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fgojous · 2 months ago

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love wins all | chapter one ( satoru g. )

from childhood summers and petty high school banters, to the endless college lectures—med school and the chaos of residency, you've been through it all. you've built everything together. you're each other's home—everything. but what if your relationship breaks beyond repair? what if the one thing you couldn't save was each other? can your love still win it all?

neurosurgeon!gojo x trauma surgeon!reader

warnings. romance, heavy angst, hurt/comfort, hurt no comfort, fluff, medical au, established relationships, high school sweethearts, unresolved feelings, unresolved issues, grief, emotional repression, mutual pining, emotional trauma, childhood trauma, explicit sexual content | eighteen plus only!

word count. 5.5k

masterlist.

note. hi, here's chapter one. please ignore the errors (or some inaccuracies lol). i hope you enjoy! reblogs are appreciated <3

CHAPTER ONE: MEET THE GOJOS!

You stare at the mug in front of you. Carefully watching the steam curl up lazily, blending in the atmosphere along with the sterile smell of the hospital lounge. You have been awake for what—eighteen hours? Maybe nineteen or twenty. You’ve lost count somewhere between stitching a ruptured artery and watching one of your patients almost code in front of you.

You could feel everything. Your eyes burn, the ache just below your brows, the tightness of your back but despite it all, one thing was running through your mind—your husband, or soon-to-be ex-husband, if he could just sign the papers. But he wouldn’t give you that satisfaction, right? He just couldn’t let you go.

But why? Why is he dragging this out when he knows this is far that you can go. This relationship is already flatlined. He knows it, you know it. You both know it.

The door opens, and without even looking at it you recognize the person who just came in. You know it by his scent, the way he moved, the way he could just take over a room, you know it all too well.

“You did good today.” he says gently, too familiar, too comfortable. “My shift just ended. We should go—”

“Sign the papers.”

He stops, and you look his way. He’s staring at you with that face again—like he couldn’t believe that you were saying it that easily when you’ve been with him for what—nineteen years? You stare at him, his hands stopping midway from unbuttoning his coat.

“You need to sleep.”

“Did you hear me?” you say once again, too brave to stare right in his eyes, but too cowardly to acknowledge the ache growing inside your chest.

“I did.” he looked away, opening his locker, methodically shoving his white coat inside. His hand lingers on the edge, “We should go home.”

Ah. Home. Home where all the floors are neatly polished, where dishes are barely used anymore.

Home where you sit across each other in complete silence, barely looking at each other. Home where you sleep in the same bed but your backs facing each other, like there’s a cliff in between your bodies.

Where you pretend that this is something that you could fix. Believing that this was just a phase in your marriage even though you filed for divorce three weeks ago.

You don’t even know if you could call that home anymore when you have been sleeping in the on-call room for God knows how long.

You push the chair back, the wood screeching on the tiled floor, “I’m going to sleep in the on-call room. I need to monitor my patient anyway.”

You almost sprinted out of the break room, your freshly made coffee discarded on the table. You couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

Not because you’re angry. But because you couldn’t fathom this feeling where he doesn’t try enough but doesn’t want to let you go. And you hate it, you hate all of it.

You were tired of arguing.

The door clicked behind you.

It hit that you were alone, that no matter what you did, you still felt alone. No matter how he says that he was there, you still felt alone. You gripped your coat, letting your tears silently fall down your cheeks as you toss your coat on the chair.

You kick your shoes off, letting them land wherever, you let your body fall on the cot. You stare at the ceiling and you just breathe.

You press your face to your hands, letting your feelings catch up to you. Maybe he’s right, you were just tired. Maybe you just needed sleep because when was the last time you slept? You don’t even know. You don’t remember.

When was the last time you let yourself feel something? When was the last time you didn’t push something down? You wanted to scream, you wanted to throw things.

But instead, you bury your face on the worn out cotton of the pillow. Nothing like the one you have at home. Nothing like you have with him.

You reach for your phone, the screen is bright, no new messages.

Your patient is stable, post-op vitals are holding and you aren’t on-call. You could message him. You could go home with him.

Maybe he’s still here, still waiting. But you stop yourself because once you do—once you let yourself give in, you might take it all back and you can’t afford to do that.

Not when you’re the one who wanted to end it. Not when you’re the one who messed it up.

You hear the door open and you immediately turn to the other side, you tuck your arms under your chest.

You could feel the cot sink. Confusion washes over you when he nudged you to move but you did anyway. He lays beside you, hands gripping your waist gently to pull you close to him.

The contact made you shudder. It has been months— three months, since you’ve been this close.

“What are you doing?”

“If you want to sleep here, then we’ll sleep here.” he says, his voice steady. His hand slides under your scrubs—to hold you, to feel you. His palms press against the skin of your stomach, the contact making your spine shiver.

“Satoru.” you breathe, gripping his wrist as a warning.

You have no idea what’s running on your husband’s mind. Why? Why is he doing this now?

“I just want to hold you.” he murmurs against your shoulder, his lips brushing on the soft of your skin, “Please, just let me hold you.”

His thumb strokes the curve of your waist and you almost break, you almost falter. Everything he does, everything he does could break you in a way that nothing else could.

You missed this. You missed him more than you could admit.

You could push him when he pressed a soft kiss on your neck. You could pull away when he turns you around to face him. You could look away when he stares into your eyes.

But you don’t. You just let him. You just let him take the gap between the two of you, until your lips are inches away from each other—then none at all.

You gasp, like he’s taking your breath from you. He looks at you with worry, he always does. Like you’re going to break if he utters just one word.

You didn’t know who moved first, but all you knew at this moment was to cling to him, press your lips against him like your life depended on it.

“We shouldn’t.” you whisper in between.

“Then tell me to go. Tell me, and I’ll leave.” he says softly, leaning his forehead against yours.

But you don’t answer, you kiss him again, slowly—hesitantly. Your lips quiver as you did, your body was tearing down the part of you that still wanted to be strong. His white strands slipping in between your fingers as you pull him in, he bites your lip tentatively, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to do so.

But you deepen the kiss, pulling him a little bit more closely as if there’s still space left in between, and suddenly, he wasn’t hesitating anymore. He was kissing you with certainty—earnestly, you could feel the ache with every move his lips make.

You clutched onto him desperately, like you’ve been deprived of touch for so long. And you… have. For too long.

Your trembling hands reach for the hem of his shirt and he helps you, pulling it up until it’s teared away from him, his hands lifting your shirt over your head in return.

He pulls your pants down along with your underwear, allowing him to see the skin that he has touched for years, the skin that he has adored and worshipped.

His lips find their way to yours again, his hands slid on your back unclasping your bra. Your hands travelling down to the waistband of his pants, pushing it down eminently, more than you intend to.

His kisses went to your face, to your jaw, down to your collarbone. You’re becoming too sensible in the way your bodies are close. You could feel his weight pinning down on you and all you could think about was how you love him. How you’d give him everything without a second thought.

Even if he didn’t ask you to.

All you could think about is how he’s touching you, how he’s making you feel like you’re his whole universe.

His breath hitches. All that’s running through his mind was he’s touching you again—like he has been starved, like feeling you against his skin would make him whole again.

He kisses your skin like he has never seen it before. His hands palms your waist, his thumbs pressing gently on your skin. “You’re so beautiful. You’re so… fuck. I..” he murmurs against your skin.

His hands slide in between your legs, coaxing it open. You gasp, arching your body into him as he slid his fingers inside you—curling up, just enough to make your hips jerk. You felt your thighs twitch, you grasp on his wrist, letting yourself unravel in the safest place you knew. He watches your face, how your eyes flutter. How your lips tremble, he listens to you breathe.

“Satoru.” you gripped his hair, “I need you. Please.”

He almost loses his mind when you beg him. It has been months since you’ve been like this to him, it’s driving him crazy. It’s so infuriating how much he wants you—how much he loves you.

