bf!sukuna who lets you draw on his skin to outline his muscles and skeletal system rather than working with the plastic model that is provided for your class. he claims that he's better than any fake mannequin, but in truth, he likes having you spend your study time with him in his dorm rather than cooped up in some classroom. (also totally not because he likes the feeling of your fingers on his skin and how you look at his muscles for a prolonged amount of time… totally not because of that. he just wants to help you study, promise!) bonus! you pranked him one time by saying you were going to use the muscle mannequin becuase his weren't defined enough for you to study off of. he left huffing and puffing, going off to gym and working every muscle he could think of.
bf!sukuna who helps you study by reading off your notes/flashcards, even if he does struggle with the pronunciation of the terminology.
"what is.. hyper- hypercholemial?" sukuna quizzes as he squints at the term.
"hyper-what?" you ask, moving to pull the study sheet from his grasps only for him to move backwards and away from your reach.
"uh-uh baby, that's cheating," he says with a grin. "what is hyperchosterlima?"
"you literally said two different things, babe, how am i supposed to know what you're talking about?"
in the end he gives up and lets you see the term he was talking about. you look to find the word and only laugh at his struggles. "hypercholesterolemia, and it's high cholesterol."
"well why don't you just call it that?" sukuna complains with an eyeroll. "going through all the trouble of making some bullshit term for something so simple."
bf!sukuna who still isn't used to your awful sleep schedule. "didn't they teach you that a proper sleep schedule is important?" he'll joke but in all honesty, he is worried about your bad sleeping patterns. too often he has woken up in the middle of the night to see you gone from the bed onlyn to find you in his dining room hunched over some notes. sometimes, he's lucky and persuasive enough to get you to come back to bed with him. this time, he makes sure to hold onto you extra tight to ensure you don't slip from his grasp in his sleep.
bf!sukuna who is also worried about your caffeine addiction. now, he wasn't one to judge. afterall, if his fridge wasn't stocked with alcohol is was filled to the brim with monsters and other energy drinks. but he has seen you chug down three "five-hour energy shots" that are meant for truckers. only to follow it up with a coffee from your favorite shop on campus. while youre studying, you always have at least three beverages surrounding you.
"this one is for hydration," you say pointing to your water (that you rarely even drink). "this one is for the energy," and it's one of sukuna's monster (no doubt your second one of the day, at the least). "and this is for my enjoyment," you smile as you take a sip of your favorite coffee drink (extra shots of espresso, of course).
"sweetheart, you're gonna give yourself extra heart palipititions."
"it's palpitations, lovey."
"that's what i said, brat."
bf!sukuna who not only steals your casual lingo, but also tries to use your medical lingo in everyday conversations. he sees you and your other medical friends incorporate differents terms from class to help better memorize them and he decides to hop on this. he butchers the pronunciation half the time but the other half that he nails it, the proud grin on his face when you don't correct him is enough to take away all your stress from the constant tests.
bf!sukuna who visits you during your long clinical hours. he knows your busy but he makes it a point to at least and make it to your lunch slot. he understands that sometimes your lunch gets pushed back because of things neither of you can control and he merely shrugs it off and never gets mad. he simply drops off your lunch (made by him of course) and shoots you a text.
dropped off your lunch, don't stress too much and drink water. miss you, wish i saw your pretty face.
✮ ⋆ ˚。𖦹 ⋆。°✩
super self indulgent, sigh i need a sukuna to my med student T^T wrote this in like thirty mins bc i had a random burst of energy..
[𝝑𝑒] :: outlaw!toji would risk getting caught by the local law enforcement if it meant having one last taste of your pussy ⸝⸝ cw. smut, pwp.
one of toji’s large and calloused hands hold your hips still while the other covers your mouth, trying to contain those pretty sounds you’re making. “i know, darlin’,” he breathes against your ear, “shhh, sh shh—you don’t want ‘em findin’ me here with ya now, do you?”
you try your best to stay quiet, but you can’t really. not with the way that thick cock of his is rearranging your insides. the loud thwap thwap thwap of his heavy sack smacking against the plump flesh of your ass and thighs isn’t helping your case either.
it would be scandalous if the local deputies caught you—the mayor’s oh-so-innocent daughter—getting railed by a wanted outlaw. but neither of you seem to care. your bodies are grinding against each other in this narrow alleyway just a few metres away from the sheriff station.
“t—oojiii,” you mewl, meeting his thrusts halfway. you’re a drooling mess, anything but the innocent image you carry on a daily basis.
toji grins to himself at the lewd sight. “yeah, pretty girl?” he purrs. his fat dick twitches in your tight cunt, the tip leaking pre-cum to coat your insides with. “what’s wrong? can’t talk ‘cause of how good ‘m givin’ it to ya?”
you nod mindlessly, mouth gaping in a silent scream as he increases the thrusts. “y-yesh… yesnghh,” you reply between choked and muffled whimpers. the stretching and filling his cock is doing, is so insanely delicious.
the outlaw cusses under his breath once he feels you start to tighten up real good. “fuuuck, yes,” he hisses before pressing you even further up the stone wall—ramming into you like he doesn’t care. he needs it, even if it’s the last thing he does.
turning your head, toji presses a messy and sloppy kiss to your lips. he can feel you freeze when you hear footsteps approaching nearby, but he doesn’t seem to be impacted. “toji—“ you try to warn him through a hushed breath.
but the man doesn’t let up. he simply hides you from sight a bit more with his muscular body, protecting you from view even as his hips still move against your ass;
“i don’t care if they catch me, ‘long as i get this fuckin’ pussy to cream all over my dick ‘fore they put me under the guillotine.”
synopsis: You’ve been struggling in all ways possible, financially, emotionally and physically. But Gaz refuses to let you bear it alone.
warning: Mentions of past injury, disability (deafness), financial struggles, emotional hurt/comfort, Gaz‘s soft kisses™.
word count: 724
Gaz finds you on the balcony again.
You’re sitting on the worn-out patio chair, knees pulled up, arms wrapped around yourself as the city sprawls out below. Neon lights blink lazily in the distance, washing the streets in faded blues and reds, but up here, it’s still. Isolated.
He knows this look on your face. The way your fingers twitch against your sleeve, the way your shoulders draw in tight like you’re trying to hold yourself together. He’s seen it too many times in the past few years since the accident, since you walked away from the team, since the silence swallowed up the life you used to know.
It still hurts him to think about it.
You used to be inseparable. Best friends. Constant banter, late-night drinks after missions, stealing each other’s food when one of you wasn’t looking. Gaz had been there through it all, through promotions and rough deployments, through every scar and scrape. And then… everything changed.
You never said it outright, but he knew why you pulled away. Knew the frustration gnawed at you every time someone had to repeat themselves or when you couldn’t follow conversation. Knew you hated the way people looked at you now not as a soldier, but as someone damaged, pitiful.
Gaz never saw you that way.
And yet, despite everything, you’re still here. Still breathing. Still you.
He leans against the railing beside you, close enough that his warmth seeps through your sweater. He doesn’t speak yet, just watches you, letting you feel his presence before lifting his hands.
“Bad day?”
Your eyes flick to his, tired but still sharp. Your hands move sluggishly in response. “Bills.”
His brow furrows. “The hearing aid?”
A hesitation. Then, a small nod. Your fingers tighten around the fabric of your sweater before you sign again, slower this time. “Rent went up. I had to use the money. I don’t know when I’ll be able to afford it now.”
The frustration in Gaz’s chest flares instantly, hot and unwelcome, but he bites it back. Not at you, just at the sheer unfairness of it all.
You’ve been saving for years. Scraping together every bit you could from your retirement, from odd jobs, from anything. The government didn’t exactly rush to help, and even though the team offered, you refused to take a cent. Too damn proud, too damn stubborn.
He exhales through his nose, forcing himself to stay calm. You don’t need his anger. You need him.
So, he does what he’s always done. He reaches for your hands, taking them gently, cradling them between his own. His thumbs brush over your knuckles, slow and deliberate.
