#and I can’t watch it without crashing out

[moesthoughts]

hear me out... smut with post!crash nat who sees her ex girlfriend at a club with her new bf and nat doesn't like that at all, and takes it upon herself to show up on readers doorstep later that night and remind her who she "belongs to" so to say

(this may or may not have been heavily influenced by like i would by zayn LMAOO)

ೃ࿔ one way or another

After getting rescued from the crash you wanted a new life, a blank slate. You distanced yourself from everyone, moved to the city, and even got a new boyfriend. One year after you were rescued, you and your boyfriend went to the club, you would never guess your ex girlfriend would be paying you a visit after.

pairing 𝜗𝜚 natalie scatorccio x fem reader

warnings 𝜗𝜚 angst, stalker nat lowk, addiction, drug mentions, cheating, smut with plot, fingering, cunnilingus r! receiving, overstimulation, praise kink

The club has always been overwhelming, the strobe lights that give you the biggest headache, the music that drummed against your ears, the heat from the amount of bodies, it sucks. Which is why Nat is sat at the bar, sipping on a cold glass of gin. She came alone, just how she likes it. Small talk with the bartender is all she needs, other than that she enjoys her alone time. Tonight feels different though, the alcohol doesn’t taste the same and the music isn’t as annoying as she remembers. A new DJ? Maybe that is for the better. Nat sets the glass down at the table and pushes it towards the bartender, muttering “put it on my tab”, for the fifth time this week, a broken promise, she won’t pay it till they personally knock at her door.

Nat is planning on leaving, well, she was. Until her eyes land on a familiar figure, she recognizes that body shape from anywhere. That hair, even if it’s grown a little different overtime, that style of clothing you never can seem to let go of, the shape of your nose, the dark red lipstick you wore to every party before that stupid crash, and most importantly that smile that kept her sane during the time in the wilderness. She stops in her tracks, it’s like time froze around her. Everyone around you is moving slow, all the colorful lights illuminate you, and some man beside you. Nat instantly clutches her hands into fists as she watches his hands grab your waist as you grind on him, he could just be some random guy at the club, and you’re really drunk. Her hopes are false once again as you turn around and wrap your arms around his neck, your lips interlocking with his. She swears she reads “i love you”, from your lips.

It makes her sick, but she can’t stop watching. You look so fucking beautiful with your makeup and hair done, that short dress that hugs your ass so well. You’re her ex girlfriend, you broke things off with her in the hospital after the crash, she still feels that sting in her heart every time you come across her mind. Now she has to watch you kiss this random dude with a big smile on your face. Nat presses her lips together, and finally pushes herself to leave. But she doesn’t, she sits in her car, lighting a blunt and smoking it, waiting for you and your boy toy to leave. She sinks into her seat once she spots you and your boyfriend get into a car, and leave. She starts up hers and follows soon after.

You live surprisingly close to the club, Nat wonders if you’ve been there at the same time and she didn’t notice your presence. Her eyes follow you as you walk to your apartment, open the door and enter it. She curses under her breath and presses her forehead against the steering wheel, contemplating her decisions. She’s already getting high, and stalked you all the way home. She figures she should finish the blunt, you’ll notice right away anyway. That same dizzy feeling graces her as she smokes, her brain becoming foggy, and her worries disappearing like her dignity. She opens her car door and drops the blunt on the ground, stomping it out. She stumbles over to your door, and knocks on it without hesitation.

You open the door, unknowing of who’s waiting on the other side to meet you. Nat relishes the sight of your eyes widening, the cute gasp that falls out of those pretty lips. She also observes how you aren’t slamming the door in her face, your eyes glued on her face, with that same thick eyeliner, lined lips, just with different hair. A sort of twisted smile plays on her face. She’s obviously under some influence, she’s swaying side to side when she’s standing still, her eyes look irritated and red. You sigh and grip the edge of your wooden door.

“Hey, pretty.”

Nat breathes the nickname that used to make you weak in the knees. She gawks at the sight of you up close, that tight dress, those familiar hips, your makeup that she wants to remove using her lips, she takes a small breath to compose herself. Unlike you, about to throw up at the sight of Natalie fucking Scatorccio, even if you made such a great effort to disappear from the rest of the survivors. Though, somewhere inside of you, you’re happy that it’s her and not anyone else. You take a glance into your apartment and step out, closing the door slightly.

“Nat— I.. how did you find me?”

Nat rolls her eyes and peeks into the small opening into your apartment, she doesn’t see any movement, she ponders if your boyfriend is even home. You seem so nervous, like you’re about to throw up at any moment. Some sick feeling inside of her likes that, she enjoys seeing you shrink because of her presence, akin to how she felt after that day in the hospital. You’re sweaty, nervous, you feel like you’re about to puke. The gut wrenching anxiety doesn’t leave you at all, you can only stare at her in awe, somewhere inside of you knows she won’t give you a straight answer.

“What? ‘Your boyfriend home, or something?”

She sneers, a toothy smile coming on her face, the dimples that you loved so much adorning her. You can only glimpse away, not wanting to melt at the sight. Nat takes a step towards you, and you don’t make an effort to move. Something comforts you about her presence here, like she is a missing piece to the puzzle you’ve been meaning to solve for over a year. She’s so familiar, unlike your boyfriend. He’s new, not the same as her.