How much he’d give you all of him.

He kisses you again like it’d kill him if he doesn’t, he groans into your mouth when you pull him, your hands gripping his waist as you push him closer. You’re so desperate, hopelessly desperate.

“Please,” you gasp, almost whispering, out of breath, “Please.”

Without saying anything, he positioned himself into you, both gasping as he pushed inside, you bit your lip as you felt the abrupt stretch—neither of you moved for a bit, savoring every second he filled you in.

You gripped his shoulder, your nails digging a bit on his skin. You should stop him, you shouldn’t let him. But, it felt like home. Yes, fuck, it felt like home.

Because he is your home. What were you thinking? What are you doing?

“God.” he whispers, pressing his forehead against yours, “I miss you.”

Tears prick from the corner of your eyes because of this overwhelming ache of needing him, of him needing you—and how it terrified you.

You wanted to say it back.

You really did.

Instead, you reeled him in. You kiss him, and he sinks into you more. Slowly moving his hips, driving himself deeper—harder. All your sane thoughts vanished into thin air as he abandoned all his restraint, slamming you into oblivion.

You wanted to curse him, for making your chest ache, for making you feel good. For fucking you too good.

The cot creaks, and you were biting down your lip to keep yourself quiet—but all that went out the window when he was hitting all the right spots in you because he knows it all. He knows your body like no one else.

He knew every inch of you, he knew how to make you fall apart. He knew where to touch you like he owns all of you.

His fingers find yours again, intertwining them as he buries them on the cushion atop your head. Then you feel it, that familiar sensation building up on your stomach, fast.

“Satoru.” you heave, your legs losing all its strength, you tighten around him. “I’m going to…”

You were breathless, uncontrolled—like a string waiting to snap. Your whole body tightens. Your mind was spiraling—you didn’t deserve him, you didn’t deserve to experience his love like this but your body didn’t care, because you craved him. You needed him.

It was—is, selfish but you’re letting him down with you again.

“Fuuuck.” You heard him groan, his face burying on your neck as his breath ghosts over your ears. “You feel so good.”

He doesn’t stop, his pace quickens—your breathing was sharp, stuttered. You close your eyes. “No, baby. Look at me.”

His voice was ragged, “Look at me, please. I need to see your face.”

And it hits you hard, you grasp his arm as you hold onto the piece of sanity that’s left of you. Pleasure coursing through your whole body, you gripped him as if he’s the only one anchoring you to the surface.

Then you felt the tremble in his arms, the way his hips slowed down, his voice shattering as he let himself go.

His body collapsed on top of yours. You didn’t speak, you didn’t move. You just listened to him trying to catch air, you felt the warmth of his breath on your neck—your fingers gently stroking his hair.

You didn’t know if this is something you’d regret. You didn’t know if this would fix things or become another wound that you would carelessly patch up.

But you didn’t let go.

—

The shrill sound of the alarm woke you up, you tapped the side of the cot where your phone is, desperately trying to turn it off. Then you see his message,

Satoru | 8:56 AM

I got pulled into a surgery. Didn’t wake you up. I’ll see you later.

Then you see the second message.

Satoru | 8:58 AM

I love you.

Your chest aches.

Then you look down, you see a blanket carefully wrapped around you. You pulled it up to your face, his perfume still etched on the cotton, remembering the thing that happened this morning.

The one where you shouldn’t have let happen. Because, you’re divorcing him—no, you’re saving him.

Right? From you?

You pushed the blanket hastily and looked at the time, it’s already 1 pm. No one has paged you or anything. And you really need to take a bath. You sat up, rubbing your eyes, tossing your phone onto the side to pick your clothes up from the floor, clutching the blanket close to your chest. Hoping that no one came in while you were sleeping in here—naked.

You got dressed and looked at your reflection in the mirror. What have you done?

You sighed, picking up your white coat along with your hospital badge from the chair.

Dr. YN Gojo, RPT, MD, FACS | Chief of Trauma Surgery | Cardiothoracic Surgery Fellow

You went out of the on-call room, some of the nurses greeted you and you greeted them back with a smile. But of course, one of them looked at you knowingly—like she’s not buying that crap you call a smile, she knows you too well.

“Go home.” she walks with you, you looked at her and chuckled. “Don’t you laugh at me, young lady. You need some rest.”

“I will.” you say, “In fact, I’m going now.”

Nurse Tanaka pats your back, “Good. How’s things?”

You paused for a while, inserting your hands into your pocket. “Things are okay.”

“And you?”

“Fine.” you simply answered, trying to avoid the upcoming question. You pretend to look at the time, clearly avoiding whatever it is that she wanted to ask you. “I’ll get going, I’ll see you later.”

She just nodded, the frown on her forehead visible because the way you dodge her question is as if you’re dodging a bullet. You weren’t ready to talk about whatever it is she wanted to talk about. And you don’t know if you’ll ever be ready.

You should be going home now, maybe take a shower, or eat—then sleep a little bit more, but your feet have carried you somewhere else.

There in the gallery of OR 3. Where your husband stood—calm, precise.

You watch him in silence, sitting at the back in the hopes that he wouldn’t notice that you’re there. You watch his every move, every flick of his finger, every tilt of his head.

He is in his element—he’s living up to his name, he’s continuing his father’s legacy. He’s right there, where he should be. Brilliant. Shining.

He looked like nothing had happened. Like you haven’t given him another piece of hope that you’re not sure if you’d shot down again.

You lean on the wall, just for a second and you’ll leave. Just for a second before you take back everything that you’ve said—before you regret everything that you have decided.

But you stay. You always stay.

—

Your keys clattered on the side table, your bag discarded on the couch. You looked around, the apartment was too clean. No dishes in the sink, no pillows scattered—like there’s no one living here.

Well, between your shifts and your preference to sleep in the on-call room instead of your own bed, nobody really has been living here. You know Satoru isn’t coming home either.

Because there’s no half-drunk coffee cups randomly placed here on the counter or on the table in the balcony.

Because his scent is nowhere to be found. You forced yourself to move, walking through the hallway when you passed by the shelf where that photograph is seated.

You stop. Your hands tremble as you pick up the frame. You stare at the picture, your eyes slowly burning.

Satoru’s arm draped around your shoulders, his lips pressed against your temple—you, smiling, your cheekbones almost taking over your eyes—your friends, pointing their fingers in your direction with smiles on their faces, like you’re the star of the show.

You hated this picture right now because you looked so happy, so genuinely, stupidly happy.

You couldn’t believe that this was taken just three months ago. It’s funny—how things could change in a glimpse.

Your fingers ghost over the glass, over his image. Over your figure. You could back away, you could throw it in the trash, smash it. But instead you put it back, facing it down.

Instead, you stepped back—strip off all your clothes and let the steam consume you. You let the water hit your body, chest heaving, tears falling silently.

You sobbed quietly until your body decided to betray you, until your body decided to stop protecting you against yourself.

You just let yourself falter because here—you weren’t Dr. YN Gojo, you were just a woman who’s grieving, who’s mourning the version of herself who wasn’t here anymore.

—

You were drying your hair the moment your phone buzzed. You looked at it, even though you didn’t want to—it’s your job, it’s not like you have a choice, right?

The moment you read the page you were already heading out the door—slipping on your shoes like you have got no time to lose, well you really don’t.

The moment you stepped into the hospital, you weren’t the woman who cried in the shower like her life was hanging on a balance. No, you were Dr. Gojo again, Chief of Trauma.

“Okay, what do we got?” you asked while tying your wet hair up, you grabbed the chart from the nurse without stopping.

“Male, 33. MVC, multiple left-sided rib fractures. Suspected flail chest. Sats dropped to 89% en route. His chest x-ray confirmed hemothorax.”

You scanned the image quickly, “Prep an OR for a left thoracotomy. Start large-bore IVs and have two units of O-neg on standby. Page anaesthesia, now.”

