digimon pulls, half-solved physics equations, or overly sweet desserts.

And for the first time since he was a kid—

He’s afraid.

It’s been a little over a week.

A little over a week since Gojo Satoru has heard your voice. Since you shoved your coffee at him without asking, muttering “too sweet for me” when you really meant “I got this for you.” Since you poked fun at his stupid sock choices, or knocked your foot against his under the table like it was nothing.

And Satoru is suffering.

He's tried everything. Showed up to your house with excuses too weak to be called plans (“Hey, I brought your favorite snacks. I just... figured maybe you forgot you liked them?”). Waited outside your lecture hall until a security guard asked if he was lost. Took detours between classes hoping to catch a glimpse of your ponytail, your laugh, anything.

But you were always one step ahead.

You stopped answering his texts. Blocked him on that stupid dating app (which—ouch, even though you hadn’t used it seriously). You didn’t even show up to the library anymore. And even Shoko started looking at him with thinly veiled pity and a you really fumbled the bag look in her eyes.

Gojo Satoru is just tired.

Miserable.

So when he finally finds you—not because he’s chasing you down this time, but because he’s walking the long way home, and there you are, sitting on the old swings at the park where you first met—it knocks the wind out of him.

You don’t look surprised to see him. Just tired too.

“I figured you’d find me eventually,” you say quietly.

He swallows. His hands curl at his sides like he’s preparing for a fight.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says, like it isn’t obvious. “Why?”

You look away. “You’re smart. Figure it out.”

Gojo looks down at his feet.

“I didn’t know you felt that way.”

Silence stretches between you, heavy and stinging. The playground is empty except for the wind dragging a soda can down the sidewalk and the faint creak of the swing chain.

Then he exhales, ragged and unsure. “Look, I can’t—I can’t take this anymore.”

You glance up.

“I can’t either.”

Hope flares too fast, too naive in his chest. His shoulders drop like he’s been holding up the world. “That’s good,” he breathes, stepping forward. “Because the silent treatment— God, I thought I was going to—”

“I don’t think we can be friends anymore.”

The words stop him cold.

“What?” he breathes.

You laugh, but it’s hollow. Like something already broken. “Don’t you get it? I can’t be friends with you and pretend that nothing’s changed. That I’m okay just being your best friend. I’ve been in love with you for years, Satoru.”

His heart stutters. You don’t stop.

“And I love myself too much to keep hurting for someone who doesn’t even look at me that way.” Your voice cracks, but you push through. “Do you know how humiliating it feels? To love someone so much it aches, and still feel like you’ll never be enough?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

You wipe your eyes with the sleeve of your jacket, swallowing the lump in your throat. “You never even thought I was cute.”

He looks like he’s been hit.

“I’ve been chasing scraps. Leftovers. Mixed signals and stupid inside jokes. I—I can’t do it anymore.”

You finally meet his eyes, and that’s when he sees it: the hurt you’ve been hiding behind every smile, every brush-off, every joke you cracked to keep the silence from swallowing you.

And for once, Gojo Satoru can’t find a single thing to say.

Not yet.

Not until he stops you from walking away.

“Where did you get an idea like that?” His cerulean eyes search yours desperately. “I-I don’t think you’re just cute, are you kidding?” he blurts, eyes wild.

“Y-you’re breathtaking! Everything I’ve dreamt of and more! That night when you asked me if I thought you were cute, I only said no because it would be a divine crime to reduce to such. All of my fantasies have been centered around you since we first met on that playground—since you tripped over your shoelaces trying to race me to the monkey bars!”

Your breath catches.

He continues, desperate now, like every second of silence might kill him.

“I love you! And not like a brother. Like—I want to marry you. Like, small wedding in Okinawa, barefoot on the beach, you wearing that soft blue dress you like. I already planned it. Our firstborn would be a daughter, with your eyes, my hair. She’d be the boss of the house.”

You gape.

