𝐄𝐍𝐇𝐘𝐏𝐄𝐍 , 𝗷𝘂𝗻𝗴𝘄𝗼𝗻 x fem!reader !⠀⠀ℱ𝓁𝓊𝒻𝒻⠀. ⠀⠀⠀✿⠀⠀⠀w.c.⠀436⠀★⠀established relationship, pure fluff!
koena's tea corner : i need an acts of service lover :(
ever since you were a child, you learned to do things on your own. not out of force, but out of initiative.
you’ve learned to tie your own shoelaces at the age of four, walked yourself to school at the age of seven, and stopped asking for help and doing everything on your own at the age of ten. you’ve learned to walk under the rain rather than calling someone, often appreciating the beauty of the rain clanking against the roofs. independence isn’t stubbornness, it’s just who you are.
from the moment you laid eyes on jungwon, you knew he was the one. jungwon was your calm after the storm, the soft warm breeze after cold nights.
you’ve never paid attention to anything, but jungwon did. he noticed the little things about you. how you never waited for him to open the door for you, or how you never gave him your bag to carry. the way if someone offers to help you, you only smile in return. polite but distant.
but jungwon - he couldn’t not help. hell his love language is literally acts of service, that’s just how he shows care. so, he started small. with no words, jungwon started ordering your go to drink, he’d put the seatbelt on you before you can, even telling “bump” to warn you when you were doing your makeup inside the car.
and you hated it - not to jungwon, but how it made you feel seen and vulnerable. it was new to you, every new.
“jungwon”, you sighed as he crouched down quickly to fix the strap of your heel. “i can do it myself you know.”
jungwon smiled as he stood, nodding. “i know you can, but i want to.”
you observed him for a bit, taking everything. it definitely took you a while to understand that love isn’t about dependence, but rather sharing the weight.
you should’ve looked at the weather app on your app, because then you wouldn’t be freezing like this. you sighed, glancing at the boy beside you.
“won, do you have an extra jacket?” you asked.
jungwon softly chuckled, “i do. wear this while i get the other one from the car, yeah?” before you can react, he was already taking off his coat and putting it on you, his coat engulfing your frame.
“you definitely look way cuter in my clothes. maybe you should start wearing mine too.”
he laughed as you rolled your eyes, making his way to the car before going back to you.
and for the first time in life, independence didn’t mean doing things on your own.
☆.ㅤ 𝐒𝐘𝐍.ㅤ ㅤ──ㅤㅤ your boyfriend thinks there’s no such thing as too close.
ᯓ ࣪ ˖ ִ ★ pairing ── kim juhoon , f reader.
wc: 0,65k
a/n: hi sweethearts ♡ hoping everyone is having a beautiful day !! please remember to eat something and rest well <33, i finally managed to finish this fic thank you so much for all the love and support, it always means the world to me. i hope you enjoy reading ₊˚⊹ ᰔ kisses 🪽
The couch is already warm from the two of you being pressed together for what feels like hours, the kind of lazy afternoon where neither of you bothered to move far enough to even consider standing up. Juhoon is unusually clingy today, even for him, and that alone says a lot.
He’s practically attached to you, arms locked firmly around your waist, his body half draped over yours as if letting go isn’t even an option his mind is willing to process. Every time you shift even slightly, he follows immediately, tightening his hold without thinking.
“You’re even worse than usual today,” you murmur, trying to sound annoyed, but it comes out soft instead.
He doesn’t answer properly. Instead, he pulls you closer again, burying his face into the side of your neck. His breath is warm against your skin, steady but a little uneven, and you can feel how completely relaxed he is like this, even if he refuses to admit it.
“Don’t leave any time soon,” he says quietly, the words muffled against your skin, almost hesitant in a way that doesn’t match his usual confidence.
That makes you pause. Then you smile a little to yourself, fingers sliding up to the back of his neck. “I’m not going anywhere, Juhoon.”
He hums like he doesn’t fully believe you, but his grip doesn’t loosen. If anything, it gets tighter. Like he’s trying to physically make sure you stay.
Your hands start to play with his hair slowly, running through it in an absent, calming rhythm. He relaxes instantly under your touch, shoulders dropping as if he’s been holding tension there all day without you noticing. You feel his breath shift against your neck, slower now.
“You’re really comfortable like this,” you whisper.
“Mm,” he replies, which is not a word but somehow still an answer.
He shifts again, pulling you even closer, like he’s testing how far he can go before you protest.
You let out a small laugh. “We’re going to suffocate if you keep doing that.”
That earns you a quiet laugh from him, low and close to your shoulder, the sound vibrating through you more than you expect. He presses a soft kiss to your shoulder, lingering just for a second before lifting his head slightly. His eyes meet yours for a moment, soft and unreadable in that way that always makes your heart trip over itself.
“Hi,” you say, smiling without thinking.
That seems to be enough for him. He leans in and kisses you properly, slow and warm, like he’s been waiting for that exact moment without realizing it. You melt into it instinctively, your hand still resting at the back of his neck. You love the way he kisses you, even if you would never say it out loud. It’s too easy to give him that satisfaction.
When he pulls back, he doesn’t go far. He never really does.