Your voice was dominating—sharp but calm. You’ve done this a thousand times before. Even though the whole room buzzed with chaos, you remained focused.

You tied your cap, walking towards the scrub room when he walked out of OR 3. And for a minute, you stopped, locking eyes with him.

He looked so tired. His white strands falling carelessly on his forehead. You know he wanted to say something to you by the way his mouth slightly opened, you know him.

He’d want you to talk about what happened this morning. He’d want you to open up again.

But you won’t. You couldn’t.

You didn’t give him a chance when you pushed towards the scrub room.

You have no time to lose, you can’t think of anything else besides your patient.

The surgery had gone well. All of it was textbook save. But you didn’t escape the way your back aches, how your arm was sore from holding all those surgical tools for hours.

You just wanted to collapse on the floor and stay there if it’s possible.

Everyone was doing their part and you’d done yours, so you took your mask off, slipped off your cap and gown. You walked towards the nurses lounge, typing something on the tablet when a cup of coffee was placed in front of you.

“Dr. Gojo—I mean, the other Dr. Gojo left this for you.” you almost smiled, because how many times have Satoru been referred to as the ‘other’ Dr. Gojo? Barely.

You look at the cup for a second too long—he left you coffee, just the way you like it.

You snapped back, your hands moving as your fingers hesitantly wrapped around it. “Thanks.”

You were about to walk away when you remembered something, you turned to the new nurse, “By the way, don’t let him hear you say that.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t call him, the ‘other’ Dr. Gojo. He’ll wreak havoc.” you said jokingly, giving her a faint smile before walking away while sipping on your coffee.

—

“Listen up!” Maki—the Chief Resident—started, the chatter died down, a smile almost slipping past her lips as she watched her intern’s faces.

She cleared her throat and looked around the shiny new interns, fresh scrubs, new badges—it’s a good day for her, and for the attendings too. “You’ve all made it through med school, big deal. Welcome to the real world. Where you’ll learn and fail and hopefully, not kill anyone.”

The door creaked open as she orientated the interns, the attendings going in one by one to observe the fresh batch of interns. And silently hoping that the ones assigned to them aren't a dud.

And then he came in, Dr. Satoru Gojo, the whispers started again. There he was effortlessly tall—they never thought that a white coat would look that good on someone. It just… fits. His hair was slightly disheveled, his face looked so pretty even though it was obvious that he hadn't had any decent sleep in years.

“That’s him, right?”

“Fuck, this is getting real. I heard he made a resident cry once.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, he just said ‘try again’ and she cried.”

“We’re so fucked.”

Satoru almost laughs when he sees the interns sitting in a row with eyes wide open. He knows that some are looking his way—maybe some of them even applied to this hospital’s program just because of him, and he’s not surprised, not everyday you get to see and work with a brilliant neurosurgeon such as himself.

He leaned on the wall, sipping on his coffee while scrolling on his phone—looking bored already. Suguru leans, “That one looks like he might faint.”

“God, I hope he’s mine.” he mumbles with sarcasm.

He looked around, searching for you, and you weren’t here. Probably caught up again in some emergency. Or a consult? He doesn’t know. How would he when you barely talk to him?

“Now, you’d be assigned under the supervision of an attending. You’ll follow them, do what they want. You will breathe if they say so and hope to God that they don’t hate you. Each of your performances are evaluated, so don’t mess up.” Maki says and starts calling the interns one by one.

“Itadori.” Maki looks up, she sees the young intern with his hands up, nervously and enthusiastically. “And… Fushiguro.”

“You’re with Dr. Gojo.” and just by saying that, Itadori got pale in the face. Some of the interns are already consoling the two of them in their minds.

“Miwa and Kugisaki. You’re with Dr. Gojo.”

Nobara blinks, almost stutters. She subtly points at Satoru at the back, who raises his eyebrows in amusement without saying something. “Also? Him?”

“No. Dr. YN Gojo.” and as if on cue, you enter. The interns exchanged glances. There you were with a soft look on your face, the one where the interns gave hope that not all attendings are you know… evil.

Their eyes followed you as you sat beside Ieiri. “There she is.”

You smiled and gave them a wave, a bit confused as to why they were looking at you. Maki pointed at the girls, “They’re yours.”

“Wait, she’s also a Gojo?” Nobara whispers to Miwa, glancing a bit in your direction. “Is she like his sister?”

Miwa shrugs, “Maybe just a coincidence? Or maybe it’s a common last name?”

“I don’t think so.” Nobara says.

“She’s his wife. They’re married.” Megumi says, and their eyes widen.

“He’s married?!” she says a little bit loud, but covers her mouth when she realizes how loud she was. She turned to Megumi, “How did you know?”

And the young man just shrugged his shoulders, Nobara pouts, dissatisfied with his answer. Maki finishes assigning and the interns go with their attendings.

“She looks nice. Thank God we weren’t assigned to him.” Miwa whispers to Nobara, and she excitedly nods. They watched as you walked towards the door, frowning when you realized they weren’t following you.

The look on your face says they celebrated too early.

“Are you going to follow me or are you going to waste my time?” you say, that angelic smile adorned on your face earlier was now gone. “Let’s go. First round starts in ten minutes. I hope you had your breakfast. Walk fast, don’t expect me to slow down for you.”

Nobara stops, her face turns white and Miwa scrambles to walk towards you.

“Now!”

And you were gone before they could answer you. Satoru finally speaks in soft sing-song voice with a big smile plastered on his face as he walks past Nobara, “Good luck~”

He walks out with his interns following him, but before Megumi could walk out the door he says something to her. “By the way, she’s the Dr. Gojo who made the resident cry. Not him. If I were you, I’d be running by now.”

“Wait… what?!”

—

“Dilated cardiomyopathy.” you murmured, tapping your foot on the carpeted floor as you stare at the tablet in your hand.

She has a history of repaired congenital heart defect. Your eyes stroll down through the numbers, the chart, her whole history.

And… you stopped. Your hands stiffen, gripping on the tablet too hard. You read it, once—twice, maybe even a hundred times.

You blinked, staring at that one line like it is going to change anything. “No.”

“No?” the Chief of Surgery repeated—a little shocked, because how could you say no to him?

“Are you saying ‘no’ to me, Dr. Gojo? Do you know how much time we have? You’ve seen her chart. I think you’re in no position to say no.”

“I am.” you slammed the tablet on his table, not too hard, but enough to tell him that you aren’t doing this one. No, not this one. It hits too close. “Not me. I won’t touch this. Not this.”

You’ve tried hard enough not to react. Not let your emotions get the best of you, but that isn’t easy in this situation. “YN.”

“What?!”

“You’re the only one I trust.” his voice was calm, and it unnerves you. “You’re the only one who could do this.”

He stands up and goes in your direction, you take a step back. “You’ve seen her numbers. She’s unstable, her oxygen is dropping.”

You were frustrated. Because it’s true.

All of it was true, her condition is worsening but you’re not the only one who could do it. You’re a cardiothoracic fellow for pete’s sake—granted you’re already in the final year of your fellowship but still.

“That’s why we need to max everything, her medications—”

“We already have. She’s not responding.” he pauses, “You know Dr. Yamada is not here right now. This is an urgent case, you’ve worked under her. I’m sure you’ve learned a lot from her.”

But that’s not the point. That’s not why you would do it. And it baffled you—you could feel it, the breath you unraveled. Your vision blurs and everything feels like it’s closing in on you.

“Dad—” it had slipped before you could stop it. The vulnerability you’ve tried so hard to conceal.

Tears fall from your eyes, and he sees it. “Please. What if she coded into the table? What if I can’t save t—”

You’re frustrated. Because you’re not just his surgeon now. You’re his daughter.

And hurt, because never did your father put your feelings into consideration. You’re a doctor, you’re not supposed to let your feelings take over you.

