Work Text:
Giyushino arranged marriage AU plus Genderbend AU
THE INDIGNITY OF PRIVILEGE
Month 6, Saturday, 9:00 PM
Shino Kochou has dignity.
This is a fact. An immutable truth. A cornerstone of his identity, forged through years of medical school where he outperformed every single one of his peers, honed during his residency where he worked thirty-six-hour shifts without so much as a stumble, and perfected in the operating room where he holds people's lives in his hands and doesn't flinch.
He has dignity.
He is a man who teases people for sport—his brothers, his colleagues, occasionally his patients when they're being ridiculous about minor procedures. He's a neurosurgeon, for god's sake. He cuts into brains. He can out-drink a sailor (he's tested this, twice, won both times, wasn't even hungover). He's a master of polite destruction, capable of verbally eviscerating a man while maintaining perfect etiquette and a pleasant smile. He's intelligent as hell—top of his class, photographic memory, can diagnose complex neurological conditions in minutes.
Just last month, he went on a hiking trip with Kaneki and Kanata. Ten miles. Steep incline. His brothers were suffering—red-faced, panting, complaining every five minutes. Shino? Unaffected. Didn't even break a sweat. Arrived at the summit looking like he'd taken a leisurely stroll through a park.
He has dignity.
Or at least, he had dignity.
Past tense.
Because right now, at 9:00 PM on a Saturday in the sixth month of his arranged marriage, Shino Kochou is lying face-down on top of his wife, and his dignity is nowhere to be found.
◇◇◇◇◇◇
It started innocently enough.
They'd had dinner—grilled mackerel, miso soup, pickled vegetables, rice. Mizuki cooked, as always. Shino ate everything, as always. Complimented her, as always. She smiled that soft, devastating smile that makes his chest do something uncomfortable and warm, as always.
They'd cleaned up together. She washed, he dried. She poked his shoulder while passing him a plate. He poked her waist in retaliation. She laughed—quiet, musical, unfair. He grinned despite himself.
Then she'd gone to take a shower.
He'd settled on the couch with a medical journal—something about innovations in minimally invasive neurosurgery, fascinating stuff, truly—and told himself he was not thinking about the fact that his wife was currently naked and wet in the next room.
He was thinking about it.
Obviously.
He's not dead.
Twenty minutes later, she emerged from the bedroom.
And Shino's brain short-circuited.
She was wearing a robe.
Just a robe.
Ivory silk, knee-length, tied loosely at the waist. Her hair was damp, loose, falling in dark waves past her shoulders. Her skin was flushed from the heat of the shower, that snowy-soft complexion now tinged pink. She smelled like jasmine and sandalwood and something clean and warm and her.
And the robe.
The robe.
It was tied, yes. Technically. But loosely. Dangerously loosely. The neckline dipped low—not obscenely, not even intentionally provocatively, just... low. Low enough that he could see the soft curve of her collarbone. The delicate line of her throat. The beginning swell of her—
He looked back at his journal.
Minimally invasive techniques. Focus. You're a professional.
"Shino?"
Her voice. Low, soft, clear. She doesn't talk much, his wife. She's more the strong, silent type— and devastatingly beautiful and had hips that could end civilizations. When she does speak, it's direct. Blunt, sometimes. Accidentally sarcastic in a way that makes him want to laugh and kiss her simultaneously.
He looked up.
She was standing in front of the couch, head tilted slightly, damp hair falling over one shoulder.
"Mm?" he managed.
"Are you coming to bed?"
Bed.
Right.
They share a bed now. Have been for a month. Ever since the first kiss, the first night they'd crossed the line from "polite distant spouses" to "people who are very much aware of each other's bodies."
He should say yes. Get up. Go to bed. Sleep.
Except he's not tired.
And she's standing there in that robe, looking at him with those downturned sapphire eyes, and he's not sure "sleep" is what she's suggesting.
"Not yet," he said, voice carefully neutral. "You go ahead."
She looked at him for a long moment. Then, without a word, she sat down on the couch.
Next to him.
Close to him.
He could feel the warmth of her body through the silk. Could smell the jasmine more strongly now.
"What are you reading?" she asked.
He held up the journal. "Neurosurgery innovations."
"Mm." She leaned closer, ostensibly to look at the page.
Her shoulder brushed his arm.
The robe shifted.
He caught a glimpse of—
Focus.
"Sounds interesting," she said, leaning back.
"It is."
Liar. He hadn't absorbed a single word in the last ten minutes.
She was quiet for a moment. Then, casually—too casually—she said, "You can lie down if you want. You look tense."
He looked at her.
