#he's really good at recognizing patterns

[eastberlin]

I am so tired of being stressed/anxious/worried.

[angorwhosebabyisthis]

five's character suddenly makes a lot more sense when you look at it as a metaphor for a kid indoctrinated into an abusive evangelical church, who has been convinced that hell is real.

[longpost, talk of religious abuse--mainly the evangelical christian variety--after the cut.]

he's convinced that everyone who doesn't comply with the church's rules will go there; that leaving won't save you, because hell will be waiting for you in the end; and that everyone who claims to believe differently is lying and knows better, they're just pretending they don't because they don't like the idea of acknowledging authority in the time they have before hell catches up to them. and as much as he's been taught to be self-righteous and unsympathetic about people who '''choose''' hell, in practice he's the kid who goes around trying to have the 'so have you accepted jesus into your heart' speech with everyone he even remotely cares about, and won't back off about it even though it goes over Absolutely Fucking Terribly and he's being an asshole, because if he doesn't get them to convert when (he thinks) there's any chance they might have done so they will go to hell and it will be his fault.

and like, this adds a lot of layers to his hatred of nine and what he thinks (and in some ways is correct 🙃) that he stands for. but one of the big ones is that as far as he's concerned, nine can and will snipe people to send them to hell out of spite for converting to save themselves. one of the things that made him hate him so much--decide he Needs and Deserves to Die--is that he was told sandor made the decision to comply with the mogs because it was the Smart Thing to Do... and that nine punished him for it by murdering him brutally. and that given half the chance nine would do it to him.

for all he's been indoctrinated to value Having Power Over Other People and Deserving It Because You're Special, at heart five has major just world fallacy going on because he desperately wants to believe that everyone can be safe, and happy, and understand each other. that all that needs to happen for them to have that is to make the right choice. he doesn't actually believe the mogs are inherently Superior; he thinks they have the same fair shot as everyone else and that the only difference is that they will take that shot, and are honest that they're doing so.

whereas what is one of the other big things he hates nine for? the one that fills him with so much rage he has to stop reading about him? the idea that nine is inherently superior to him and the others, and deserves a better life, regardless of any choice they ever could have made.

he's told that the elders saved nine for last because he was strongest, and that the earlier numbers were cannon fodder because they were weak. he's told that he and the lower numbers were forced into hiding, made to suffer, to buy nine a little more time. and he's told that in the event he managed to survive that far, he would be nine's inferior--his servant--because he's a lower number.

five talks about how he's superior and deserves to rule everyone else because he has 'potential,' but it's not about how powerful he is because of his legacies; it's that he thinks he's willing to make the right choice. he thinks the idea of treating someone like they don't have a right to that choice because they're inherently worth less than others is absolutely fucking repugnant. and where the mogs get him is by twisting his idea of what constitutes Everyone Being Happy so far that they convince him their cause, which is doing exactly what he hates most, is the one that's fair.

add onto that that he's terrified of the idea that you can in fact just be completely fucked no matter what choices you make, and just gets more and more invested in coping via denial the clearer it becomes that he is the one who is utterly royally fucked no matter what he does, and... well, you get some real unfortunate end results to say the least. but like, that's where he's coming from.

so to wrap this back around to the evangelism metaphor: if you believe what five believes, the idea of someone being willing and able to do what nine does by sending someone to hell regardless of their own choice would be Existentially Horrifying to begin with! but it also goes against one of five's deepest core beliefs, both reasonable and Unfortunate Coping with Trauma. and when you pile that on top of the immense suffering he's gone through over it, the result is going to be visceral burning hatred.

anyway this post is already Long and i've got a lot more thoughts in me about it, but suffice it to say five absolutely is a metaphor for evangelical trauma, and how victims get weaponized into extensions of their church's abuse. and it's an evangelical survivor's nightmare, because the version of hell he's been taught to base his entire worldview around fearing is objectively real. 🥲

(the real smoking gun here? not only is the Great Book a really obvious analogy for the bible, but the name is a retcon. what was it called before that, while he's evangelizing about it no less?)

(the Good Book.)

(welp.)

[vastiitas]

Thinkin bout the kid wanting to go west, wanting to pick up a security job, seedling instincts that BW allowed to flourish unabashedly to the skillsets he'd scraped together surviving as some street urchin

[005mins]

/  my man literally called out his own servant-

[obstinaterixatrix]

Truck comes first and if there is any money left over the kids may eat. - Modern Consumer Patriarchy

[zaczenemiji]

I really wanted to ask if you could do like a GN! It can be fem too it doesn’t really matter—

The Reader where like Ultraman can transform bigger too but they're more inspired by Mothra (like a mothra suit). I think it would've been like so cute to see Emi go all awe and clingy to the reader because how bright and heavenly they look💕

Kenji gets all jealous seeing his kajju daughter prefer the reader over him a lil bit. tall parents raising baby monster

Emi’s Favorite

Kenji Sato x Reader

Word Count: 1,546

Genre/Warning: Established Relationship, Family Dynamics, Jealousy (very slight)

Author’s Note: Loved this idea so much, thank you for this first request! Emi with a moth mommy ⋆˚ʚɞ

MASTERLIST

Something about your boyfriend changed the night after Gigantron’s “attack” on Tokyo Dome. That night, you were supposed to help him fend the kaiju off but he insisted he’d do it on his own.

For some reason, you were glad you did not join in because (1) their fight became a pursuit in the sky, and (2) you could not zoom in the air the same way Ultraman does. The only reason you’re able to fly is because of your wings—moth wings on your suit, which would put you at a disadvantage in the case of an air chase.

You were supposed to come over to his place that night to check on him because you were sure that the skirmish had caused more damage to his already injured shoulder. However, your calls were left answered by Mina, telling you that Kenji had already fallen asleep.

Deciding not to disturb him, you simply let him be. But in the days that followed, something surely wasn’t right. He couldn’t focus on his games, he looked so fatigued and restless all the time, and oh good gracious, there were now dark circles under his eyes.

He just looks so stressed and you were so upset with the fact that he didn’t want to tell you what’s going on with him. The time he got into a fight with the other players was the end of the line for you.

You barged into his house, finding him by his bathtub, in front of a TV, watching the news about him. The usually peaceful atmosphere in his house was now charged with tension as you made your way towards him. At that moment, Kenji was praying so hard the kaiju in his basement would keep still.

He still wouldn’t tell you what’s wrong. “It’s not about us. It’s about…” he said, “…something bigger. Something I’m not ready to share yet.”

Your eyes softened at his response, though the ache in your chest remained. You made him promise to talk to you when he’s ready and he agreed. You can’t stand seeing the love of your life like that but at the same time, you didn’t want to force him to do anything against his will. Taking up Ultraman was already enough of that.

Almost two months, after the incident, he seemed back to his old shape. Better, even. And thank heavens, finally, he could now tell you about what happened.

“There’s a what below?!” You asked in disbelief. The two of you were standing in front of the elevator and for a moment, you think your ears are playing tricks on you.

“A baby kaiju,” he replied and went on to explain everything. Still in disbelief, you took in everything with a nod. He placed his hand on the small of your back as he guided you into the elevator.

The moment you saw the big pink baby, you gasped. Emi made happy noises as you approached. However, upon noticing you, she suddenly began to cry.

Kenji was tapping on the glass containment in an attempt to shush her. But to no avail, Emi just cried harder.

“I’m sorry, she doesn’t know you yet,” Kenji apologized. “But I assure you, she’s a sweet big baby.”

Remembering how, at first, Emi only recognized Kenji when he was Ultraman, you decided to try something.

“(Y/n), what are you—“ Before Kenji finished, a soft glow enveloped you, and moments later, you emerged in your giant form. Your wings spread wide, shimmering with black patterns and warm tones of yellow and orange.

Emi’s cries slowed, her curiosity piqued by the sudden change. She opened her eyes, sobs turning to soft hiccups as she stared up at you in wonder. Her claws tapped the glass as she reached out, trying to grasp your wings.

Kenji watched in awe as Emi’s distress melted away. “I think it’s working,” he whispered.

“May I?” You asked, gesturing to the lid of the containment unit. Kenji gave a nod of approval. Carefully, you turned it before lifting it off.

You lowered yourself closer to Emi, your wings fluttering softly as she climbed up her containment. The gentle breeze they created seemed to soothe her further.

Emi let out a delighted squeal, her earlier tears forgotten. She toddled closer to you, her claws gently touching the edge of your wing. She let out a happy chirp, eyes sparkling with joy.

Kenji stepped closer, a relieved smile spreading across his face. “Wow, she loves you in this form,” he said.

You smiled down at him. “She’s just like her dad,” you replied. “She knows a good thing when she sees it.”

Kenji chuckled before he himself transformed into Ultraman. He sat beside you with Emi in between the two of you.