But one thing just ran through your mind repeatedly, you’re his daughter.

For once, just this once, you hoped he’d think about what you feel. You’d just wish he’d think about what this means to you.

“You can!” he pushed, “You’re my daughter. You’re your mother’s daughter, if anyone could, it’s you! Do not give me this crap.” you flinched, tears falling endlessly but he doesn’t stop there. “She’s young, she has no prior comorbidities. You’ve seen it, she already has decompensated heart failure, she won’t make it another 24 hours without intervention.”

You bite your lip, harshly wiping your cheeks but the tears come anyway, “She may not make it in surgery either.” you say, voice quiet, defeated.

“I know, but you’re the only surgeon I trust to try.”

—

Your breathing was heavy—sharp, you could barely hear your footsteps as you descended the emergency stairwell. You couldn’t hear anything beside the storm roaring in your head.

The papers clutched in your hand, your knuckles had gone white along with the shaking of your arms.

“Fuck!” Without any second thoughts, you slam the papers on the floor, it had scattered like leaves falling down. The sound of your voice bounces through the walls, but there wasn’t any care in your body right now.

You stopped, your world spinning as your back slides on the cold wall, your body hitting the concrete on your feet. You pressed your palms on your face, trying to calm yourself down.

Breathe. Just… breathe.

You can do this, right? You’ve done this countless times before. You are Dr. YN Gojo, you were trained for this, you are the best. If anyone could do it, it would be you.

You’ve put yourself together a thousand times, like you’ve never been hurt, been broken apart. But why can’t you do it now? Why can’t you pull yourself together?

A sob escaped you, like a traitor. Too loud, too painful. You’ve opened a can of worms that you couldn’t contain. It all came bursting out. You had no control.

It all hit too close because you’ve been here before. You’ve watched life slip from you. You know what it’s like to gamble, and they’re asking you to do it again.

Your sobs echoed, it was raw. Helpless. Your shoulders shake with every breath you take.

You don’t even notice the door slip open, you don’t even hear the hurry behind his steps—he moved fast, just to get to you.

“Hey,” and just like that, he cuts through the noise in your head.

He kneels almost immediately, arms wrapping around your shoulder, pulling you into his chest. “I’m here, baby. It’s okay. I’m here.”

You clutched on his shirt, like he’s the only thing keeping you afloat. Small whimpers escaping your lips, “Satoru.”

“I’m here.” he pressed his lips on your head, “I won’t leave.”

“I can’t.” you were choking on your words, you bury your face on his chest, feeling his steady heartbeat in contrast to yours. “I can’t do this. She’s going to lose it too, Satoru. She’s…”

You feel his body stiff, but his hold tightens and he presses a gentle kiss on the side of your head once again. You know this was affecting him too. This is why you couldn’t do it. This is why you’d rather feel this alone.

“She’s… I’m going to lose her. I’m going to lose them.”

Because you’ll pull him down with you and you would never forgive yourself for that.

“I’m going to…” you were spiraling—right in front of him and you know it will break him. All these walls that you’ve spent a long time building just to protect him came crumbling down and you hate it.

You hate yourself for this. You hated everything. But never him. God, no, never him.

There’s a throe in his chest but he held you, keeping you close as if he’s putting you back together.

“I’m not going anywhere.” he whispers, it’s as if he knew what you were thinking, “Even if it breaks me—I’m not going anywhere.”

And for the first time in a long time. You let him in. You didn’t want him to see you like this but you needed him.

You know you need him.

“I’ll stay, YN. I’ll always stay.”

#gojo x reader #gojo x y/n #jjk x reader #gojo x you #gojo satoru x reader #jjk x you #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x y/n #jujutsu kaisen angst #gojo angst #gojo satoru angst #gojo satoru fluff #gojo satoru smut #gojo smut #jjk angst #jjk smut #jjk fluff #gojo satoru

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woncon · 1 month ago

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➳ pretty boy

➶ soobin x gn!reader ｡˚ °

-ˏ` ✎﹏ You think Soobin is pretty. But you couldn’t tell him. Betas and omegas are called pretty; alphas never. So when you accidentally call him that, you scared of his reaction—turns out you don't need to.

➴ genre: emotional smut, abo/omegaverse, a spark of fluff, estabilished relationship

: ̗̀➛ warnings: light backround ot5 poly, alpha!soobin, mentioned omega!beomgyu, alpha/beta/omega reader with unspecified genital, riding, knotting (without condom! don't do that at home!), petnames (pretty boy, baby), slight praise kink & dirty talk

⌨ :: 1k words ♡ ︵ . .

⁀➷ this little thing was totally unplanned. i just wrote a whole different fic, and i got stuck with the smut scene. it frustrated me so much i did this. (first completed smut since 2022, kinda nervous 😶‍🌫️). plus this is the first fic that i wrote without translating from my mother tongue. hope you'll like it!

⁀➷ thanks @wonsheep for betaing! 💓

➳ mlist

You think Soobin is pretty.

It is your little secret—a fact that makes your cheeks flush and your blood boil. Excitement and shame mingles whenever you see him, and your first thought is pretty. When you talk to each other, it turns into a mantra: you nod, you hum, you even reply, but all of your thoughts are just one word on repeat. Because all parts of him are pretty, from his adorable bunny teeth to his thin waist.

Somehow even his scent is pretty. The rich dark chocolate always reminds you of decorated cakes and muffins. It isn’t threatening or chokingly dominant like most scents of alphas are—just warm. Comforting. Pleasant.

Actually, being in his presence is so safe that sometimes your confession almost slips out. You need to bite your lip or pinch your hand to hold it in. The idea of his shocked face after hearing what you call him in secret, makes all of your mating bites pang with fear.

You couldn’t tell him. Betas and omegas are called pretty; alphas never. They’re handsome at most.

“Handsome,” you remind yourself, but you also get a laugh out of Soobin, his chest vibrating under your palm. “Strong,” you continue, simply because you need to.

Beomgyu’s heat ended two days ago, but the whole apartment is full of his stronger scent, the open windows and little wind don’t help much—the enticing pheromones are everywhere, powerfully flowery, tickling your skin, making your thoughts foggy, but your feelings stronger. It is easier to say things out loud.

“And…” you blink.

“And?” Soobin cups your cheeks. His smile gets bigger, showing his teeth.

Not teasing, just curious, as always.

Pretty.

Before you can open your mouth again, he kisses you. You are grateful for his soft lips and tongue for making you unable to say that damn word. You grab his waist through his shirt, digging your fingers deep. You use him as armor, to ground yourself in the moment. As a response, he moans into your mouth. It isn’t deep and feral like the whole week. It is softer, shaky—a delicate sign of vulnerability.

The sound – that pretty sound – melts on your tongue. You pull him closer just to hear it again, but this time you slip one of your hands to his throat to feel how his Adam’s apple bops when he moans.

Pretty. Pretty. Pretty.

Your fingertips burn on his neck, his Adam’s apple tickles your palm. You drink up his moan, and you let him suck your lower lip after.

Soobin tangles his fingers in your hair, keeping you close as he goes lower, leaving your lips to kiss your chin, to nibble on your ear, to lick his mating bite on your neck.

Dark chocolate and blooming flowers. Trembling lips on your artery. Too much.

“Pretty,” you whisper.

Maybe he doesn’t hear it—too busy sucking your skin into his mouth. But when he untangles his hand from your hair and stops the kisses just to kneel before you—to mumble compliments with shiny eyes, to sneak his cold hand under your shirt, your warm skin becoming confused and hungry—you know he will hear it the next time.

“You are so pretty, Soob.” Voice raspy, but the words are loud and clear.

“What?” he murmurs. He stands up, looking at you confused.

You gulp. You still think he is pretty. You are stupid.

“I–I am–”

Soobin presses your foreheads together.