She was gazing at him with that calm, unreadable expression she wore sometimes. The one that made it impossible to tell if she was being genuine or if she knew exactly what she was doing.
"I'm fine," he said.
"Suit yourself."
She shifted, drawing her legs up onto the couch, tucking them under her. The robe rode up slightly, exposing the smooth curve of her calf, her knee, the beginning of her thigh.
Shino stared determinedly at his journal.
Minimally invasive. Techniques. Innovation. Fuck.
"Shino."
"What."
"You're not reading."
"I am."
"You've been on the same page for five minutes."
Damn it.
He closed the journal. Set it on the coffee table. Turned to look at her.
She was smiling. Just slightly. A tiny quirk of her lips.
"What?" he said again, more defensively this time.
"Nothing." She reached out, fingers brushing his hair back from his forehead. "You just look tired."
He caught her wrist. Gently. "I'm not tired."
"Then what are you?"
Losing my mind.
He didn't say that.
Instead, he said, "Comfortable."
"Liar."
He blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You're tense," she said, matter-of-fact. "I can see it. Your shoulders are tight. You're holding yourself too still."
She wasn't wrong.
He released her wrist. Ran a hand through his hair. "It's been a long week."
"I know."
She shifted again, adjusting so she was lying back against the arm of the couch, legs stretched out along the cushions.
There was space now. Between her and the opposite arm of the couch. Space that was, theoretically, large enough for a person.
For him.
She patted her stomach. Once. "Come here."
He stared at her.
"What."
"Lie down. You'll feel better."
"I'm fine."
"Shino." Her voice was patient. Amused. "Come here."
He should refuse. He has dignity. He's not some touch-starved man who needs to be coddled by his wife.
Except.
Except she's looking at him with those soft, sleepy eyes. And she's offering. And he's been thinking about this—about her—for weeks now. Months, if he's honest.
"Fine," he muttered.
He moved.
Carefully. Slowly. Positioned himself between her legs, lowered himself down until his chest was pressed against hers, his head resting just below her collarbone.
And.
Oh.
Oh, this was a mistake.
A terrible mistake.
Because she's soft.
Everywhere.
Her body is warm and plush and yielding beneath him, and the robe is thin, and he can feel everything. The curve of her waist under his hands. The softness of her stomach against his chest. The full, heavy weight of her breasts just above his head.
He's going to die.
He's going to die right here, face-first in his wife's cleavage, and Kaneki is going to find his body and laugh.
"Comfortable?" Mizuki asked, voice amused.
"Mm," he managed.
Her hands came up. One slid into his hair, fingers threading through the strands, nails scratching lightly against his scalp. The other rested on his back, palm warm even through his shirt.
He closed his eyes.
This is fine.
It's not fine.
It's the opposite of fine.
But he's not moving.
◇◇◇◇◇◇
He's not sure how long they stay like that. Five minutes. Ten. Time loses meaning when you're being held by a woman who's somehow both impossibly soft and impossibly strong.
Her fingers are still in his hair, moving in slow, soothing strokes. It feels amazing. He usually hates people touching his hair—Kaneki tried once when they were teenagers and Shino nearly broke his hand. But Mizuki's touch is different. Gentle. Deliberate. Perfect.
He shifts slightly, turning his head.
His cheek presses against her chest.
Right between her breasts.
Which are warm. And soft. And right there.
He freezes.
Mizuki's hand pauses in his hair.
"Shino?"
"Mm."
"Are you... are you comfortable there?"
He should move. He should absolutely move. This is inappropriate. Undignified.
"Yes," he mumbles against her chest.
He feels her laugh. A silent shake of her body, a puff of air.
"Good," she says simply.
And then—then—she encourages him.
Her hand on his back presses down slightly, holding him in place. Her other hand resumes its path through his hair.
"You can stay there as long as you want," she murmurs.
He's going to kill her.
Or kiss her.
Or both.
He burrows his face deeper into her chest, inhaling the scent of jasmine and sandalwood and her. It's warm here. Comfortable. The best pillow he's ever had.
He's so annoyed.
◇◇◇◇◇◇
"You're heavier than you look," Mizuki says after a while, voice lazy and content.
Shino lifts his head slightly. "I can move."
"I didn't say I minded."
She's smiling. That soft, knowing smile that makes him want to do something stupid like confess feelings he's not ready to name.
"You're not uncomfortable?" he asks.
"No."
"I'm six-two."
"I'm aware."
"And you're five-eight."
"Also aware."
"I'm not exactly light."