Your wings gently enveloped Emi in a comforting embrace. She was now calm and happy as she traced the pattern of your wings with her claw.

“Gentle, baby,” Kenji said as he rubbed her head.

She continued walking around you and playing with your wings until she tired herself out. She walked in front of you and climbed on your lap, nestling her head on your stomach.

“Awww, baby,” you cooed. You gently picked her up into your arms and gently swayed.

Kenji moved close to you, wrapping an arm around you. You nestled into his arm, head resting on the junction of his neck and shoulders. The three of you slept like that for the night.

The next morning when Emi awoke, she immediately looked for you. Realizing that the moth lady was missing, she cried. Mina was quick to assist her, playing videos of cartoons and Kenji to calm her. To Mina’s surprise, none of them worked.

“Who’s making my baby cry?” Kenji asked as he approached. He expected her crying to cease once she saw him. However, that is not the case.

“Huh?” He questioned. Emi always calms when she sees him. “Mina, try showing her pictures of (y/n).”

Mina did as told and as miraculously as yesterday, Emi stopped crying. “It seems like she got herself a new mother,” Mina commented.

With Emi’s growing fondness of you, you found yourself frequenting at Kenji’s house more than ever. She was just so cute; like a live plushie when you’re in your giant form.

“Hi babyyyy,” you cooed as you transformed into your giant form. You scooped her up, her head nuzzling against you. Her earlier play was abandoned in favor of your presence.

You walked in on Kenji and Emi playing baseball together. And you didn’t mean to interrupt but when you saw her walking towards you, you knew you had to transform.

Kenji smiled at the scene. “She really loves you, you know,” he said.

You smiled back, feeling a warm glow inside. “I love her too,” you replied. “She’s such a sweetheart.”

Emi chirped happily as she climbed up your torso and onto your shoulder where she could watch and touch your wings.

Kenji watched the interaction, his smile fading slightly as a twinge of jealousy crept in. His baby kaiju shows a different kind of joy when you’re around.

He loved Emi dearly, but lately, it seemed like she preferred your company over his. He couldn’t help but feel a bit sidelined.

“She really lights up when you’re here,” Kenji said, trying to keep his tone light.

You glanced at him, noticing the slight edge in his voice. “She lights up when you’re here too, Kenji,” you replied. “She loves you.”

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know, but… it feels like she’s more excited to see you than me sometimes.”

You tapped the space on the floor beside you, gesturing for him to switch to Ultraman. Thankfully, he did not resist.

You moved close to him as he sat beside you, his hand finding its way to your thigh. Your head automatically rested on his shoulder.

“You’re her dad, Kenji,” you said. “She loves you so much. Maybe she’s just fascinated by my wings right now.”

You felt Kenji nod, although the jealousy still lingered within him. “Yeah, maybe,” he replied. “I just want to be enough for her.”

You leaned back to look at him. Your other hand which was not holding Emi on your shoulder, moved up to hold his face. “You are enough. You’re everything to her,” you said. “And to me.”

Emi squirmed out of your hand, gently jumping off your shoulder and landing on your lap. She toddled over to Kenji. He looked down at her, his heart melting as she reached up, wanting to be held. He picked her up, and she nuzzled against his chest, purring softly.

“See?” You asked with a smile. “She adores you.”

Kenji hugged Emi close, his jealousy fading into thin air. “Yeah,” he said. “I guess you’re right.”

You spent the rest of the day playing with Emi, taking turns holding her and making her laugh. By the time evening rolled around, she was content and sleepy in Kenji’s arms.

Before reverting to your original form, you kissed Emi’s head and then leaned in to kiss Kenji. “I’ll be back soon,” you said. “Take care of our little one.”

Kenji smiled, his earlier worries forgotten. “We’ll be here, waiting.”

Taglist is open! Comment if u wanna be tagged on future Kenji oneshots

@scribble0rat

[mrfoox]

I'm being abnormal again fellas...

[phantomrose96]

I could say more if I did a proper character analysis here but, for now, I’m just musing on how John Gaius absolutely captures a very specific kind of It’s Never My Fault guy.

And John is SMART and he’s good at talking and so he weaves it in so smoothly and like. His uninterrupted monologues in NtN absolutely make you want to be frustrated for him! That dude got put through the wringer!

And these parts are so Good to me because like, if you pay just a little bit of extra attention the patterns emerge. Everyone external to him and his group is an idiot, and can only be cast as such. And they’re stupid and scared and they Wrongly demonize John when he was only trying to help and wait John what was that part in the middle. Repeat that part in the middle. You did WHAT to the cops exactly.

HE never wants to be the Guy Who Says It. He wants to be liked too much. So he relies on people like P— and G— and A— and M— to say it for him. Negotiating for a nuclear warhead but HE John didn’t really wanna be a jerk about it you know? That was everyone else. The cows the cops the people who die on his compound are all brushed over or mocked. His sleepless mad actions, his raising of the dead, his setting off the nuke these are all just, actions. Unfortunate. Necessary. Of a guy who’s been having a REALLY hard time and has been victimized by EVERYONE and he really just wants to save the world, guys, if you’ll just LISTEN.

He’s gotta be the Funny Guy. Everything’s gotta be a Joke because, oh, was that bad? No, I was just joking, you’re taking it too seriously man chill out. He needs to be Liked he needs everyone to Like him and the biggest injustices he faces, in light of nuclear warfare and the eradication of humanity, is that people are being so mean to him.

And the closest he gets to letting flashes of his wrongdoing through are when it challenges his ego to deny it otherwise. Because he’s Smart and he’s Competent and you need to know and recognize and worship this. He didn’t kill all those cops by accident. “Come on, love. Guys as careful as me don’t have accidents.”

He’s just! He’s so! He’s entirely This Guy and he’s GOD. He’s bisexual he’s depressed he’s an obsessive Funnyman he’s blinded by his own ego he’s immortal he’s never to blame he’s more tormented than Jesus if you ask him and don’t ask the people he’s victimized in ways so much worse and he’s. LITERALLY. MADE HIMSELF GOD. I’m obsessed with him.

[inbarfink]

One common Undertale misconception that really frustrates me is when Sans is portrayed with a strong innate sense for RESETs and alternative timelines. Like, that he remembers the RESET timelines better than the other characters who only have occasional feelings of deja vu or even that he can sense when a timeline is RESET.

And that’s, like, almost the opposite of the actual text of the game. While pretty much every main character can have slightly-different dialogue in a Not-True-RESET, especially if the Player had previously befriended them, based on the idea that they have lingering memories/feelings from before the RESET - 

Sans has no real dialogue changes based on this conceit. All of his changes are based around noticing Frisk has different reactions based on their memories of the precious timelines. 

Other characters do also make observations like that about Frisk, like Mettaton and Toriel. But Sans is distinctive because this is the only way his comments change between RESETs and there are a lot of them from him.

Because that is what really frustrates me about this misconception. People mention it as one more thing that makes Sans cool - but the actual truth is far more badass. Sans is one of the people in the Underground who remembers RESETs the least. I think memory-resistance to RESETs is probably tied to Determination. Flowey, the second-most Determined person in the Underground after Frisk, can remember everything perfectly.

Everyone else has some vague feelings and deja vus. And Sans, he’s the least motivated person in the Underground - both in the sense he’s lazy and in the sense he’s fucking depressed.

That probably means he has very little Determination. Thus, he doesn’t remember anything that happens between RESETs.

And yet, he is still the character most aware of them. Because he has the technological know-how to read and analyze timelines.

And because he has the observation and analytical skill to notice a RESET from other people’s reactions and behavior. Whatever it’s Papyrus thinking he recognizes someone or Frisk’s behavior implying that they know something they shouldn’t have. Sans main RESET-related skill is just being able to identify these moments and come to the correct conclusion about them. And with that he manages to be the most aware character in the entire Underground.

Like, the one point where it might seem like Sans remembers something from a previous Timeline is the Fake Spare scene during his boss battle. 

But it’s all pretend. Unlike the previous lines from other characters that I mentioned, this dialogue plays even if the Murder Route is the first time the player touched the game. Sans isn’t remembering anything in this scene. But he makes an educated guess that the Immoral Time God probably tried using their powers for good at first, so they were likely ‘friends’ in a previous timeline. And in most cases, his guess is right on the money - tricking many players into thinking this is another case of the game actually reacting to their past actions.

And as always, Sans can only tell if his lil’ trick worked or not based on the expression of the Player Character.

Arguably, Sans even uses his lack of Determination and cross-RESET memory to his advantage in his boss battle. After all, the whole point of this fight isn’t to kill the Player - Sans understands this is impossible. This is a war of attrition, trying to get the Player so frustrated and annoyed with the unfair fight that they just ragequit or RESET the Timeline. And this war of the Player’s patience versus Sans’ stamina and will is infinitely easier for him when he doesn’t actually perceive all the Player’s previous attempts against him.