“Say it again,” he murmurs. “Please.”

He sounds almost desperate.

“My pretty boy.”

Saying it confidently and hearing his broken whimpers in response is the best feeling. You want to ride him until there is nothing but the fact that he is pretty—a pretty alpha. Your pretty alpha.

“Yeah?” Soobin wets his lip.

A drop of sweat runs down on his face. He stops it unintentionally when he places his hand on his mouth to bite on it. Again, you grab his wrist and pull it to your mouth before he can muffle his sounds. You graze the skin with your teeth, then you kiss it. Even his wrist is pretty, blue veins snaking under fragile skin.

“The prettiest alpha I’ve ever seen,” you smile.

And you sink deeper with all the remaining strength you have in your body.

“Ah, fuck!” he cries out. “Don’t stop.”

He is close—his knot already starting to swell inside you. His hips stutter. His breaths become choked.

Although your thighs burn from fatigue, too, and a warm feeling spreads in your belly, you don’t want to end it this soon. After all those months of fear, you want to take your time.

Soobin's hand doesn’t fall to his mouth—this time he holds your hand instead. It makes your heart more heavy with adoration and love.

“Please, take it, baby…” he pleads. “Take your pretty boy's knot.”

“Anything you want, Soob.”

You get a muffled grunt in response, fingers digging into your sides to hold you in place for his last thrusts.

When his knot pops, you are warm and full inside, and you cum, too. His choked moan echoes in your ears as you ride out your high with shivering limbs.

Your head lays in the crook of Soobin's neck. His fingers dance on your shoulders and back, alternating between caressing and massaging. It’s comfortable.

You’ll fall asleep soon—Kai likes to joke about that being your natural reaction to being knotted.

Soobin has other plans.

“Since when?” he asks.

“Hmm… Since I met you. Ever since the first time I saw you I thought you were pretty,” you reply. Your lips brush his skin doing so.

“Really?”

You’re sure he’s frowning—still, you lift your head to see it with your own eyes.

“But why didn't you tell me sooner?”

“If I’d known you'd give me that reaction, trust me, I’d have told you sooner.”

Soobin snorts. A reddish shade spreads on his face. You giggle and kiss the blushy spot.

“Calling an alpha pretty isn’t traditional,” you explain.

“Bullying an alpha as a love language isn’t traditional either, yet Beomgyu does it 24/7,” Soobin reminds you. “We’re not a traditional pack, baby. You can share your non-traditional thoughts anytime.”

“From now, I’ll do so. Thank you.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” he hums.

You close your eyes, just enjoying the song of his heartbeat, his breathing, his closeness—that the feeling which is buried inside your chest is pretty, too.

your likes, reblogs and comments are warmly welcomed! 💓thank you for being here!

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zeroseuniverse · 4 months ago

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Revenge Food

Word Count: 816 Summary:He shrugged. “Just saying. If it makes you feel better, I knew they were trash from the start.” You groaned, throwing your head back against the couch. “Then why didn’t you tell me?!” Pairing:Seungmin X reader

Taglist: @sh0dor1

Navigation

You sat on the couch, arms crossed tightly over your chest, staring at the floor with a blank expression. The weight of betrayal sat heavy in your stomach, a sickening reminder of just how much trust you’d misplaced. Seungmin sat beside you, one leg crossed over the other, scrolling through his phone like this wasn’t a monumental crisis.

After a long silence, he sighed. “I don’t know why you’re surprised. Betrayal never comes from an enemy.”

Your head snapped up to glare at him. “Wow. Thanks. That helps so much.”

He shrugged. “Just saying. If it makes you feel better, I knew they were trash from the start.”

You groaned, throwing your head back against the couch. “Then why didn’t you tell me?!”

“Oh, yeah, because that always works,” he deadpanned. “‘Hey, bestie, your favorite person is garbage, please stop trusting them.’ That would’ve gone over so well.”

You shot him a glare, but the corner of his lips twitched, betraying amusement. He nudged your arm with his elbow. “Come on. Let’s go get food or something. That way, instead of being sad, you can be sad and full.”

You sighed. “…Fine.”

Seungmin stood up, grabbing his keys. “See? I’m an excellent best friend.”

“You literally just told me I should’ve expected to be betrayed.”

“Yeah, but I’m also buying you food.” He smirked. “That makes up for it.”

“…Debatable.”

“Too late. No take-backs.”

And just like that, Seungmin managed to make you feel a little bit lighter. In his own weird, slightly emotionally-stunted way, he was comforting you.

Even if his version of comfort included zero actual emotional support.

Seungmin led the way out of your apartment, his hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie as you trudged behind him. You were still upset—rightfully so—but the fact that he was actively trying (in his own questionable way) made it a little easier to breathe.

As you walked toward his car, he tilted his head toward you. “So, what are you in the mood for? Comfort food or revenge food?”

You frowned. “What’s the difference?”

“Comfort food is, like, ramen or ice cream. Something that makes you feel warm inside.” He unlocked the car and slid into the driver’s seat. “Revenge food is messy, greasy, and will make you sick later. Like an ungodly amount of fries. You eat it while plotting someone’s downfall.”

You snorted as you buckled in. “And which one do you think I need?”

Seungmin started the car, shooting you a sideways glance. “Oh, definitely revenge food. You look like you’re two seconds away from committing a crime.”

You groaned dramatically, throwing your head back. “Ugh. Why are you like this?”

“Because you’d be miserable if I were normal,” he replied smoothly. “Now, let’s go get the greasiest food imaginable so you can emotionally recover while slowly clogging your arteries.”

You rolled your eyes, but the corners of your lips twitched. As much as you wanted to stay buried in your emotions, Seungmin wasn’t going to let you.

As you pulled up to the drive-thru of a fast-food place, he turned to you. “Alright. What’s your order of destruction?”

You scanned the menu, pretending to think. “Large fries, a burger, and a milkshake.”

He raised a brow. “Weak.”

Your jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”

He hummed. “If you’re gonna spiral, do it right. Two large fries. Add nuggets. And get a second milkshake in case you drop the first one out of dramatic frustration.”

You stared at him. “How are you so good at this?”

“I’ve known you for years. Plus, I am a professional at emotionally repressed coping mechanisms,” he said proudly before turning to the drive-thru speaker.

The order was placed, and soon enough, you were both sitting in the parking lot, tearing into the food like it held all the answers to your problems.

Seungmin grabbed a fry and waved it in the air. “Okay, now’s the part where you either vent or plot your revenge. Dealer’s choice.”

You chewed your burger, thinking. “I mean… I could start an elaborate social takedown.”

He nodded approvingly. “Classic.”

“Or I could just let karma do its thing.”

He made a face. “Boring, but mature. I hate it.”

You rolled your eyes. “What do you think I should do?”

Seungmin took a long sip of his milkshake before answering. “I think you should eat these fries and remember that you don’t need fake people in your life. If someone’s willing to betray you, they’re not worth your energy.” He shot you a look. “And no, that’s not me being nice. It’s just facts.”

You blinked, a little surprised by the sincerity. “…That was actually solid advice.”

“Gross, right?” He shuddered. “Don’t expect it often.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. Maybe Seungmin wasn’t the best at emotional support, but he was the best at being there. And in that moment, that was enough.

#stray kids #stray kids x reader #stray kids imagines #stray kids fluff #stray kids fanfic #skz imagines #skz x reader #skz fanfic #skz fluff #skz scenarios #skz #kim seungmin #seungmin imagines #seungmin x reader #seungmin stray kids #seungmin skz #seungmin fluff #kim seungmin x reader

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prentissluvr · 10 months ago

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love you again — sam winchester

cw : gn!reader, hurt/comfort, fluff, implied exes to lovers, canon typical injury and blood, hospitals, pet names (honey, sweetheart), 2K words. requested !

summary : you and sam have a past that’s rekindled during the panicked moments where he finds you bleeding out on a hunt.

