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ms0milk · 4 days

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misery vanishes when nanami's close to you, however strange his tactics. cw panic attack in the stables. surprise, relief, comfort and a cowboy's hunting knife. 1k

farmhand nanami tag <3

It happens, it happens, and you haven’t died yet. Trivial comforts that have long since lost their potency run your heart’s hamster wheel. That’s all your heart is at this point, a skittering thing with a life expectancy of three. Cannibalistic tendencies.

You knock the back of your head on the gate to a rhythm that at least keeps you from crying– limp on the floor of the south stables, back against the door to an empty stall at the end of a row of unsettled horses. They hate that you do this here. You hate that it happens and your riding hat slips over your forehead when you tremble a little too hard.

Nanami’s herding new calves today, playing babysitter in their spring pen. The old boss is away at auction so you’re promised privacy this afternoon to gather yourself and dry your eyes and keep your legs from shaking when you finally stand up again. This is worse than usual and spurred by nothing. Sudden and public, it’s been panic attacks and hiding places since you were school age– since before you got this job tending an old woman’s show animals. A two-woman job on paper and a one-woman show in practice, it’s paradise with housing. And the blessed coincidence of a new blond handyman.

Thank god, you shudder as dark thoughts dance their spirals, thank god for another set of hands. Your boots are too tight even after kicking them off, socks and jacket, skin pulled across your ribs, claustrophobic. It’s been ages since the last time this happened but you still can’t brush boars like this, or watch calves taste grass for the first time. When you think too hard about the heartbeat in your ears it makes you shake, the thought you can’t control its volume or pull the broken pieces out. Still, the hens will be locked up to roost and the cows will get their babies back. Dogs will be watered and cats will be scratched because Nanami isn’t pitiful. He isn’t dying, surely dying, in a broken straw bale and you thank god again.

Your horses are hungry. The headache is back and you haven’t taken a breath in seventeen seconds. Stop counting. Talulah the white mare, older than you, stretches a sinewy neck over the top of her gate to nip but you’ve sunk out of her reach. Irritation or curiosity? What did you even come to the stables for?

“Miss?”

The sun is setting in the window behind the saddle hooks and dread begins to drown you. It’s the cumulative weight of every attack since the first, just like always, and always almost too heavy to hold. Like something waiting just out of sight to sink its teeth into your throat. Ghost stories old volunteers used to tell around summer campfires become realities as you rip your hat off your head and hairs with it in an attempt to breathe better, or move better or just be able to fucking see. Hair against your face, straw through the weft of your jeans– legends say they found her body where it laid in the fields, mummified from fear.

“Miss Y/n!”

It’s less his voice and more the knife that startles your face out of your hands. Nanami falls in front of you otherwise silent, kneeling, looming, fist wrapped tight around a knife he’s driven through the wooden stall beside your head.

Immediately, the wheel slows its turning, replaced by nothing, spinning residually under the gaze of a worried cowboy with his hat around his neck. Nanami’s broad chest threatens the seams of his jacket. His hair has been licked into awkward shiny spikes by happy tongues and he’s still got bribing sorghum in his breast pocket, and you realize too late to stop it, that you’re going to cry.

He drops his hand from the blade but doesn’t move away, scanning and tracing the clammy parts of you. Your cheeks and neck, chest and hands. His eyes dart over empty spaces and return again, “Are you okay?”

“You..” you what? Nanami stares through you like he’s stone until your thought is finished and you still haven’t regained enough sense to right yourself. Your back is flush with wood; hair, jacket and undershirt all riding up behind you where they snagged on the stall door when you sank. Tears spill over your lashes, “you startled me.”

Talulah reaches forward again to get someone’s attention; she’s hungry. Her neighbors stomp in their stalls or snort in your direction, but their frustration is too pretty a symphony to answer yet. You’re alive, the world didn’t stop and doesn’t need you to keep turning it.

Nanami exhales like he’s the survivor and leans forward to gather your things. He brushes straw from the brim of your hat, “I’m sorry.”

“That was scary,” you coo, smiling, melting. Pins and needles of the brain, feeling coming back now. You close your eyes to help the tears fall and lift your hands back to your face.