“We’ll figure it out. You’re not alone in this.”
You stare at him, searching his face, as if trying to find something deeper beneath the words. There’s a flicker of hesitation before you shake your head, breaking eye contact.
“I miss it,” you murmur, voice quiet, but there. Not signing this time. Speaking. “Your voice.”
Gaz feels his chest tighten.
He’s never asked if you remember what he sounds like. If the echoes of his voice still linger somewhere in your memory, or if they’ve already faded away. The thought makes something twist deep inside him.
He squeezes your hands, grounding you. Then, carefully, he lifts his hands again, making sure you see every movement.
“I’ll remind you every day if I have to.”
Your breath hitches.
You stare at him again, longer this time, fingers twitching like you want to say something but can’t find the words. And then, finally, you let him in.
Gaz moves slowly, giving you plenty of time to pull away, to stop him—but you don’t.
His lips press against yours, warm and certain, lingering just long enough for the world to fall away. There’s no urgency, no desperation—just certainty. A quiet promise written in the way he tilts his head, in the way his fingers tighten ever so slightly around yours.
“I’m here. I’ve got you. I always will.”
When he pulls away, your eyes are still closed for a moment, like you’re trying to hold onto the feeling.
Then, when you finally open them, there’s something softer in your gaze. Something that wasn’t there before.
For the first time in a long time, the silence doesn’t feel so empty.
the party was loud with flashing lights and people swaying back and forth. you were standing with a couple friends, moving to the music casually as they talked. you couldn't really hear them so you just kept dancing.
not even a second later, you felt an arm wrap around your waist and a broad chest against your back.
"people are staring." the person whispered. his breath caressed your cheeks softly. his arm pulled you closer as if to show everyone that you were his and he wasn't sharing.
sukuna swayed with you side to side, kissing your bare shoulder softly and lovingly. he stayed with you the whole night, even staying through a little gossip session with your friends.
when he got to your house he parked and looked at you. he admired you for a few seconds before pulling you into a sweet kiss.
his hands cupped your jaw as his lips moved on yours for a few seconds.
"i'll pick you up for breakfast at nine. be ready."
you hummed, getting out of the car. he followed after you and walked you up to your door.
"get some rest." he whispered while cupping your cheeks. he kissed your forehead before pulling away.
you smiled and kissed his chin.
"good night, kuna."
he placed a hand on your waist and nudged his nose with yours.
"good night, beautiful."
you smiled one last time before unlocking your door and walking in, but before you closed the door you looked at him.
"i love you, sukunatuna."
you closed to the door quickly, but you still heard him mumble a quiet 'don't call me that.'
you walked to your room and threw everything on the bed. you took your heels off your burning feet and laid down.
your phone buzzed next to you.
ryomensoldier : i love you too 🫦
ryomensoldier : wait
ryomensoldier : wrong emoji
ryomensoldier : 🩷
ryomensoldier : its pink like my hair
you : go home kuna
ryomensoldier : fine goodnight 🫦
ryomensoldier : stupid emojis
you can't be more than ten minutes away. ten minutes. and he knows this because you'd texted him when you left work — your first shift back in seven months — and now you're probably driving home, humming to yourself, thinking about what to make for dinner, thinking about the baby, completely unaware that your apartment has more or less turned into a crime scene.
gojo stands in the center of the living room, still. too still. like if he moves too fast, he'll miss something. a sound, a shift, a clue. something that explains where the hell the baby went.
"okay," he says out loud, voice thin and stretched with panic. "okay, okay, okay — "
he retraces. couch? no. playpen? all toys, no baby. crib? untouched since he took the little squirt out of it this morning.
his stomach sinks so violently it feels like his organs are trying to escape his body. lovely.
"oh my god," he breaths. "oh my god, oh my god, oh my god."
this is it. the last of his days. you're going to kill him. not metaphorically, not lightly. literally end him.
"she's gonna kill me," he mutters, dragging his hands down him face. "she's gonna kill me so fucking hard — "
his brain does that thing it does. that awful, vivid sprint ahead of reality.
door. windows. did he lock them for sure? of course he did. he always does. he checked them twice. three times. he lunges for the front door anyways, and sure enough, it's locked. windows, also locked. sliding door to the balcony, also locked up tight.
so where the hell —
"heyyy," he calls, softer now. like maybe he's been approaching this wrong. like his volume is the issue. "c'mon, little man, this isn't funny. it's actually the complete opposite of funny..."
his voice cracks. that's new.
but gojo doesn't let himself think about it for too long. instead, he drops to his knees, then fully to the floor, flattening himself like a damn sniper as he shoves his head underneath the couch, cheek pressed to the hardwood and scans every inch of shadow.
nothing.
nothing.
more nothing.
then, his phone rings.
it startles him so much he smacks his head on the stiff underside of the couch. "ouch! fuck, oh my — "
your name lights up his screen. he's dead. so fucking dead. but against his better judgement, he answers anyway.
"honey!" he chirps, way too bright and way too fast, voice pitching up as he continues army-crawling across the floor.
"hi, baby," you, his beautiful-stunning-kind-sexy-very-forgiving-and-hopefully-merciful wife. but despite the lightness of it all, the words come out tired.
his stomach twists. "god, it was such a good day," you continue. "i feel like i spent half of it just showing everyone baby pictures and sitting around. i swear, they were treating me like i just popped him out." you giggle.
and he tries to match it, but expectedly, it comes out strained, weird, wrong. you notice.
"is everything alright?" you ask, slower now. "how is he?"
gojo freezes. don't panic. don't panic. don't —
"oh, he's so great! just great!" he says quickly, scrambling up and yanking back an elephant-patterned blanket like it's going to magically reveal your child. it doesn't.
it reveals a stupid stuffed plush of yuji, a gift (from yuji) at your baby shower.
"h-he's..." he swallows, hard. "just finished a bottle, actually, and i, uh, just set him down for a nap...the usual, y'know."
there's a pause. too long.
"are you sure?" you ask. "you sound a bit — "
"ah! wow!" gojo blurts, volume spiking as his brain short-circuits. "look at that! blown out diaper, gotta deal with it right now, i’llseeyouinabitloveyoubye — ” before you can respond, he ends the call, lowering it like a bomb that might go off.
he looks around the apartment again — the toys, the mats, the empty spaces where there should absolutely be a baby.
he claps his hands again, sharper this time.
“alright,” he says, forcing something like determination into his tone. “new plan.”
a beat.
"...what the fuck is the plan?" gojo straightens slowly, dragging a hand through his hair, eyes sweeping the apartment again. toys everywhere. play mat. couch. blanket. kitchen —
kitchen.
his head snaps toward it. "...no," he mutters. "no way." but he moves anyway, steps quick, then faster, then borderline tripping over a plastic set of keys as he rounds the corner. the kitchen is quiet. too quiet.
his eyes narrow. “hey,” he calls, softer now. cautious. like he’s approaching a wild animal instead of his own elusive child. “hey, buddy…”
nothing.
then —
a faint sound. a tiny thump.
gojo freezes. another thump. quieter this time. followed by a soft, muffled noise that is very distinctly not silence.
the cabinet. the bottom cabinet.
the one he definitely closed.
the one that is now —
slightly.
open.
gojo stares at it. the cabinet stares back. he crouches slowly, like he’s defusing a bomb, fingers hovering over the handle for half a second before he yanks it open —
and there he is.
a baby. a wide-eyed, drool-covered, perfectly intact baby. sitting inside the cabinet like he pays rent there, surrounded by a tupperware lid, a wooden spoon, and what looks like a very enthusiastically chewed-on measuring cup.
he blinks up at gojo. then smiles. like this is the funniest thing that has ever happened in his life (it is).
“…you,” he says finally, voice hollow. “you have got to be kidding me.”
his son giggles. giggles. gojo exhales so hard his entire body practically deflates, forehead dropping forward until it taps gently against the cabinet frame.