Your fingers find his hair again, and this time you start messing with it properly, separating strands and pushing them into different directions as if you’re experimenting. “Oou babe, this would actually suit you,” you say, trying to sound serious but failing as you laugh.
You push most of his hair dramatically to the right side, creating the silliest hairstyle imaginable, and tilt your head to admire your work.
“There,” you say proudly. “New look.”
Juhoon looks at you for a moment and instead of complaining, he just smiles. That soft, fond smile that always catches you off guard.
“You’re so adorable,” he says simply, like it’s the most obvious truth in the world.
Before you can even respond, he lowers his head again, resting it right back into the curve of your neck like he belongs there. His arms tighten around your waist again, settling into you completely as if the conversation is over and this is where he intends to stay.
୨ৎ Summary : known across the hospital as the woman who hates men, you built your name in trauma surgery with skill, sharp words, and zero patience for male ego. Then Dr. Jake Sim—beloved anesthesiologist, annoyingly competent, and impossible to ignore—starts appearing everywhere in your life with coffee, lunch invitations, and a smile you can’t stand. You hate men. So why is Jake Sim becoming the exception?
୨ৎ Pairing : anesthesiologist! Jake x traumasurgeon! reader
୨ৎ Wordcount : 3.6K
୨ৎ Song : Heart2Heart : Rude
୨ৎ Warning : SLOW FUCKING BURN BABY!! Jake lowkey down-bad, y/n is certified men hater (me too btw), FLUFF!!, comedic (if you squint), co-worker to.... (idk)
part II Part III
You openly disliked men, especially arrogant, entitled ones who moved through the world as if it had been built solely for them. Every man in your life has given you a reason to. A father who dismissed every achievement unless it benefited him. An ex who cheated, then somehow made betrayal sound like your failure. Colleagues whose eyes lingered too long, whose jokes crossed lines, whose confidence was mistaken for competence far too often. You never understood why society bent itself around them as though they were the natural center of everything. As if possessing a dick automatically granted authority, importance, the right to be heard first, and doubted last. Truly, what was so revolutionary about having a third leg that made them act like first-class citizen??
The trauma pager screamed before dawn. Sharp enough to cut through the thirty minutes of sleep you had managed to steal in the on-call room. By the time you pushed through the emergency doors, scrub top half-buttoned and hair still damp from a rushed sink wash. The paramedics were already rolling in a young man slick with blood and road dust—multiple collisions, hypotensive, barely conscious. Nurses moved around you in practiced chaos, monitors shrieking, metal trays clattering, everyone waiting for your first order.
“Or now!” you snapped, gloving your hands as you walked. “Crossmatch six units, call radiology, someone page anesthesia.”
Then, from just behind your shoulder, calm as if the room wasn’t drowning in panic, came a familiar voice.
“Already here, doctor.”
You turned, and there was Jake Sim, leaning into the storm with an easy expression.
Seeing his smile makes your blood boil. Of course, it was him. Even with alarms blaring, blood on the floor, and a man hovering between life and death, Jake Sim still looked unbearably composed, like this was all mildly inconvenient rather than catastrophic.
“Try looking useful for once,” you said sharply, already moving beside the gurney as the nurses rushed the patient down the corridor.
Jake fell into step beside you without missing a beat, one hand adjusting the oxygen mask over the patient’s face while the other checked the monitor leads. “Good morning to you, too, doctor,”
“It was good until I saw you.”
“Then I’ll try standing behind you next time.”
You ignored him. Flipping through the paramedic report clipped to the patient’s chest. Male, twenty-three, motorbike collision, hypotensive on arrival, suspected abdominal bleed, decreasing consciousness.
“BP?” you asked.
“Eighty over palp,” a nurse answered.
Jake glanced at the monitor—expression sharpening despite the teasing tone still lingering in his voice.
“Airway’s deteriorating. I’m tubing now.”
“Do it while moving.”
“Bossy.”
The elevator doors opened, and the team flooded inside with the bed. You stood at the patient’s side, hands pressed firmly over the soaked dressing at his abdomen. Jake positioned himself at the head of the bed, drawing up medication with practiced speed.
“Etomidate. Rocuronium,” he said.
The nurse passed them over instantly. You looked up just in time to catch him glancing at you.
“What?” you snapped.
“You’ve got blood on your cheek.”
“I’m aware.”
“You wear it well.”
Jake laughed under his breath and pushed the medications. Within seconds, he intubated smoothly, securing the tube as the elevator dinged open onto the surgical floor. The door parted.
“Move.”
The gurney surged forward again, wheels rattling across polished floors as the operating room doors were thrown open. Inside, the scrub team was already waiting. You scrubbed at the sink with aggressive efficiency, barking orders over your shoulder.
“Prep for exploratory laparotomy. Massive transfusion protocol. I want vascular on standby.”
Jake entered the room behind you, tying his mask in place.
“Demanding as always,” he said.
“Shut up.”
Jake only chuckled and stepped closer to the scrub counter.
“You look hot when you’re angry.”
You shot him a flat look over your shoulder.
“Maybe seek psychiatric help.”
Jake only smiled again, the same maddening, effortless smile as he moved to the head of the operating table and began preparing to keep your patient alive while you open him up.