Like, for the Player this might be the billion time they go up against him, they’re aware of some of his patterns and tricks now but they’re probably also frustrated and angry and exhausted. Meanwhile, from Sans’ POV, this is still the first time this is happening. He knows it’s not from the Player’s behavior and Frisk’s expression - but he doesn’t feel it like the Player does. 

He doesn’t feel the frustration and repetition of the endless stalemate. So he’s always as fresh as a daisy no matter how rugged the Player is getting.

And that’s part of why Sans is so cool in the first place, like, in general. He’s technically the weakest person in the Underground, lacking in every standard evaluation of power in the setting - no ATK, no DEF, no HP, no DETERMINATION. But he’s darn clever enough to overcome these weaknesses and even use them in ways that make them into strengths, enough to be one of the most dangerous and most aware guys in this whole setting.

Sans can’t remember anything, and that makes him awesome.

[haerni]

[ ♥︎ ] ── drunkenly in love  |  lhs.

in which heeseung comes to you with stupid smiles, slurred words ‘nd with tipsy thoughts of you.

content : fem reader , fluff , intoxication , drunk hee! , petnames , wc. 811 , minimal proofread . hes a lil bit clingy & a loser but hes charming ! ><

notes. videos of heeseung giggling while drunk is actually cute like omg i will bite u

“hi, baby.”

heeseung smiles at you like you have just saved the world and frankly, maybe you did in another universe—maybe you did not, either way heeseung adores you with any shape or form that he could muster up.

and his smile is contagious, muttering off into the night his eyes fluttering as he shift his weight on his right leaning to the door frame of your home with jay beside him on his left assisting him in fear of him falling on his own weight.

jay smiles apologetically, “the guys kept giving him drinks. he kept losing in the game, to be honest.” he says as he tries to keep your boyfriend upright. “sorry, yn. he kept saying he should see you and he wouldn’t stop whining.”

you crinkle at the thought, “it’s okay. thank you for bringing him home safe.” you waved off. “you should go, i’m pretty sure jake is vomiting out.. the window?”

you hear a curse leaving from his mouth, panicking as he looks back into the car.

“shit. i’m really sorry, again. gotta get those guys home.” he sighs exasperatedly.

a giggle escapes you, bidding the man goodbyes and a well safe travel. taking heeseung from his arms and from your door frame, your boyfriend drapes himself over you. a strong smell of liquor comes from him, making you scrunch away a little from the scent. he hums from the contact instantly melting over you.

“you smell so good,” he muttered, nuzzling into your head. “i’ve missed you, pretty.”

“you got pretty drunk, huh?” a lilt in your tone tells him you’re not all too mad at him. not really finding any reason to do so, you figured he deserves to loosen up a little bit and have fun with the guys.

he only nods thoughtlessly, dragging himself inside your home all the way to your shared bedroom with you by his side. he plops down the mattress as he lays there smacking his lips and frowning trying to relieve the reeling of his head.

“i should get you some water. stay here, ‘seungie.” untangling yourself from him, you stand making your way outside, but not even a step forward a hand wraps up to your wrist forcing you to stay on your spot.

“where are you going?” he looks a little like a lost deer under the warm lights, his eyes sharing the same shine. “don’t go.” a pout resides on his lips as he tries to keep himself up from the bed.

“i’m just getting you water, you need to stay hydrated, hee.” you try to reason with him.

“‘m fine, just stay here.” he tugs you to him.

you try to resist, standing your ground into getting him some water, but his grip on you only stays as you move some more.

in your endeavor of keeping your boyfriend hydrated has somehow ended up with you losing your balance and him dragging you to lay by his side of the bed with his arms encased around you. you huffed, accepting your faith and would have to get him something in the morning (you can only trust that jay has already took care of him and managed to get him to drink something other than alcohol in his system.)

heeseung hums pleased, feeling your body against his as the night descends upon his mind and eyes. a semblance of comfort takes him with your warmth that he recognizes. admitting defeat you let yourself be engulfed with heeseung’s embrace.

it’s quiet.

but you don’t mind, you bask in it and so does heeseung. his fingers trail over your skin, drawing random patterns of anything just to feel you. the night strolls a little slower now.

“..hey,” heeseung whispers softly.

you grin at him, you couldn’t help it. after all it was heeseung, it was just him, but it was enough for the butterflies finding themselves in your stomach, “hey, you too.”

there was something in the way his cheeks are all in a soft cherry color and that dopey smile that adorns his face whenever he drinks a little too much than he would take, was just endearing to you. and his eyes just flutter more and his face breaks out from adoration—you couldn’t fall just a little more than you already did.

“i love you.” he did so, breathing it as if a prayer he utters every night. “i love you so much— god, you probably have no idea, baby.”

it’s desperation that you yearn just as the same, and maybe the simplicity of it, was everything all at once that was enough for you. your eyes find his once more as they hold sincerity that can rival how deep the ocean can go.

“i love you too, hee.” you whispered just as the same. “more than yesterday, less than tomorrow.”

© haerni 2024 . likes, comments & reblogs are highly appreciated!

[yueebby]

sooo i read your "indulge me?" piece and that's why i wanted to ask for gojo simping for reader that doesn't really seem him as more as a friend and he's fine with it (lol he's not but he's need to keep the facade you know???) hope you write it at some point! btw loving you writing so far <333

11:34pm — gojo satoru

contents. highschool!gojo, fluff, he’s so in love bye, underage drinking, tokyo and kyoto students have a little get together!

“what’s wrong with him?” utahime watches her white haired underclassman down another can of beer. it was rare to see gojo drinking with the rest of the group, always opting for a soda instead.

shoko takes another swig out of her drink, unsurprised. “[name] is on a date.” 

a pathetic groan leaves gojo’s lips and the upper half of his body is splayed over the kotatsu in shoko’s room, sunglasses long forgotten somewhere. he lets out an unapologetic burp. everyone at the table spares him a glance of pity. 

utahime grimaces and mutters a quiet, “gross”. 

“don’t provoke him,” geto scolds shoko, flicking some ash from his cigarette to the ashtray below. “she’s just dealing with clan matters. arranged marriages and whatnot.” he used his free hand to land a firm pat on gojo’s back. what kind of best friend would he be if he didn’t try to comfort satoru? 

“poor thing. i can keep you company in the meantime,” mei mei’s smile is far from something with good intentions. gojo shakes his head to refuse, but with the way his forehead was pressed to the table, it looked comical. like a child throwing a tantrum. 

the only thing that managed to get gojo satoru out of his drunken slump was a soft knock on the door. he could recognize that pattern anywhere. could it be–? the snow haired boy immediately perks up. his drunk dazed eyes brighten as he quickly makes his way to the door. 

geto snorts at the way his best friend reacts. he thinks he can see an imaginary tail wagging, as if he were a dog. 

“you’re late!” gojo accuses you when he opens the door. you blink.

“are you…okay?” your voice is laced with concern as gojo’s large frame towers over you. gojo preens.

“awww, is my [name] worried about me now? don’t worry, ‘m doing just fine!” there is a goofy grin painted on gojo’s face as he leans against the doorway. all conversation has stopped and every sorcerer was listening attentively to gojo's hopeless conversation with you. utahime can’t help but feel just a little compassion for the boy. he was pining so much it hurt.

“i wasn’t worried. it's just that your words are all slurred– don’t tell me you let shoko talk you into drinking with her again?” you sigh. it was hard to miss the smell of beer on him. gojo and alcohol never mixed well, and the last thing you needed tonight was another lecture from yaga. 

from inside her room, shoko shouts, “it wasn’t me this time! the idiot decided to drown himself in beer after we warned him not to!” it was common knowledge that gojo couldn’t handle his alcohol. 

the male in question pouts.

“can a man not grieve about the love of his life being married to another?” gojo deflates. on the other side of the threshold, you wrinkle your nose.

“who said anything about marriage? like hell i’m going to accept a proposal from naoya zen’in.” you grumble. it had been a long night. dealing with your family and naoya was enough to scare you into staying in jujutsu tech for good. you’d rather lose your sanity to gojo than your dignity to naoya. 

“never mind that though, are mei mei and utahime still here? i was hoping to catch up with them!” you smile, crouching under his arm to make your way into the room. gojo doesn’t hesitate to trail right behind you. 

“[name]!” utahime waves happily at you, her mood no longer sour after she sees you. your wave back is enthusiastic. mei mei acknowledges your presence.

“how was dinner with naoya?” suguru asks. your face pinches up. he laughs before handing you a cold can of soda which you accept graciously.

you hear gojo mutter to himself from behind you.

“what’s up with him?” you whisper to suguru.

“you know how he is when he drinks,” he sighs, ushering you to sit beside him. gojo seemed to have his own agenda though, forcefully squeezing himself between the two of you. you shoot him an annoyed look to which he responds with a grin on his face. 