“I’m sorry, Miss.”

You shake your head and breathe three more times before speaking. The voice that comes out is hardly yours. It’s entirely too little. “How’d you know?”

Nanami’s shy with his English, but you understand more than he means when he speaks to you. He lowers his gaze to your socks and lifts your boots by their pull straps to sit them beside you– stops short of overstepping– of slipping them on you. “Bad feeling,” he murmurs and fishes a clean handkerchief from his sorghum pocket. A full body shiver and you try to sit up, try to take what the golden hand holds out for you but your fingers meet his warmth trembling and cling to it. His hand is strong and leathered, it’s gentle with you always and he’s never seen you like this. The embarrassment will come later. For now the horses have given up complaining and you curl forward on your knees in a sob when the gentle cowboy lets you hold his hand. He’s quiet. He rests your hat in his lap and leans no closer or farther away as relief runs its course through your veins. He can explain the knife later. Cats, cows, and show ponies can wait five more minutes.

farmhand nanami tag <3

#if farmhand nanami has one fan it’s me if he has none i’m dead #nanami x reader #we all want him to run away from the jujutsu world but imagine #the force of habit that is helping people #being what brings you together #even though he keeps his history a secret and stares too long into dark spaces #u get the gist of him

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ms0milk · 4 days

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day 3 - one bed only

#chosoyuki #🫨🫨🫨#ー art rec⋆˚˖

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ms0milk · 4 days

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#chosoyuki #little louder for the folks in the back #🚨💥chosoyuki‼️🚨#ー art rec⋆˚˖

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ms0milk · 5 days

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misery vanishes when nanami's close to you, however strange his tactics. cw panic attack in the stables. surprise, relief, comfort and a cowboy's hunting knife. 1k

farmhand nanami tag <3

“Miss?”

“Miss Y/n!”

Nanami exhales like he’s the survivor and leans forward to gather your things. He brushes straw from the brim of your hat, “I’m sorry.”

“That was scary,” you coo, smiling, melting. Pins and needles of the brain, feeling coming back now. You close your eyes to help the tears fall and lift your hands back to your face.

“I’m sorry, Miss.”

You shake your head and breathe three more times before speaking. The voice that comes out is hardly yours. It’s entirely too little. “How’d you know?”

farmhand nanami tag <3

#brainrot continues #imagine the curse he saw to get him to shout like that #imagine the love he feels to get him to lose his cool #nanami kills your curses like it's his life on the line #like #try as he might to leave the jujutsu world nanami cares too deeply about others to let them suffer #being loved by this man #[gunshots]#panic attacks feel like im being hunted for sport #imagine the love of someone whose job it is to hunt them back #farmhand nanami ˚⊹♡#nanami x reader

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ms0milk · 5 days

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Biblically accurate Falin

#ー art rec⋆˚˖#dunmeshi

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ms0milk · 5 days

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at any given moment i’m only thinking a thought or two and he is often both of them

#thx for putting this in my notifs again folks #bc 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

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ms0milk · 5 days

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i'm too new to the a/b/o fic game to recognize if this is a good or a bad idea but: high ranking alpha!gojo who hires beta!reader to pose as his fiancé just to piss off his family... only to genuinely become obsessed with you

#too new to the abo fic game to control myself #you just gave this pilgrim baja blast #im so overwhelmed #ー jjk.recs #ー gojo.recs

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ms0milk · 6 days

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when you suddenly catch a nasty cold

gn!reader ft. todo, bkg, kiri, and (hearts in my eyes) shinsou

i am so ill and these are so silly, indulge me :,) 600ish words ea.

Todoroki starts to cry when you joke about dying.

He’s bought more flowers than can fit into your little apartment, picked up your prescriptions, tissues, juice, a heating pad, cleaned your kitchen, tucked you in– he paged the goddamned family physician– but watching you shiver under a heavy duvet surrounded by all the things that are supposed to help you get better ignites a fear he didn’t know that he had. They aren’t working. You’re still sick because of course you are, it’s only been a few hours, and still he can’t bring himself to move more than an arm’s length away from you because what if– if he leaves and–

“Shouto?”

“Yes,” his response is immediate when you pull him out of the ether. Always is.