By your second year in trauma surgery, the hospital had already given you a reputation you never asked for. Some called you difficult, others called you cold, but most settled on the nickname whispered through hallways and break rooms with equal parts amusement and caution–the men-hater.
It was easier for them to say that than admit how many times male residents had tried to explain their own cases back to you, how attendings praised the same ideas only after a man repeated them louder, how patients searched the room for a ‘real doctor’ after you introduced yourself.
Every sharp reply you gave, every boundary you enforced, every refusal to smile through disrespect became proof of your bitterness in their eyes. Fine. Let them think you hated men. It was simpler than explaining that you only hated what they kept getting away with.
Then there was Jake Sim.
The hospital effortlessly adored him; people adored men who were handsome, competent, and just charming enough to never be threatening. Nurses smiled when he entered a room. Residents straightened when he spoke. Even attendings, people who looked unimpressed by default, seemed to soften around him. Dr. Jake Sim, anesthesiology’s golden boy.
You disliked him on principle.
Men like Jake moved through life cushioned by a grace rarely afforded to women. If he was blunt, he was confident. If he was playful, he was charismatic. If he challenged authority, he was bold. You had done the same things and been called difficult, abrasive, and emotional.
Worse, Jake seemed entirely aware of the effect he had on people, yet wore it lightly enough to seem innocent. He joked with scrub nurses, remembered everyone’s coffee orders, charmed frightened patients before surgery, and still somehow managed to perform flawlessly once the stakes were real. It would have been easier if he were incompetent. Easier if he were arrogant. Easier if he gave you a clean reason to hate him.
Instead, Jake Sim was annoyingly good at his job. He’s kind when no one is watching, and most annoyingly of all, far too interested in you.
You never smiled at his jokes. Never thank him for favors that you hadn’t asked for. Never looked impressed when others did. If anything, you treated him with the same clipped indifference you reserved for men who thought too highly of themselves.
For some reason, that only seemed to make him come closer.
The nurses filtered out one by one, murmuring good afternoon, leaving the two of you alone in the oversized room. You reached for the strings of your gown, fingers slower now that the adrenaline had drained away.
Before you could undo them, Jake stepped behind you.
You stiffened immediately. “What are you doing?”
“Relax,” he said, voice low and annoyingly calm. “You’re taking forever.”
His fingers brushed the back of your neck as he untied the knot. Even through layers of fabric and fatigue, the touch felt far too noticeable.
“I can do it myself.”
“I know.”
The gown loosened, slipping from your shoulders. He stepped away if nothing had happened. You turned sharply.
“Then why didn’t you let me?”
Jake was peeling off his gloves, expression unreadable now that the teasing had softened.
“Because your hands are shaking.”
You froze. You hadn’t even noticed. When you looked down, there it was, the fine tremors running through your fingers, the aftermath of hours spent forcing steadiness into chaos. Humiliating.
You curled your hands into fists. “I’m tired, that’s all.”
“Mm…”
That sound alone made irritation flare again. He tossed the gloves aside and walked toward you, stopping close enough that the scent of antiseptic clung to him.
“You don’t have to act invincible every second of the day.”
Your jaw tightened.
“Don’t act as if you know me.”
“I know enough.”
Jake studied you for a moment, eyes dropping briefly to your clenched hands before meeting your gaze again.
“I know you haven’t eaten since yesterday,” he said quietly. “I know you took over suturing because the resident was panicking. I know you blamed yourself when his pressure crashed, even though it wasn’t your fault.” He tilted his head slightly. “And I know you’re about two minutes away from collapsing.”
“I’m fine.”
“Liar.”
You hated him.
Hated the calm certainty in his voice. Hated how he said those things without pity, without mockery, without trying to make himself look noble for noticing. Most of all, you hated that after everything—every clipped response, every glare, every deliberate attempt to keep him at arm’s length, yet he still insisted on treating you gently.
It was infuriating.
Why couldn’t he just dislike you properly?
Why couldn’t he return the coldness you handed him so generously? Why couldn’t he be offended, dismissive, petty? Anything easier to understand than this steady, maddening kindness?
Men were predictable when they were angry. Predictable when their pride was bruised. They snapped, sulked, withdrew. You knew how to handle that version of them. But Jake Sim only kept showing up with a warm smile, calm eyes, and observations you never invited.
You wanted to push him into becoming the kind of man you already knew how to hate. Instead, he kept refusing the role.
The next morning began badly.
You had slept for three hours on a call-room mattress thin enough that your bones were screaming in agony. Woken twice by pagers that turned out not to be yours, and spilled half of your coffee down the front of your scrubs while trying to read overnight labs. By the time you stepped into the trauma conference room, patience had already abandoned you.
A cluster of residents fell silent when you entered.
Good.
You dropped into your seat at the end of the table, flipping open the chart for morning rounds.
“If anyone presents nonsense today, I’m sending them back to medical school personally.”
No one laughed.
Also good.
The door opened, and Jake Sim walked in carrying two coffees and looking offensively well-rested. Fresh shower. Crisp navy scrubs. Hair still slightly damp. Not a trace of the sixteen-hour shift he had also worked. You narrowed your eyes immediately.
He noticed, smiled, and changed direction from the empty seat across the room to the chair beside you. Of course he did.
“You look radiant,” he said quietly as he sat down.
“Shut up.”