“I— No. I’m alone.”

You stammer, embarrassingly. Nat chuckles lowly, causing you to sink even more into yourself. Her mood slowly changes as she watches you become more nervous, and detached. She softens up, feels bad for dumping herself on your doorstep all of a sudden, it has to be late, at least 2 am in the morning. She reeks of weed, blabbering drunkenly, she drags a hand over her face and averts eye contact.

“Listen— I’m here because of that guy, are you even happy? I mean— A dude? I thought you were into girls.”

She hits a weak point in your heart, and she was dead right with her words. You don’t even like your boyfriend, maybe only the thought of having someone that enjoys you. You purse your lips, trying not to let those pesky tears roll down your cheeks. Nat’s hand rests on your hip, you can only stare at it. She continues when you don’t pull away from her touch. Her other hand travels to your hips as well, pressing you against the door, making it creak slightly open.

“I don’t even know— Nat. I’m gonna be honest with you.”

“It’s okay baby, you remember who can actually make you feel good, right? Let me take care of you..”

You push the door open and drag Nat into your apartment, bringing her into a desperate kiss. She returns it instantly, kicking the door shut with her heavy boot. She paws at your waist like she’s trying to remember how you feel against her hands, that smooth fabric rubbing against her palms encourages her. Your fingers already tangle themselves in that familiar hair texture, the color darker than you recall it being. She moans into your mouth as you pull on her roots, your tongue plunges into her mouth, not bothering to explore, you already know your way around. You guide her towards your couch and fall onto it, taking her down with you. Nat breaks the kiss to catch her breath. She cherishes the sight of you being disheveled, your smeared lipstick that stains your chin now, your eyeliner slightly running down your pink cheeks.

“You’re so beautiful.. just how I remember.”

Nat’s voice is husky, you whimper as she bites down on your neck, sucking at the sensitive skin. You both missed this, each other’s lips, hands, everything. Your fingers hook under her shirt, she pulls away from you so you can slide it off with ease. She’s wearing a red bra, not the same one, but a lacey one that shaped her chest so well it has you drooling. Nat smirks and unclips her bra, before you can speak she attaches herself back onto your neck. Your grope her, relishing the whimper that vibrates through your neck. She wants to devour you, keep you in her grasp forever. She won’t let you worm out of her life again, she’ll give you a reason to stay and leave that boyfriend of yours.

“Such a pretty girl, I want you all to myself.”

Nat murmurs against your skin as she works your dress down your body. You don’t even have a bra on, small black underwear is all that covers you after she discards your dress somewhere in the room. Her teeth graze your chest while her hands smooth over your now exposed skin, nails digging into the softest parts. She worships your body, she missed how you feel against her palms, how you shiver whenever she caresses you. You realize how much you’ve needed Nat, how your boyfriend couldn’t compare to how she appreciates you as a whole. No boy has made you feel this good, or paid any mind to your pleasure but his own. She rolls your nipple around with her tongue and hikes down your panties, you’re already so wet and she hasn’t even touched near your core. You feel her gasp against your skin as she touches your soaked cunt, she pushes herself up to see you fully. A muttered “fuck” falls out of her lips as she circles your clit with her finger, obsessing over the way you’re already rolling your hips into her touch.

“Shit, you’re so wet.”

She barely speaks over a whisper, you arch your back into her fingers as she pushes them inside of you. Nat’s lips part, she forgot how good you feel around her. Slowly she starts pumping her fingers, moans spill from your mouth shamelessly. She remembers those nights in her hut, her fingers drowning in your pussy, how you’d cover your mouth so nobody could hear you both, she’d whimper like she was actually fucking you. She never got rid of that habit, panting like a dog while she ruins you. She curls her digits in the right spots that make you mewl, how she presses her thumb on your clit makes your toes curl.

“Such a good girl for me, just like that pretty.”

That nickname almost sends you over the edge, your hand wraps around her arm, you almost feel bad for your neighbors, you both have never been this noisy. You missed each other, you want Nat to know how much you’ve been needing her, and she can’t help herself from the noises that come from her mouth. You start approaching your high, that knot in your stomach tightening, threatening to burst. She notices instantly, and picks up her pace, rolling her thumb around your clit and pumping in and out of you relentlessly. It doesn’t take long for you to cum around her fingers, stammering out her name in pure bliss. What you don’t expect is her lowering herself down to your sensitive cunt, and licking up the juices, rolling her tongue around your clit instead.

“Wait— Nat.. Not yet—“

“Please, just one more for me, that’s all.”

And you can’t say know to her, all you can do is whimper as she laps your wetness up. It stings, but feels so good. You grind into her mouth, already feeling like you’ll burst again. Nat wastes no time and slides her tongue into your cunt, fucking you with a pace that gradually brings you over the edge. Her nails dig into your thighs, her tongue working on undoing you. You cum instantly, whining from the overstimulation. She cleans you up with her tongue as best as she can, but she stops when your voice starts getting shaky. Nat wipes her mouth while looking at you, tears stinging your eyes. You slowly sit up and bring her into a kiss, it’s hungry, still that same desperation you two had at the beginning. Your fingers graze her jawline in a way that has her melting under your touch.