I’m not going anywhere,” you croak, too conscious of how strange your voice sounds, “so you don’t have to stay with me all day.”

“I don’t mind.”

Todoroki is a wonderful boyfriend but when was the last time he went to the bathroom?

“You must be bored.”

He leans over you from his spot at the side of your bed and runs a blessedly too-cold hand across your forehead. Bored? Like he could calm down enough for that. “I can’t relax when you’re like this.”

You’d roll your eyes if they ached less, at your beautiful boyfriend and his cluelessly shoujo declarations of love framed by no fewer than two whole flower shops worth of camellias. He turns his hand over to palm your cheeks and wipe the water from your puffy eyes.

“Would you like me to leave?”

You shake your head, smiling under the weight of five thousand pounds of blankets and the heavy dip from his butt at the edge of your mattress. You’re inclined to reach a hand out to grab it, but you don’t have the energy to raise your head let alone fondle your boyfriend.

“There’s no one I’d rather be with in my final hours,” you rasp, joking, obviously joking.

This cold is something evil, chills, aches, snot– the works. But you couldn’t ask for a better nurse. A gentle, thoughtful, sexy, temperature controlled man, a man you would raze the city for, whose hand fits so perfectly in yours and who– whose trembling? You blink back up.

Todoroki’s features don’t shift or soften, his lip doesn’t quiver, but a tear does slip down his cheeks from those pool cool eyes– one after the next until his jaw is lined with them all patiently waiting to fall from his chin.

“Why, why why?” You panic and try to sit up but he comes to you. Todoroki cups your hand tightly in a hot and cold grip and bows over his own lap to rest his head in yours.

“You’re not going to die.”

“What?”

“I promise.”

“Sho, what– no of course I’m not. What’s wrong, baby?”

Your voice is so weak that he has no other choice than to sit back up and reach for the cold compress. He wipes his eyes with renewed determination when he turns back around, “I’ve got you.”

“I’ve got you, Sho. ’m not going anywhere, promise.”

And when the Todoroki family doctor lets himself in, he does consider coming back another time at the sight of you, finally comfortable under a mountain of fabric, and your love curled around you asleep on top of the blankets.

‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

It’s not until you genuinely collapse that Bakugou realizes something is wrong. He didn’t even hit you that hard.

“You’re wide open today!” The restless pro looms across the arena, grinning. You both come to the agency’s underground ring on Saturdays to train and he’s blasted you clear across the room like he’s actually working for a paycheck.

There wasn’t any amount of money you would have accepted to get out of bed this morning but Bakugou, a less than casual hookup from work, accidentally spent the night and the surprisingly sleep soft rumble of his voice and the gentle kneed of palms as he pulled you back against his body under dawn light– was, persuasive.

The sooner I go in, the sooner I can go home and nurse this headache.

Headache. Naive self-convincing circles your head as you pull yourself to your feet like spinning stars from a goddamned cartoon. This is not a headache. Standing was fine a second ago, and the floor was fine a second ago, but the move from floor to feet fills your sinuses with sudden pressure and immediately the arena starts to swirl.

“C’mon twinkle toes, you’re– Y/n– shit–”

You’re not interested in where that sentence ends today and blessedly you don’t have to hear it because your ears have filled with cotton and you’re sinking back down to your knees. You’ve been congested like this before– it’ll pass in a minute or two, you know how it goes and you’re only embarrassed by the fact you were down so bad for your teammate this morning that you didn’t realize how your body had started to feel.

The vertigo eases somewhat when you rest your head on the ground, but Bakugou has cleared the empty room and already has his domineering hands all over you.

“Y/n? Y/n– do not close your eyes.”

“‘m not concussed, Kats.” But you know the explosive hero’s first fear isn’t exactly a head trauma. “You didn’t hurt me,” you add.

“That doesn’t narrow it down shitforbrains, if I didn’t hurt you then what’s wrong?” His aggressive tone doesn’t match his anxious hold though, and you melt a little when he kneels and pulls you into his lap.