“don’t laugh at me, you little punk,” gojo mutters, reaching in and scooping him up, checking him over in rapid, frantic passes. “you don’t get to laugh. i just saw my entire life flash before my eyes — "
the baby grabs his shirt collar, gumming it with his little mouth til the fabric turns dark.
“yeah, yeah, you’re cute, whatever” gojo sighs, pulling him close, pressing a quick kiss to his head. “you’re lucky you’re cute. otherwise i’d be fu — uh, in...a lot of trouble with mommy."
he moves fast now, grabbing the play mat, tossing toys back into vague, acceptable positions, kicking a stray pacifier under the couch (he’ll find it later, maybe), adjusting the blanket. he places him back in the pen strategically, like he's been there the entire time.
because he has! of course he has!
gojo points at him, then zips his fingers over his lips.
“not a word,” he warns.
the door unlocks just as he sets himself down on the foam-padded floor.
“hey, you two” you call, slipping your shoes off. “i’m home — ”
your husband smiles back instantly. “hey,” he says, like he didn’t just experience the worst ten minutes of his life. “feeling okay?”
you hum, stepping further inside, gaze flicking to the playpen. “he looks happy.”
“yeah,” gojo says lightly. “we had a great day. didn’t we?” the baby squeals. gojo nods once, like that confirms everything. smart kid.
“yep,” he adds. “super chill.” a beat.
then, you narrow your eyes slightly.
"baby," you tilt your head. “…why is there a measuring cup in the playpen?”
The morning he does starts off with Ghost passing him in the hallway, a steaming to-go cup in his hand. The smell of coffee meets him.
"Since when do you drink coffee?" he says, halting in his tracks.
"Since the time you learned to mind your own business," Ghost says without pause in either voice or step, continuing his march like a man on a mission.
Soap snorts and keeps walking, thinking nothing of it until a few days later he spots Ghost with another coffee, this time along with a little paper bag. He makes the mistake of setting it on the counter for a moment.
Johnny immediately hooks a finger in the opening and peeks inside, the smell of sweet and warm baked goodness meeting him.
Ghost nearly takes Soap's hand off from how hard he slaps it away.
"Hands off."
"Ach, Jesus, alright." He rubs his stinging hand. "A good morning to you too, Lt."
Ghost rolls the top of the bag closed again and leaves just as suddenly as he appeared, mind and attention focused elsewhere. He disappears around the corner as Soap tries to think of how and why Ghost is walking around with warm pastries. Did he go off base and bring it back? Did he bake it himself? Now there's an image, Johnny thinks.
He's given the opportunity to find out just the next day.
He's en route to the shooting range to meet with Kyle when he runs into Ghost marching off with yet another bag in his hand.
"Hey, Lt," he calls, jogging over to him. "I'm headin' to the range, you in?"
"Later." Ghost doesn't look at him, instead scanning around searching for something. Soap looks down at the bag in his hand, seeing light condensation on the inside from whatever hot food is in it.
"Jesus, you doin' food deliveries on the side now or somethin'?"
"Or something," Ghost says in the tone of voice that actually means: "Shut the fuck up."
"Well if that's the case," Soap starts, willfully ignoring him just to rib him a bit, "I think I'd like to make an order for lunch—"
Ghost tenses. He does so in a way that Johnny only sees when there's a loaded gun in his hand and a soon-to-be corpse standing in front of him. It activates something in Johnny's lizard brain and muscle memory takes over, immediately stepping into a defensive position, facing whatever it is that's coming at them.
But all he sees are a couple of medics on their break.
You're sitting at one of the tables outside, trying to get as much fresh air as you can on the woefully short break you managed to get. One of your coworkers, someone who's worked on the same ward as you ever since you arrived at this base, walks up to you. You smile up at him in greeting. He hands you a styrofoam cup filled with a steaming drink, made from the overworked coffee maker which you gratefully accept.
The both of you are too far for either Soap or Ghost to hear. They can only see you kick out the other chair for him to take, see him sit in front of you, and start getting into a conversation that you both lean into.
You laugh at whatever he said and the sound of it reaches to where the two soldiers stand.
Soap swears the air drops in temperature a few degrees. He stills. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up. All he dares to move is his eyes to look over at Ghost.
Ghost stands there like the manifestation of cold wrath itself. His eyes, as dark as the thoughts running through his head with perfect clarity, stare down the medic sitting in front of you. As sharp as the knives that his fingers have the sudden urge to wrap around.
The sound of the bag in his hand collapsing under Ghost's deathgrip cuts through whatever spiraling void his mind began to fall down. Ghost heaves a quiet breath and resumes his march over to your table. Soap stays where he is, watching with a morbid fascination.
When he approaches, you look up at him and instead of the concerned (if not frightened) expression that Soap expects, you give him a beaming smile. He places the bag down in front of you.
In the moment that you're busy opening and looking through it, Ghost shoots the man across the table from you a look that Soap can't see from here, but the way that all of the blood drains from the medic's face gives him a pretty good idea.
You place the containers of food on the table and say something to Ghost. He rumbles something back to you and turns away without anymore fanfare. By the time he makes it back to Soap's side, the puzzle pieces have started to click together.
"Aye, so it's your lass who you've been sneakin' all those goodies to."
"Wot?"
"Ye know, your girlfriend?" He gestures to you.
"Fuck are you on about, Johnny?"
Soap is struck with the full understanding that A) Ghost is head over arse in love with you and B) Has no intention of doing anything about it. Which does and doesn't surprise him. The man's a workaholic, dedicated to the job just as much as any other of the 141; they wouldn't be alive if they weren't. But he's also not one to be passive about things. Ghost is about as blunt as a sledgehammer to the back of the head, doesn't waste time with tedious little social dances.
Which leads Soap to come to the other, most crucial realization of C) Ghost has absolutely no idea.
"Nothing. Never mind."
Ghost rolls his eyes and slinks off, leaving Soap standing there with a million thoughts racing through his head.
Soap disagrees with the notion that he's impulsive. Impulsivity carries the notion of thoughtlessness, of a lack of regard for the future. Instead, Soap sees no point in running in circles, hemming and hawing. He encounters a problem, sees what needs to be done, and executes. Hesitation gets you blown up.
Which is why, after encountering this predicament, Soap knows what needs to be done to solve it. All that is required now is the right time to act and the perfect opportunity strikes on an afternoon he's walking with Ghost to Price's office.
"Lieutenant!" your voice calls out from the other end of the hallway. The man in question immediately halts and turns back around. You come jogging up to the both of them, a small plastic container in your hands. "I was going to give this back to you earlier but, you know, busy." You hand the container to him which he takes. "Thanks again, it was really good."
"You liked it?" he asks, soft, timid, like your approval is what keeps the world spinning.
Soap wishes he had a camera right now. Or a pencil and paper. Just to immortalize the look on Ghost's face.
He stands with his chin tucked, like a bashful wee puppy dog if Soap had to describe it. He stares at you with his big, unblinking eyes, glittering like you just handed him the key to paradise instead of a piece of empty plastic.
"It was delicious," you say fervently, "you have to show me what recipe you used."
Sweet, steaming, bloody Jesus.
Ghost has been cooking meals for you.
Soap stares gobsmacked, open mouthed at the side of Ghost's head, mind reeling. Ghost doesn't realize because he's too busy looking at you. Nothing short of a bomb threat could pull his attention away.
Ghost shrugs, fiddles with the container like he all of the sudden doesn't know what to do with his hands.
"It was nothing. Just something I threw together." The way his eyes soften, sweet as melted chocolate at your praise screams otherwise.
"Well, either way. It was amazing." You look down to quickly check your watch.
"No rest for the wicked, eh?" Ghost drawls.
You sigh. "Tell me about it."
Soap watches the moment with certainty that nothing will come of this, can see in perfect vision that you'll leave and Ghost will do nothing but watch with the yearning they write about in poems. The both of you will live in complete ignorance about the near apocalyptic levels of longing that he just knows bothers Ghost more than he realizes.
