He Might Be The Love Of My Life

he might be the love of my life

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part eighteen —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 3.3k tags: death. blood. cannibalism mention. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isn’t here yet. slow burn!!! enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival.

Over the next four days, you find yourself panting in exhilaration each morning you spar with Ghost. Every slam of your hand into his ribs feels strangely better than the last. He goes harder on you. He'd been holding back, too, apparently— an unfortunate fact for your ribs. The pain seems to motivate you more, even if he is still beating the shit out of you.

Blue also motivates you. "Hit his nose again!"

Of course, that is the one part of him you purposely avoid.

The sun returns and sweat glides down your face. You knee his stomach. It's less vulnerable than swinging a kick, but still, he attempts to grab you by the waist. You quickly skirt away, the ground firmer beneath your feet, only for his hand to latch onto one of your braids, instead. A sting pulses through your scalp as he tugs hard, wrenching your ear close to his mouth.

"Quicker. Good. But don't get too cocky."

"I thought you wanted me to be more confident," you retort between ragged breaths. 

"Yes, but you can't forget who has the advantage here." There is the slightest bit of arrogance in his voice that makes your teeth grit.

"How could I ever forget?" Your head tilts and he releases the braid. Suddenly, the thought of smacking his nose again doesn’t seem so bad.

His eyebrow quirks. "Get some water, Twix. You need it."

The water caresses your tongue as you gulp it down without abandon. Unsurprisingly, Blue has disappeared somewhere in the treetops. The lack of more broken bones has waned her interest.

When Ghost lifts his mask to drink, you steal a glance at his nose, noticing that the swelling has gone down significantly. The fact he is still wearing that thing with a broken nose upholds your theory that he is at least slightly insane— as if the fact that he once shoved a gun into your fresh wound wasn’t already evidence of that.

Out of nowhere, he materializes beside you and places a hand on your stomach. Your sore muscles spasm under the surprise of his touch, his long fingers stretching from one side of your ribs to the other.

"Your strength starts here,” he explains in a hoarse murmur. “Keep it tight and you will deliver more damage."

You purse your lips to hide a wince and tap your nose. "Don’t I already deliver enough damage?"

"The nose is fragile. You may be landing more hits on me, but I still hardly feel a thing from them."

He allows you to pry his hand off, but the pressure of it seems to linger. Ghost studies you in a way that turns you translucent before demanding, "Lift your shirt, Twix."

Exhaling through your nose, you hesitate before peeling it up, revealing the collection of bruises you have earned from him. A myriad of pink, purple, and yellow skin flares up under his gaze. They have been giving you a hard time lacing your boots and tying your hair in the morning, but once you get moving, the ache becomes easier to ignore.

He has already seen your stomach and more, yet, your skin itches from the exposure. You shove the shirt back down.

His expression shifts. "You should have said something."

"They're just bruises. I'm not bleeding or anything."

"Still."

"Still what?"

He looks irritated. "You need to fucking communicate."

"I don't see why it matters. No coddling, right?"

"That doesn't mean I'm interested in breaking you."

You jerk your chin up to meet his stare. “You won't."

Blue swings down from a tree, plopping between the two of you and unintentionally—thankfully—putting an end to the subject. "I'm glad you two are finally getting along. It's good for the team." She nudges her dad. "But are you done with her yet? You can't just hog Twix all to yourself."

He clears his throat and the air between your bodies breathes wider. "If you're getting bored maybe we need to find something for you to practice."

"Nope!" she says quickly. "Not bored at all." 

He nods to a tree. "Go on. Practice your knives. You haven't done that in a while. Then, you can have her."

With a groan, she trudges away. 

The sparring continues.

Ghost's fists soften by a smidge.

"He annoys the shit out of me sometimes."

Blue rips up a tuft of grass as you inch back to admire the swipe of color on her eyelids. It was her idea to use the bold-colored flowers for makeup— just like the models in her magazines. You did your best to mash the petals and mix them with some creekwater, but the result is kind of patchy and not nearly as smooth as the stuff you used to put on years ago. 