“God, I missed you.”

You murmur into her lips, your hand putting the right amount of pressure on her back. She pulls away from you and presses her forehead against yours. Memories from the crash flood your mind, but they’re nice ones, the ones that remind you that Nat is someone you can rely on.

“Why don’t we run you a bath?”

“Only if you join me.”

Okay so i’ve been wanting to write for post crash nat for SO LOMG thank you anon🤍🤍🤍 HEARING U OUT ANYDAY

req me!

masterlist

[zerocoded]

summary: soobin and yours love language is teasing each other.

author's note: enjoy this little drabble TOTALLY INSPIRED by that clip of soobin holding the door close with one hand and beomgyu fighting for his life at the other side. like man, hold ME down pls. (jokes, jokes). banner creds: katyakopter on pinterest, thank you my love!

warnings and tags: sfw content • a tiny teenie bit suggestive? idk, it's soobin man, dude says unhinged things all the time • strength kink? DON'T CALL ME CRAZY OK.

word count: 0.7k.

my kpop masterlist: here.

you’re being annoying. 

his words, not yours — but to be fair, you’re also definitely doing it on purpose.

you don’t even remember how it started. something stupid, probably. the wrong ramen flavor. a teasing comment about his laugh. maybe the fact that he took your charger again and claimed it was his. it doesn’t matter. what matters is that you’re on the offense now — sulking dramatically, pacing around the dorm like a cat with its tail in the air, tossing petty little jabs over your shoulder just to see if you can make soobin crack.

he doesn’t.

he’s sitting at the kitchen table, one elbow resting lazily on the wood, his long legs spread too far apart and one brow raised like he’s watching a mildly entertaining drama. the other boys are around too — beomgyu on the couch watching with a bag of popcorn like you’re the newest episode of TXT’s to-do, yeonjun passing behind you once with a muttered “oh, it’s one of those nights,” and taehyun shaking his head from the armchair like he wants to be surprised but simply isn’t.

you and soobin. five weeks into your very new relationship and already obnoxiously comfortable with each other. you bicker, you flirt, you get on each other’s nerves in a way that somehow just makes the boys trust you more.

they’re over it. they love you, but they’re over it.

especially when you declare — very loudly — “i am going home,” and march straight toward the hallway with your hoodie half-on and your dignity half-gone.

“you’re not going anywhere,” soobin says.

“watch me,” you shoot back.

you grab the doorknob. twist. pull.

it doesn’t open.

you frown. tug harder. nothing.

then, a slow creak as the door swings halfway back inward — just enough to reveal soobin’s tall frame standing directly behind it, one hand pressed flat against the wood. his expression doesn’t change. he doesn’t even look winded.

“you’re not leaving until you apologize,” he says, voice low, measured, like it’s the easiest thing in the world to hold you hostage with one goddamn hand.

you blink at him.

“soobin—”

“use your words.”

“i am using my words—”

you throw your whole body into it now, pushing against the door with everything you’ve got. and he just stands there. one hand. one hand. he might as well be leaning on a counter, the way his weight doesn’t shift an inch. the smirk playing at the corner of his mouth is barely there — but it is there.

somewhere behind you, beomgyu mutters, “this again?”

“last week she locked herself in the bathroom,” yeonjun adds. “he carried her out like a bag of rice.”

taehyun doesn’t even look up. “bet he’s using his left hand too.”

but you don’t hear them. you’re too busy panting, pushing harder, because this is now a matter of pride. the audacity of him. the ease. the way your feet skid back on the floor while he just… watches you.

then, without warning, the resistance drops.

you stumble forward as the door swings open freely — and before you can crash to the ground, soobin catches you. two hands this time. one at your waist, the other at your wrist. steady. warm. still way too calm for someone who just flexed every muscle in his upper body like he wasn’t born to do it.

you glare up at him. “you let go on purpose.”

“you’re welcome.”

“you’re a jerk.”

“you’re cute.”

you blink. then stare harder. “you can’t just— compliment me after— that’s manipulation.”

he leans in. very close now. his hands haven’t left your waist.

“would it work?”

you hate how fast you go quiet. hate the way your heart trips in your chest. you hate him. you want to kiss him so bad your brain shuts down for a full second.

then, from the living room, kai calls out, “can you two kiss already so i can finish this game in peace?”

you nearly jump.

soobin doesn’t even flinch. he just steps back, finally — smug, victorious, insufferable — and offers you a soft little shrug like what can you do?

you stomp past him into the hallway. but you don’t leave.

and later — after you’ve cooled down and shared your stolen hoodie with him on the couch, pressed into his side while the movie plays — beomgyu throws a pillow at your head.

“you’re lucky we like you,” he mutters.

you grin, unapologetic. “i know.”

soobin just pulls you closer.

and maybe — just maybe — next time, you’ll test him again. just to see if you still can.

author's note: i deserve a trophy for only writing canon soobin bc TELL ME THIS MAN WOULDN'T REACT LIKE THIS IRL. (this is very much a joke, i don't actually know him, thank you). anyways, enjoy me being crazy for this man!!! send me a request • my masterpost

[angelqueef]

thinking about gaz coming home drunk and his mommy kink slips out on accident…is this anything…

cw: 18+, mild sexual content, mommy kink, is gaz ooc? lmk, alcohol mention

he’s burst through the door when he finally picks the right key for the lock, softly your name and kicking off his boots. you were half asleep and reading dumb arguments under youtube videos, eyes almost shut until you heard the commotion outside your shared bedroom.