“‘m tired,” he whines, stretching his arms dramatically while letting out a loud yawn. you grunt when there’s a heavy weight on you; gojo has thrown his entire body on your side.

you don’t bother pushing him off. you’ve learned in the two years you’ve known gojo that he is like a baby when he gets drunk. it’s best if you let him have his way.

“go to sleep then, idiot,” you flick his forehead. he juts his bottom lip childishly, looking up at you with wide eyes. his eyes are captivating and you think you see nervousness through those azure orbs.

“will you come to bed with me too?” he rests his chin on your shoulder. you raise an eyebrow in surprise.

“eh? why would i?”

“because i’m cute.” gojo bats those long eyelashes of his innocently. you roll your eyes playfully before taking another sip out of your soda. 

“you’re weird– that’s what you are.” your lips quirk upward, eyes twinkling with mirth. he sulks, chin still comfortably supported by your shoulder.

“‘m not that bad!” he protests, a frown forming on his lips. you look at him for a long moment. this was the first time you’ve ever gotten to look at gojo this closely. 

his hair was getting longer, you note silently. with your free hand, you slowly move a strand of hair out of his face. gojo watches you earnestly. if his cheeks were not already flushed, they are now. 

“can we stop it with the flirting? let us single folk live in peace.” shoko speaks up. you turn your attention hastily from gojo to the rest of your fellow peers. 

“i feel like i’m intruding on something,” mei mei says scandalously. your eyes widen.

“we are not– no way!” you shake your head repeatedly. no one believes you. especially not while gojo is still resting on your shoulder, eyes watching you, full of love.

“stop giving him all your attention and talk to us! we’re much better company,” utahime scowls, pointing her beer disapprovingly at the white haired boy on you. you think you hear gojo grunt.

“alright, alright,” you concede. 

“i hope you don’t mind me asking again, but do tell us how your night with the zen’in kid went,” suguru snickers. you groan exasperatedly.

“where do i even start?”

the rest of the night goes by pleasantly. you had been so engrossed with retelling your experience with dealing with your family that you had failed to notice what gojo was up to. by the time everyone left their respective dorms (or temporary dorms), you noticed the head of white hair sleeping soundly on your lap.

he mumbles something in his sleep, nuzzling himself closer into your stomach. cute. you giggle at how innocent he looks. 

you don’t know what took over you, but you remember bending down and placing a soft kiss on his forehead. to your surprise, gojo reciprocates your kiss. to the best of his capabilities anyway. you watch as he puckers his lips in his sleep. oh my– how precious.

you suppose he isn't so bad.

notes. THANK U FOR BEING MY FIRST ANON ASK. ily!!! i saw somewhere that gege confirmed gojo would have drunken failures when he was a student haha this is my take on that. hes so bf

also thank you for all the support on my first post?!? you guys are too sweet im crying. i literally giggle and kick my feet reading your feedback ><

[collaredsoldat]

Shower Suds.

summary: You give Soldat his first bath out of captivity.

warnings: Post!HYDRA Winter Soldier | Non-sexual nudity | Mentions of scars and injuries | Self-Harm mention | Post!HTP and abuse | PTSD symptoms & behavior

a/n: This wasn't supposed to be so long, but somehow it always happens when I write about him. Something sorta comforting with some recovery thrown in there. Unedited because I worked on this for so long lol ignore mistakes please! ;; wc: 5.8k

Filthy. You felt bad, really.

There was a lot of problems to tackle with Soldat's condition, but first thing's first...the soldier needed a bath. Badly.

He was dirty, his hair knotted, matted, greasy, his skin was covered in sweat and dirt, probably blood under the black uniform he still wore. The poor man stunk, and he didn't seem to even notice. Or care.

You found yourself in a bit of a hard situation, unsure of the best approach to cleanse him. A bath seemed problematic; he would essentially be marinating in his own grime, which was far from ideal. Would he sit for that long? Would he fight you? You weren't entirely positive.

On the other hand, a shower presented its own set of challenges. Your observations over the past days had revealed his struggle with prolonged standing. He didn't seem to want to stand for very long and often sat or laid down when he could. The majority of his time was spent either huddled in the furthest corner of the room or barricaded within the confines of the small closet, as if seeking refuge from an unseen threat.

As you mulled over the options, weighing the pros and cons of each, you ultimately figured a shower would be better in terms of cleanliness…if anything, you could have him sit in the bottom of the tub. Better than sitting in dirty water with the increased possibility of infection.

But there was one problem. How the hell would you get him into the bathroom in the first place?

You took a breath in, preparing for the worst, and went to the room he stayed in. It was the spare room in your apartment you barely used, but had been furnished as a bedroom in case someone you knew needed a place for a night or something. Not that you ever figured your friends would want to stay with you, you didn't have many to begin with. When you came in, your eyes scanned the room until they landed on him, spotting him huddled up in the corner like expected.

He didn't look up at you when you walked in, his gaze fixed downward and obscured by the curtain of his long, unkempt hair. The stillness that enveloped him was almost unnerving. Only when you took a few steps closer did he react, his head snapping up at you. His eyes bright blue against the dark, messy ink that surrounded them, like he tried to smudge off the black paint but failed.

You took another step forward, your movements slow and deliberate. You could see the change in his demeanor immediately with your approach, even as careful as it was; his breathing became more rapid and shallow, his chest rising and falling at an accelerated pace like he was preparing to be harmed.

"It's okay," you murmured softly, your voice barely above a whisper. Your hand extended slightly, palm open to try to soothe him. Carefully, you lowered yourself to his level, bending your knees until you were crouching before him. This position, you hoped, would make you appear less imposing and more approachable.

In the few days he had been in your care, you had begun to discern patterns in his behavior, learning to recognize the subtle cues that indicated his comfort level. You had started to understand which actions he perceived as threatening and which ones helped him feel more at ease. It was a delicate balance, one that required patience and constant observation, but you were determined to create an environment where he could begin to feel safe and secure.

"I think...a bath sounds nice. Doesn't it?" You asked him softly, smiling slightly to show you weren't intending to do any sort of harm. "It will feel good to clean off all that dirt...nice and warm water too...you've been shivering." You noted how cold he appeared to be, he was still latched in his cold clothes from when you found him. You were surprised the uniform kept in water.

He remained motionless, prompting you to reluctantly take a step backwards to leave him alone, you’d try later. As you turned away, the faint sound of movement caught your attention. Glancing back, you saw the soldier had risen to his feet, his eyes fixed upon you with an air of expectancy. "Would you like to come and shower?" you inquired, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Да." His voice was a harsh, grating sound, reminiscent of shattered glass scraping against parched earth. It was as though he hadn't uttered a word or tasted a drop of water in an eternity. Despite the brevity and roughness of his reply, it carried a weight of affirmation. You found yourself oddly relieved by this simple acknowledgment. It wasn't much, but in that moment, it felt like a significant step forward. The fact that he had agreed seemed like a small victory.

You had him in the bathroom. That was a good thing.

You pivoted slowly to face him, your gaze carefully scanning his imposing figure. For behaving so meekly, he was an intimidating body to be this close to. Your eyes meticulously traced the contours of his suit, lingering on the intricate array of tactical belts and buckles that adorned his outfit. Each piece seemed to serve a specific purpose, hinting at the dangerous nature of his profession. Your hand tentatively reached out, fingers trembling slightly as they approached one of the sturdy buckles.

Your action was met with an immediate and startling response from the soldier. His metal hand shot up with inhuman speed, grasping your wrist tightly, the cold metal a stark contrast to your warm skin. His hold was firm and unyielding, like a vice grip, yet it wasn't painful.

As his hand clasped around your wrist, his entire body tensed, transforming into a living statue. You couldn't help but flinch slightly at the abruptness of his reaction, your body instinctively recoiling even as his grip held you in place.

"I-It's okay, I promise," you managed to say, your voice deliberately calm and steady to avoid startling him further. You took a deep breath, choosing your words carefully. "I'm just going to help you undress for the shower... I promise I won't hurt you or do anything you're not comfortable with. We're just getting you cleaned up, that's all."

Your words didn't seem to have much effect at first. His eyes narrowed suspiciously, and his jaw flexed with tension. You remained patient, maintaining a soothing tone and open body language. "Take all the time you need," you added softly. "I'm right here, and I'm not going anywhere. It’s just you and me." His eyes scanned you intently, searching for any hint of deception or ill intent. You met his gaze steadily, allowing him to see the sincerity in your eyes. After what felt like an eternity, his grip on your wrist slowly loosened until he finally released you completely.

Second time's the charm. You reached out with steady hands, your fingers finding the first buckle on his tactical suit. With careful precision, you unfastened it, the metallic click echoing softly in the bathroom. Then, you moved to the next one, and the next, methodically working your way through each fastening. The process was slow but deliberate, each buckle giving way under your patient touch until, finally, the last one came undone. You paused, surveying your handiwork as the suit lay open, no longer confining him.