He glances at Ghost. Glances at you. Formulates a plan. Sees every way it could go horribly and every consequence that could come of it. Commits anyway.
"Have to say, I really admire you medic folk," Soap says before you scurry off, leaning a shoulder against the wall, casual as can be.
"Oh," you say, taken aback by the sudden flattery. "Thank you, Sergeant."
Soap feels Ghost's presence behind him like a world-ending missile in its pre-launch phase. He swears he can hear a countdown start.
"Aye, some of the hardest workers I've seen. Nothing short of brilliant, too."
The missile's coordinates lock in right on Soap's head. He refuses to acknowledge the cold sweat that starts up along his spine.
You wave him off, a pretty heat making its home on the apples of your cheeks. Soap wouldn't have guessed Ghost had an eye for sweet little things like you. "Takes all sorts to keep the wheels moving," you say, a humble deflection.
"But you all are the ones that keep us in one piece. That's no' a small task," he leans his head in just a touch, as close as he dares with the Shadow of Death standing right behind him glaring holes with those demon eyes of his into the back of his skull. "Ah, careful though," he further dares to employ the little side-smile-eyebrow-quirk that's yet to fail him, lowering his voice into a gravely lilt that always gets him the attention he wants, "you keep on like that and you'll make the rest of us look bad, bonn—"
"You have training duty to report to," Ghost interjects in his full Lieutenant Voice that has Soap unconsciously shooting up from his slouch on the wall. By the time his muscle memory has passed, Ghost has already shifted his attention back to you. "I'll see you later, yeah?" he addresses to you, sounding like a completely different person from literally just a second ago.
You smile at him and nod. "Yeah." He returns the nod and watches in soft silence as you march off to whatever else the rest of your day has in store for you. The two of them stand in silence. He measures the air like he would the stability of a live explosive in his hand.
"So," Soap says once you're out of sight, hearing the countdown reach zero. "When's the weddin'?"
The sound of Ghost's palm smacking the back of Soap's head echoes down the corridor.
The first time Kento Nanami falls asleep on you, it’s entirely by accident.
One minute he’s sitting beside you on the couch, still half-dressed in his work clothes, listening to you talk about something neither of you will remember tomorrow.
The next, his head is resting against your shoulder.
Still.
Heavy.
Warm.
You stop mid-sentence.
Nanami doesn’t fall asleep around people.
Not fully. Not deeply. Not without one eye open to the possibility of disaster.
But here?
With you?
His breathing evens out almost instantly.
The television glows softly across the apartment, washing gold over the sharp lines of his face. Without the constant tension pulling at him, he looks younger somehow. Less like the man who carries entire city blocks worth of grief on his back.
More like someone who was meant to be loved gently.
You stare at him for a long moment before carefully brushing a strand of blond hair away from his forehead.
He doesn’t wake.
That’s what gets you.
Not the affection. Not even the closeness.
The trust.
Kento Nanami trusts you enough to be unconscious in your presence.
The realization settles in your chest with startling weight.
You lower the volume on the TV.
A few minutes later, he shifts slightly, brow furrowing as though he’s trying to wake himself back up on instinct alone.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, voice thick with exhaustion. “Didn’t mean to-”
“Don’t apologize.”
His eyes crack open slowly.
You smile. Soft. Quiet.
“Go back to sleep.”
Nanami looks at you for a long moment after that. Like he’s searching for something in your expression. Permission, maybe. Assurance.
Then he exhales.
And the tension leaves him all over again.
“You’re warm,” he murmurs absently, already half-asleep.
You laugh under your breath. “That’s romantic.”
“Hm.”
“Was that your attempt at flirting?”
A sleepy pause.
“Yes.”
It’s so sincere you nearly melt on the spot.
Because that’s the thing no one tells you about loving Kento Nanami.
He isn’t flashy about it.
He doesn’t shower you in grand declarations or overwhelming displays of affection. Love, to him, exists in consistency. In reliability. In every tiny thing he remembers without needing to be asked.
The exact way you take your coffee.
Which side of the bed you prefer.
How you unconsciously reach for him in your sleep.
He loves in observations.
In quiet persistence.
In staying.
Your fingers move carefully through his hair, slow enough not to disturb him. His arm tightens around your waist instinctively, pulling you closer even asleep.
Outside, rain taps softly against the windows.
Inside, Nanami breathes against your neck, steady and deep.
Safe.
You think, suddenly, that this might be the most intimate thing you’ve ever experienced.
Not sex.
Not passion.
Not desperation.
Just this impossibly capable man allowing himself to rest.
And maybe that’s what love really is to Kento Nanami.
Not intensity.
Not chaos.
Just finally finding someone who makes the world feel quiet enough to sleep through.
Sometimes the house became almost painfully quiet when Simon was away. Not the good kind of quiet, the kind that settled softly over the room and let you breathe for a while. This was different. A strange, persistent silence that felt like something was missing from the walls themselves, like the whole place had forgotten how to sound like home.
You did your best to fill it.
Books, music, little cleaning spurts that turned into reorganizing entire shelves, and, most often lately, cooking. Cooking helped. It gave your hands something to do and your mind something to focus on. It was soothing, for the most part, until you made something you knew Simon would have loved, and there was no one there to tease, taste, or steal the first bite.
Still, tonight’s recipe had gone well. The kitchen smelled warm and rich, all garlic and herbs and something sweet lingering underneath. You stood there with a plate in one hand, ready to finally serve, when you heard it.
A shuffle. Then a low groan from the front door.
Your whole body went rigid.
Simon was not supposed to be back for another week. You were alone. No guests, no deliveries, no reason for anyone to be at the door at all.
Someone was breaking in. Shit.
You went cold all at once, every lecture Simon had ever given you on self defense flashing through your mind, but panic left no room for careful thinking. You grabbed the plate tighter, your knuckles whitening around it, and moved before your brain could catch up.
The lock rattled, the door bursting open and you swung.
The plate shattered spectacularly against the head of the very tall intruder.
For one breathtaking second, you stood frozen, half expecting a stranger, a threat, anything else.
Instead, a familiar grumble filled the doorway, "Fucking hell."
Your soul left your body.
“Simon?” you gasped, throwing your hands up in horror as adrenaline shot through you so fast your fingers trembled.
He staggered inside, a duffel bag slipping from one shoulder and thudding to the floor. One hand braced against the wall, the other pressed to the side of his head.
“Are you okay?!” you gasped.
“I got smashed with a plate. What ya think?” he muttered, eyes shut tight.
“You were supposed to be back in a week!”
“Mission ended early,” he said with a pained groan.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Wanted t’ surprise ya.”
You stared at him.
Then gestured wildly at the ceramic graveyard on the floor.
"That is objectively the worst possible strategy for someone who constantly tells me to be careful because of all the enemies you've made."
He gave you a flat look. “Nice. Blame the victim.”
"The victim broke into the house like a raccoon with military training."
He huffed "rude."
“Just go sit down,” you said, already ushering him toward the sofa. “I’ll get the first aid kit.”
He kicked off his boots with a grunt and dropped onto the couch like all the bones in his body had collectively decided to quit. By the time you returned, kit in hand, he looked tired in that deeply worn-out way that made your chest ache, guilt gnawed at you like a tiny feral creature.
"Si, I'm so sorry," you blurted the second you sat beside him. "I genuinely thought someone was breaking in and then the door opened and I panicked and my body moved before my brain did and I hit you and—"
"It's alright, swee’heart," his voice came soft, steady.
You worked carefully, cleaning the scratches on his forehead and the small cuts along his shoulder. He didn’t even flinch much, though he did keep staring at you with that quiet, warm look that always made you feel like you were the only light in the room.
“Been through a dangerous mission,” he said, “an’ get home to get clocked by me wife.”
“It wasn’t on purpose,” you said, glaring at the cotton pad like it had personally offended you.
“Never said it was.”
“You are being very smug for a man who got ambushed by dinnerware.”