“Mean already? We haven’t even started rounds.”
“Dr Sim,” honestly, you almost lost it.
He set one coffee beside your folder. You stared at it.
“Take it back.”
“No.”
“I didn’t ask for this.”
“I know. You rarely ask for anything. It’s one of your more exhausting traits.”
You pushed the cup back toward him without looking. “Try poisoning someone else.”
Jake slid it neatly back into place. “Oat milk. No sugar. Extra shot.”
Your hand paused halfway to the chart. Annoying.
“You need hobbies,” you muttered.
“I have one.”
You glanced at him despite yourself. “What?”
He met your eyes, expression perfectly innocent. “Getting under your skin.”
Before you could reply, the attending entered, and the room straightened instantly. Rounds began in a blur of scans, bloodwork, complications, and clipped presentations. You corrected three residents, questioned one medication order, and dismantled a surgical pan so flawed it nearly offended you personally.
Jake said little. He simply sat there, reviewing anesthesia notes, occasionally leaning over to slide relevant vitals or postoperative concerns onto your side of the table before you had to ask. You hated how useful he was.
Halfway through the meeting, the attendees discussed a difficult abdominal trauma case from the previous night.
“Post-op hypotension likely due to fluid shifts,” one senior resident offered.
You opened your mouth.
Jake spoke first.
“Or missed retroperitoneal bleed.”
The room turned. The attending frowned thoughtfully. “Reasoning?”
You felt your irritation sharpen. Because he was right. The attending nodded slowly.
“Good catch. We’ll re-image.”
Then his gaze shifted to you. “Thoughts, doctor?”
“I think anesthesia got lucky.”
You crossed your arms. A few residents choked back smiles. Jake didn’t even blink.
“And I think surgery should buy me breakfast.”
The room laughed. You did not. But when you reached for your coffee a moment later, it was still warm.
.
.
.
.
A few weeks after the surgery, Jake Sim was still impossible to avoid.
Not because he chased you through corridors like some desperate intern with no dignity–though you suspected he was capable of it, but because he had somehow woven himself into the rhythm of your days. In trauma calls, he was there before you finished giving orders. In the OR, he stood behind the drapes with that infuriatingly calm voice. In the break room, there would already be a coffee waiting where you liked to sit, as if the cup itself had developed poor judgment.
You told yourself it meant nothing.
Jake was friendly with everyone. Helpful to everyone. Annoyingly competent with everyone.
So why should it matter that he remembered your orders before you gave them, or noticed when you skipped meals, or somehow knew exactly how you took your coffee without ever asking?
It didn’t.
That was what you were telling yourself when he cornered you outside the staff elevators after a fourteen-hour shift. The corridor was nearly empty, lights dimmed to evening mode, your pager blessedly silent for once. You were too tired for conversation and too hungry for patience.
Jake stepped in front of the elevator doors just as they opened.
You stared at him. “Move.”
“Dinner.”
“No.”
“That wasn’t a statement.”
“It sounded like one.”
“It was an invitation.”
You jabbed the closed-door button repeatedly. “Declined.”
He reached past you and caught the elevator door before it could shut, entirely too close for your liking.
“Tomorrow night.”
“No.”
“Tonight, then.”
“No.”
“Coffee after shift.”
“No.”
Jake tilted his head, studying your face with that same maddening calm he wore in operating rooms and arguments alike.
“Are you rejecting me,” he asked, “or just enjoying saying no?”
Your jaw tightened. “I’m trying to figure out if you’re stupid or joking.”
“Neither.”
“Then what is this?”
“A date.”
You gave a short, humorless laugh. “Right.”
“I’m serious.”
“That’s the stupid option.”
Something like amusement flickered across his face, but he didn’t step back.
“You really think I’ve been asking because I’m bored?”
“I think men like attention.”
“And you think I’d go through weeks of being insulted for fun?”
“Yes.”
“That’s fair,” he admitted. “But wrong.”
The answer annoyed you more than if he had argued.
You crossed your arms. “You flirt with everyone.”
“I’m polite to everyone.”
“You’re smug with everyone.”
“Only with you.”
“That’s not helping your case.”
“It’s not a case.” His voice lowered slightly. “I like you.”
You blinked once, more out of irritation than surprise.
“No, you like provoking me.”
“I like that too.”
“Jake.”
It was the first time you had said his name without adding an insult after it. His expression changed almost imperceptibly.
“Dinner,” he repeated softly. “One hour. If you hate it, I’ll stop asking.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You promise?”
“No.”
“Unbelievable.”
“But I’ll stop asking for a week.”
“That’s not tempting.”
“It should be. You look tired.”
“I look like I regret speaking to you.”
“You always look like that.”
The elevator chimed impatiently behind you.
You stepped inside, forcing him to move back.
“Goodnight, Dr. Sim.”
He smiled, hands in his pockets, entirely too pleased with himself.
“Think about it.”
The doors slid shut between you. You exhaled sharply, pulse annoyingly uneven. Then looked down and realized he had slipped a protein bar into your coat pocket sometime during the conversation.
You hated him.
.
.
.
.
Three days later, you made a mistake.