"Shino." She cups his face in her hands, thumbs brushing his cheekbones. Her hands are elegant, beautiful—long, slender, tapered fingers, warm and soft despite her snow-like skin. "I carried you on my shoulder last week. I can handle you lying on top of me."
He'd forgotten about that.
No. That's a lie. He hasn't forgotten. He thinks about it constantly.
It was late. He'd come home exhausted from a twelve-hour surgery. He'd made it as far as the living room before collapsing on the couch, fully clothed, too tired to move.
He'd woken up in bed the next morning.
When he'd asked her about it, she'd said, casual as anything, "You fell asleep on the couch. I carried you."
"You carried me?"
"On my shoulder. Firefighter-style."
He'd stared at her. "I'm six-two and a hundred and sixty pounds."
She'd shrugged. "I work out."
It was the hottest thing he'd ever heard.
He'd thought about it for days. Her, strong enough to lift him like he weighed nothing. Her, unbothered by his weight. Her, carrying him to bed.
He's been ruined ever since.
"You're strong," he says now, voice rougher than intended.
"Thank you." She sounds pleased.
Her hands slide from his face back into his hair, resuming that maddening, soothing rhythm.
He closes his eyes again. Lets himself sink into the sensation.
This is dangerous. He's getting used to this. To her touch. Her warmth. Her care.
He's getting addicted.
◇◇◇◇◇◇
"Shino."
"Mm."
"Your hair is so soft."
He grunts.
"I'm serious. What do you use? It's like silk."
"Expensive shampoo."
"Clearly."
She's playing with it now. Running her fingers through the strands, twirling the ends around her fingers. It should be annoying. He should tell her to stop.
He doesn't.
"I like your hair," she says softly.
"Mm."
"I like your face, too."
He opens one eye. "My face?"
"Yes. You have a very pretty face."
"Pretty?"
"Beautiful, if you prefer."
"That's not—"
"Shino." Her voice is amused. "You're gorgeous. Accept the compliment."
He's not blushing.
He's not.
Except his face feels warm.
Damn it.
"You're annoying," he mutters.
She laughs. Actually laughs. It's quiet, but it's there, and he feels it against his cheek.
"You like it," she says.
Unfortunately.
◇◇◇◇◇◇
She shifts beneath him. Her hands leave his hair, move to his shoulders.
"Shino, sit up for a second."
He lifts his head, propping himself up on his forearms. "Why?"
"I want to see your face."
He looks down at her.
Mistake.
Massive mistake.
Because from this angle, with the robe loosened and her lying back like this, he can see everything. The curve of her neck. The hollow of her throat. The soft swell of her breasts, barely contained by the silk.
And her face.
She's looking up at him with those downturned eyes, half-lidded and sleepy and knowing. Her lips are parted slightly, pink and soft and right there.
"Hi," she says.
"Hi," he replies, voice strained.
She reaches up. Cups his face again. Runs her thumb over his lower lip.
He inhales sharply.
"You have really pretty lips," she murmurs.
"Mizuki—"
"I mean it. They're pink. Soft-looking. I like them."
"Are you—" He clears his throat. "Are you trying to seduce me?"
She blinks. Considers. "Maybe."
Maybe.
She says it so casually. Like it's a perfectly reasonable thing to admit.
He should move. Get up. Put some distance between them before he does something stupid.
Instead, he lowers his head and kisses her.
◇◇◇◇◇◇
It's not gentle.
He's past gentle.
He's past patience.
He kisses her like he's starving for it, and she responds immediately—hands in his hair, pulling him closer, mouth opening under his.
She tastes like the strawberry wine they'd had with dinner. Sweet and heady and intoxicating.
He groans against her mouth.
She smiles.
Smiles.
Like she knows what she's doing to him.
She absolutely knows.
He pulls back, breathing hard. "You're evil."
"Am I?" She's still smiling. Serene. Unbothered.
"Yes."
"What did I do?"
"You—" He gestures vaguely at her. At the robe. At everything. "This. You're doing this on purpose."
"Doing what?"
"This."
"I'm just lying here, Shino."
"In a robe."
"It's comfortable."
"It's distracting."
"Is it?" She tilts her head, the picture of innocence.
Except she's not innocent. She's a goddamn menace.
"You know exactly what you're doing," he says.
"Do I?"
"Yes."
She hums. Thoughtful. "And what am I doing?"
"Driving me insane."
"Mm." She runs her fingers down his chest, slow and deliberate. "Is it working?"
Yes.
He doesn't say it.
He doesn't have to.
She can see it in his face.
She knows.
◇◇◇◇◇◇
He collapses back onto her chest, face buried between her breasts, breathing hard.
"I hate you," he mutters.
"No, you don't."