“[x], where’re ya, baby? why’re you hiding?” you don’t even have time to answer because he forces the door open, beelining straight to you.

you embrace him, clad in nothing but a white robe that did little to hide your curves, “‘m right here, big guy.”

he pauses above you, brown eyes glazed and raking over your figure. they pause at your breasts, nipples hard under the cool silk. before you know it he’s practically falling on top of you and leaving sloppy, whiskey scented kisses on your neck.

you giggle and cry his name in feigned protest, “you’re drunk, baby. relax.”

“nuh-uh, y’too sexy, mommy,” his voice, typically smooth and sexy, now had a soft and whiney edge to it. something you haven’t heard before.

muscles tense underneath him, “what did you just call me?”

he peaks his head up, blush deepening his brown cheeks. he’s only halfway processed the name he just called you.

“m-ma. mama. you know- like, hot mama. that’s what i said- didn’t call you nothin’ else. freudian slip ‘s all.”

“oh, that was a freudian slip, alright,” you laugh sarcastically. a new heat sending pulses to your core.

“stop…’s nothin’, really…” he’s resorted to stuffing his hot face in your bosom now, hiding from your gaze, from you.

you caress the apple of gaz’s flushed cheek gently with the back of your hand, beckoning him to look at you. he peaks up slowly with a puppy-like look to his eyes and a pout that makes your heart break.

“‘re you into that? it’s okay if you are,” you offer a gentle smile, palm rubbing over his thick curls.

his eyes shift from pleading to hungry, dark. a look you were used to. typically he was the more dominant in the relationship, pouncing on you and teasing you at every turn. but something about that glassy gaze sent you reeling—you needed more.

before you can speak again his lips crash into yours, hard. it’s evident that he’s trying to take control again, act as if he never let that side of him slip.

“‘m the one that takes care of you, honey. don’ need you to—,” he hiccups, “take care o’ me.”

he’s saying all this, positioning himself over you, but his actions say otherwise—he’s rutting against you and his deep grunts turn into light moans and whines.

you grab his jaw and break the kiss, and he pouts, something real childish.

you can’t help but chuckle at his drunkenness, “kyle, it’s just me. who makes your meals? and does your hair?“

“…you do..”

“and picks out your outfits when you don’t know what to wear?”

“you…”

“mhm…you take care of me too, baby. we can take care of each other, can’t we?”

he averts his eyes from yours, a smirk pulling at his lips.

“so, uh…you don’t mind?” he almost whispers.

“you can call me whatever you want, sweet boy.”

kyle shivers at this, burying his face in your chest once more. you hold him there for a bit, whispering sweet words and praises.

“don’t have to hide from me, baby. i’ll accept you no matter what.”

“thank you…mommy..”

you hum, proud, “you’re welcome. now, we’ll talk about this more tomorrow. gotta figure out your punishment for hidin’ this from me.”

he gulps, tightening his grip on you, excited and slightly afraid.

“but for now, let’s get you ready for bed, hm? you’re all stinky.”

kyle nods and lifts himself off you, eyes watching your every move and following you like a dog to the bathroom.

you spend the rest of the night taking care of him, scrubbing the bar air off him in the shower, brushing his teeth, oiling his hair. you revel in his vulnerability, how his tone softens and he melts into your touch. obeying you without hesitation. you even go as far as picking out his pajamas and tucking him into his side of the bed.

all that tucking was gone to waste though, he immediately turns over and wraps himself around you, grinding his half hard cock against your ass until he passes out.

you fell asleep smiling, horny and excited for tomorrow.

[insomniac4000]

w2s dad fic next?

When you told Harry he was going to be a dad, he had the exact response a lot of fans assumed he did.

He screamed. Not a little yelp. No, this was a full-blown Harry freak out; throw chair at the TV, scare the dogs, knock over a mug of tea type of scream. The kind of scream that made you stare at him like he was the one about to give birth right this second.

“You alright?” you asked, already amused. Harry stood there, frozen, a pregnancy test in one hand like it was radioactive. “I—I don’t know how to be a dad! I can’t even keep mint alive. Mint! You just water it!”

“We don’t even have mint in the garden,” you replied.

“Exactly! I forgot to buy the fucking little pot it comes in! We have a shit tone of Coriander. What if our baby is mint and not coriander?” He panicked.

You walked over, put your arms around his neck and kissed his cheek lightly in an attempt to calm him down. “You’re going to be brilliant.”

He didn’t believe you. At least not then.

He watched YouTube tutorials like “How to hold a baby without dropping it” and “Do babies bounce?” (He didn’t stop asking questions of Ethan and Simon, something that you found incredibly adorable.

He overprepared. He thought if he was going to be a shit dad at least the child should want for nothing so he bought a car seat it took four of you to work out how to install. He spent over a grand on a pram that looked more like a Mars rover than anything a human child should be in. Painted the nursery yellow because he read somewhere it was a “neutral, calming colour,” then immediately hated it and repainted it blue. Twice. It had to be blue.