He huffed a laugh. “Usually wives greet their husbands with kisses and hugs. Not ceramic warfare.”
“I was trying out a new greeting method.”
He raised one brow. “Next time, how about a pan to the face?”
You let out a helpless laugh. “Shut up.”
“You hit me.”
“I thought you were breaking in!”
“Still counts as domestic violence, luv.”
You snorted despite yourself, and he looked absurdly pleased with that.
Once you finished, he leaned back into the couch with a long sigh, still horrified and still trying not to laugh at the stupidity of this entire situation. He tilted his head toward you.
“On the bright side,” he said, “I do know for certain you’re safe when I’m gone.”
a/n: hello this is my first Price ONE SHOT! Hope you enjoy because it's been in my drafts for ages! (was too unsure to post it lol)
Summary: As the 141’s medic, you’ve patched Captain Price up more times than you can count, but saving his life on the field shatters the unspoken line between you. What began as quiet pining ignites when fear, anger, and affection collide after battle. Now, in the aftermath, both of you have to face what’s been building far longer than either will admit.
TW: Hurt/Comfort, Violence (gunfire, injury, battlefield wounds), Blood/Injury (mild), Angst with a Happy Ending, Mutual Pining, Protective!Price, Medic!Reader, Emotional Breakdown / Fear of Loss, Kissing
Word Count: 2.9 k
The firefight was complete chaos. Muzzle flashes cutting through the night, the air thick with gunpowder and grit. Your ears rang with the staccato crack of rifles, the shouts of men, the dull thump of grenades in the distance. Nothing new to you as the trusty medic of the 141 squad, though you never really recover after a battlefield like this.
“Gaz, left flank, keep that pressure up!” Price’s voice was sharp over comms, the kind of steady authority that could cut through even the worst storm. He stood in the open, firing in controlled bursts, commanding with the kind of confidence that made men follow without question.
And then you saw it.
The glint of a scope in the shattered window across the street, the tiny movement that screamed sniper. You didn’t think, you didn’t weigh the risk, you just moved. One shove, hard against Price’s chest, sending him staggering back just as the shot rang out. The bullet slammed into the dirt where his head had been, a breath away from ending him.
You felt the burn as the second shot grazed your shoulder, tearing through fabric and skin, but you stayed upright, teeth gritted as you fired back until the window went still.
“Bloody hell!” Soap’s voice crackled through the comms, equal parts impressed and horrified. “You just shoved the Captain out of the way like he was a mere bairn! Saved his damned life, bonnie!”
“Not now, Johnny,” Price barked, but his eyes weren’t on the field anymore. They were on you. And they were furious.
He grabbed your arm roughly the second you reached cover, his gaze scanning the blood already soaking into your sleeve. “What the fuck were you thinking, love?” His voice was low and dangerous, shaking with something more than anger. “You don’t put yourself in the line like that.”
“I just saved your life, John,” you snapped back, breath ragged, heart hammering. “A thank you would be nice.”
His jaw clenched, eyes flashing. “I don’t need saving. Especially not from you.”
The words stung more than the wound, but there was no time to argue. Ghost’s clipped voice came over comms: “Extraction point’s hot. Fall back to the safe house.”
Price shoved his hat back on, grabbed your good arm, and half-dragged you as the team regrouped. You could feel Soap’s eyes flicking between you both with a smirk that promised endless teasing later. Gaz’s quick, worried glance lingered on you, but he said nothing. Then Soap muttered, “Cap sounds more rattled than the bloody grenades, lass. Better watch yourself.”
The rain began just as you reached the safe house. Cold, relentless, drumming against the tin roof. The old stone building smelled of damp wood and dust, the air thick with the heat of bodies and the leftover tension of battle.
Price barked orders as the others settled in, his voice a little too sharp, a little too brittle. He didn’t look at you. Didn’t have to. You could feel the anger rolling off him like heat from a fire, restrained but ready to ignite. And beneath it, though you’d never say it aloud, was fear.
The safe house was nothing more than four crumbling stone walls, two shabby bedrooms and a roof patched together with rusting tin, but after the firefight, it felt like a palace. Rain hammered against the metal, drowning the silence in a steady rhythm. The air inside smelled of wet boots, gun oil, and smoke from the small fire Soap had coaxed to life in the corner hearth.
You dropped your pack by the door and exhaled slowly, willing the adrenaline to leave your body. Your shoulder throbbed where the bullet had grazed you, warm blood still seeping through the fabric of your sleeve. You moved toward the kitchen counter, searching for a rag to bind it with before the wound could stiffen.
“Sit down before you keel over, bonnie,” Soap drawled, tossing you one of his lopsided grins. He plopped into a chair, rifle balanced across his lap like it was just another evening at home. “Captain nearly lost his head, and you nearly lost your arm, reckon Gaz and I are the only sensible ones here.”
Gaz shot him a flat look but didn’t argue. He slid closer, already pulling the med kit from your rucksack. “Let me help, yeah?” His voice was softer, steady as ever.
You gave him a tired smile, but before you could answer, a shadow fell across the room.
Price.
He stood in the doorway, hat dripping rainwater, hands braced on the frame as if he needed to physically hold himself in place. His eyes flicked to your bleeding shoulder, lingered there, then moved on. He didn’t speak, but the tension in the room thickened like smoke.
“Cap,” Soap chirped, far too amused, “don’t suppose you’d like to thank our lass for saving your neck back there? Could’ve sworn I saw your life flash before your eyes when she shoved you out the way.”
“Enough of that,” Price said sharply, stripping off his wet coat. His voice was rough, his accent heavier when he was angry.
“Just sayin’,” Soap muttered, but the grin never left his face.
Ghost, silent in the corner as always, leaned back in his chair with arms folded. His masked gaze shifted between you and Price. “Could cut the air in 'ere with a knife,” he remarked dryly.
Gaz’s lips twitched, but he kept working at the bandage on your arm. “Captain,” he said lightly, “it’s not the worst thing in the world, you know. At least you got someone watching your six.”
Price shot him a look sharp enough to silence any further commentary, but he didn’t answer. He moved to the far side of the room, shoulders hunched, hands busy with his weapon, cleaning it like it hadn’t just taken several lives minutes ago.
You swallowed, jaw tight. For now, it was easier to fuss over the others, distracting yourself. To hand Ghost a dry rag for his gear, to remind Soap to get his boots off the table, to press an apple into Gaz’s hand because you knew he hadn’t eaten since morning. That was your role: the caretaker, the one who kept the boys human. It was easier than acknowledging the weight of Price’s anger still burning in the corner of the room.
But every time your eyes strayed, there he was, watching when he thought you wouldn’t notice. Fury barely held in check, fear tucked just beneath it. You wondered which would crack first.
The safe house was just beginning to settle into uneasy quiet when Price finally snapped.
He stood up from his spot across the room, pacing like a caged animal. His rain-weathered hat was tossed onto the table, his cigar left unlit beside it. The glow of the lantern carved sharp lines across his face, shadowing the hard set of his jaw. He was usually composed, immovable, but now the mask was cracked.
You were seated at the rough wooden table, Gaz carefully checking the bandage around your shoulder. The sting of disinfectant made you wince, but it wasn’t half as sharp as the fire in Price’s voice when he finally spoke.
“You think this is a bloody game, love?” His voice was low at first, but thick with anger that threatened to spill over. He turned to you, eyes burning. “Charging in like that, ignoring orders... You nearly got yourself killed out there. What the hell were you thinking?”
“I—” you began, but he cut you off.
“No. Don’t you dare tell me you had no choice,” he growled, pointing a finger at you. “You shoved me clear and took a bullet yourself. You put yourself on the line, for what? To play the bloody hero?”
“I saved you, Captain,” you shot back, though your voice wavered under the weight of his fury. You only use his official rank when you're really mad, which he knew. “If I hadn’t gone, you would’ve... Would you rather I hadn’t done it?”