Bakugou definitely doesn’t like the way your head seems too heavy for your neck and tilts himself back just enough for you to lean it against his chest. You look so fucking uncomfortable, scowling, eyes pinched closed. “What hurts?” He rasps as he moves to feel your temperature but his palms are sweating hard from a few quirk ignitions so he stalls, and lowers his forehead to yours instead. You’re soft where he touches you, warm in his hands.

You just need to sit, you don't need the #2 hero to cradle you in his arms like a fallen comrade on the battlefield. Although you don't complain. Your eyes squeeze shut harder as a tiny wave rocks you in the dark and then suddenly one ear releases. “I think I’m getting sick,” you breathe. Carmel in and relief out. “It’s my head–”

“Head hurts?”

“I’m just stuffed up, I– ” the other ear releases, “– just dizzy.”

Bakugou sits on his heels, perched. Should he pick you up? Who just gets dizzy, are you a fucking Victorian child? It’s terrifying to watch– you, his teammate, a capable hero, suddenly unable to stand.

But as the pressure behind your eyes levels out you can lift your head without discomfort. You can bring your arms up around Bakugou’s shoulders and settle your fingers in his hair. Bring him back down from where he’s tried to pull away.

Your foreheads bump again, “I’m okay.”

He growls, “I don’t believe you.”

So the hero takes you home. He makes sure you’re horizontal and goddamned tucked in before he slips from your front door and scares the shit out of you an hour later with a vice grip on some grocery bags and your apartment keys slipped around his middle finger. It’s almost romantic, the way he snaps at you to hold still while he dabs antiseptic on your scratches from sparring, or glares venom from behind the stove when you hobble to the kitchen to see what smells so good.

‎‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

When Kirishima lets himself in and you’re asleep on the kitchen floor, worry overrides his confusion.

You won’t pick up his calls, but he’s never missed a movie night and he’s not about to start today! He throws your front door open with his copy of your apartment key still in it and kicks off his gym crocs as loudly as he can manage so you can hear him come in. The last thing he wants is to startle you.

But you’re the one who nearly kills him when he slips through the genkan, arms full of snacks and catches sight of your slippered foot stretched out on the ground behind the corner of the kitchen wall.

He’s on his hands and knees faster than he can even take a full step, dropping glass soda bottles and soft melon bread alike from his arms, as he scrambles to where you must be lying lifeless on the other side of the entrance.

“Y/n–! Ah, huh.”

And you are, in a way, lifeless on the ground, but you’re breathing. And smiling? Curled up on the white tiles in front of the sink cabinet.

“Y/n?” Kirishima doesn’t wait to ponder, instead placing a hand on the side of your head to begin the checks for a vertebral injury. But you coo, something completely unintelligible, and you’re much too warm. You tilt your face into his palm and every inch of you is hotter than the next.

“Y/n? C’mon on back to me Y/n, you gotta tell me what’s wrong.”

Maybe it’s the chill of the floor or the addition of his other hand cupping your cheek, but your lashes heft apart just enough to register who it is trying to resuscitate you in the kitchen.

“Ei?”

Kirishima, always handy in a fire, has every hospital route an EMT could ever need memorized from all his volunteer work with the fire department and mentally scrolls through every single one as you try to form a sentence.

“you shouldn’t be here, Eiji, m’sick.”

“What?”

“flu,” you murmur and pull your hands to your side to try and rise. Kirishima doesn’t register anything not directly related to whether or not you’re suffering from blunt force trauma– except for the fact he could recall the exact date and time your dream drowsy smile falls and perks back up again now for the next fifty years unprompted.

“–tried to text you,” you manage as the redhead helps you sit up. The sentence comes out in gasps instead of coughs as you try to spare the air of any extra germs, “I can’t watch the movie tonight."

He laughs with pent up anxiety and simultaneous relief– he’s taken that charming fireman’s knee at your side and you wish in your flu-addled state that you’d stayed unconscious long enough for him to hoist you into his arms. Instead Kirishima places both of his big soft hands back around your face to brush away the dust and crumbs.

“Why are you on the floor?”

“‘got hungry,” you admit openly because you know it’ll make him smile, and with his face this close to yours you’ll be able to watch the skin around his eyes crinkle up too. “Then tired. I just needed to sit for a bit.”