“Wait—”

“I’m not done!” he says, hands thrown up. “Then we’d have twins. Boys. Chaos gremlins. One would look like my twin and the other yours, and they’d absolutely terrorize us—but their sister keeps them in check, she’s fierce like you.”

You blink. A tear slides down your cheek.

“I want to move to Kyoto,” he says, softer now. “Buy a house with a dumb little garden. Grow tomatoes we’ll never eat. Live out the rest of our lives where it’s quiet.”

You cover your mouth, stunned. “You… really thought all that out?”

“It’s easy,” he breathes, “when all I can think about is you.”

He steps closer. The wind tugs his white hair into his eyes, but he doesn’t blink.

“I go to study nonlinear quantum field theory and all I see is your face. I try to cool off and play Digimon, and even that’s ruined—my lineup is garbage now! I only keep the ones you said were cute!”

A laugh bubbles out of you, fragile and watery.

“You idiot,” you murmur.

“I am,” he nods solemnly. “I’m the world’s biggest idiot. And I’m in love with you.”

Another tear slips down. He wipes it away before you can.

“Is it too late?” he asks, voice cracking slightly. “Please tell me it’s not too late.”

You stare at him, this man, this brilliant, ridiculous boy who had held your heart long before you ever admitted it.

“It’s not too late,” you whisper.

He doesn’t speak. Just steps closer. Gently and carefully, like he's handling something sacred, he cups your cheek in his hand.

Your nose bumps his. His breath ghosts over your lips.

“I’ve been waiting to do this for years,” he whispers.

And then, finally, he kisses you.

It’s not perfect, your cheeks are still wet, his nose bumps yours again, and his hand trembles just a little, but it’s warm and sweet and soft. It tastes like home..

When he pulls away, his smile is sheepish. “So… are we still doing the whole ‘Operation: Get Over Gojo’ thing, or?”

You laugh, heart full, forehead pressed to his.

“Mission failed,” you whisper.

He grins. “Good.”

And then he kisses you again.

art by leimiruu on x!

#kt.writes.·:*¨༺#gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojou x reader #gojou x you #gojou satoru x reader #gojou satoru x you #jjk x reader #gojo fluff #jjk fluff #jjk angst #gojo angst #gojo hurt/comfort #jjk hurt/comfort #nerdjo #jjk x you

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tojifiles · 2 months ago

Text

༯ warnings. mature content, fem!reader + toji fushiguro, unprotected sēx, piv, pwp. minors do not interact, please and thank u.

wc. 1.7k (not proofread 🥸)

toji fushiguro is a nice guy.

not in the annoying “i’m a nice guy why won’t women date me” way, but in the “i’ll fix your sink, walk your dog, and probably kill a man for you if you say please” kinda way.

the ex-assassin (and your next door neighbor) is always doing something for someone— mowing the lawn for mrs. takada across the street, teaching the neighborhood kids how to patch a flat tire like he’s not patched gunshot wounds with duct tape before. probably hand-knits blankets for stray cats behind closed doors too.

so when he sees you wrestling with a massive ikea box on your porch that you honestly never stood a chance against in the first place, he doesn’t even hesitate.

“fuck is in here, a whole corpse or somethin’?” he jokes, like he didn’t just pluck the box from your arms, like it was filled with feathers and not the broken promises of swedish furniture.

you give him an airy laugh, wiping sweat from your brow as you tell him it’s your new bed from ikea.

“ikea?” he repeats, like you just told him it really was a corpse in that god forsaken box. “yeah, nah. you’re not building that.”

you blink. “i’m not?”