"Hold still. I'm doing your cheeks next."

The sun highlights the splash of freckles on her cheeks and you try to recall if Ghost had them. Her nose is nothing like his. A dainty button. Another trait she must've gotten from her mom. 

"Did you used to wear makeup?" she asks curiously, eyelashes fluttering down. 

"Sometimes. Especially when I went out."

"Went out where?"

Concentration nudges between your brows. "To clubs and stuff. It's where people would... dance."

Her lips spread as she cocks her head to the side in a manner that emulates her dad. You have to remind her again to stop moving. “Oh. Sorry. You danced?"

"I mean, not good dancing. Just dancing for fun,” you murmur, shrugging at the faint memories of being sandwiched between strangers, alcohol flowing through your veins rather than fear and adrenaline. Back then, mornings were spent nursing a hangover before class rather than earning bruises from an ex-lieutenant. 

Humor dances in her eyes when they reopen. "I don't think Ghost ever went to a club. I cannot imagine him dancing."

The images in your mind morph into something utterly laughable— him standing there like an immovable tank as people try to dance around him. "No, probably not."

"He never really tells me about his life before shit happened," she says thoughtfully. 

This piques your curiosity, but you keep your voice light. "No?"

"Well, he tells me the simple stuff. Mostly about his job. But never... never the small things, you know? Like I have no idea what he used to do for fun or what his life was like when he was a kid." She pauses a moment before adding, "He had a brother. That much I know."

You glance up. "Had?"

"He died before the virus. His mom and dad, too. But every time I ask how they died, he just says," she deepens her voice, "'Doesn't matter how, kid. Dead is dead.'"

"Oh, um, yeah, that sounds like something he would say." You tap your fingers under her chin. "I can put some on your lips, too."

Her eyes close again as she puckers her lips out. When you're done, she continues. "He also never talks about my mom." Her face twists. “I think he thinks talking about her will hurt my feelings."

For a few seconds, you struggle to find a response. The rare mention of her mom always makes your heart stutter, but this time, your broken, callused hand reaches out to brush a strand of hair behind her ear.

"It's okay to feel hurt, you know."

Blue shrugs and looks up at the cobalt sky. "I don't think I remember her enough to feel that hurt anymore. She feels so... far away. I remember small things, like the sound of her voice and her old apartment where I lived, but sometimes I wonder if I am making up those memories, you know what I mean?"

"Yeah, I know what you mean." A terrible urge sits on your tongue to ask her more about her mom, about what exactly her relationship was like with Ghost, but Blue changes the subject before you can.

"Does the makeup look good?" A shy blush clouds her cheeks.

You stand up with a faint smile. "I think I did pretty damn good. Come on. I want you to go look in the mirror."

Music.

It pounds so hard you feel it in your chest.

Neon walls enclose you as someone touches your backside, dancing against you. There is a man's voice in your ear that you think you recognize but it's hard to hear him through all the laughing and chatter. Your hair falls in loose curls down your back, free of braids, and you swipe it from your sweaty skin before excusing yourself to the bathroom.

You push through the people. The narrow hall is shrouded with different doors... so many doors. Where is the bathroom? It must be a Friday night on Oxford Street with how fucking crowded and stuffy this place is. Someone knocks into you roughly and your footsteps quicken. A sense of urgency drags you into the next door you come across, a large one made of grey oak.

The smell is horrendous but you feel relieved to see urinals and stalls. Immediately, you press into the granite counter and grip the edge as you catch your breath. The scratched, warped mirror houses a face covered in makeup. Youthful eyes. Flushed cheeks. How much have you had to drink? You need to go home. You will pee and then go home, you tell yourself. Over and over, you repeat this as you relieve yourself in one of the graffiti-doused stalls where condom and tampon wrappers crinkle beneath your heels.