It happened at 12.40 p.m. After back-to-back consults, a trauma activation that turned out to be alcohol and poor decisions, and a resident who asked whether the spleen was ‘strictly necessary’. You were hungry, irritated, and too tired to defend yourself properly. And the last thing you want to happen the next day is Jake still asking you to date.
After all, luck was never on your side.
Jake found you outside the imaging suite, leaning against the wall with two coffees and the expression of a man who had never once suffered inconvenience.
“Lunch,” he said.
“No.”
“You said that yesterday.”
“I meant it yesterday, too.”
“How about today?”
You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Why are you like this?”
“Persistent? Handsome? Deeply committed?”
“Unbearable.”
He grinned. “Still available for lunch.”
You stared at him for a long moment, then at the clock, then at the hallway stretching endlessly back toward more work. You were starving.
The cafeteria was five minutes away.
And if agreeing to one meal made him stop asking for at least a day, it counted as strategic surrender.
“Fine,” you said flatly. “Lunch.”
Jake blinked. For the first time since you’d known him, he looked genuinely caught off guard. Then his entire face changed. Not smug satisfaction. Not teasing triumph. He looked happy.
Ridiculously, openly happy.
“Seriously?” he asked.
You immediately regretted everything. “Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m not making it weird, you just said yes.”
“To lunch.”
“With me.”
“To food.”
He laughed under his breath, then straightened so quickly it was almost embarrassing. “Right. Yes. Of course. Food.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Why do you look like you won something?”
“Because I did.”
“You did not.”
“I absolutely did.”
You turned and started walking before he could say anything worse. He fell into step beside you, annoyingly energetic for someone who had also worked all morning.
“Do you want noodles or rice?” he asked.
“I want silence.”
“Cafeteria might not have that.”
“You’re very close to losing lunch privileges.”
“You’ve already given me privileges?”
You shot him a look sharp enough to cut skin. He only smiled wider.
The entire walk there, Jake was insufferably cheerful. He held doors open, moved people aside with polite excuses, and somehow looked proud simply carrying your coffee beside you. Two nurses passed and exchanged startled glances.
One of them mouthed finally. You nearly turned around.
By the time you reached the cafeteria, Jake was practically glowing.
“Explain.”
“What?”
“Why do you look like a golden retriever that just got told he’s going to the park?”
He laughed loud enough to earn stares. “That’s specific.”
“It’s accurate.”
Jake looked at you for a second, smile softening into something less playful.
“Because you said yes.” he said simply.
Your chest tightened in a way you deeply resented.
“It’s lunch,” you said coldly.
“I know.”
“Not a date.”
“Didn’t say it was.”
“Good.”
He nodded once, still smiling. “Then let’s have lunch.”
You hated that your pulse was uneven over something so stupid. You hated more that when he reached for a tray, he grabbed one for you automatically.
The cafeteria was louder than usual, packed with staff escaping their departments for the brief illusion of rest. Trays clattered, chairs scraped, pagers went off in every corner. You chose a table near the back out of habit. Jake sat across from you like he had been invited there his entire life.
You set your tray down and immediately noticed he hadn’t touched his food. He is just looking at you. Not casually, not absentmindedly. Looking at you with an expression so openly pleased, it made irritation rise on instinct.
You frowned and unwrapped your utensils with more force than necessary. “That’s unsettling.”
Jake only leaned back slightly in his chair, still watching you with the same warm, maddening gaze. As if sitting across from you in a mediocre hospital cafeteria was somehow the best part of his week. You hated that.
“Eat your food,” you said.
“In a minute.”
“Why not now?”
“Busy.”
“With what?”
His eyes moved over your face slowly, almost thoughtfully. “Memorizing this.”
Your chopstick paused midair. “Memorizing what?”
“You're agreeing to have lunch with me. You look annoyed, but less than usual.”
“I look annoyed because I am.”
“Still came.”
“I came for carbohydrates.”
Jake smiled softly. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
You looked down at your plate, refusing to acknowledge the sudden warmth crawling up your neck. He laughed quietly, eyes crinkling at the corners. Then his gaze softened again in a way that made your chest feel annoyingly tight.
“I like seeing you like this,” he said.
“Hungry?”
“Relaxed.”
You almost scoffed. “I’m not relaxed.”
“You’re not working. That’s close enough.”
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The noise of the cafeteria blurred around the table. Jake looked at you as if there were no one in the room. No urgency, no performance, just quiet, uncomplicated fondness. It was deeply unfair.
“If you keep staring, I’m leaving.”
He picked up his chopstick at last. He only smiled into his food, still far too happy for a man who had simply gotten lunch.
You told yourself the attention should have irritated you more than it did.
It should have felt invasive, performative, another version of the same male habit of taking up space wherever they pleased. You had spent years sharpening yourself against men like that. But this didn’t feel like that.
Jake wasn’t trying to corner you, impress an audience, or collect gratitude for basic decency. He wasn’t asking for anything in return. He simply sat across from you with that stupid soft expression.
You didn’t hate it. That was the problem.
Youd idn’t love it either. It made you restless, suspicious, vaguely off-balance in a way you disliked. There was no clear angle to defend against, no obvious flaw to dissect, no cruelty beneath the surface waiting to reveal itself. Just Jake Sim.