“That’s not the point! You don’t get to make that call. You don’t get to throw yourself in front of a bullet for me. Not you,” he interrupted, sharp enough to make your chest tighten. “You could’ve bloody died, love. You got shot. Because of me.”
Soap whistled low from where he lounged by the hearth. “Easy, Cap. The lass willingly saved your skin.”
“Stay out of this, MacTavish. Every one of you, stay the fuck out of this. This is between me and her, and that's an order!” Price barked, though his voice wavered on the edge of something more than anger.
“C’mon,” Gaz muttered, giving you a sympathetic pat before rising to his feet. “She did what any of us would’ve done. What you have done for us several times, Captain.”
Ghost’s voice rumbled from the shadows. “Difference is, Captain doesn’t like the idea of anyone else taking a bullet for him.” His masked gaze flicked your way. “Especially not her.”
The silence that followed was deafening. Soap smirked knowingly, Gaz folded his arms, and Price froze as if someone had just yanked the ground out from under him.
His eyes snapped to you again, hot, desperate, full of something he couldn’t hide now. His voice was quieter when it came, but it trembled with adrenaline. “Do you understand what you did? Do you understand that I can’t....” He stopped, dragged in a ragged breath, then slammed his hand onto the table hard enough to make Soap flinch.
You couldn’t fight him, not really, not with your shoulder burning and exhaustion dragging at your bones. But you could hold his gaze, steady and unflinching, and you did.
“I’d do it again, John. You know I will,” you whispered, because the truth was, you meant it.
His nostrils flared, his eyes squeezed shut like the words had cut deeper than any wound. When he opened them again, the fire was still there, but it wasn’t anger anymore. It was something rawer. Something that made your stomach twist in ways the battlefield never had.
The 141 exchanged looks, unspoken words crackling like static in the air. Soap muttered something about putting the kettle on, and Gaz herded him toward the corner. Ghost only stayed seated, watching like a man at the theatre, silent but unwilling to miss the show. And Price... Price looked at you as though you’d just pulled him back from the edge of a cliff, and he didn’t know how to thank you without shattering.
The safe house had gone still, save for the creak of the old beams. After some time, the others had peeled off one by one. Soap’s snoring rattled from one of the bedrooms that he shared with Gaz, whose shifting in his bedroll could occasionally be heard. Ghost was silent enough, you wondered if he ever truly slept.
But you, you couldn’t sleep.
Your shoulder throbbed beneath its bandage, a dull ache that matched the storm still rolling in your chest. Price’s voice, sharp, furious, too close to breaking, echoed in your ears no matter how tightly you closed your eyes.
So you slipped outside to the patio.
The air was cool and damp, carrying the earthy scent of rain-soaked ground. The night pressed close, black save for the pale silver of the moon. And there he was. Price leaned against the stone wall just beyond the door, broad shoulders hunched, a cigar glowing faintly between his fingers. The smoke curled up into the night, drifting with the mist. His hat, now dry, was tipped low, shielding his eyes, but you didn’t need to see them to know he’d heard you. He always did.
“You should be resting,” he muttered, voice low and gravelled, as though it belonged to the night itself.
“So should you,” you answered softly, stepping closer.
For a moment, there was only the crackle of the cigar’s ember. Then he exhaled, smoke trailing from his lips in a sigh heavy enough to bow his shoulders further. “You don’t make it easy, love.”
The word hung in the air, heavy, tender, unguarded. You saw the instant he realized he’d said it, the way his lips pressed together as if he could shove it back down. But the silence had already shifted; the battlefield had followed you home, and the war he was fighting now wasn’t out there. It was inside him.
Something in the way he just said that, rough, pained, almost defeated, made your throat tighten. “I wasn’t going to stand there and watch you die, John,” you whispered.
He turned to you, finally, and the sight of him stole the breath from your lungs. Lantern light from the doorway carved shadows into the lines of his face again, catching in the silver of his beard, the furrow of his brow. His eyes burned, still stormy, still edged with adrenaline, but beneath the fury was fear. Real, bone-deep fear.
“You don’t get it, sweetheart,” he said, pushing away from the wall, voice rising before he forced it down again. “I can’t have you throwing yourself in front of me like that. I can’t... Christ, I can’t lose you.”
Your chest ached. “You think I want to lose you? You think it wouldn’t gut me just the same?”
He froze, cigar forgotten, his hand clenching into a fist at his side. The night between you thickened, charged with everything unsaid.
“John I-…” you whispered, but he was already turning again, restless, tormented.
“I’ve lost too many,” he muttered, voice rougher now, thick with something you’d never heard from him before. “Men I’ve buried, soldiers I’ve had to write letters home for. I can handle that. Comes with the job. But you-” His voice cracked, and he stopped, staring at you like the ground had opened beneath his feet. “I can’t bury you. I can’t. I'm not losing you. Never.”
Your breath caught. He’d stepped closer without you realizing, his hands still curled into fists at his sides like he didn’t trust himself to touch you. His eyes were no longer the hardened blue of a commanding officer; they were raw, pleading, terrified.
“I understand that John, and you know that I don’t want to be just another soldier to bury for you,” you murmured, your voice trembling but sure.
“You’re not,” he said instantly, like the truth had been waiting all along. “Darling, you’re not. You’re the only thing that makes all this—” he gestured vaguely, helplessly, at the world outside “—bearable. You’re the only good thing I’ve got left.”
“You’re supposed to be the steady one, love,” he continued hoarsely, taking another step closer. “The one who keeps this bloody family together. You know Soap... he runs his mouth, Gaz takes on too much, Ghost- hell, Ghost would burn the world down if left unchecked. And you... you’re the only thing holding the pieces in place. You’re the heart of it.”
The pet names softened his tone, the fury ebbing away until there was only desperation. When his hand finally rose to touch you, calloused fingers brushing your cheek, feather-light as though afraid you’d vanish, it felt like a dam breaking.
He swallowed hard, voice cracking like it hadn’t on the battlefield in decades. “If I lose you… The rest of it falls apart. I fall apart.”
The words shattered something in you, and before you could stop yourself, you hissed back almost pleadingly, “Then stop treating me like I’m made of glass. Stop acting like I’m anything less than what you are to me.”
You leaned into him, into the scent of smoke and rain still clinging to his clothes, into the warmth of a man who’d built walls taller than anyone else’s and was finally letting you inside. His thumb traced along your jaw, lingering, and when you looked up into his eyes you saw the truth there, laid bare and unflinching.
The silence that followed was thick as smoke, hot as fire. His gaze dropped to your lips, lingered, then snapped back up.
And then he kissed you.
It wasn’t gentle, not at first. It was sharp, messy, born of anger and fear and the ache of almost losing everything. His hands framed your face, rough and trembling, pulling you closer as if to prove you were alive, here, his.
You clutched his coat, gasping into his mouth, matching the urgency because you felt it too. That desperate edge, that awful realization that love had grown out of the battlefield like a stubborn weed.
When the kiss finally broke, he pressed his forehead to yours, breaths ragged, voice breaking.