No, he doesn't.
He's falling in love with her, actually, which is terrifying and inconvenient and he's not ready to think about it.
Her hands return to his hair. Gentle. Soothing.
"You're allowed to like this, you know," she says softly.
"Like what?"
"Being held. Being touched. Being taken care of."
He tenses.
She feels it. Of course she does. She feels everything.
"Shino." Her voice is patient. Kind. "You don't have to be strong all the time."
"I'm not—"
"You are. You're always in control. Always composed. Always perfect."
"I'm not perfect."
"You're a neurosurgeon. You save lives. You're brilliant and competent and untouchable."
"What's your point?"
"My point," she says, fingers still moving through his hair, "is that you're allowed to be soft sometimes. With me."
He doesn't respond.
Can't respond.
Because she's right.
He's spent his entire life being strong. Being in control. Being untouchable.
And now she's here, holding him, touching him, taking care of him, and it's terrifying because he likes it.
He likes the cuddles. The nuzzles. The soft pecks and kisses she showers him with. He pretends to hate it, swats her away, grumbles about her being clingy.
But he loves it.
He loves the way she pokes him. Holds him. Gently caresses him. Runs her hands through his hair like he's something precious.
He loves how sweet she is to him. How patient. How kind.
He's ruined for other women.
Not that he wants other women.
He wants her.
Just her.
Only her.
And that's the problem.
◇◇◇◇◇◇
"Shino."
"Mm."
"You're thinking too much."
"I'm always thinking."
"Think less. Feel more."
"That's not how my brain works."
"Try."
He sighs. Shifts slightly, adjusting so his ear is pressed against her chest. He can hear her heartbeat. Steady. Calm. Grounding.
"Better?" she asks.
"...Yes."
She presses a kiss to the top of his head. "Good."
He's going to die here.
Happily.
Contentedly.
Face-first in his wife's cleavage, listening to her heartbeat, surrounded by jasmine and warmth and her.
There are worse ways to go.
◇◇◇◇◇◇
"Shino?"
"Mm."
"Are you falling asleep?"
"...Maybe."
She laughs softly. "Do you want to move to the bed?"
"No."
"You're going to wake up with a stiff neck."
"Don't care."
"Stubborn."
"Mm."
Her hands slide from his hair to his back, rubbing slow, soothing circles.
It feels amazing.
Everything about her feels amazing.
He's so annoyed.
He's an independent man. A neurosurgeon. A master of self-control. He doesn't need anyone. Doesn't need a woman to bring him to his knees.
Except.
Except he's currently lying on top of his wife, face buried in her chest, being petted like a cat, and he's never been more content in his life.
He's definitely falling in love with her.
Fuck.
◇◇◇◇◇◇
"Shino."
"What."
"I love you."
He freezes.
His brain stops.
What.
She said—
She just—
What.
He lifts his head. Looks at her.
She's smiling. Soft. Genuine. Devastating.
"You don't have to say it back," she says quickly. "I just wanted you to know."
He stares at her.
She loves him.
She loves him.
This woman—this brilliant, beautiful, impossibly patient woman—loves him.
She loves him.
He should say something. Anything.
Instead, he kisses her.
Deep. Slow. Thorough.
When he pulls back, she's breathless.
"I love you too," he says quietly.
Her smile could light up the entire city.
"Good," she whispers.
◇◇◇◇◇◇
They end up in bed eventually.
Well.
They end up in the bedroom.
Sleep happens much, much later.
But when it does, Shino is sprawled on top of her again, face buried in her chest, her arms wrapped around him, her fingers in his hair.
And he thinks, drowsily, contentedly:
I'm going to marry this woman.
Wait.
He already married this woman.
I'm going to stay married to this woman.
Yeah.
That sounds better.
◇◇◇◇◇◇
Sunday Morning, 7:00 AM
Shino wakes up still on top of Mizuki.
She's awake, scrolling through her phone with one hand, the other still in his hair.
"Morning," she says, glancing down at him.
"Morning," he mumbles against her chest.
"Sleep well?"
"Mm."
"Want breakfast?"
"Not yet."
"Shino, it's seven."
"Don't care."
She laughs. Sets her phone down. Uses both hands to play with his hair now.
"You're going to stay here all day, aren't you."
"Maybe."
"What happened to your dignity?"
He lifts his head. Looks at her. Deadpan.
"You destroyed it."
She grins. "Good."
He drops his head back to her chest.
Dignity is overrated anyway.
◇◇◇◇◇◇
THE END.
(Shino's dignity was never seen again. He's fine with it.)
Author's Note:
Thank you for reading 📚 ✨️