When you're done, you try for the large door you came through, but it doesn't budge. The muffled music outside has faded. Panic sears your chest. You press your back against the door. The bathroom has changed. The stalls are gone. The walls feel like they are closing in, and the smell of piss turns into something even worse. You are alone. Where is the man you came with? You look down. Dead bodies. Strewn limbs. You're standing on a pile of them.

You start screaming. Banging on the door. Digging your fingers into the wood until the flesh rubs down to bone. 

It's not a room anymore, but a box. The fluorescent lights replaced by sheer darkness.

The edges of the door disappear.

A sickening silence replaces your screams.

And then—

"Twix."

You sit up, wild-eyed. You grip onto something—fabric—and a foul taste travels up your throat without warning. You heave several times, your entire body shuddering. 

When awareness settles in, you wipe your mouth and blink up. Ghost. He is... here. Hovering over you. His shirt is tightly bunched between your fingers and you have just vomited into it. The realization smacks you awake and you recoil sharply, staring at his moonlit mask with an expression that must be just short of mortified.

"I... Fuck. I am so sorry. I don't know why— I just..."

When you dare to look at the mess you've left on him, you nearly vomit again. Hands shaking, you rub at your clammy face and begin to ramble unthinkingly as his stare flickers between you and his soiled shirt.

"I've been trying so hard not to hold back like you said, but I think it is fucking me up a little and letting out some things— memories, I guess. I was pretty good about keeping it all in my box because I've been too tired to even think about it, but now I just..." You trail off, realizing your words must make little sense. 

"You've certainly let something out," he rasps.

Your hands drop against the sofa and you cringe. "I'll wash it for you. I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing."

You inhale. "I just fucking threw up on you."

"I'm aware."

Ghost straightens. He pinches the collar of his shirt and carefully hoists it over his head. Then, you're looking at his bare chest. Slivers of moonlight caress rigid brawn and mountainous scars that capture your gaze for a few heartbeats before you tear it away. 

"I'll, um, hang it outside and... wash it in the morning." 

Your legs are unnervingly steady when you stand up and take the shirt from him, carefully grabbing it by a dry spot. You are relieved to get away from him, draping it over the porch and swallowing gulps of fresh air before you go back inside, praying he's gone back to bed.

Luckily, he has. When the empty living room greets you, you sink to the sofa and palm your eyes. Then, you notice something left on the pillow. A cigarette. You pick it up and recall the few times you smoked whenever your friends offered one. The taste never sat well with you. 

You rummage for your lighter. The first inhale burns terribly, but you cough into the pillow and try again. It starts to calm you down after a few times, and only when you've gotten to the butt of it do you go back to sleep.

"No wonder you're not getting stronger if you throw up like that every night."

Not even five minutes into training the next morning he brings it up. The rest of your sleep ended abruptly when he got you up at an unearthly time, probably to avoid having Blue as an audience. You are too winded to even scowl, your fists held tight in front of your face as you try to predict where he will aim next.

"I told you. That was the first night in a while." 

"Right. Something about a box, huh?"

"Can we just forget about it, please?"

"Hard to forget when my shirt still smells."

"I washed it the best I could."

The next dodge has your head flying down fast enough to undo one of your braids. Hair slips over your face and you huff, holding your hand up. "Hold on. Give me a minute."

As you undo the other one and opt for shoving your hair into a tight bun instead, he watches you strangely. The feel of his stare ignites a spark of irritation and you flash him a sideways glance. "Look, thank you for the cigarette and everything else you have ever done for me, but you can stop looking at me like that. Like you... pity me. I'm not going to break, I'm not going to ask you to kill me again. Everyone left in this world has nightmares and mine probably aren't the worst of them."

"I don't pity you," he says. "I am just trying to understand you."

"Why?" You finish the bun and drop your arms awkwardly at your sides. 

"It's important to understand your ally."

"Oh. Is that what we are?"

His eyes narrow. "Obviously. I wouldn't bother wasting my time with this every day if we weren't."