“Not losing you,” he whispered. “Not ever, sweetheart.” And for the first time that night, you believed him.
it started out of nowhere. you were at a pub one evening, a little tipsy from your previous drinks ; when a man came up to you and blalantly made you understand that he wanted a little company for the night. his name was john from what he told you. he was tall, arms tattoed and most importantly very handsome, he for sure knew how to talk to a woman.
you decided to give him a chance and bring him to your place that was closer. he was really not what you expected, he talked like a caring gentleman back at the pub, but the second you entered your apartment, he immediately pushed you on the couch and ripped off your underwear. he roughly manhandled you, and you let him do it.
after multiple orgasms on the sofa, he picked you up and proceeded in your bedroom. he took you harshly in doggy style, your cheek flat against your mattress. you were a babbling mess as his balls rapidly met your ass cheeks, his hands firmy gripping your hair to make you stay in place. you could hear his gruff voice behind you, however you were too far gone to decipher what he was saying to you.
when you woke up next morning he was gone, you found a scratch of paper on your bedside table, his number.
that's how your first night ended, it was the beginning of it.
it’s been a few months now, and you noticed a change in john’s attitude. he doesn’t leave immediately after you fall asleep anymore, you always find him sleeping soundly next to you in the morning, he even made you breakfast once.
he always pays for you when you meet at the pub, even when you order takeout, he never said anything about it ; you never questioned it either.
the most shocking one was how he acted in bed, the 'fuckin’ slut' turned into 'takin’ me so well, luv'. the way he couldn’t help but put his lips on your skin, lips as he fucked you. or how he gently brushed strands of hair off your sticky face when you were completely cock drunk.
but what really made you realize that everything changed was when you woke up at 3am, your phone buzzing. you grabbed it and got slightly stunned by the screen light 'Jonathan' proudly showing on it. you frowned, price was on a deployment since a few weeks now, was he okay ? you heard his gruff voice when you picked up, "i don’t know why i called you, luvie" a faint sight escaped his lips, "do you miss me?" it was his way to say that he did. you chuckled softly, and price felt his heart squeeze at the other end of the line.
you stayed on the phone quite a long time, before you heard someone call him.
"i need t'go now" he inhaled, "can’t wait to see ya, doll"
for all of us who can't bear to read anything but CoD fanfiction (due to the 141's fat tits) do you have any all-time favs?
Such an awful, sick affliction. I made one of these lists a while back but couldn't find it so you’re in luck because I have plenty of favorites and I’m happy to share them (in no particular order. I KNOW I'm forgetting at least ten fics I've read and loved but I have a goldfish brain today, forgive me):
And please, read the tags/warnings. Your consumption is your own responsibility.
Neon Medusa
Too sweet not to share
Ghost and Red Fox
Alford plea
The Willow Maid
Exfiltration
The Arrangement
Civilian Asset
See no evil
Squeeze me I squeak
MildLimerence
Mine & Yours
Saltwater
Metanoia
to you I can admit (that I'm too soft for all of it)
white flag
blood on my shirt, rose in my hand
totally platonic
Surviving you
Dog
all that's said in the lowlight
birdsongs or advice and symphonies for your children
Happiness
songs that sound like sea foam
down to the marrow
roommate gaz
Chink in the Armour
Man-sized
Hummingbird
don't leave me locked in your heart
Listening In
Situationship-verse
The Scottish Cabin in the Woods
Spoils of War
Where Your Feet Pass
Neighborly and/or not The Rear Window
jigsaws
pictures in frames, kisses on cheeks
sirius c
Spoils
Cabin Fever / part one
lotus flower
the lies we tell
Who Dares Win
babytrap anthology
The Hard Way
Of Sea Foam and Iron
bury me beneath the basswood tree
Wicked Harvest
Tiger balm
baby blue
Keeper/Kept
Something Sweet
Stay Away
appetite
nanami who massages the spot between your eyebrows whenever a frown takes over it, or just, nanami in general when his wife is stressed.
sfw, drabble, husband nanami + overworked!reader.
you’re not in the right mind. it’s awful; company is pressuring you, the side gig as a sorcerer is gonna kill you one day, you don’t even know why this life has to be this difficult.
thankfully, your husband is there. the very same one that’s standing in the entrance door as he sees you laying your back at the office chair with your arm covering your face. he approached you and placed a comforting hand on your shoulder. “mm?” without lowering your arm, you could feel the warmth from his hand. “ken?” your hand eventually moved as you sighed, “you’re stressed.” he pointed out the obvious.
“no, just tired.” you lied, denying any claim of whatever he says despite knowing how observant your husband actually is. “same thing for you.” you couldn’t even deny that, you always say that same sentence whenever you are after all. you relaxed just a little bit when you could feel him squeezing your shoulder gently; massaging it simultaneously. his eyes focused on your face as he could pinpoint the lifted heaviness.
yet one thing remained the same: the crinkle on your forehead.
sensing the obvious never ending thoughts in your mind— he moved one of his arm to use his index finger’s knuckle, curling it slightly as it apply gentle pressure between your forehead. when you realized what he was doing, you eventually crumbled with a sigh and allowed him to do what he needs to do. the tension on your shoulder lightened as he could feel your breath steadier, right after he could no longer feel that same wrinkle, he stopped and moved the chair’s direction to look at him.
“better?” you nodded for assurance, “yeah.” hearing that word, he pulled you in to give you a kiss on your forehead. “that’s my wife.” the hand stayed longer as it caresses your skin, seemingly admiring your face just a little longer. “don’t let me see you frown like that again, alright, love?” you smiled at the pet name, this time pulling him the one closer for a chaste kiss on his lips. “i’ll try not to.”
₊ ݃ ࿔ྀིྀ ꒰ 𓈒 NANAMI KENTO might be the pettiest man alive . . .
⎯⎯ ꒰ 1.3k ! ꒱ 💭
contrary to outsider belief, your marriage to nanami worked remarkably well. too well.
a shocking revelation, considering you were “ill-tempered” while nanami had the patience of a saint, allegedly . . . .
the truth of the matter was that beneath the all the composure, politeness, and that expensive wristwatch kento always wore on his wrist, your husband unfortunately was just as much of a brat as you were.
if not, worse.
the two of you held grudges over the stupidest things imaginable: once, nanami corrected your pronunciation of “espresso” during breakfast. so? you didn’t kiss him goodbye before work for three whole days.
in retaliation, your coffee that he would make you each morning mysteriously happened to arrive without the three ounces of sugar you so adamantly required to — “balance out the armpit taste.”
petty. childish. ridiculous.
yet somehow, these cold wars became the foundation of a deeply functional marriage.
“kento dear,” you began, soft steps quietly thudding against the wooden floors as you made your way to him, who was fully dressed: soft charcoal sweater hanging off his frame, pushed up revealing his forearms, reading glasses hanging off the bridge of his nose while his sandy locs unstyled in a way you almost never got to see outside these walls.
which, unfortunately, was the problem. he was far too comfortable for the atrocities he had just committed against you whilst you slept.
“did you touch it?” your voice coming out suspiciously calm.
nanami doesn’t even look up from the cup of jasmine tea he was nursing. “no.”
you only narrow your eyes as you finally end up next to him. “kento.”
that bratty tone of yours was enough to earn you a glance now, hazel eyes tired yet sharp all the same. “i told you, no.”
“yeah, well,” you huff, crossing your arms, looking up at him expectantly, “waking up feeling like i got left in a meat locker says otherwise.”
he shuts his eyes as he takes a slow sip of his tea, setting it down with a soft clink, the steam curling between you. “interesting,” he begins, voice flat with quiet amusement.
“you seem quite functional for someone who claims they’re—” he pauses, unimpressed, before lifting his hand and giving your forehead a quick, precise knock with his knuckles, withdrawing before you can even think to catch his wrist. “—frozen solid.”
“ugh!” you huff, hands missing his wrist and instead clutching your forehead with an adorable frown. “i’m not frozen solid, but i’m going to be. i don’t know why you just can’t leave it on 72.”
he exhales slowly through his nose, “you know i get hot. i shouldn’t have to strip to be comfortable in my own home,” he says flatly.
his hand lifts without much ceremony, gently replacing yours on your forehead. he briefly rubs the spot he’d knocked before his fingers slip down to tug lightly at your ear, earning an immediate, indignant whine from you.
“or would you prefer i start walking around the house naked instead?”
“what? i’m not answering that.” you say, turning your face slightly away from him, the words coming out clipped as you huff under your breath, “pervert…”, still clearly offended at the recurring offenses.
you manage to slap his arm away. “i don’t see why you insist on wearing long sleeves and then complain you’re hot.” you grumble. “you’re making me hot just by looking at you.”
he scoffs softly at that, as if the answer is obvious. “i wear it because i enjoy being properly dressed,” he replies, smoothing an imaginary crease from his sleeve before leveling you with a look. “and physiologically speaking, it’s significantly easier to warm up than it is to cool down.”