MOVED BLOGS TO @sammyluvr !! no longer active on this blog! all fics can be found there!

sam was thinking about you yesterday, again. he’s been wondering how you are, wondering if you’d hate a text from him, wondering if you’d pick up a call. he’s been wondering a whole lot, and it’s mostly about you. some about himself. he wonders how to apologize for growing distant, he wonders if he’d be better for you if you gave him the chance. he wonders if you blame him and hopes that you don’t because he doesn’t blame you. it was his fault for letting things start to fade out first, but for a while it stung that you never tried to bring him back to you.

back then, it was what he needed. someone that would hold his hand tighter were he to loosen his own grip. and he supposes you needed someone who was already sure of things, who wouldn’t pull away in the first place. so, he doesn’t blame you.

sam also wonders about silly little things. like how you might’ve reacted to your favorite west coast family diner shutting down. he was disappointed when he found out, but he was downright sad for you. he wonders about what kind of hunts you're going on and he wonders if you still carry that little old silver blade that desperately needs replacing.

and since he was thinking about you yesterday, that means he thought about you this morning, in the hazy moments between waking and getting up and going. since then it’s been all research and interviews and cracking the case the second day in town. before you cross his mind again, he and dean are in the impala on the way to take out a nest of vampires.

but of all the many times that sam has thought of you since you parted, not once did he envision finding you like this.

sprawled out on the dirty ground in a pool of blood.

certainly, he’s thought about you dying and how completely horrifying that would be. how sad and heartbreaking. all of the things he’d never get to say to you. but he always thought he’d hear through a mutual hunter friend, never that he’d be the one to find you bleeding out.

the moment he realizes the body on the floor is yours, all of the blood drains from his face. he gasps out your name and tuckes his machete away as he drops to your side. your eyes are still open, and your breath comes out with a horrid, shuddering sound.

“hey, hey, hey, it’s okay,” he assures you, immediately locating the wound on your neck and pressing a steady hand against it to slow the blood. your eyes are already fluttering, and you look like you’ll pass out any moment now. “stay with me, honey,” he says, voice both stern and soft. the sweet pet name slips out on instinct. you’re his honey, even now. maybe especially now.

“suh-sam?” you rasp out, fighting for breath. you can’t even figure out if he’s real. maybe you’re delirious as you bleed out pathetically. you killed all the vamps except the one that got to you. that one fled when car headlights filtered through the drawn blinds of the room, before it could fully sink its fangs into your neck. if it had gotten to your artery, you’d probably be dead already, and that’s the only thing that gives you hope. plus, you realize that the headlights of the car must have been sam, and most likely dean too. that means it must really be him, after all this time.

“it’s me,” sam assures you. “i got you. just keep your eyes open, okay?”

you let out a shuddering breath in response. “th-there’s j-just one more,” you grunt out, “h-he r-ran.”

“shh, shh, it’s okay. dean’s got it,” sam hushes you swiftly, confused for a moment before realizing that you’re talking about the vamps. “don’t worry about talking, alright, honey?” he won’t be able to stop calling you that, not when he could lose you, in a far worse way this time. “just keep those eyes open for me, and you’ll be alright.”

while you almost want to protest, to say something to him, anything, you stop trying to talk. it’s taking far too much effort. you really wish you could comfort him, tell him that you’ll be alright. but in this state, you have to opt for bringing your shaking hand up and wrapping it loosely around his wrist. you give it a small squeeze to show him that you’re there, you’re trying so hard to stay awake just for him.

his heart aches as he feels your weak hold around his wrist and understands its meaning. sometimes he forgets how well he knows you, and right now, it sends a pang of desperation through him.

“i really need you to stay with me,” he says, mantaining that soft and steady tone to keep you grounded. you want to stay with him too, you really do. you want to keep looking at his face, even though it’s blurry and frowning. though, while you do prefer his smile, you’ve always thought that he looks beautiful no matter what. it’s probably cruel of you to find his distressed expression attractive right now, but it’s also true that you’re a little delirious and maybe bleeding out, so you don’t suppose you can be blamed.

it really bothers you that you can’t talk. more than anything, you want to reassure him. you also want to tell him that he’s been sorely missed, that his hair looks very nice like this, and that you really don’t want to die because that means you won’t have the chance to kiss him ever again. maybe you should just say that you’d like the chance to kiss him again. or that you don’t want to die. you’re not really sure.

“dean!” sam yells suddenly, voice gruff and loud and tinged with panic. if you weren’t slipping away, you’d have flinched. things begin to blur then; sam picks you up and practically cradles you in his arms. he’s so soft and he’d be shaky if he could afford to be. but he absolutely can’t, so he’s unwavering instead.

“jesus,” mutters another worried voice, distant, but assumed to be dean’s. you try to focus on the feeling of your head on sam’s shoulder. he’s so solid and broad and that might be the only thing keeping you from just floating away.

everything fades in and out. sam’s big, encompassing hand pressed against your neck. so big that it overflows and his thumb pushes into the flesh of your cheek. your head’s still on his shoulder, but you're in the car now, slumped against familiar leather seats. the sound of the rumbling engine fills your ears and then you’re glad to hear sam again.

“we’re almost to the hospital, sweetheart,” he tells you gently. you grunt out in acknowledgment, soft and quiet. you can’t remember ever hearing his voice like this before. all panicked and sweet and tender. when dean gets hurt, his voice gets all gruff. with you, it’s this never ending gentleness, edged with sharp fear.

in your position, sam or dean probably would’ve made it to the hospital without passing out. but you’re not good with blood loss, even when it could’ve been far worse. you’re scared of dying, as always, but when your eyes flutter closed and your consciousness tilts into darkness, you feel so secure in sam’s arms that you figure you’ll be okay. it’s a strange feeling, and you likely won’t recall it when you wake up.

sam himself is far less calm than you when your head lolls forward.

“hey, hey, hey. honey, please don’t,” he urges, helpless at this point. his plea falls on deaf ears, of course. dean steps on the gas, driving far faster than is safe. it’s late though, and the roads are mostly clear.

sam keeps you close. sam has trouble parting from you at the hospital, but the doctor needs to treat you. everything’s a bit better when he’s told that you’ll be just fine after proper bandaging, rest, and a blood transfusion and iv. everything’s a lot better when he’s back by your side and holding your hand in his.

looking at your face now, cleaned of blood splatter and relaxed in sleep, he’s able to really take in the ways you’ve changed physically. you do look different, but not by too much. he’s mostly just enthralled with how beautiful you are.

there’s also the feeling of the jacket you were wearing, folded nicely across his lap. he’s not really sure why he put it there, instead of leaving it on the bottom of the bed where it was first laid out. but he picked it up, for some reason or another, and felt a lump in the pocket. he knows he probably shouldn’t have looked at your things, but he felt like he had to. sliding his hand into the worn fabric sends a rush through him. once, you held hands in your pocket when it was cold outside. he always runs warm, so you had decided to tuck his hand into your pocket like your own personal hand warmer.

in the pocket, he finds that old silver blade that he thinks about sometimes. it’s even more worn now, and he shakes his head at you softly, affectionately. he bought a new silver knife recently, and if you let him, he’s going to give it to you. then he sits in the chair by your side, placing the jacket in his lap before he takes your hand in his.

the first thing that you feel is a big hand wrapped around yours. and as you draw in a long breath, you know that it’s sam’s. that means that when you get your eyes to open—it’s a little hard right now—you’ll get to see him. another deep breath, and your eyes flutter open.

sam’s grip on your hand tightens a little.

“hey,” he murmurs, eyes scanning your form, looking for discomfort or a way to give you his love. your own gaze settles on his face; his worried brows and small frown and pretty eyes.

“hi,” you whisper, voice hoarse and tired. you squeeze his hand back lightly.

“how you feeling?” he asks softly.