"Good to know you aren't doing it because you owe me."

"You know what I mean, Twix," he growls. 

"No, I don't." You throw your arms up. "I don't know what you mean and I don't know why you never killed me because you had every reason to, and I definitely don't understand you, so I guess we make terrible allies, Ghost."

"What is with you?" He cocks his head to the side, tone mild with curiosity. "So talkative all of the sudden."

"I have no problem talking when the other person isn't blatantly ignoring me."

His brows lift. "Fair enough."

A deep inhale flares your nostrils before you spread your stance. "I'm ready now."

Despite your claim of readiness, he quickly backs you into a defensive position that has you frustrated once again. You don't understand why, but your progress slips. You keep having to adjust your stance and all of your attempts to hit him fail. It's not long before he locks you against a tree with a tattooed forearm against your neck. 

"You aren't focused today," he accuses.

"Damn, you're observant," you breathe out. 

"Jesus fucking Christ. If I wanted to listen to someone mouthing off, I'd get Blue out here." He presses a bit harder and your throat twitches. "I'm not going to threaten you anymore, but clearly, you think straighter when you channel your anger, so whatever you were dreaming about last night— get it out of your head."

He's right. You breathe deep and try sorting through everything in your head, focusing on just the anger, but it's like fishing in murky water. When he releases you, more of the same happens. This time, you end up on your butt. Ghost glares down at you, circling like a vulture.

"You were doing good the past few days. What the hell is this?"

"I told you," you say through your teeth, brushing off the dirt from your jeans. "Letting out my anger means letting everything else in the box out and it is... confusing me. Making my head fuzzy, I guess."

His chest expands with a deep breath and his pointed stare turns meticulous. "Explain this box to me."

You hesitate for a moment. "It's just... where I put away all of the shit that would otherwise make me insane."

"And what is wrong with being a little insane, Twix? This world is insane. Might as well match it."

Your mouth opens, then closes. You struggle for an answer and rub your temples. "I don't know. Being insane means losing myself completely. I mean, I have already changed so much in the past five years. Like I said, I was never meant to be this person."

"What person? A person who survives? A person who does what she has to?"

"A person who hurts others," you grit out. "A person who kills." 

"You've killed people, right?" he roughly asks and you nod. "Then you're a killer. You were always meant to be a killer. End of story." His words strike you, and you begin to shake your head defensively, but he continues before you can muster a reply. "The past five years haven't changed you, they have revealed who you are. Now—" he raises his fists, "—open the stupid box and turn everything you feel into anger. All of it. It is valuable fuel that will continue to keep you alive."

He swings.

A kaleidoscope of long-ignored memories flashes through your brain when he hits your sore stomach. Your family. Your friends. The life stolen from you. 

And then— you recover your footing and slam a boot into his knee. It loosens his stance just enough for you to throw yourself at him, effectively knocking him over. The ground welcomes your bodies again, but this time, you grip his shoulders and wind up on top, practically laying all of your weight on him. A few harsh breaths expel from your nose before you become fully aware of the position, the heat from his chest pressing into your breasts.

Quickly, you splay your hands flat against him and sit up straight, thighs spread over his narrow hips. Ghost could easily flip you over and pin you if he wanted. But instead, he crosses his arms behind his head. 

"Comfortable?" you ask him breathlessly, raising a brow.

"Quite. Though, if this were real, I suggest an elbow to the neck once you've got them down."

"So you admit it, then. I got you down."

"I allowed it."

"Sure." Your teeth snag on your lip and you lightly brush a finger over his masked nose, detecting a tick in the hinge of his jaw. "Then I will 'allow' you to keep this for now, but next time, I might do more than just break it."

His eyes widen imperceptibly before he quickly recovers. "Ah. So you are a person who hurts others, then. Someone was trying to tell me otherwise."

Your lips twitch at the corner on their own accord. "Shut the fuck up."

He simply stares at you for a pregnant pause before clearing his throat. "I did allow it, but that was good. You focused on the anger, didn't you?"