When their son finally arrived, something switched in Harry’s brain. One minute he was a nervous wreck with hands that hovered uselessly like he was defusing a bomb, and the next, he was cradling him like he’d done it his whole life, he stared it his tiny little son in his huge hands and all of sudden there was something which just felt… right. Like it always belonged.

“Okay lad you listen, screams are for FIFA and for freaking out your uncle Chris during football challenges yea fella? Not at 2am.”

Of course it didn’t work but Harry took it in stride. You were breastfeeding but even so he saw it as his duty to take Elliot and settle him back down placing him to sleep, when he wouldn’t settle he would place him on his chest, talking to him about anything and nothing but mostly plane crashed. You would joke it wasn’t appropriate for a child to hear but it didn’t matter, weirdly it worked. Mostly you loved the sight of your two boys, Elliot snuggled on his daddy’s chest both with small smiles on their faces.

He made up games like “Catch the Nappy” (it was never caught), “Burp or Explosion?” and “Milkface,” where he’d put on a bib himself and pretend to chug a bottle. It was for him, obviously. Not because it made his you laugh until you cried.

Bath time became Harry’s favourite thing to do and it became incredibly chaotic, it was his favourite time to make up games.

Elliot would splash, and Harry would retaliate with a tiny cup of warm water over his head, gasping dramatically. “YOU DARE WET THE KING?” he’d yell, causing your son to go into a fit of giggles, his first ever giggles were in the bath.

But for all the chaos, he was good. Really good.

He could soothe him with a gentle rock, do nappies in record speed, he still gagged at them but he got them done incredibly quickly and by the time he turned one, he knew who the fun parent was.

“Dada!” Elliot babbled one day, pointing directly at him, you never saw him smile as widely before.

When you told him you were pregnant again, Harry blinked slowly and whispered, “We’ve done this once. It’s fine. Right?” He was surprisingly calm but when he found out you were having a girl, the panic set in again a little, what did he know about raising girls? Turns out quite a lot.

But when babyLeah arrived, Harry was calmer. Still fun, still slightly chaotic. Still prone to yelling things like “THE BEAST IS FED!” after a bottle, but calmer, he loved his little girl HIS little girl to protect and love.

And Elliot? A surprisingly sweet big brother, considering he was his fathers son he could be sweet at times. Harry’s mum told you it reminded her a lot of Harry and Rosie. There were the odd moments like when Elliot was trying to “share” his half-eaten biscuit by shoving it in Leah’s ear.

Harry loved having two. He joked he was now running a starter Pokémon team.

“Water-type baby and Normal-type toddler. Soon, I will evolve.”

His favourite pastime became launching them into the air in turns, safely, he said and catching them with dramatic “DA-DAAA!” poses like he was on stage. His arms were constantly tired, but his heart was full.

Bedtime routines? A full production. Songs, dances, plushie puppet theatre. Elliot refused to sleep unless Harry did the bedtime story with all of the silly voices. Leah insisted daddy tucking her in as tight as he possibly could.

He suggested the Sidemen do a “father Olympics” video, everyone was sure he would win.

By the time Baby Number Three came along, another boy named Sebastian or Seb—Harry was a seasoned pro.

By now, your house was a noisy, toy-strewn kingdom of tiny humans who all worshipped him like some chaotic, bouncy god. Three mops of blonde hair, three very loud and cheeky personalities

“Seb, this is a football,” he said proudly one day, placing it in front of her at six months. “Your brother kicks it, your sister throws it, and I step on it, fall and scream into the void.”

Elliot now six had learned sarcasm, which was terrifying, Leah was approaching four and had a love of airplanes, Seb the baby was small, squishy, and already mastering his “Dad can’t say no to me” face.

He built pillow forts bigger than his sofa. Turned bedtime into laser-tag hide-and-seek. Once installed a ball pit in the living room “for early stimulation” (and also for diving into like a gremlin when the kids went to bed). You of course made him tidy it all up after as he grumbled.

“Daddy, come play castle!” Was a frequent request.

Harry would sigh, pick up a foam sword, and declare, “Right. I’m the dragon now. You have to slay me before bedtime!”

And they would. Usually with plastic pots on their heads as helmets and the dogs joining in for no reason.

He wasn’t the most traditional dad. He let them stay up late just because. Let them eat cereal with forks “just to see what happened.” He once accidentally let Leah eat a crayon (“It was non-toxic! It said non-toxic!”) and got yelled at for laughing too hard.

But when they were sad, he was there. When they were sick, he was bedside with cuddles and Paw Patrol. When they learned something new, he was front-row with a proud tear in his eye and his phone camera zoomed way too close.

And despite all the chaos, the house filled with laughter.

One night, after finally getting them all to sleep, he collapsed on the couch next to you and sighed, “I used to be famous, you know.”

“You still are,” she said, resting her head on his shoulder.

“Am I?” he yawned.

“Yeah. You’re Dad Famous. You’re the king of puddle-jumping, the pillow fort architect, the fart noise champion of the world.”

He smiled, looking around at the toys, the laundry, the crayons on the walls.

“I’ll take it.”

Then he paused.

“…Wait. Why is it too quiet?”