“uh, did i not just say no? i’ll handle it. don’t want a pretty lil’ thing like you losing a finger over some overpriced planks and an allen wrench.”

and listen. you could’ve argued. you could’ve said you’re an independent woman, with your crappy youtube tutorials and a rusty ol’ hammer.

but instead you just say,

“. . .do you want water or beer?”

god, you swear your bedroom has never felt this small.

toji’s presence takes up space like he was built for it—one knee down, the other bent, thighs straining against those well-worn jeans like they’re one bad movement from tearing right at the seams. his tank is drenched, clinging like it’s got a personal vendetta, outlining every broad inch of him like a glove.

he’s hunched over the partially assembled bed, brows furrowed, scarred lips parted in quiet concentration like he’s studying scripture, not step six of some swedish-coded nightmare.

and it’s filthy, the way your brain strayed, drinking in the way he moved—tight, efficient, obscene without even trying.

every low grunt, every flex of his arms, every time he shifts and that heavy chain around his neck clinks against sweat-slick skin—it’s like you're watching the start of a bad porno.

your gaze drops, uninvited, right to the swell of his chest—broad and heaving—and lower, past the way his shirt clings to his dreadfully slutty waist, all the way to the waistband of his jeans.

the way they sit, low and loose, slung across those hips like temptation incarnate—

“you good over there, sweetheart?” his voice breaks through the haze, all casual and smug. “been eyein’ me reeaall hard over there.”

you choke.

“oh, uh—i was…” you mutter, blinking like an idiot, “just… making sure you’re not screwing m- it up.”

he hums, not even looking at you, allenkey twisting slow in his grip.

“mm. real thorough inspection you’re doing.”

your a/c is blasting, full arctic tundra, and yet here you are—skin flushed, thighs clenched, your mind absolutely nosediving into the filthiest trenches imaginable.

you open your mouth about to retort back, but he cuts you off with a simple, expectant:

“wrench.”

just that. hand out. palm grasping. not even looking at you.

you pass him the tool, and your fingers brush his. his hand is warm, rough - those thick, ragged fingers that have probably shot bullets into yakuza leaders skulls, probably broken bones, lingering just a beat too long.

and suddenly you’re not thinking about this stupid swedish furniture anymore.

you’re thinking about those same fingers digging into your hips.

gripping the back of your neck.

pressing into your thigh as he—

“you gonna let go, or you just like holdin’ my hand?”

you snap out of your. . trance, retracting your hand like the wrench had transformed into molten lava and burned it. “just um, didn’t wanna drop it. s-safety first, right?”

“riight, whatever helps you sleep at night.”

even though it’s your bed, he hasn’t let you touch a single piece of it.

not one panel. not one sad screw.

and it’s not like you didn’t offer to help—you did, multiple times!

yet every single time, he just waved you off like you were a gnat.

“jus’ sit n’ look pretty. this ain’t a group project,” he utters, dead serious. you open your mouth once more to argue, and all he sends you is a glare— playful, yet still warning.

and after three long, sweaty hours,

you—

no.

he is finally done.

toji leans back on his heels, wiping beads of sweat from his brow with the back of his hand “there,” he grunts, satisfied. “all done miss.”

you glance at the bed. it does look good. solid. intimidatingly so.

“looks sturdy,” you murmur, and toji hums in agreement. thick fingers drag slow over his stubbled chin as he leans back, marveling at his piece of work.“mm. might wanna test it out first, though.”

you blink. “…test it?”

he nods, rolling his shoulders, towering and terrible, that glint in his eye nothing short of criminal.

“how ‘bout i help ya out, yeah? call it uhh, ‘mandatory safety inspection’ .”

ᥫ᭡.

“ngh, to-tojiii,” you mewl, nails grasping helplessly at the cushioned mattress beneath you, your glossed dolly eyes fluttering back with each filthy fuckin’ thrust. his strokes are relentless, sharp, each one leaving a raucous snap from his toned v-line on your poor sore thighs.

for such a ‘sweet’ and ‘beloved’ guy, his dick game sure was mean as hell.

“atta girl, look at that,” he grunts, “takin’ me so fuckin’ well.”

your swollen bottom lip is caught between your teeth, an embarrassingly desperate attempt at concealing these lewd noises toji is managing to string out of your chest.

but with the way he’s fucking into you like this, those calloused, worn palms spreading the fat of your ass to give him a front-row view of how his cock is sinking in and out of you, before raising his hand to give it a nice hefty spank—

it’d be damn near impossible to not stay quiet.

your body feels so hot, practically melting as your spine arches further with each roll of his firm hips. the pads of his fingers are digging into the plush of your waist, burning against your skin like he’s trying to brand you with his hands alone.

toji sloows his pace, not enough to give you a break, but enough to make sure you feel all ten inches of him, that evilly thick stretch making your walls stutter. his chest dips down your spine, peppered stubble scratching at the nape of your neck as his full weight sinks over you.