You nod. "Yeah, I did. Is that what you do all the time?" you ask curiously. "Just get angry and kill people?"

"Pretty much."

By the tone of his voice, a deep brass that reverberates through all the places your bodies touch, you are certain he's joking. Realizing that you are still on top of him, you push off his chest and swing a leg over, careful not to knee his face or let him see the deep flush that crawls over every inch of your skin. 

Making out with Kenji. 18+

Make out sessions with Kenji is like running a marathon. He's got some sort of oral fixation exclusive to you, his mouth needing to be against yours, against you, without breaking apart for as long as possible.

Doesn't matter if you're breathless, and seeing spots, the moment you try to pull away it's as if you've snatched his gold trophy from him.

"Get back here,"

His voice practically drags out in a snarl, guttural and feral as he squeezes your face in one large palm to yank you back.

Right, how inconsiderate of you to try to catch your breath.

You wince as your teeth clacks roughly against his, his tongue already slipping into your mouth.

He's got you pushed down on the bed, body weight crushing yours as his hips grinds on you. His elbows digs into the mattress on either sides of your head, fingers laced on the top of your head as if to hold you in place and your own small hands gripped onto the sides of his shirt for dear life.

Your muffled whines of protests were lost on him, too busy eating your face to care. All he hears is your cute little mewls and whimpers under him, moaning into your mouth whenever you gag.

When he finally, finally, pulls back, you're throwing your head back to gulp for air, sweat beading on your forehead and chest heaving.

Kenji clicks his tongue, dragging the back of his hand over his spit-covered chin.

"S'dramatic,"

You hear him mumble, earning a swat from you despite the smirk playing on his lips.

He likes seeing you like this, winded and choking for air. The power trip of reducing you into a goopy mess like this turns him on like crazy, though he'll never admit it.

And here comes the punchline.

"You're all worked up over a kiss?"

The smugness practically oozes from his tone, eyes glittering with glee as he runs a cold hand up the column of your neck.

He squeezes lightly, a promise for what's to come, before sliding down your body as your eyes follows him curiously. Your breath hitches when he swings your thighs over his shoulders.

"Since I've tired your lips out up there, I think I'll pay attention to the ones here, kay' baby?"

His shit eating grin tells you he's gonna do it anyways.

He's got you wrap around his little finger and all you can do is spread your thighs a little wider in answer.

(Bro is a mouth breather. He breaths through YOUR mouth fr)

𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 — 𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨𝐤𝐢

𝖯𝖠𝖨𝖱𝖨𝖭𝖦. gintoki sakata x fem!reader

𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖭𝖨𝖭𝖦𝖲. fluff with a sprinkle of angst, mentions of violence, blood and scars, gintoki has a few injuries and still manages to be a flirt

𝖲𝖸𝖭𝖮𝖯𝖲𝖨𝖲. you tend to gintoki’s wounds after another battle. while scolding him for his reckless behavior, you accidentally confess your love for him.

𝖠𝖴𝖳𝖧𝖮𝖱'𝖲 𝖭𝖮𝖳𝖤. i still can’t get over the lack of fanfic in this fandom, so i’m here to bless you with another fluffy fic for gintoki. i had so much fun writing this and hope you enjoy this as much as i did

𝖫𝖤𝖭𝖦𝖳𝖧. 2.661 words

MASTERLIST

Blood seeps through the thin fabric of his white yukata that he slips off his body and throws into the corner of your otherwise clean room without care, bunched up with his signature black suit next to the muddy pair of leather boots he wore only minutes ago. When did he get here? 

It’s already dark outside, the sun has settled behind the skyline of Edo and marks the rise of the colorful nightlife that sweeps through the lively streets with a muffled buzzing, happy laughter mixing with the sound of clinking bottles. Time seems to slow down, seconds melt into minutes, minutes alter into draining hours and the night just doesn’t seem to find an end or perhaps it has only just begun. He doesn’t know.