With the buckles undone, your attention turned to the decked out belt encircling his hips. You grasped the front, feeling the sturdy material beneath your fingers. You pulled the belt free from the thick buckle, the black leather sliding smoothly through the loops. As you removed the belt, you took care to lay it gently on the floor beside you, the heavy belt colliding with the tile was bound to make him jump and you didn’t want that.

The belt now removed, you returned your focus to the suit itself. Your hands found the straps, and you began to loosen them, pulling them out slowly and methodically. His uniform reminded you of a rehashed straight jacket, the uniform nearly acting just as one. When the tight suit gradually relinquished its grip, you noticed an immediate change in the soldier’s demeanor. The restrictive pressure eased, and you could see his chest rise and fall more freely. It was as if a weight had been lifted, allowing him to breathe deeply for the first time in who knows how long.

You watched, a mix of concern and relief washing over you, as he took in several deep breaths. The realization hit you then, a jolt of disbelief and worry. The suit had been so constricting that it had barely allowed him to breathe properly. The thought was infuriating. What kind of protection was that? What twisted logic had led to the creation of gear that endangered its wearer almost as much as it shielded them? You found yourself shaking your head in disbelief. What the hell...

"There we go...good..." You praised calmly, your voice a soothing whisper in the quiet room. He stood before you, now shirtless, his muscular frame tense with anticipation as he awaited your next move. Your eyes couldn't help but linger on his exposed torso, taking in every detail of his battle-worn body.

His skin was a canvas marked by the harsh realities of his past. Bruises in various stages of healing painted his flesh in a morbid palette of purples, yellows, and greens. Fresh cuts, angry and red, intermingled with older, silvery scars, creating a chaotic tapestry across his skin. Each mark had a different cause, accidental, intentional, self inflicted.

Your gaze was inevitably drawn to the most prominent feature: the junction where flesh met metal at his shoulder. The scar tissue surrounding his prosthetic arm was a sight that made your heart ache. It wasn't a clean, surgical line as one might expect, but rather a jagged, angry border that spoke of crude methods and little regard for the body it was attached to. The metal seemed to dig cruelly into his flesh, as if it were trying to consume more of him. You couldn't help but wonder about the pain he must have endured during the procedure, imagining how they had torn him apart with brutal efficiency, prioritizing function over comfort or aesthetics.

Despite the visible evidence of his suffering, he stood tall and stoic, awaiting your next move with a mixture of trust and trepidation in his eyes.

You offered him a gentle, comforting smile, you were acutely aware of his attempts to appear strong, but the reality of his fear was unmistakable. In that spare room, his demeanor reminded you of a cornered animal, flinching and retreating whenever the door creaked open. He cowered from you, even when you tried to give him water to drink. The sight tugged at your heartstrings, you didn’t know much of what happened just yet, but you knew whatever it was must’ve been utterly horrific.

"I'm going to help you out of your trousers now," you explained in a soft, reassuring tone. "Then we'll get you into the shower. The warm water will help you feel better, I promise." You paused, giving him a moment to process your words before adding, "Is that okay with you?"

He remained motionless. His lack of response was telling - not a nod, not a word, not even a flicker of acknowledgment in his eyes. He simply stood there, statuesque, as if bracing himself for whatever was to come next. The stillness was almost eerie, so you took a deep breath, steeling yourself for what was going to come. You truly hoped he wouldn't begin to put up a fight randomly, you knew you couldn't take him if he did.

You grasped the zipper of his pants and slowly pulled it down, the metallic sound echoing in the quiet room. As the fabric loosened, you gently tugged at the waistband, shuffling them down his muscular thighs and allowing the pants to fall around his ankles. Without a word, he stepped out of them, his movements controlled as he jerked his foot to get the leg of the pants off completely.

His gaze remained fixed on you, his expression betraying no hint of discomfort or self-consciousness at his state of undress. You found yourself averting your eyes, a mix of respect for his privacy and your own sudden shyness causing you to look away.

Turning your attention to the shower, you reached out and adjusted the taps, your hand testing the water until it reached a comfortably warm temperature, you could always adjust it upon request. The sound of cascading water filled the bathroom, creating a soothing ambiance. Once satisfied with the water's warmth, you looked back towards him, your arm extending in a welcoming gesture towards the bathtub. "Come on," you encouraged, your voice soft and inviting, "it's nice and warm." A gentle smile played on your lips, your expression meant to convey comfort and reassurance.

But even with your efforts, he remained motionless, his feet seemingly rooted to the spot where he stood. His lack of movement prompted you to maintain your encouraging demeanor, your smile unwavering as you waited patiently for him to make a decision.

The steam from the shower began to fill the room, creating a misty atmosphere that hung between you, yet he showed no signs of stepping forward or retreating. He just stood there, planted like a tree. You frowned, seeing that he wasn't going to budge.

"Hey, it's okay," you said softly, "It's just water, and it's nice and warm. I promise it will feel so good. You've been shivering for a while now, and I bet the warmth will be really comforting for your cold skin. There's nothing to be afraid of." You continued to encourage him, your tone patient and understanding.

The soldier's reaction was tense and wary. His metal arm plates made a series of soft clicking sounds as he shifted his arm and adjusted his stance, his body language radiating discomfort and distrust, maybe even a hint of growing agitation. The way he eyed the water, you could have sworn he thought you were about to subject him to some form of aquatic torture. His entire demeanor screamed of deep-seated fear and suspicion.

"It's alright, really... Look, see?" You demonstrated by reaching out and touching the water, letting your fingers trail through the warm liquid. You made sure he could clearly see that the water didn't cause you any harm or discomfort. Could he be afraid of the water? The concept seemed strange, but then again, you didn't really know or understand the full extent of his experiences or traumas. You had made so much progress with him already, and now all that remained was for him to sit under the water and allow you to wash him. It seemed so simple, and yet you could see the monumental struggle playing out behind his eyes.

He finally seemed to respond when he observed that you remained unharmed by the water, and he cautiously approached, his movements slow and deliberate. His eyes wore wariness with a flicker of curiosity, carefully scanning your form and ensuring you made no abrupt or threatening gestures. As he inched closer, his body language betrayed a conflicting desire for comfort and an instinctive need for self-preservation.

Once he had convinced himself of a relative level of safety, he gingerly stepped into the bath. The warmth of the water seemed to catch him off guard, and with an almost childlike lack of grace, he unceremoniously lowered himself into a sitting position with a loud thud and for a moment, he appeared startled by his own actions.

Now fully seated on the bottom of the tub, he allowed the soothing warmth of the water to cascade down his dirt-encrusted body. The grime that had accumulated over time began to loosen and swirl around him, running down his body and creating murky patterns at the bottom of the textured bathtub.

He sat motionless, gradually acclimating to the comforting warmth of the water cascading down his back in a gentle, soothing shower. It was foreign to him, a luxury he had been denied for far too long. His time with HYDRA had been bereft of such simple comforts; the organization was a cruel and unforgiving entity, more akin to a heartless taskmaster than a nurturing presence.

His experiences with something as harmless as water was vastly different to what you were treating him with now - he was subjected to harsh, icy streams forcefully directed at him, the intense pressure through the hose so severe it felt as though it was stripping away layers of his skin.

He remembers being forcibly submerged by his handlers, a cruel and twisted game that shattered his expectations of a simple, cleansing bath. What should have been a moment of respite transformed into a nightmarish struggle for survival, where he was forced to submit to their ruthless whims.

The memory of sharp, abrasive bristles tearing at his skin and the application of painful, saline substances lingers. He didn’t want to think about the unnecessary groping he encountered either, something he wished he forgot along with his life during the chair’s wipes.

These traumatic encounters left an indelible mark on his psyche, turning what should have been a basic human necessity into a source of fear and anxiety. The handlers' sadistic approach to something as fundamental as personal hygiene served as a constant reinforcement of their control over every aspect of his existence, even the most intimate and essential.

For him, the act of bathing became synonymous with vulnerability, pain, and the complete loss of autonomy, a far cry from the soothing, rejuvenating experience it was meant to be.

This gentle treatment you were providing was so different from the abusive handling he had endured in HYDRA, it almost caused him to panic, the feigning comforts he were offered by handlers before tricked him too many times, and he refused to let his guard down.

His glacial eyes gazed up at you, the poor man looked absolutely pitiful under the steamy water, his once greasy hair now thoroughly soaked as rivulets ran down the contours of his entire body. You took a breath and exhaled out a soft sigh, your hand slowly reaching for your own body wash. You didn't have any products specifically designed for men, so your expensive shampoo would have to suffice until you went shopping.