“i’m okay,” you offer, giving him a small smile. you’ve been far worse in the past, you’re just groggy and a little sore. honestly, it’s rare to be this well cared for after getting injured on a hunt, and with sam by your side, it’s sort of nice, even.

sam, of course, considers asking how you really are. but with the way you’re looking at him, all soft and… well, how you used to when things were uncomplicated, he accepts your answer.

“good. you need anything? water?” he still needs to take care of you somehow.

you can’t help but smile at him again. “water would be nice,” you admit, knowing that it’ll make him feel better to be able to do something for you. that, and your throat really does burn with how dry it is. the gruffness of your voice reflects that. it’s oddly intimate when sam opens the water bottle at your bedside and brings it to your lips, ever careful when he tilts it and lets a bit of water flow into your softly opened lips. it’s intimate enough to make your face all warm with rushing blood.

you still love him. you really do. or maybe you love him again; you can feel that he’s different, and you know that you are, and somehow it feels like his hand fits in yours better tonight… or maybe it just feels more right now.

the time apart was needed, the way it happened still stings a little, and the way that you found each other again was less than ideal. well, sam certainly hates how it happened much more than you do. he had to do all the worrying, all the saving. you got to feel him holding you and hear him calling you honey and see him caring about you so much. so now, you’re just glad for the chance to kiss him again, because it’s that easy to tell that you have it.

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mrs-stans · 2 months ago

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How Thunderbolts’ Sebastian Stan became the MVP of the MCU

The actor behind Marvel’s hero-turned-villain-turned-hero Bucky Barnes has quietly become the franchise’s heart and soul over a period of a decade and a half. Ed Power explains why Stan is very much the man

Sebastian Stan knows all about taking risks. It was just last year that he played Donald Trump in The Apprentice; depicting the president as a blustering sociopath and rapist, the film was released despite preventative efforts from Trump’s lawyers.

Several months ago, Stan attempted an even more perilous jump into the unknown when he said the unsayable and defended everyone’s favourite big-screen punchbag, the Marvel Cinematic Universe – describing the maligned blockbuster franchise as a lifeline for cinema. “It’s become really convenient to pick on [Marvel films],” he told GQ. “And that’s fine. Everyone’s got an opinion... [But Marvel] is an artery travelling through the system of this entire machinery that’s Hollywood. It feeds in so many more ways than people acknowledge.”

Rare indeed is it that an actor will come out to bat for the MCU – even if, like Stan, they’ve been part of the Marvel Universe almost from the beginning. He joined the franchise first as Captain America’s peppy best pal Bucky Barnes (in 2011’s Captain America: The First Avenger), then played Barnes’s killing machine alter-ego, the Winter Soldier. Resilient, uncomplaining and focused on the task at hand, both Stan and Bucky may well be the underappreciated heroes of the Marvel Universe.

This weekend, Stan is back as Barnes in Thunderbolts* – a team-up movie also starring Florence Pugh as Black Widow’s younger adoptive sister Yelena Belova, and David Harbour as Russian supersoldier Red Guardian. It marks the ninth MCU film Stan has appeared in (plus two TV series). Earlier this year, Stan popped up for one scene in Captain America: A Brave New World – arguably the highlight of an underwhelming film.

It was also a reminder of what Stan brings to the franchise – a stolid charm less dazzling than the mega-charisma of Robert Downey Jr’s Iron Man, but with its own potent appeal. Stan has an introverted, unshowy style – he doesn’t jump up and down demanding your attention; instead he quietly gets under the skin of his characters. Film to film, this makes him easy to take for granted. It’s only when you look back at the arc of his oeuvre that what he’s achieved becomes clear.

Stan’s willingness to put a shoulder to the wheel and just get on with things is perhaps rooted in his own life story: he’s the child of Romanian parents who moved to America after the end of the Cold War. He has talked about feeling like an outsider amid the go-getting optimism of 1990s America, and of making a concerted effort to lose all traces of his Romanian accent. He was the outsider who wanted to fit in – just like Bucky.

He has been upfront about the MCU being a lifeline. Before The First Avenger, his career had been stuttering badly. He was best known for a recurring part in the rich-kid soap opera Gossip Girl and for playing the baddie in Hot Tub Time Machine – the residuals from which were just about keeping him afloat when he auditioned for Captain America’s ill-fated buddy.

His character was introduced as a newly minted GI, shipped off to Europe to dispense Stars ’n’ Stripes justice to the Nazis. When he plunged to his death, it seemed like we had lost a perfectly agreeable minor character – sacrificed so that Cap could understand the value of friendship.

But the Bucky didn’t stop there. Stan’s character lends his name to the title of the second Captain America movie, The Winter Soldier – the best MCU film up to that point. He is chilling and relentless as a programmable assassin whose mind has been wiped by Hydra (Cap’s Nazi enemies in 1943), Stan’s usual magnetism nowhere to be seen. It’s a brave turn by Stan, who isn’t in the least concerned about his character being likeable – only that he scares us.

It’s your Bucky day: Sebastian Stan in ‘Thunderbolts*’

In the years since, Stan’s Marvel character has swung through highs and lows. He was a C-list figure in the later Avengers films – there to fill out an already overstuffed bench. Amid the stability of the Marvel gig, however, Stan began taking on more interesting side-projects.

The first of these was I, Tonya, in which he impressed as Jeff Gillooly – abusive boyfriend, and later ex-husband, of Margot Robbie’s disgraced figure-skater Tonya Harding. There was his Trump in The Apprentice, for which he received Golden Globe and Oscar nominations. He also played a charming cannibal in Fresh and a man with facial disfigurement in last year’s A Different Man (for which he won a Golden Globe).

On the small screen, he seared himself into the memory of the unsuspecting viewer in the 2022 Disney + series Pam & Tommy, playing Mötley Crüe drummer Tommy Lee in a “can’t be unseen” sequence in which he converses with his own anthropomorphic penis.

Pam & Tommy , which chronicled Lee’s marriage to Baywatch actress Pamela Anderson and the notorious theft of their sex tape, was well regarded within the industry – receiving 10 Emmy nominations, including an Outstanding Lead Actor nod for Stan. But the acclaim wasn’t unanimous: a three-star review in The Independent labelled it “an uneasy mix of comedy, drama and period piece”, while Anderson herself described it as “salt on the wound”, branding the producers “assholes”.

Amid those diverging opinions, Stan was a rare bright light, imbuing Lee with a hint of tragedy. He was the hair-metal meathead with a tragic gaze and the air of someone who knew deep down that there was more to life than wrecking hotel rooms and joshing with his junk.

Stan as Tommy Lee with Lily James as Pamela Anderson in ‘Pam & Tommy’ (Hulu)

Despite his forays into more critically lauded fare, Stan has always chosen to look at the MCU not as a burden but as a gift – never grumbling, or behaving as if he was above the material.

Many actors have, of course, accepted the MCU’s money only to then badmouth the franchise. Anthony Hopkins said his role in Thor and its sequels amounted to little beyond “shouting a bit”: “If you’re sitting in front of a green screen, it’s pointless acting it,” he tutted. Christian Bale described Thor: Love & Thunder as “monotony”; Mickey Rourke branded Iron Man 2 “mindless” and “s***”.

Even Robert Downey Jr, the franchise’s biggest star, has levelled digs at the films, calling them “content” and suggesting that an acting muscle may have “atrophied” during his time in the MCU.

Thunderbolts* is unlikely to silence the dissenters, but reviews have hailed it as one of Marvel’s best films in years. There are fight scenes, spectacular set pieces, and lashings of the trademark Marvel “banter” – sarcastic, tension-alleviating quips adored by fans but which detractors have identified as the franchise’s great sin against the spoken word. (In the modern movie-going landscape, there is apparently nothing more egregious than a well-crafted zinger.)