“so, like i said,” he murmurs, reaching for his tea again, “the thermostat stays where it is.”
and just like that, the war begins . . .
the rest of the day was full of quiet hostilities:
the two of you swiping the thermostat in opposite directions each time you walked by, addressing each other by first name as if you were two disgruntled coworkers trapped in an enemies to lovers arrangement rather than of spouses, nanami opening windows for “circulation” while you wrapped yourself in blankets like a victorian child afflicted with a devastating illness, texting each other back and forth instead of verbally communicating.
YOU ‣
my hands are blue and numb. i hope your happy
KENTO ‣
*You’re
How are you texting me then?
YOU ‣
don’t be annoying ken.
that’s not the point
clearly, neither of you were willing to concede. which only meant this was quickly becoming a battle of endurance rather than a dispute about “temperature”. which also meant this was not going to end soon.
or so you thought.
despite the many, many hours of domestic warfare, the two of you still end up in bed the same way you always did, backs turned dramatically beneath the blankets, the thermostat unfortunately still set at 63. which meant nanami was winning.
the cold seeped through the sheets and curled around your legs until your body instinctively tucks in on itself, shoulders hunching deeper beneath the comforter with a quiet frown hidden against your pillow. beside you, nanami remaining entirely unaffected, laid comfortably on his side with one arm tucked beneath his pillow, warmth practically radiating off of him in waves.
it was infuriating.
because no matter how committed you were to the cold war, your body had always betrayed you first when it came to your husband.
sometime somewhere in between stubbornness and sleep, you found yourself shifting toward him subconsciously, inch by inch until your forehead presses against his back, your leg slipping over his beneath the blankets in search of warmth. the soft fabric of the white shirt he’d changed into earlier brushes against your skin, warm from sleep and smelling faintly of cedarwood and tea.
and god, the bastard was warm.
firm beneath your touch too, broad shoulders relaxing slightly the second you curl fully into him with a sleepy little sigh.
you knew he was awake. you could tell by his breathing, it wasn’t the same comforting slow that soothed you once the day came to an end.
for a moment, neither of you said anything, pride still clawing at your insides. then came the soft shifting of sheets before nanami turned toward you, your forehead brushing against his chest as his strong arms came to cage you in instinctively, one settling around your waist while the other tucked beneath your head. his chin rested atop your hair with a quiet exhale, pulling you into his warmth.
your fingers curl weakly into the front of his shirt, face pressing deeper against his chest despite yourself. somewhere above you, nanami hums softly, entirely too aware of the fact that you were the one to cave first.
an inevitable outcome.
“interesting,” he murmurs into your hair, sleep roughening his voice. “what happened to hating me?”
you grumble something incoherent against him.
“mm?” he asks, entirely too pleased with himself. “couldn’t quite hear you love.”
your brows pinch immediately. “still hate you.”
his chest rumbles faintly beneath your cheek at that, amusement subtle but absolutely there. absolutely nanami.
“so, you admit defeat?”
you tilt your head up just enough to glare at him through the dark. “i told you. don’t say anyth—”
you were going to argue. save whatever was left of your pride.
except your words barely make it out before he tips your face up just enough to cut you off with a slow kiss, warm and unbearably smug beneath the blankets.
any and all insults died in your throat as butterflies began to bloom low in your stomach, your leg still hiked around his waist while his warmth slowly melted the last stubborn pieces of your pride away as your lips firmly molded against his own, a soft sigh escaping you. one of spite, obviously.
you could feel the faint curve of amusement against your lips when your annoyed little huff melts into him anyway — the exact outcome the two of you had been stubbornly dancing around all day out of pettiness and “spite.”
nanami pulls away from you before resting his thumb on your lower lip. “there you are love,” he murmurs softly against your mouth, breath mingling with yours: entirely too pleased with himself.
“63 seems perfectly fine to me, no?”
he only watches as your expression softens in real time before giving the faintest nod — mentally noting the effect he had on you.
reblogging this because the author's work was reposted on ao3 without their permission or credit, alongside one of my own.
fanfic authors spend countless hours creating and sharing their work for free. the least we can do is respect that effort and make sure creators receive the credit, engagement, and support they deserve 💜
I feel like Sukuna is the type of man to get yelled at by his wife and be genuinely impressed by it, but like hours later when he finally gets out of his feelings.
Because when he first gets yelled at?? 😭😭 he’d be so confused, purely from the fact that it’s the first time anybody’s ever raised their voice at him in years. It’ll probably be at a time when he least expects it too.
Like the 3rd month of dating— you’ve had the worst day of your life week, you’re supposed to get gas on your way home but you skip it and decide to take up Sukuna’s offer of “let me know if you ever need anything”.
Except his reaction to you finally building up the courage to ask for something was the icing on the cake, the final straw.
“Hey babe? Will you put gas in my car?”
“You couldn’t do that on your way back home? The gas stations right down the street.” He lifts a brow and slowly puts his phone down. He’s had a long day too, but at least he got to go home early.
“I know, but I’m just exhausted right now. All I wanted to do was to get back home to you.” An answer that he should be grateful for.
“I’m exhausted too, woman.” He immediately scoffs. “What the fuck do I look like to y—“
“A MAN.” Sukuna swears the earth shook beneath him the moment you started yelling. “YOU LOOK LIKE A FUCKING MAN. GO BE ONE AND PUT GAS IN MY CAR.”
“…” He stares at you for a moment, feeling different emotions all at once. Annoyance, anger, a tad bit of fear, his pants tightening. After sometime of staring you down in silence, he finally grabs the keys from your hands and grumbles, “I’ll be back in 10.”
a/n: i got this idea from @/trintheweirdo on tt 😭🤣
lol continuation of husband!sukuna who just got back from the hospital, has amnesia, and has a cast on his leg. 1 2 3 4 (drabbles in order. this is no. 3)
this is probably the most unserious one but enjoy
you did it.
he was being mean over a show you wanted to watch- mind you, he's been in front of the stupid tv since he got back from the hospital- anyways, the one time you want to pick a show, he decides to have an attitude about it.
you couldn't even hear what was coming out out of the tv because the string of complaints flowing out of your husbands mouth somehow drowned it out- you obviously don't mention it, he'll just come up with some nasty joke about dominating a flat screen tv. "i could probably get laid by a robot before you, since you seem to think the accident broke my dick too." you can just hear it.
but you had to do something, it was getting ridiculous. so you finally did it.
you took the crutches.
they're gone, hidden away. out of his sight and even more out of his reach.
and he's understandably pissed, now he really can't walk. but what is he gonna do?
get up and take them back?
the woods floors are freshly polished, he's not making it past that coffee table alive. every response he's had for you is a threat, but it sounds like sweet victory to your ears this time
"kuna should we order take out?"
"i will remember this when they get this cast the fuck off me." He says in response to the yes or no question.
at least he'll remember something. "chinese it is." you offer him a smile but it only makes his frown lines further deepen. "chowmein?"
"n-" he ends up cutting himself off because that's the one thing he remembers, he hopes he'll remember your most embarrassing moments soon as well.
"yes, chicken." he mutters.
"good boy." you praise the stubborn brute.
you didn't think the death glare could get worse, but it does when he snaps, again. "what the fuck did you just call m-"
"fried rice?" you ask, continuing down the takeout list, not at all bothered since you know where the crutches are. You hold the power right now.
"suck my fucking dick." he rubs his face and sighs in exhaustion, even though there was nothing to be exhausted about. he’s been resting since he got home.
"oh I will"
"huh-" he is incredibly thrown off by that and turns his face towards you, despite his hands still on his face. maybe this was some kind of foreplay(?) you two were into in the past. "you mean it?"
"no"
"fuck you"
the rest:
say you’re sorry (next part) (nsfw)
husband!sukuna in crutches (when you first come home)
it still works! (kuna tries to get freaky)
how could i possibly fight my wife?
the actual one-shot this is all based off of:
Unspoken Bond (kuna waking up in the hospital after a motorcycle accident)