Everything feels heavy, so heavy and terrifyingly surreal, limbs numb with fatigue and defeat. There is no fear, no pain, just exhaustion that crawls deep into his wounded skin and whispers empty promises of eternal rest and a better world into his ears if he just closes his eyes for a passing moment. A dangerous temptation he can’t withstand much longer,

“You’re going to give me a heart attack one of these days, Gin.” Your voice pulls him back to reality, a sweet warmth lacing the admonishing words that flow from your tongue like strawberry milk, even when you’re scolding him for the second, no, third time this week.

As you give him a pointed look over your shoulder, you prepare the medical equipment you need to treat his injuries, calmly sterilizing the thin needle which is going to pierce through the first layers of his skin and pull thread through his body to close the deep cuts littering his scarred torso.

Clean white gauze and a bowl of cold water are carefully placed on the floor next to a washcloth and shirt that doesn’t belong to him. The blue cotton is soft to the touch and light like a feather almost feels like nothing at all under his fingertips and Gintoki supposes that it’s meant for him to wear after you stitched him back together like a cheap ragdoll. “There’s a hospital in Edo, too. I hope you know that.”

Gin grunts in response. It’s a struggle to shift his arms and move into a comfortable sitting position - the fight really took a toll on him this time, he has to admit that as he glances down to inspect the damage the blade of his opponents caused, though he barely has the time to gape at his slashed torso before you swiftly push him back into the futon with a disappointed tut.

“Don’t move more than necessary or you’re going to bleed out on my floor,” you grumble next to him, kneeling down and slowly sliding closer within reach to examine his injuries. The cold of the damp cloth pressed to his side without a warning causes him to yelp in surprise, quickly merging into a groan of pain when you clean the deep cut on his toned abdomen. The sudden sting lets nausea bloom in the pit of his stomach and tears prick at the corners of his eyes, clinging to his silver lashes and blurring his vision until the contours of your room dissipate into a pool of various colors. “Oi, quit it! Were you whining like that during that stupid fight, too?”

Arching your brow, you lean forward to get a better glimpse of the cut you decided to treat first. Delicate fingers ghost over his abused ribs with caution, caress his bruised chest with tenderness and skim over the swollen edges of the cut to spread the skin enough for you to see how deep the blade slashed through his flesh.

By now, this is already routine — inspecting each wound, treating each cut with the utmost care, and keeping him alive until Kagura and Shinpachi drag him to your doorstep in a few days again. If you’re lucky, he spares you the weekend and acts on his reckless instincts a week later, though you won’t place your trust on a spark of naive hope to get some peace and quiet.

“Hey, stay with me,” you remind Gintoki softly when you notice his eyes fluttering close in exhaustion, gently slapping his pale cheeks until his crimson gaze is focused on you once more. His state is worse than you initially thought. Shit. Worry settles in the back of your mind like a starved predator, lurking and waiting hungrily at the sight of feverish sweat glistening on his forehead, drenching silvery strands of his disheveled hair while a deathly sallowness takes over his handsome features.

The tips of your fingers, now trembling with agitation, are already stained red, the coppery smell of blood lingers in the air and stings in your nose. With a shaky exhale, you stop your administrations for just a fleeting second to collect your raging thought and push the welling fear of losing him into the shadowed corner of your head.

You can do this.

And even if you can’t, you have to.

“You won’t die on my watch, Shiroyasha,” you growl with new composure and although he barely understands what you’re saying, Gintoki still manages to nod his head in affirmation. The sound of your voice is enough to weigh him in a soothing sense of safety as he studies your face with astonishment.

Yeah, okay, he’s a little dazed and unable to respond properly because of the fair amount of blood loss he endured and the consistent lack of adrenaline drags him into a pit of consciousness and weightlessness (maybe you drugged him), but he’s certain that you’ve always been this beautiful even while your hands are covered in blood and you’re stitching his wounds together with composed steadiness, working over his drained body with skill and precision. “You’re going to live, so I can kick your ass for being so reckless.”