“Harry, no—don’t jinx—”

A crash.

A scream.

A giggle.

He stood up with a sigh. “Round four begins.”

[goonforgeto]

・☄︎ CRUSH

chapter 04

SYNOPSIS — The last thing ten-year-old you ever imagined was falling in love at fourteen, getting your heart broken at seventeen, and spending your early twenties hunting down Jujutsu Society’s most wanted — your (ex?) boyfriend. But the last thing your twenty-something-year-old self expected? Falling for his best friend... just before your ex comes crashing back into your life after over a decade of silence.

WC — (2.7k) not proofread

CONTENT — fluff, mentions of vomit once, time jump

a/n: i actually got really upset writing this chapter heh. next chapter is rly long and what happens during christmas, also we get so see some more of satoru's friendship w reader and suguru so get ready!

series m. list | m.list

December, 2005

It was one of those rare days where your mission and Suguru’s wrapped up at the exact same time — a little stroke of luck that meant your schedules actually lined up for once. Even better, Satoru and Shoko were both busy.

Sure, you usually found ways to sneak in time together — late-night walks, stolen moments between training — but most of it involved tiptoeing around curfews, since neither of them knew about you and Suguru. Yet.

Not that it was anything serious or dramatic, you just liked having something that was yours. Something that didn’t come with teasing or smirks or endless questions.

And today — with the afternoon wide open, the air crisp and cool — it felt nice to think you had time.

The both of you had returned to campus around the same time, tired but relieved, and quickly agreed: freshen up first, meet outside in half an hour.

And right on time, when you step out onto the path behind the dorms — coat buttoned, scarf a little crooked — you spot him leaning casually against one of the old stone railings.

Suguru’s hair is still damp from the shower, tucked loosely behind his ears. He’s in a dark sweater and coat, hands in his pockets, looking up at the overcast sky like he’s thinking about something far away.

When he hears your steps, his gaze flicks down and softens the moment he sees you.

“You look warm,” he says, a small smile tugging at his mouth.

You grin. “And you look like you forgot your gloves again.”

He shrugs, pushing off the railing. “You’ll keep me warm.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart’s already doing that quiet little skip it always does when it’s just the two of you.

You come to a stop in front of him. He watches you for a beat longer, then dips his head and presses a soft kiss to your mouth.

But the second it hits, you stiffen — the taste of something pungent, bitter, metallic underneath the softness of his lips — the lingering residue of the curse he’d exorcised earlier.

Without thinking, you pull back. “Ugh—”

Suguru’s eyes widen slightly. “Shit — sorry,” he says quickly, already fishing in his pocket. He pops a stick of gum in his mouth, chewing fast. “Didn’t even think.”

You’re still catching your breath, rubbing at the back of your hand. “It’s fine— it’s just— gods, what was that?”

He grimaces a little, leaning closer. “Dunno. What’s it taste like to you?”

You blink. “Like… burnt, wet hair. And something metallic."

He makes a face. “Yeah, thought so. Usually tastes like a vomit rag to me.”

You can’t help the small laugh that escapes. “You’re disgusting.”

“Hey, you kissed me back,” he says, teasing, a faint blush creeping up his neck.

You shake your head, the taste fading.

“Ready?” you ask.

“Always,” he says, falling into step beside you.

His hand finds your gloved one as you walk, fingers threading easily through yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“So,” you say, glancing up at him, “where are you taking me?”

He gives you a small, knowing smile. “To buy you dango.”

You blink. “Seriously?”

“Mm.” He squeezes your hand gently. “Since someone—” he tilts his head, a clear jab at Satoru, “ate your share last week.”

You groan. “I told him not to touch mine.”

“He never listens,” Suguru says with a faint laugh. “So. I figured you deserve a replacement.”

Your heart warms, simple and soft. “You’re the best.”

“I know,” he says, eyes flickering sideways at you. “But you can tell me again once you’ve got your dango.”

You tug your glove off with your teeth, pulling it free so you can reach up — fingers lightly toying with the ends of his hair. It’s a bit longer now than it was in the summer, the strands soft between your fingers. He’s taller too — an inch or two since the last time you really noticed.

“Sugu,” you say softly, brushing a damp strand behind his ear, “your hair’s wet. You’re going to get sick.”

He leans in slightly.

“I’ll be fine,” he murmurs, voice low. “You worry too much.”

You let your fingers slip away, brushing down the side of his neck. “And you don’t worry enough.”

His smile widens just a little. “That’s why we work.”

The two of you made your way down to the station, hands still twined as you followed the quiet slope toward the subway entrance. The city above was crisp and cold, breath puffing faint clouds in the air — but down here, it was warm, the scent of metal and sweat hanging in the tunnels.

You slipped through the turnstiles side by side, Suguru thumbing your fare through before you could argue.

“It’s my treat,” he said simply, steering you toward the platform. “I’m taking you out, remember.”

The train rumbled in not long after — a soft clatter through the tunnel. You caught one of the middle cars, leaning together against the side rail as the car swayed into motion.

Outside the window, Tokyo blurred past in streaks of grey and light. The station names rolling by felt familiar.

“Where are we going again?” you asked, glancing up at him.

“That little shopping district you like,” Suguru said. “The one with the stalls and the food carts.”