You didn’t understand him. You didn’t understand why a man like Jake Sim, liked by everyone and wanted by easier women, kept choosing resistance. Why did he return after every sharp word? Why did kindness from you seem optional, but your presence somehow mattered? And perhaps most unsettling of all—
You didn’t understand why part of you had started letting him.
husband! robert witnesses one of your meltdowns for the first time
He froze for a second. “Uh… what happened?”
It had been one of those days. The kind where everything felt wrong for no reason.
You looked up, tears spilling again. “I don’t even know!” you said between sniffles. “I just— I dropped my coffee this morning, then my boss yelled at me, and then my favorite pen broke, and then I came home and stubbed my toe—” You took a shaky breath. “And now everything just sucks!”
Robert blinked. “The pen too?”
You glared through your tears. “Yes, the pen too!”
He tried not to smile, but it was no use. “Alright, okay. Come here.”
He sat beside you and gently cupped your face, thumbs brushing over your wet cheeks. “Hey, look at me.”
You shook your head. “No, I look gross.”
He tilted his head. “You look like someone who’s had a long day. Still cute, though.”
You sniffled again, trying not to laugh. “Don’t say that while I’m crying.”
“I’ll say it whenever I want,” he said, still holding your face like it was something fragile. He wiped another tear with his thumb, soft and slow. “You don’t have to hold it in, alright? Just cry if you need to. I’ve got you.”
You let out a small laugh between hiccups. “You sound like a therapist.”
He grinned. “Free therapy. Comes with the marriage license.”
You finally smiled a little, and Robert’s expression softened more. He leaned in and pressed a light kiss to the tip of your nose. “There we go,” he said quietly. “That’s better.”
You sighed, relaxing a bit in his hold. “Sorry for being like this.”
He shook his head. “You don’t have to say sorry for feeling things. You’re human. I’m just here to keep you from drowning in your own tears.”
“That’s dramatic.”
“Yeah, but it got you to laugh again,” he said, smirking.
You rolled your eyes, wiping at your face with your sleeve. “You’re annoying.”
“Yeah,” he said easily. “But you love me.”
You mumbled, “Unfortunately.”
He chuckled and kissed your forehead. “C’mon, let’s get you some water before you turn into a raisin.”
You laughed again, smacking his arm lightly. He just smiled, watching you with that calm look he always had — the one that made even the worst days feel a little lighter.
Gojo waking up to his wife (you) screaming for his help. Turns out it was because of a bug.
Husband!Gojo, Geto mentioned at the end, fluff, pure silliness, wholesome, just cutesy in general.
a/n: Wrote this because i found a creepy crawlie in my bathroom. Unfortunately it’s still there ; ;
Gojo heard a scream that shot straight through his dreams like a bullet. His eyes flew open, heart jolting, and he sat up so fast he nearly fell off the bed. Ignoring the heaviness in his limbs and the faint dizziness from being ripped out of sleep, he immediately followed the direction of the scream.
He sprinted down the hallway, fully expecting a curse to be lurking around the corner. By the time he skidded into the kitchen, his brain had already gone through several possibilities in rapid panic: a curse attack, a burglar, maybe you accidentally broke one of your favorite mugs again, which honestly was equally terrifying.
But it was none of those things.
It was something far worse.
A damn cockroach sprinting around the kitchen floor like it owned the place.
Gojo froze. Not because he was scared. No, never that. It was just that the sight in front of him was too priceless. You were standing on the kitchen counter, barefoot, shaking like a leaf, holding a spatula above your head like it was a legendary weapon forged to slay evil. Your face was twisted in pure horror, and you stared at him like he was your only hope of survival.
“Babe, what happened?! Do I need to use Hollow Purple for this?!” he shouted, still half-prepared for danger.
You pointed the spatula at the floor with the intensity of someone pointing a gun. “Toru! You’re just in time! Turn that damn cockroach into dust, please!”
He blinked at you, then at the bug. “Do not be dramatic. It is not going to eat you alive, silly.”
“I know that,” you snapped, voice trembling, “but it is disgusting as hell! Just kill it already!”
Gojo sighed, but he was smiling. Of course he was. He pushed up his sleeves like he was about to engage in a real battle and chased after the skittering pest. The cockroach darted left, then right, faster than he expected. Just when he cornered it, the menace decided to evolve.
It lifted its cursed wings and flew.
Gojo jumped back so fast he hit the fridge. “What the fuck?! Holy shit!” His voice cracked as he scrambled backward.
You stared at him in outrage. “What are you doing?! You literally have Infinity! That thing will not even touch you!”
He pointed at the roach mid-flight like it was a demon. “I don’t care! That is disgusting and scary as hell!”
At that point, the two of you were both standing on the kitchen counter, hugging your knees like helpless victims in a horror movie while the cockroach buzzed around like it was mocking you.
Gojo pulled out his phone with a shaky hand and dialed the only person who had the patience for both of you.
“Geto. Please. Help. There is a situation.”
And that is how Suguru ended up walking into your kitchen at six in the morning, armed with a slipper and questioning his existence, as usual.
DO NOT REPOST ON OTHER SOCIAL PLATFORMS OR USE FOR AI.