He won’t die.

Gintoki trusts you and your experience, he really does, but he’s so tired and his vision begins to grow blurry with each passing minute. Just give in, a voice in the back of his head whispers, just close your eyes and sleep. Far away, you call out his name, shaky and weirdly scared, yet he can’t find the power in himself to fight the overwhelming darkness any longer, engulfing him and pulling him into an icy sea of nightmares.

Shiroyasha.

He wakes with a jolt that sends a blazing fire through every fiber of his being, wide eyes and a bolting heart, the smell of blood and smoke lingering on his skin. War. Zura yells his name and Takasugi’s war cries still ring in his ears, the clashing of metal against metal sends sparks flying through the smoke, swords and dead bodies cover the ground. No. No, no, this can’t be, please—

“Oh, you’re awake.” His panicked gaze wanders to your welcoming face. A timid grin traces the corners of your mouth at the relived whisper of your name that leaves the depths of his throat as his shoulders relax. No war. Just you and your gentle hands, gliding over his heated skin and offering him a glass of fresh water which he empties within seconds. No war. “You scared me there for a second, Gin. Thought I lost you.”

“How…How long was I out?” He croaks and coughs hoarsely while carefully shifting his body, sliding back until his broad back meets the cold wall of your room. Everything hurts, muscles straining and protesting at his rapid movements, yet he doesn’t care. There’s worse than a little ache in his arms and legs.

“Only a few hours.” You press the palm of your hand against his forehead. A sigh of relief leaves your chest when you notice that the fever plaguing him during his slumber has finally subsided. Carefully, you lean over his waist to undo the bandages around his torso to change them, since the sterile fabric is long soaked in sweat and the remnants of blood that seeped through the stitches and stain the gauze.

The wounds aren’t infected, though the skin is still tender to your touch, irritated and swollen around the edges. “You really have to be more careful. I know you’re just trying to save the day and you don’t care about your own life,” you tilt your head to catch his gaze with a soft smile. “But I do.”

It’s quiet for a while as you clean some of the dried blood around the stitches that keep his cuts together before turning back to the bowl of water next to you. Rinsing out the washcloth, you watch how the drops of red dissipate in the water. His blood. It leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, the mere thought of Gintoki in pain and although you’ve seen him in this state plenty of times, you still can’t get used to it.

The kids always bring him to you since they meet you and learned about your medical skills, always asking for your help with quivering lips and tears in their eyes, still holding a childlike gleam of hope to suppress the agony of losing him in the open palms of death. As much as it hurts to admit this, but if Gintoki continues this pattern of carelessness and idiocy, he will die.

Sooner or later, he will.

Taking new gauze and clean bandages, you begin to wrap it around his chest and abdomen, gently smoothing the fabric and securing it by tucking the loose end under the wrap. “Have you ever thought about the kids? What are Kagura and Shinpachi supposed to do without you, huh? You can’t just leave them behind because you thought it would be funny to bleed out after a fight.”

To emphasize your scolding, you smack his shoulder before he can open his mouth to argue with you. The audacity of this man, unbelievable. “You’ve never seen their faces when they bring you to me, have you? Because let me tell you one damn thing, Sakata Gintoki, the looks on their faces break my heart every fucking time.”

You push a few strands of silver hair out of his crimson eyes and wipe the blood staining his porcelain skin, eyebrows furrowed as you think about your next words. Perhaps, you already said too much, because Gin has been awfully quiet for the past minutes, staring at you with such intensity that it makes your foolish little heart flutter in your chest like a fragile butterfly. “Listen, I’m glad to help wherever I can, but what if… what if one day, I’m not fast enough? I couldn’t live with myself if you died because of me.”