You smiled, heart warming at how easily he remembered.

“It’s not that far,” he added, fingers brushing against yours again, casual, easy.

The train swayed gently as it sped through the tunnels, a low hum filling the car. You stood close to Suguru, shoulder brushing his arm, the warmth of him a welcome contrast to the cold air you’d left behind.

At one stop, the train jolted a little harder than usual, and you stumbled, hand catching his coat. He glanced down, amusement flickering in his eyes.

“You alright?” he asked, steadying you with an arm around your waist.

“Yeah,” you mumbled, cheeks a little warm. “Just clumsy.”

He huffed a soft laugh, not letting go. “It’s the train. Not you.”

You peeked up at him, still tucked close. “You’re just saying that because you like having an excuse to hold me.”

He leaned in, a small smile playing at his lips. “Maybe.”

You look away, face flushed, trying to calm your heart.

“So… are you going home for Christmas break?” you ask, trying for casual — though it comes out softer than you mean.

“Definitely,” he says, smiling. “I haven’t had my mom’s cooking in ages.”

“Jealous,” you admit. “I’ll probably be stuck here. My parents are out of the country again.”

Suguru hums, thoughtful. “Well… maybe I’ll bring you something.”

You glance up. “From your mom?”

He grins. “If you’re nice to me.”

You nudge him lightly with your elbow. “I’m always nice to you.”

“That’s debatable,” he teases, eyes bright, then adds, a little quieter, “Or… you could come with me.”

Your breath catches. “Really?”

He shrugs, smile turning softer. “I mean… Satoru’s coming too. But my mom’s been dying to meet you.”

The train slows as it nears your stop. 

“You… never mentioned that before,” you say, voice quieter.

Suguru chuckles under his breath. “Guess I didn’t think you’d say yes.”

You glance at him, pulse skipping. “You didn’t even ask.”

His eyes flick toward you. “I’m asking now.”

Before you can answer, the train comes to a smooth stop, the chime for your station echoing through the car.

He tugs gently on your hand, fingers still twined through yours. “C’mon,” he says, soft. “We’ll talk about it after we’ve had you fed.”

The two of you step out of the station and into the heart of the shopping district — a narrow street lined with stalls and twinkling lights strung between the buildings, already glowing faintly in the late afternoon.

The air is cold, but not biting. It’s crisp enough to see your breath, the kind of chill that makes the steam from food carts rise in soft white clouds. The smells of grilled mochi, chestnuts, and sweet soy sauce drift through the crowd.

Suguru’s fingers slip back through yours as you walk, weaving easily through the bustling street. It’s busier than usual — families out shopping, students laughing over hot drinks, the hum of the city wrapping around you in a way that feels alive, familiar.

You glance up at him, warmth blooming in your chest.

“Lead the way,” you say softly.

He squeezes your hand, giving you that quiet smile of his. “You sure you trust me to pick the stall?”

“As long as it’s not the one Satoru always drags us to.”

He laughs — a soft, easy sound — and steers you down a smaller side street, where the line of dango carts stretches beneath colorful banners.

“There,” he says. “Your favorites.”

You walk up to the cart together — the familiar scent of toasted rice flour and sweet soy sauce filling the air. Suguru orders without asking, already knowing exactly which kind you like.

You smile as the vendor hands over the skewers, warm and fresh from the grill.

Suguru passes you one, keeping two for himself. “Fair, right?” he says, tilting his head innocently.

You eye him. “That depends. Are you planning to share?”

“Depends how nice you are to me.”

You huff a laugh, but as you take a bite, the smile pulls across your face before you can stop it.

He watches you, fond. “Good?”

“Mmh,” you hum, mouth full. “Worth the trip.”

He leans in a little, voice quieter now, eyes warm. “Told you.”

You reach over, and steal a bite from one of his skewers.

“Hey,” he laughs, mock scandalized.

“You said sharing depends on how nice I am,” you grin. “That was very nice.”

Suguru shakes his head, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re unbelievable.”

And before you can think twice, he dips his head, brushing a soft, quick kiss to the corner of your mouth.

Warm, simple. Enough to send your heart fluttering.

You blink, surprised — cheeks going pink — but he just grins wider, unbothered.

“Sticky,” he teases, thumb brushing lightly at the edge of your lip. “Messy eater.”

You look away, flushed, but you can’t stop smiling.

Suguru just watches you for a second, the faintest flicker of something warmer in his eyes.

You busy yourself with another bite of dango, hoping it’ll settle the way your heart’s racing.

Beside you, he shifts a little closer, shoulder brushing yours lightly as the crowd hums past.

For a while, you walk like that — side by side, quiet, comfortable — the soft winter light catching on the shop signs, the air thick with warmth and scent.

Suguru glances down at you again after a moment. “So…”

You look up. “Hm?”

“That question from earlier.” His voice stays easy, but there’s a hint of something softer beneath. “About Christmas.”

Your breath catches a little, but you cover it with a small smile. “You’re really serious about bringing me home?”

“Of course,” he says, like it’s obvious. “Mom keeps asking who this mystery girl is that’s got me sneaking out all the time.”

Your heart stumbles again — that quiet ache blooming warm in your chest.