You pumped the bottle twice, watching as the clear, slightly viscous shampoo pooled into your open palm and the refreshing scent of cucumber and mint permeated the humid air, filling your nostrils with its crisp, clean aroma. You turned and addressed him softly, "Alright, I'm going to wash your hair now. Just try to relax and sit still for me, okay? This might feel a bit cold at first, but I promise it'll feel good once I start massaging it in."

The soldier regarded you with an inscrutable expression, his eyes betraying only a hint of that fight-or-flight instinct, his mind was reeling as he battled the urge to respond to your presence. You knew he had the strength to easily break your arm if he chose to, so you tried your best to be as slow and careful as possible. Your fingers delicately threaded through his hair, methodically working the shampoo into a rich lather. You watched as the suds multiplied and foamed, the soapy shampoo pure white on top and slowly stained the closer it was to his scalp.

You noticed that every so often he would flinch ever so slightly or instinctively pull away from your hands. You wondered if he had hidden injuries or tender spots on his scalp, or bruises or cuts concealed beneath his hair, or maybe knots of tension that had formed from prolonged stress or blunt impacts. His hair must’ve been yanked around, his scalp was extremely tender and while you did your best to soothingly massage, he didn’t enjoy it as much as you hoped because of the discomfort there.

"It's okay, I understand it might be a bit uncomfortable. I’m just getting all that pesky dirt and grime out." You spoke in a gentle, reassuring tone, moving a little bit quicker so you could rinse and move on. After thoroughly rinsing his hair, you applied conditioner in the same manner as the shampoo, and then rinsed it out again. He looked much better now, his hair was now clean, wet, and sleek, with a smooth texture and a noticeable shine. It was so much better than before, and it had to feel better too.

Your hand extended under the rain of water, dampening a soft, handheld washcloth and applying a generous amount of body wash to it. You worked the cloth until it produced a rich lather. The soldier moved which caught your eye, you looked up at him and saw he had recoiled, his gaze fixed warily on the washcloth. He became noticeably slower and more hesitant, his eyes widening slightly as he regarded the cloth with apparent apprehension, as if it posed a threat. You furrowed your brow at his reaction to the cloth, he looked at it like you held a weapon of some kind.

"Hey, it’s alright…this won’t hurt. It’s just a cloth, see? A cloth with some soap," you said softly, you felt so torn up about his reaction to the simplest of things. "I won't hurt you, I promise, I'm just going to wash you a bit...get all that dirt and blood off you." You raised your hand holding the washcloth in a placating gesture. “It’s warm, it will feel good scrubbing off all that dirt, you’ll be nice and clean.”

Gradually, he relented and shifted backwards to where he had been sitting, permitting you to gently glide the damp cloth across his skin, meticulously removing every trace of grime from his body. After a few minutes of washing him, you noticed he was beginning to find comfort in the experience. His eyelids drooped, and his head dipped down slightly, a tired expression settling over his features as he succumbed to the soothing sensation of your ministrations. He wasn’t exactly serene, but he was too drowsy to focus on much else other than the feeling of the rag gliding over his back and flesh arm.

You adjusted him and you tended to his metal arm, diligently working the cloth between the intricate plates and joints of titanium, ensuring that no speck of dirt remained. You weren’t exactly sure how the arm was cleaned prior to finding him, but clearly there wasn’t a worry about rust or anything of the sort. The soldier remained motionless, allowing you unhindered access as the warm water cascaded over his back, leaving a rosy tinge in its wake. He enjoyed the hot temperature, he hadn’t felt hot water in decades.

Your focus then shifted to his lower extremities, concentrating on scrubbing his legs and feet. As the rag moved up to a more sensitive area, you paused, pulling the rag off his skin and slowly extending the washcloth to him. You pointed towards his privates, you softly instructed, "You can…get right there, I’d rather not touch you in that spot."

The furrow on the soldier's brow gave away his visible confusion, his eyes darting between you and the offered rag with a mixture of uncertainty and hesitation. It was clear that he was contemplating with the decision of whether to accept your gesture or not, if there was an ulterior motive, or if this was some sort of test. After what seemed like an eternity of internal debate, he finally extended a trembling hand towards you. His movements were slow and deliberate, as if he were approaching a wild animal rather than a simple cloth.

He grasped the rag from your outstretched palm, his fingers curling around it slowly. Once in possession of the cloth, he set about the task of cleaning himself. His actions, though quick, lacked the assurance of someone accustomed to such basic self-care. Each motion seemed so carefully calculated, as if he were relearning a long-forgotten, essential skill. It had been so long since he was allowed to clean himself. His movements were unsteady, his hands quivering slightly as he went about his ablutions.

It had clearly been an extensive period since he had been granted even this small measure of independence. The concept of autonomy was a luxury he had been denied for far too long.

When he was done with his hurried cleansing, the soldier's gaze immediately sought yours out. His eyes, still holding the rag, were filled with expectation, awaiting your next command. His posture tense and ready to respond to whatever instruction you might provide. The rag remained clutched in his hand, as if he were unsure whether to return it or continue holding onto this small token of independence.

"Good, you're all done," you offered a warm smile to him. Despite the wounds still visible on his body, you felt a sense of accomplishment knowing that at least the layers of dirt and grime had been washed away, your work getting him clean would pay off and be better for the both of you. You reached over and turned off the water, the sudden silence broken only by the soft dripping from the showerhead. "Let's get you dried off," you said softly, gesturing for him to step out of the shower.

He complied wordlessly, his movements careful as he stepped onto the bathroom mat. You couldn't help but notice how vulnerable he looked, standing there dripping wet, his eyes never leaving your face, his body completely littered in discoloration. Reaching for a large, fluffy towel, you unfolded it and wrapped it around his shoulders, enveloping him in its warmth to fight off the rapidly cooling water droplets all over him.

As you began to slowly dry his body, you noticed a change come over him. His softened expression now returned to its usual blank mask and the brief relaxation he showed in the shower was long gone by now. His body returned to the stiffness he had before he got in. His eyes remained fixed on you, following your every movement with an intensity that was almost unnerving.

You worked in the quiet calm of the bathroom, carefully patting dry each part of his body, mindful of his injuries. The soldier remained motionless, allowing you to maneuver him as needed, but offering no assistance, like a doll. It was as if he had retreated back into himself, leaving only an empty shell for you to tend to. You wondered what he was thinking behind those watchful, guarded eyes, they were pretty up close. Glacial, stormy blue irises that had been glued to you since you started to tend to him.

After drying him off, you were lucky to find a pair of boxers in your apartment and helped him into them, where they came from wasn’t something you could remember at the moment, but you were glad you had them. He cooperated as you dressed him, then stood there clutching the towel around himself like a security blanket.

His gaze fixed on you with a mixture of expectation and vulnerability, as if silently asking for further guidance or comfort. His wide eyes blinked languidly, and his soft pink lips formed an almost imperceptible pout, giving him an endearing, slightly lost appearance.

Lost. He embodied the word entirely. Physically, mentally, emotionally.

Taking in his disheveled state, you smiled a little, "How about we get your hair detangled, hm?" Your voice was warm and reassuring as you reached up, your fingers lightly brushing against the damp strands, feeling the water practically seep out of the ends.

The soldier's reaction was a mix of acceptance and hesitation. While he didn't outright reject the idea, there was a noticeable lack of enthusiasm in his demeanor. However he didn’t dare reject the idea, worried about any kind of retaliation. So he made his way to the stool nestled beneath the counter and lowered himself onto it. As he settled into position, maintaining a stoic silence, his eyes continued to convey that enigmatic expression, hinting at unspoken thoughts or emotions.

You positioned yourself behind him, your hands instinctively reaching for a comb and a bottle of detangling spray already sat out from your use earlier that day. You recalled how your fingers had encountered numerous knots and tangles when you washed his hair, and thinking about how knotted it looked dirty made you sigh outwardly.

The fine mist of the detangling spray settled on his hair as you applied it methodically, you guided the comb through his locks, working patiently to untangle any knots you encountered. You tried to be as gentle as possible, knowing not only were there a ton of knots, but you remembered his scalp was especially sensitive and sore.

Soldat remained still as a statue, his posture composed and unwavering. His disciplined demeanor allowed you to work unimpeded, your movements careful and unhurried. He maintained a firm grip on the towel draped securely around his body, the fabric acting almost like a barrier and protecting him from the world. You continued to work the comb through his hair, encountering tangles and knots that spoke of recent exertion or neglect.

The process of detangling was slow, your touch continued to be gentle yet purposeful, muttering soft apologies when you ran into an unexpected knot. Teasing apart the snarls with patience and skill, the resistance lessened, and you found yourself able to run the comb smoothly through his hair, the strands falling into neat alignment.

"There we are... much better," you praised softly, your voice barely above a whisper. The sight of his hair, now brushed out and free of tangles, felt like a monumental achievement. You couldn't help but admire how the clean, detangled strands caught the light, a stark contrast to their earlier disheveled state. Your fingers ran through his locks, gently ruffling the hair from being so flat against his scalp.