With a shaky sigh, you lift your hand to clean his split brow, but Gintoki catches your wrist before your fingertips can graze his skin. “Don’t say that,” he murmurs with a smile, gentle and kind, somehow reassuring. You’ve never seen that expression on his face before, though you could get used to it. Who knew his smile could be this bright? “You’re the best nurse I ever had. And a hot one, too.”

“I hate you,” you state with a furious blush tinting your cheeks. Unbelievable, this man. Despite losing consciousness less than four hours ago, he still finds the strength to shamelessly flirt with you — you’re not sure whether to be impressed or pissed off by his teasing.

Cocky bastard.

“That’s a little mean, don’t you think? Besides, you don’t really mean it.” A grin tugs at the corners of his mouth and he raises his arm to scratch at the back of his head, still holding your wrist in his other hand. Muscles bulge at the movement, a reminder of his capability to fight any rival and accentuating the strength and power he carries despite being the biggest idiot you have ever met. The white demon, that’s what they call him, the samurai. You’ve seen him wield a sword before — terrifying and lethal, though it doesn’t spare him from every injury.

Your gaze wanders over his biceps, following a prominent vein along his arm until your eyes meet his. Amusement glints in his dark orbs and a knowing smirk traces his lips. He caught you.

“Of course I don’t hate you.” Slipping your hand out of his grasp, you dip the washcloth into the bowl of water once more, before running it over his brow to wipe some dried blood off his skin. A small scratch decorates his temple, a wound you didn’t notice before and you have to physically retreat yourself, so you don’t act on the heat surging through your stomach and press a chaste kiss to the cut. “I’m just worried about you because I love you so much—”

Fuck. You freeze momentarily, eyes growing wide as you register what you just said. That wasn’t planned. Carefully, you tilt your head to study his face, trying to read his expression and figure out, what he’s thinking at this exact moment.

His pupils are dilated with shock and you can practically see the gears working in his head, processing the words that hastily spilled out of your mouth. Time slows down, the room appears to be spinning wildly while your heart rides a rollercoaster into your throat and back. Stammering, spluttering, gasping for air, you try to find a meek excuse, anything to explain yourself before he rejects you, but your mind is empty. Nothing comes out.

And so, you’re doomed to watch and wait. Dead eyes of a fish, you once heard the Vice-Commander of the Shinsengumi describe his eyes, but now? Now you see so much more in them. A battle with his own demons as he scrambles to think of an appropriate reaction to your confession.

Then his features soften. Another smile traces over his lips, his gaze finally focused on you and your heart staggers again, afraid, excited, wondering what his next words might be. Suddenly, a spark of hope ignites in your chest at the tenderness etched into his expression.

“Well, I’m glad,” he speaks quietly, pulling you into his lap and simply ignoring your weak protests. His cheeks flush under your stare, hot and searing, climbs to the tips of his ears as he lets the walls he’s built so securely around his heart crumble down, piece by piece. It’s a sight to see, truly, because he’s so beautiful when he’s calm and vulnerable in the comfort of your presence alone, it makes you want to kiss him more than ever before. “Good to know that you feel the same way. Almost thought, I was a hopeless case.”

The kiss that follows his voice is languid and loving, almost hesitant until you melt into his touch and cup his cheeks to pull him impossibly closer. His lips glide over yours smoothly, soft and warm and so addicting, you can’t bring yourself to pull away. Only at the burning of your lungs from the lack of air, you break apart to catch your breaths, only to bump your noses when he leans in for a second kiss.

This time, you stop him. Your hand is splayed over his scarred chest, halting his movements momentarily because you now notice his half-lidded gaze filled with desire and weariness. He still needs to rest, even if the heat between your thighs tries to convince you to soak in his longing touches for a while longer. “You need to get some sleep, Gin.”

“I don’t need to do anything,” he grumbles and tries to stifle a yawn. “I can think of much better things than sleep.” The wiggle of his eyebrows earns an exaggerated huff from you while you lean to his ear to whisper your reply.

“Gintoki, I mean this in the nicest way possible, but if you don’t go to sleep right now, I will punch the living daylights out of you.”