For Stan, it’s the latest step in a tumultuous journey that has seen him cast as hero, villain, unwitting stooge and frustrated everyman trying to live his best life in a world where danger lurks around every corner. Early tracking suggests that Thunderbolts* may be one of Marvel’s bigger recent releases, and is expected to surpass the recent Captain America sequel. It’s surely no coincidence that its beating heart is Stan, forever fighting the good fight – whether on behalf of humanity, or the much-maligned MCU.

‘Thunderbolts*’ is in cinemas now

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eel-head · 6 months ago

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I watched the Twilight movies again over Christmas and it's god's will to write a Jacob/Edward fanfic about Edward's appetite skyrocketing when Bella is constantly trying to seduce him, cue Jacob appearing when Edward is slightly out his mind starving and they ultimately solve this by Edward drinking Jacob's blood.

Jacob has human and animal blood, best of both worlds, right? His werewolf abilities make his blood regenerate faster, so Edward can really feed off him without killing him, which he's never experienced before.

Fun fact: If Edward wants a big rush of blood, best way to go about that is to get all the blood to one artery and then bite that artery. Doubly fun fact, there's an artery on the thigh, near the only other organ in the human body that pumps something out, if you catch my drift. Plus arousal brings blood closer to the surface of the skin and Edward would be all over that.

They are doing it to protect Bella! Edward can't be so crazy when Victoria is plotting to attack soon. This is the ONLY logical solution.

#Jakeward #jacob x edward #twilight #returning to my roots with this one #i saw the brokeback twilight trailer and had to watch the movies again

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samuelsdean · 1 year ago

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Stay With Me

pairing: spencer reid x reader

summary: "you’ve been shot countless times, huh?” “that sounded a bit more reassuring in my head.”

genre: angst & fluff

word count: 1.1k

author's notes: almost a year of no writing, but i'm finally home (i posted a new fic)! it's been one hectic year for me. uni was crazy & i started my clinical rotations. plus, i did my thesis & it even got a distinction mark so i'll be presenting it at a research congress pretty soon (yay!). with that, i'm really sorry for ghosting ao3 & tumblr. i couldn't find the time to insert it in between uni & breaking down lol. anyway, i'll be posting a lot more while i'm on break. i hope you'll enjoy reading my first fic after a year of zzz. have fun!

YOU CAN HEAR SIRENS AND PEOPLE SHOUTING.

They say when you are knocking on death’s door, hearing is the last of your senses you will lose. If you’re dying, you don’t know it. Nothing makes sense at the moment. It’s all just blurry hues of blues and reds and shouting—Stay with me—the smell of something metallic. The only thing you’re sure of right now is that your head hurts and it seemed like a van ran right through you with how achy your body feels right now.

Who’s that? You mused. Why are they yelling at me? I’m right here. You turned your head slightly and tried to open your eyes.

It’s quite the task.

“T-That’s it,” The person, whom you think was yelling at you, said. “Stay with me, Y/N. Don’t close your eyes.”

You groaned and gripped the person's hand tightly as if to stand up, but you couldn't. Everything ached. And the person holding you, just kept on talking, their voice a low murmur at first. But even through the haze of pain, it was starting to sound familiar. You recognized that dulcet tone, the rich, smooth sound that could captivate your attention with random facts or lull you to sleep with equal ease.

The voice, you realized with a flicker of a smile, belonged to Spencer, its familiar cadence a warm current cutting through the blossoming pain.

“Reid?” You croaked.

Your throat’s dryer than any other desert in existence right now. And you sound worse than you look—you think—you don’t know for sure, except the fact that you can’t move much.

“It’s me,” Spencer chuckled while sniffling. “I’m right here.”

“What’s going on?”

Even through the haze of pain, a new wave of discomfort bloomed in your shoulder, sharp and insistent. Before you could react and get up, Spencer's hand tightened on yours, his voice laced with a tremor you'd never heard before. "Don't move, Y/N. You've been shot."

He applied pressure on your wound—which you just noticed. The pain hit you in a delayed wave, a white-hot stab that stole your breath. You hissed a weak sound that did little to mask the spike in your heart rate.

"Stop moving or you're gonna bleed out even more!" Spencer's voice, usually so calm and collected, was laced with a raw panic you'd never heard before.

"Easy there, tiger," you tried to joke, your voice raspy. "I've been through worse. I’ve been shot countless times. W-why are you so worried?"

The question came out in a shaky whisper, the concern evident in his voice a stark contrast to the usual intellectual debates you shared.

Spencer's grip tightened, momentarily cutting off your circulation. "Because you could have died, Y/N!" he snapped, his voice cracking with a choked sob. "You… you were…"

He trailed off, unable to put into words the terrifying image that had flashed before him when he saw you collapse, after hearing the sound of a bullet whizzing by and hitting you.

The sight of your vulnerability stripped away his usual composure, leaving a raw fear he couldn't conceal. It took him a moment to regain his composure, his voice softening as he continued, "You shouldn't be so glib about this. It was a nasty shot, close to a major artery."

Despite the pain, a warmth bloomed in your chest. You'd never seen Spencer like this, so shaken and afraid.

"Okay," you murmured, forcing a weak snicker. “I’m sorry. For what it’s worth, at least I got you to patch me up, right, Dr.Reid?"

A ghost of a smile glinted across his face, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Hold still," he mumbled, amused but also bothered at your dreadful timing for jokes. He applied pressure more gently this time. "You’ve been shot countless times, huh?”

“That sounded a bit more reassuring in my head” You quipped.

A bit lightheaded from the pain, you clutched Spencer’s hand. The shriek of approaching sirens and the glare of headlights cut through the haze. You struggled to focus on the lifeline thrown in a storm of confusion.

"They're here," Spencer said, his voice tight. A sheen of sweat beaded on his forehead, a stark contrast to his usual cool composure.

"About time," you rasped, trying to lighten the mood. The effort cost you a fresh wave of dizziness, the world tilting slightly on its axis.

To which, Spencer shot you a look that was half-annoyed, half-worried. "Don't try to be a hero. You're losing a lot of blood. Any movement can dislodge the clot forming in your wound, renewing the bleeding. So, stop moving!"

"Just keeping things interesting," you mumbled, the words slurring slightly. “Wouldn’t want my last moments here on earth to be so grim…”

Spencer's jaw clenched for a moment, then he sighed, the sound heavy with relief. "You always were a pain," He muttered, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. You’re going to be okay, he thought.

The sirens reached a fever pitch, pulling up right beside you. A flurry of activity erupted as paramedics swarmed, the rest of the team trying to make sure you were tended to and that you were going to be okay, their movements a bit panicked but practiced, and efficient. Relief washed over you, a sweet wave that threatened to pull you under.

"Hold on, Y/N," Spencer said, his voice desperate despite the composure of his words. He kept his hand pressed firmly on your wound, his touch a grounding anchor in the chaos. “Help is here. Everyone’s here. Just… stay with me, okay?"

"Going somewhere," you slurred, your eyelids drooping.

"No, you're not," he said fiercely, his voice barely a whisper above the shouts of the paramedics. "You're coming with us."

You coughed a sharp rasp that sent a jolt of pain through your shoulder. "Stats say shoulder wounds aren't usually fatal," you wheezed, trying to distract yourself from the ache.

Spencer's hand stilled for a moment, looking at you like you’ve grown a second head. "What?"

"Yeah," you continued, your voice weak but persistent. "L-look, I get it, you're scared. But statistically, shoulder wounds aren't as serious..." Your voice trailed off as a wave of nausea washed over you.

"Maybe you shouldn't be reciting medical statistics right now," Spencer said sharply, his voice laced with a hint of panic.

“S-shouldn’t that be my line, boy genius?” You continued to joke, as the world dissolved into a scramble of flashing lights and blurry faces.

The last thing you registered was the feel of Spencer's hand tightening around yours, his touch a silent promise that resonated louder than any siren.

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