You couldn't help but notice the angry red lines marring his skin, peeking out from beneath the towel. The blotchy colors on his skin that ranged from purple to blue, it made you frown. Your instincts as a caretaker kicked in, and you found yourself wondering if he would allow you to tend to those wounds. Hesitantly, you reached out, your fingers barely grazing the edge of the towel just wanting to get a better look at them.

In an instant the soldier suddenly sprang to life, standing with such force that the stool he had been perched on skidded across the tile floor, the harsh scraping sound shattering the previous calm. He retreated to the far corner of the bathroom, his body language screaming defensiveness.

His eyes, which had been closed or downcast for most of your interaction, now bore into you with an intensity that made you freeze. They held fear, yes, but also a raw, primal aggression that sent a shiver down your spine. It was the look of a cornered animal, ready to lash out at the slightest provocation.

You immediately backpedaled, not wanting to trigger any aggression from him. "Okay, okay... no wound checks," you reassured as you raised your hands in a gesture of surrender. You took a step back, giving him more space, silently cursing yourself for pushing too far, too fast. The fragile trust you had built over the past few minutes seemed to hang by a thread, you didn’t want to snap the little you had.

Your words had a calming effect on Soldat, who clutched the towel tightly in his fists, ensuring it remained securely wrapped around him. His gaze drifted down to his soiled attire, prompting you to shake your head in disapproval. "No, those definitely need to be washed," you explained, your voice dropping to a thoughtful murmur, "And to be honest, these can hardly be called proper clothes. I'll make sure to get you some suitable ones tomorrow, alright?"

Soldat's eyes met yours once more, his gaze still carrying a hint of coldness and wariness, but he managed a brief, almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgment. You gathered his discarded garments and deposited them into the washing machine, silently hoping that the combination of leather and other materials wouldn't prove too much for the aging appliance. The damn thing had to be ran twice already, you just couldn’t afford to buy a new one right now.

As you busied yourself with setting the appropriate wash cycle, Soldat seized the opportunity to hastily retreat to the room that had been designated as his temporary living space.

He immediately gravitated towards the floor, as he had been the past few days. You hadn't seen him use the bed at all, rather stay cuddled in the corner or inside the small space of the closet. The towel long forgotten and laid splayed out on the floor, he ripped the blankets off the bed in one fluid motion and proceeded to wrap himself up in them, burrowing beneath the layers of fabric for comfort and security. The blankets having replaced the towel's symbolism for safety.

You wished he’d rest on the bed rather than the floor, but you knew better than to try to alter what he was doing. Leave him to be comfortable on his own, that is the best thing to do in this situation. And if Soldat wants to sleep on the floor in a huddle of blankets, then fine.

You approached the doorway, peering inside to see him nestled in a cocoon of blankets. His exhaustion was written on his face, yet there was a noticeable improvement in his appearance. The layer of grime and perspiration that had clung to his skin was now gone, you knew he had to feel somewhat refreshed.

You cautiously stepped into the room and made your way towards him, acutely aware of how his body tensed at your approach. In response to your closer proximity, he burrowed deeper into the thick comforter that enveloped him, seeking refuge from your presence.

A soft, reassuring sound escaped your lips as you placed a water bottle within his reach. As you anticipated, he remained motionless under the comforter, offering no acknowledgment of your thoughtful action. He stayed hidden beneath the layers of fabric, like a child seeking shelter from imaginary monsters lurking in the shadows.

"Get some rest, Soldat..." you whispered gently, your voice barely above a murmur. "I'll be down in the other room if you need anything. Don't hesitate to call for me, even for the smallest thing." With that reassurance, you slowly stood back up and turned to walk out. A faint noise suddenly caught your attention, causing you to pause mid-step.

The gentle rustling of the comforter drew your gaze back towards the floor, curiosity piquing your interest. The soldier cautiously peeked out from under the blanket's edge. His tired, weary eyes met your inquisitive ones, there was a beat of silence.

"Спасибо," the soldier rasped out, his voice meek and slightly hoarse from disuse, but still loud enough for you to hear clearly.

"You're welcome..."

Dividers by @/strangergraphics

Cover images from Pinterest. I do not claim them as my own.

[echoofadream]

Your favorite patient...

Part 1

Summary: You are a hardworking doctor and you save a man's life. Wait, why is he coming back with all sorts of conditions? What do you mean he followed you home? He's begging to be your...what?

Contains: Obsessive behavior(yandere), stalking, mentions of masturbation, slight smut, dom!reader(gender is not specified), sub!male!yandere.

Imagine you work in a hospital. You're a workaholic doctor who simply loves treating people and helping them get healthier and better. You greet everyone with a smile and try to cheer up every person who comes in, despite their state. 

One day a young man is brought into the ER and you find out he had been in a horrible car accident. You don't waste any more time and treat his wounds and the next day he's already conscious and aware of everything happening around him. Yours is the first face he sees once awake.

The following days you visit him in his hospital room and ask him how he's feeling, the same honest and benevolent smile on your face. You can tell that he's exaggerating most of the time and that the pain he tells you he's experiencing is not as severe as he claims. So you do the only rational thing and discharge him.

Next week, he's back with another issue and he requests you specifically. An ear infection. It wasn't your area of expertise but you took a look and recommended him a qualified doctor. He left displeased.

One week later you saw him again. A stomach ache. It wasn't bad but he wouldn't have it. "You don't get it, doctor! It hurts!" he'd say and grab your wrist, putting it on his lower stomach. He wanted a set of tests. He was even willing to pay any sum of money! You actually ran the tests and he spent one night in the hospital. You should've paid more attention to the smile he had on his face when you came with his results. He wasn't pleased seeing a green line next to every word on the file, yet he understood the situation and left. "Thank you so much, doctor!" he said with a huge smile on his face. "I was so scared! What would I do without you?"

The following week he was in the ER again. Ibuprofen overdose. "I had a headache and didn't know what to do! Help me, doctor!" A part of you was starting to see a pattern, yet your overworked mind couldn't quite put the finger on the issue at hand. You treated him like any other patient. The same friendly smile on your face, the same soft tone of voice, the same tired eyes. You were busy saving lives everyday. This was your duty and you had to do it right. "Such a big heart you have, doctor!" the same adoration in his eyes when he says this as always. "You're amazing!" and you could've sworn you saw tiny hearts forming inside his dark pupils. You should drink less caffeine, really.

After a couple of days the man doesn't come into the ER. Yet you don't even notice his absence. You were so overworked, so tired! Poor you!

One random Thursday(a thoroughly planned day) you freeze when you step into your living room. A familiar person was sitting on your couch. You knew him from somewhere, but why was it so hard for you to remember?

"Hello, doctor!" he greets. The same smile, the same excited voice. And you recognized him. "Don't tell me you don't know who I am..." he started, a bit of disappointment making its way into his facial expression.

You were standing there, unable to move. What was your patient doing inside your house? How did he know where you lived? How did he get inside? Why did he get inside? Was he dange-

"You don't look too pleased to see me, doctor..." he says, a small frown on his face. He approaches you and you instinctively take a step back. "Don't be afraid. I'd never hurt you." his words were either as honest as they could be or he was one hell of a liar. The former sounded better. "You're good and kind and gentle. I'd never hurt you" he chuckled. That makes you make another step back.

"What are you doing here?" you ask, breathlessly.

"I'm here for you, isn't that obvious?"

It was very obvious but you were hoping he'd elaborate.

"You work so hard, doctor" he starts talking in a pitiful, saddened voice. "You work overtime almost everyday. You always come back home late. You don't even have time to cook and you always order takeaway. Then you sit in front of the TV with a glass of wine in your hand, drifting off with god knows what series in the background." He chuckles. "Well, I know actually.".

He takes another step towards you and you flinch. "I wanna make you feel good, doctor" he tells you, almost whimpering. "You work so hard...it's a pity you don't have a slave at home to take care of each and every one of your needs"

Did he just say slave?

"I've been following you ever since you saved my life, doctor. I owe you!". He puts a hand over his heart, trying to show you just how much he loves you. "I know everything you do. I know you barely have a social life, or a sleep schedule or time for yourself except for the moments when you lay on your back on the bed, your glass on the bedside table and you...touch yourself." He blushed at his own words. Meanwhile, you were going through the five stages of fear. If they didn't exist until now, well now they did.

"You don't have any time to clean this place either. I know, since I try not to cough when I lay under your bed and listen to your moans every night." A huge smile spreads across his face. "God, you're amazing..." .

Your hand goes to the pocket of your coat and, as soon as he sees you, his face darkens.

"Doctor...I told you I'm not here to hurt you" His tone held some sort of threat and that made you the more afraid. Your fingers wrap around your phone and you pull it out. He grabs your wrist, stopping you. "You're not gonna do that!" he screams. "You're gonna make me yours! You're gonna do it!".