His eyes do crinkle up. And his teeth bit at his lip like he’s trying not to be amused.

“Y/n, you are very sick. And very sweaty.” And the sweetheart, the biggest crush you’ve ever had, your closest friend, the man you dreamed of on the kitchen floor, asks if he can carry you to the bath.

‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

Why are you breathing so hard? Shinsou is the only pro in the office that you can’t hide a goddamned thing from. Maybe it’s because he works primarily in the underground– observant, sneaky– that it’s obvious, they way you wobble on your feet when your eyes are closed too long, or the sudden effort it takes you just to climb the stairs.

Is he supposed to be able to focus on paperwork with you trying to catch your breath in a hallway when you think no one’s around? None of your sidekicks are brave enough to ask why you wore a mask to work today, but it’s summer and the air pollution gets bad enough that some of them have to too. Are they really all that stupid? Has he done the worst hiring job of any pro in the city?

“Shinsou,” you murmur across the now-empty end of day office and he whips around because god knows how many times you’ve tried to get his attention while he’s been off in space.

“Yeah boss?”

Your voice is rough with sick when you reply and it would be so fucking sexy if it didn’t remind him to be so anxious about your wellbeing. “I’ve told you not to call me that, you haven’t been my sidekick for years,” and then you’re smiling even as you hold back a cough, “makes me feel old.”

“You are older than me.”

“By a year!” You sputter and then your lungs take over, heaving and hacking so hard you have to double over your desk to steady your forehead against something. Shinsou’s on his feet immediately, navigating the office in sweats and his capture gear to get to you.

What happened? This morning it was just a tickle at the top of your throat but the aches sank from your head, down your spine, and flooded through your body just as quickly as the sun’s shadow crawls across a stone. Which is to say, all day long and all too slowly to realize you probably should have called in sick.

“Here.” A cool hand materializes on the back of your neck and you roll your head to the side to check what exactly has arrived for you. With his free hand Shinsou presses a paper water cup forward, which you’d love to take if you had the energy to pull your mask down.

“went to school together n’ everything,” you breathe.

“Boss, you should go home for the night, I’ll– I can finish this paperwork.”

By now the dark-eyed hero has sunk slowly into a crouch beside your chair and keeps a careful hand on your back to ensure you don’t slip to the floor sideways one way or the other. Thank god he sent the rookies home because stupid or otherwise, you'd have to be braindead not to notice this adoration that he can’t seem to get a handle on.

“Shinsou,” you murmur again, just as sexily as last time and he feels just as much if not more shame at how lovely it is to hear you call to him sweet and low, “I can’t get up.”

“What?”

That’s it though. There’s no trick or test. Shinsou has a fucked up sleep schedule from all his overnight patrols so he always stays in the office late, but you? You’ve been trying to rally for the last two hours and now you’ve used all your energy teasing a man whose eyes go bright every time you say his name. It serves you right, collapsing at your desk after using the last of your strength to squeeze as many Shinsous as you could into an evening.

“call me a taxi?”

He rises to his feet, “Will you even be able to get up your front steps?”

“sure hope so.”

“Do you feel nauseous?” He’s shuffling around the room now, plucking keys from hooks, and you watch him sideways with your head still resting in the day’s paperwork. “You gonna aspirate if I let you go home alone?”

“if god’s feeling extra silly”

He scoffs to hide the smile. Shinsou returns to your side to lay his faded denim jacket over your shoulders and then crouches again at eye level.

“Y/n,” he urges, and rests a hand to the back of your head to get your attention, “If I carry you downstairs, will you be able to hold onto me?”

Downstairs is a bluff. With you snug and mostly unconscious between his jacket and his back, Shinsou carries you home. Face full of your clothes, hair, quirk, whatever’s getting in his eyes, under the stars, and down back streets to avoid any publicity, the hero tries to walk gently enough that you don’t whimper from the impact of his steps.

“Thank you...Toshi,” you whisper just when he thinks you’ve finally fallen asleep and the big bad underground pro almost stumbles hard enough to fly.

#blowing up my motifs recently #thanks for the silly comeback my loves :')#bakugou x reader #kirishima x reader #shinsou x reader #bakugo x reader #todoroki x reader

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