“uh uh, shhh,” toji croons hotly, his breath warm as he leaves a wet kiss along the shell of your ear, “you hear that?”

“h-huh?” you hiccup, and he’s got you soo dumb off his dick that your surprised your still coherent.

“girl. listen.”

and you do. or try to, atleast.

your breathing slows just enough to catch it, between the wet slaps of skin and your pulse bursting in your ears—

creak… creak… creak….

“looks like she’s startin’ to talk,” he murmurs. “guess i forgot to tighten all the screws. oops.”

haha. you'd roll your eyes if they weren’t already damn near in your skull.

toji’s body shifts, swole chest hefted on your back as his beefy arms cage you in. he’s got one hand curled around your wrist, pinning it to the matress, while the other bruisingly grips your waist.

your plushed thighs quiver, ass rippling back with each fluid snap of his hips. he’s so deep, his entire length bottoming out in your sobbing cunt. landing countless blow after blow on that poor spongy spot of yours.

“f-fuuck,” it slips out breathy, caught between a gasp and a whine, your voice cracking with each draaag of his cock. “s’too much— i can’t—”

“yea you can,” toji huffs. “already are.”

creaking turns into clattering, death rattles now, and he’s still not stopping nor slowing. every hit leaves the mattress screaming, legs of the frame wobbling as it lurches underneath the weight of you both.

and your bed isn’t the only thing ready to give out eithet.

“ ‘m gonna, hnnghh— m’ gonna cumm, toj’ ” you sob, shuddering as your core tightens.

“shiit, thaaat’s it,” he pants as your pussy swallows him oh so snugly, and you can feel him start to throb inside of you. “ let ‘toj’ feel you cum ‘round his cock, baby.”

toji’s strokes sloppen, grinding now, likes he’s trying to engrave each and every inch of his cock into your unforgivingly tight cunt. your hips begin to spasm as your pretty glossed lips sputter out mindless, repetitive catches of his name.

he sends one more thrust, mean and s—

crack!

that poor lil’ ikea bed of yours sinks beneath you with a jarring snap, the headboard dipping rudely as one stubby leg snaps completely off— making you and toji slip forward with it.

you yelp, yet it slips into a broken moan as splotches of white fill your blurred vision, body jerking as your saccharine juices spill out onto him.

you let out a pouty whine, lashes fluttering as toji groans, gutturally, his posture stiffening, jaw hanging slack before you feel him begin to spill into you—sticky hazed shades of white rudely painting your insides like his own personal canvas.

the scent of sweat and sex hangs heavily in the air, the only sounds being you and toji left panting. he stills momentarily, assuring his sticky load is plunged deep enough inside of you before easing out with a sharp hiss.

“guess she, uh, failed the inspection,” clicking his tongue as he breaks the silence, acting all disappointed despite the way he’s grinning like a fucking fool— as if he didn’t just knock all you and your beds screws loose.

“you’re buying me a new bed.” you mutter, voice hoarse as your shooting him a mascara stained glare over your shoulder.

“ ya’ gonna let me break her in too?”

and it’s not like you decline— it’d be rude if you did. .

because toji fushiguro is a nice guy, after all.

@ssorenz™ do not, copy, repost or translate anywhere without my knowledge.

#‘ 𝐬𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐳 ୨𝑒.#annual ssorenz post this is insane #toji fushiguro x reader #toji fushiguro #toji smut #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk toji #jjk smut #jjk #toji x reader #jujutsu toji #jjk x reader smut #fushiguro toji #fushiguro toji x reader #jjk x reader #jjk x you #anime smut

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