The sound of your palm making contact with his cheek echoed in the room. He bends forward a little, covering his red cheek and whining softly. He looks at you with fear in his eyes, but you needed to be blind not to see the arousal that fear created. He drops to his knees, hands on his thighs, head lowered.

"I'm sorry, doctor!" he whines. "I shouldn't have yelled at you! Please forgive me! Please! Forgive me for being such a bad boy..." .

You look at him with a shocked expression. It was crystal clear that he was living inside his own world of make-believe in which you were the master and he was the slave. It was obvious he'd wanted it ever since he first saw you. And that he wouldn't take 'no' for an answer.

You smirk, all the previously felt fear having already vanished. After all, everything he said was right. You were exhausted and you needed someone to serve you. You deserved it, didn't you? Weren't you that god sent person who saved this poor boy's life? Why not give him what he wants? Why not...give yourself what you want?

"You followed me home" you start, your tone as assertive as you could make it. You could see his body shiver and that only made you keep going. "You broke into my house multiple times. You stalked me!"

A soft whimper escapes the man in front of you. He tries to lift his head, to look at you with those big pleading puppy eyes of his, to show you how very sorry he felt(not in the slightest) for doing all that. But when you snap at him he lowers his head again.

"You gave yourself medical conditions so that I could treat you! What kind of sick fuck does that?"

He moaned when he heard your degrading words, lifting his head and looking you straight in the eyes, a big smile on his face.

"I'm sick, doctor. I'm very sick..."

You laughed at his wordplay. "I think you've been a bad boy. A bad sick naughty boy. You know what bad boys get?" You smirk, waiting for his answer.

"Punishment!" he yells, his eagerness immeasurable. "They get punishment. Please, doctor..."

"Please, what?"

"Please....punish me"

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it!

If this goes well I'll write the second part(smut ofc).

[murdrdocs]

masturbation mention; handjobs; college!art; fem!reader; no spoilers MDNI 18+ w/ ART DOANLDSON

when art donaldson gets a boner, it's nearly impossible for it to go down. he's tried everything in the book. well, everything in patrick's book—taking a cold shower, thinking about his grandmother in her underwear, changing his position. but nothing has ever worked, leaving him to excuse himself at inconvenient times so he could fist his cock until he was satisfied.

but being here with you, art can't do that. he's already flaked on your study sessions one too many times and he really, really doesn't want to have to flake again. for a reason as trivial and embarrassing as a boner at that.

he really didn't mean for it to happen. but he just happens to be in your space, surrounded by your trinkets, watching you move around in a pair of shorts that reminded him of the pair tashi wore that night. which got him thinking about the situation he was in just a year ago. which made him imagine you and him in a situation similar, perhaps even with tashi and patrick there.

you're speaking to him. your hands are moving in patterns that art should recognize, and you're lips are moving, too. but he's distant. distracted.

he blinks twice, shaking the overgrown blond curls out of his face as he fixes his gaze on you again.

"'m ... i'm sorry. what were you saying?"

you drop your hands and place them in your lap. you look disappointed.

"dude. i'm really trying to pass this midterm."

art drops his head. he initially does it in an act of shame, but then he notices your hands resting along your glistening skin and he's suddenly made aware of his boner once more. he groans, resting his elbows into the decorative pillow covering his lap as he covers his face with his hands.

"i know, i know. i'm really, really sorry." he sniffs, straightens up, and focuses all of his attention on studying with you. but now it's you who's distracted.

you tilt your head and eye him up and down. art, worrying that you might have fucking x-ray vision or something, adjusts the way he’s sitting. he thinks he's being casual, but then he clears his throat and looks off to the side and he can hear your small 'oh'.

“haven’t tried thinking about your grandmother?”

art, embarrassed at having been caught, says nothing.

“want me to help you out?” you offer. you say it like a joke, so art laughs. but then you don’t laugh, too.

you’re staring at him, a small smile on your lips as you push your weight into your hands behind you. the twin XL bed can only allow so much room, so even as you’re leaning away from him art feels like you’re right there.

“you’re joking, right?”

you take a second, and then you shake your head.

and that’s how art ends up digging his hands into your sheets as he watches your hand glide over his cock through heavy eyes.

you’re sitting with your feet tucked under your butt, one hand scratching through art’s hair and the other working on his cock.

art’s free hand is pressing into the line of skin between your top and shorts.

you’re doing so well, making him feel so good, but you still ask for confirmation through a low voice.

“does this feel good?”

and your face is so much closer to him than he thought. your voice is right next to his ear. it travels down through him, making even more blood rush to his cock if even possible.

art nods, tearing his eyes away from your hand wrapped around his cock to look at you. but you’re already looking at him, your hand pulling on a loose curl of his while you smile. art smiles back, just before you pull him closer and press your lips to his.

kissing distracts you, so art takes over. he shifts his cock up into your hand, doing the work for you. he circles his hand around your back and pulls you closer until he can feel your breasts pushing against his arm through your shirt. whatever bra you’re wearing must be thin, because art can feel your nipples poking him.

he means to warn you. he wants to let you know before it happens. but you regain some of your focus and your thumb presses into his tip, and he’s thinking about how you told him he had a pretty dick, and he can feel your tits and suddenly his hips are lifting and cock is twitching and he’s cumming all over your hand and his thighs.

[creature-once-removed]

.

[alyrasturnz]

pls write something like matt and y/n are talking abt their day and y/n talks about this 10yo she met at the park and matt doesnt know hes 10 so he gets rly jealous

MATT, HE'S TEN!

❐ summary » matt and y/n settle in for their usual evening chat, sharing the highlights and lowlights of their day. as y/n recounts a charming encounter with a boy she met in the park, who, despite being just ten years old, had the wisdom and charm of someone much older, matt's curiosity quickly turns into jealousy. unable to mask his feelings, matt's expressions shift from interest to a stubborn mix of jealousy and embarrassment.

❐ pairings » bf!matt x fem!reader

❐ warnings » jealous mattttt

❐ a/n && w/c » this is so cute im crying! short fic while i work on ten fics and a group presentation •  551

“so, how was your day, baby?” matt asked, his fingers weaving through your hair in slow, deliberate movements, the soft glow of the television casting dancing shadows across the room, illuminating the tender moment.

you smiled, nestling closer into his chest, savoring the warmth of his embrace that seemed to wrap around your very soul. "it was pretty good! i went to the park today. there was this guy who came up to me, and we ended up having quite an interesting conversation."

matt's grip tightened slightly around you, a subtle sign of his growing unease. "oh really? what did he want?" his voice carried a slight edge of jealousy that you couldn't quite ignore, the tension palpable in the air.

you continued, oblivious to matt's discomfort, your fingers tracing absent-minded patterns on his arm. "well, he was really curious about what i was doing. we talked for a bit, and he was just so charming and funny..."

matt's eyebrows furrowed as he tried to hide his growing concern, the lines on his forehead deepening. "charming, huh? and what else did this guy say to you?" he asked, his voice attempting to remain steady, though the underlying tension was unmistakable.

you chuckled, the memory bringing a smile to your face. "he asked me about the book i was reading. we talked about our favorite stories and characters. he had this infectious enthusiasm that was just so refreshing." your eyes sparkled with the recollection, and your hands gestured animatedly as you spoke.

matt forced a smile, though his eyes betrayed his unease, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly. "sounds like he really made an impression on you," he said, his voice carefully measured, yet unable to mask the underlying tension.

you nodded, still caught up in the memory, your eyes distant as you recalled the moment. "yeah, he did. he even told me a joke that had me laughing for a good while. something about a dinosaur and a spaceship," you said, your voice tinged with lingering amusement.

matt couldn't hold back any longer, his curiosity and unease bubbling to the surface. "charming, funny, and now a comedian too? what else did this guy do to sweep you off your feet?" he asked, his voice edged with a mix of incredulity and subtle tension.

you looked up at matt, recognizing the flicker of jealousy in his eyes. "matt, there's no need to worry," you said softly, your tone reassuring. "he was just being friendly and curious, nothing more."

matt sighed, attempting to dispel the lingering jealousy that clouded his thoughts. "i know, i know," he murmured, his voice tinged with resignation. "it's just... i don't trust it."

suddenly, the realization dawned on you, and you couldn't help but burst into laughter. "matt, he's ten years old!" you exclaimed, the absurdity of the situation breaking through the tension.

matt paused, his expression transitioning from jealousy to embarrassment. "oh... well, still. i don't trust that punk," he muttered, attempting to mask his embarrassment beneath a veneer of stubbornness.

you laughed even harder, snuggling closer to him. "you're too much, matt. but i appreciate the protectiveness," you said, your voice filled with warmth. you kissed him on the cheek, and he finally relaxed, a smile breaking through as he joined in your laughter.

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