What about a waterboy x super reader and the reader is a very well known hero and Z team sees Waterboy constantly looking at Readers pictures all over billboard or something like that and they start teasing him about it and him not having a chance ect ect but turns out waterboy did infact have a chance since they were dating? Or something similar
Waterboy x Famous!Superhero Reader
Pairing(s): Waterboy x Gn!Reader
A/N: Because your req deals with a famous superhero reader, I figured it’d be best to give hcs about u and waterboys relationship as well. The story will be after the hcs! :)
(S/N) = Superhero name
You taking an interest in him? Unbelievable and insane to him
He’s absolutely frightened to approach you, especially while still a janitor at SDN
I mean, whether he's a fan of you prior to your relationship is up in the air
But he still has an idealized version of you in his head regardless
I imagine that the two of you would have to get to know each other outside of work and your jobs
Especially if you work at SDN since it’s a rarity for him to get to even see you in the first place
More so if you don’t
I imagine that it's late at night, and while going through the fridge at his shared home, waterboy realizes he’s lacking some stuff he needs for the next day– especially given that he finished it off without letting his grandma get a piece
So, off he goes to the convenience store
He does his shopping (while cursing himself for his lackluster social skills) and while going over the failed interaction over and over again in his head– he sees someone sitting down in the gloom behind said store
It startles him so badly that he drops his bag and everything in it
You, being the good samaritan that you are, lean down and help him
He’s flustered and trying to tell you that he can get it himself when your eyes meet his
The first thing he realizes is that you were crying
And the second is who you are
I mean, sure, you’re not in uniform
But you’re anything but unrecognizable
He freaks out, again
But then realizes, despite his awkward social interactions, that maybe it isn’t the best time to bring up your fame or even be outwardly excited at your unexpected meeting
So, instead he asks why you were crying
He expects you to tell him to mind his business, or get upset
But, instead, you break down– and that's when he no longer views you as your superhero persona
I mean, he can’t even begin to imagine how much pressure you’re under on a daily basis so he tries his best to be there for you– even if he is a stranger
Luckily, you seem to find his attempts to comfort you funny and he manages to pull a couple fullhearted laughs from you
Eventually you depart but he can’t stop thinking about you– nor the sound of your laughter
He begins to ask the question: Who really are you?
I imagine that the two of you only really ever meet at night from then on
It’s when you have enough free time– and when Herm finds out you’re missing out on much needed sleep for him– well he’s horrified
The two of you learn more about your real names and lives as you two continue meeting up
Obviously he learns your name, but he’s pleasantly surprised (and bashful) when you tell him his name suits him, and how cute it is
Now, for how the two of you get together isn’t as climactic as you’d assume
It was another night that the two of you got together to hang around– another night of seemingly endless talks
Well, until you saw the sun rise that is
The two of you were hanging out on a nearby park, swinging slowly while eating your respective ice cream selections
The two of you spoke about endless topics so naturally that Herm found himself being able to speak with more confidence than he ever has before
With the exception of when he was reminded of his growing feelings for you of course
I like to think, that despite all signs pointing one way, Herm would be the first to confess
He’d stutter, look to the ground, at his feet, at the streetlight– anything but you and still manage to pour out how he feels by the end of it
Once he’s done talking, he’s just grateful he managed to say it at all
You accept, of course you do, but he doesn’t know that it was the obvious choice for you to make
Even when you say so
Also feel like its worth mentioning that if Herm was a big fanboy of you– and you eventually found out– well he’d wish he could simultaneously combust
Of course he doesn’t really mind the teasing, it’s you afterall, but there’s only so much he can take
(He also freaks out if you give him any exclusive merch he missed on during merch drops)
Though, even though he's a fanboy, I doubt he’d really find your display when you first “met” to be all that shocking
He knows you’re human, he was just a bit taken aback is all
And if anything, him being a big fanboy would just change that he has merch of you all over his room and that he’s more bashful around you in the beginning
After you two get into an official relationship, arrangements change obviously
He probably gets involved with your company (if you aren’t with SDN) and have to experience the series of emotions said company goes through
They’re disappointed that you’re dating someone, think it’d be great and good for publicity, only for them to realize this guy (Herm) isn’t well known whatsoever
Nor is he anything to go home about (their words, not mine)
Obviously they end up HAVING to be okay with it
Herm doesn’t know the details but it could be assumed that you threatened to quit
It goes without saying that Herm has to be lowkey about your relationship (at first anyway) but I imagine you threaten your way (even more) to an agreement where you can be vocal about your relationship
Even then, I think he’d mentioned having a s/o but never go into specifics
And that leads to the following…
(CW: Possiblg Ooc characters; for minimum cringe, read in characters voice)
It had become a trend for members of the Z-Team to notice Herm's longing stares at billboards, magazines, and even how he perked up at the mention of one of your fights that made headlines recently in casual conversation.
So, after getting in a fight at a bar and dragging everyone else into it– Flambae approached Herm and wrapped his arm around his shoulders in the obnoxious way that stereotypical highschool bullies that you only ever see in movies do.
The Z-Team were not too far from where the bar fight had occurred but a few members were still catching their breath if hearing Sonar actively puking in the background and into a bush was anything to go off of.
It was supposed to be another attempt at a team hangout– one to “make up” for the first one that happened a few months ago.
Of course it wasn’t really, if anything it was an excuse to go out, drink, and have Robert pay for all of the drinks.
Flambae, while holding Herm in a pseudo chokehold, spoke and addressed the rest of the group and audience, clearly trying to humiliate Herm, “So, Herm” He said, uncharacteristically addressing waterboy by his actual name– and even at all, “who are you texting?”
Herm’s cheeks flushed. He looked down at his phone. “Um … my partner,” he said, confused and concerned where this was going.
Flambae raised an eyebrow, still smirking. “Your… partner?” He laughed, way more obnoxiously than usual. “You do know that there’s a difference between real life and imagination, right Hermy?” He gave Herm’s shoulder a playful shove, but it was clear he was mocking Herm’s seeming “obsession” with you.
Herm couldn’t even get a word out before Flambae let go, stepping back, and picking up a waterbottle– one he’d managed to salvage from the fight. He raised it, gave a little shrug, then set it down with a thud. His interest seemed to fade … until the others joined in.
Robert, who’d been watching the unavoidable spectacle, cleared his throat. “Hey … that’s kind of low, man,” he said to Flambae. “I’m sure he has an actual partner, and it’s none of our business. Alright?" Robert was clearly trying to steer the topic elsewhere.
Invisigal leaned against the bench, stretching and laying back. “Well … it’s not entirely untrue. I mean,” she paused, “doesn’t he stare at pictures of (S/N) all the time? I get being a fan but it gets to a point, y'know?"
Prism stepped forward from where she was standing. “Yup, “I’ve lost count how many times I’ve seen him gawking at (S/N)’s face plastered everywhere. I mean, I get it, they’re hot but geez.” She added with mild disinterest.
Malevola leaned forward from her spot on a discarded large rock and shrugged, “The idea’s not worth entertaining.”
Most of the Z-Team laughed, and for a moment, Herm just stood there. He admitted that it was probably stupid for him to be so obvious about your guys’ relationship (even if it wasn’t to them) and figured it just wasn’t worth trying to defend himself against.
Then Robert looked toward him, “You mentioned them before, something about meeting up with us sometime, do you know when–”
His words were cut off as a figure swooped down from above, landing softly beside Herm. The rest of the Z-Team froze. The figure was none other than (S/N), the person who had been all over Herm's mind (and apparently the city), aka you.
You turned to Herm, and in a moment of forgetting all of your PR training, you pulled him into a big hug and kissed his cheek. Then, you sheepishly turned to the audience you had momentarily forgotten about, and addressed them. “Hey, sorry for crashing the…party?”
Your words trailed off as you took in the scene of the battered heroes.
Herm turned to you, “H‑how’d you find me?” Confusion was written all over his face.
You turned back to him, reached out, then stopped yourself, “Your phone. I was worried about what you told me– with the fight, so I just…tracked you?” You smiled, not sure whether that would come off as weird to the audience.
When you turned back to address them, the Z-Team just stared. For the first time the entire night, everyone was completely silent. Prism's mouth was wide open– and Malevolas mirrored hers. Visi was the only one that managed to contain her surprise.
“Well” You coughed awkwardly, “I have a feeling no one knew…”
-
Extra: The Z team are in shock over you but eventually they realize you’re equally a dork and you also become a victim of their teasing alongside Herm
you were curled up on the couch, the heating pad on high where it rested on your stomach. the sound of steves footsteps and a bag rustling began drowning out the quiet sounds of sixteen candles playing on the tv across the room.
his hair brushed your nose as he leaned down to kiss your forehead “hey, sweetheart. i made a stop at the store” his hands began to gently card through your hair.
you tilted your head back wiith a tired smile as you looked up at the midol and milkshake he was holding up like a trophy. “the pharmacist said this one’s like extra.. cramp-fighty” he began to open the bottle of medicine.
he looked so proud of himself it made your heart flutter. you’d been dating steve for over a year now, and he was always so tender and caring during your menstrual cycles. “you didn’t have to all that, stevie”
he kneeled down in front of you on the couch to press a hand onto the heating pad while guiding the medicine to your lips “ ‘course i did, can’t just let my girl suffer alone.” a soft pink blush hit your cheeks as you opened your mouth to take the medicine, he guided your water to your lips. “this thing warm enough for you? i can turn it up? y’know i read online that-“
“the heats fineeee, stevie. it’s just the pain that’s not going away” you whined softly, and his face fell instantly. he hated how much pain you were in, and that there was nothing he could truly do about it.
“im so sorry, baby. i hate that you go through this every month.. tell me what you need from me. anything. anything at all.” his hand began to gently massage your stomach in soft circles, pressing down on your abdomen with just enough pressure.
a soft sigh escaped your lips “just.. more of that.. and maybe you could hold me?”
he nodded instantly and slid in behind you on the couch, his arms encircling your waist as he held your back to his chest. “wish i could take it all away for you, id take every bit if i could” his lips pressed against your temple as you snuggled deeper into his embrace.
“you’re so sweet to me, stevie.” you loved being his, and being his meant he would always be the who would take care of you without question.
“you sure i can’t y’ know.. fight em with a nail bat or something?” his playful and teasing tone washed over you and a soft laugh escaped your lips. you turned your head to look at him with clear fondness in your eyes “you are an idiot, steve harrington”
-♡
this was an anon request but so cute, i love. likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated!