You shake your head lightly, teasing. “Mystery girl, huh?”

He smiles — slower now, gaze steady. “Not much of a mystery to me.”

You shift on your feet, glancing down at the half-eaten skewer in your hand, and then back up at him.

“...Yeah,” you say softly. “I’d like that.”

“Good.” He nudges your shoulder lightly with his. “Guess I’ll tell Mom to set an extra place.”

You laugh, heart light now, the earlier nerves fading into something sweeter.

The two of you wander through the stalls after that — past rows of trinkets, candles, little charms and scarves. The air smells of cinnamon and roasted chestnuts, chatter rising from the crowd as the sun starts to dip lower.

You stop at one stall, all tiny hand-made charms and keychains lined up neatly on velvet cloth. Suguru’s already moved ahead a few steps, distracted by a stall selling old books, but something here catches your eye.

A pair of simple matching keychains — small wooden ones, carved with little protective sigils and tiny painted flowers. Subtle, but sweet.

Without overthinking it, you buy them — slipping the pair into your coat pocket.

When you catch up to him, you tug on his sleeve.

“What’s that?” he asks, amused, as you hold one out to him.

“For your bag,” you say simply, cheeks warming again. “So you can’t lose it.”

He watches you for a beat — then smiles, soft and bright. “You’re dangerous when you’re cute, you know that?”

You roll your eyes, but your heart flutters as he crouches slightly to let you clip the keychain onto the strap of his bag.

“Now you have to keep it on there,” you say, teasing, stepping back.

He straightens, giving the little charm a glance — then you. “I will.” His voice is soft, but certain. “I’ll keep it.”

You keep wandering a while longer, Suguru’s hand finding yours again as the crowd starts to thin with the setting sun. The lights strung across the street glow a little brighter now, soft against the early dusk.

You catch sight of a little photobooth tucked between two larger shops — a narrow thing with faded pink curtains and a bright sign above.

You tug on Suguru’s sleeve. “We should do that.”

He follows your gaze. “The booth?”

You grin. “Yeah. Come on — you owe me for letting you steal my dango.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “You stole mine, remember?”

“Details,” you say, already pulling him toward it.

He doesn’t resist — just lets you lead him inside, the two of you ducking beneath the curtain. The space is small, the bench barely fitting both of you, but you slide in close without thinking.

Suguru leans in, shoulder pressed to yours. “You know these always come out ridiculous, right?”

“That’s the point.”

The machine beeps and you barely have time to grab his arm before the first flash goes off.

The next few seconds are a blur of laughing and leaning into each other, you sticking your tongue out on one shot, him grinning too wide on another. The last one — right before the final beep — you turn on impulse and press a quick kiss to his cheek.

The flash catches the exact moment his eyes go wide, surprised, the faintest blush creeping up his neck.

You’re still giggling when you step back out into the cool air, waiting for the little strip of photos to print.

When it does, Suguru takes it first — holding it up with a soft smile.

“I’m keeping this one,” he says, fingers brushing over the image of you kissing his cheek.

You grin, cheeks warm. “Fair. But I want a copy.”

The two of you linger a little longer — enough to wander past the last few stalls, the air now cooler against your skin.

Suguru glances up at the sky, “We should head back,” he says gently. “Before curfew.”

You nod. “Yeah.”

He adjusts the strap on his bag, giving the new keychain a quick glance, and then falls into step beside you, fingers brushing yours again. You tuck your hands in your coat pockets, but stay close, shoulders almost touching as you walk.

The train ride back is quieter this time. You lean lightly against him as the car sways, the soft rumble of the tracks almost lulling you to sleep. Suguru says nothing, just lets you rest there.

By the time you reach campus, the air’s colder. The lights in the dorm windows glow soft against the dark.

At the path where your buildings split — his dorm to the left, yours to the right — you both stop.

Suguru turns to face you, hands deep in his coat pockets. “Thanks for today.”

You smile, heart still warm. “I should be thanking you.”

He holds your gaze for a beat longer, the air between you soft and a little heavier than before.

“See you tomorrow?” he asks.

You nod. “Yeah. Tomorrow.”

For a second, it almost feels like he might lean in — but instead, he lifts one hand, brushing his knuckles lightly against your cheek.

“Goodnight, pretty,” he says, voice low.

“Goodnight,” you echo, cheeks warm again.

And then, he turns, heading down the path toward his dorm.

You watch him go for a moment, heart still fluttering. Then turn toward your own, the cold air nipping at your cheeks.

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[lilmarshie]

Oneshot when you're in shock and Bucky Barnes finds you

Save Me, Mr. Barnes

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Mentions of PTSD, shock responses, and traumatic experiences and the aftermath of traumatic events. ‼️‼️

A/N: Thank you for the request, anon! I hope that you all enjoy this little drabble. I might continue this and make this into a series if I get enough positive feedback on this little drabble.

Your world seems to crash out around you when you try and process what had just happened. There had been a major explosion at the headquarters where you were stationed at. It was a sudden and very unpredictable tragedy that changed the trajectory of your life forever. It’s left you reeling, your mind racing with the thoughts of what could’ve happened. Your senses are placed on overdrive, yet everything feels distant and almost alien like. You find yourself frozen in place, unable to move or speak, as the weight of the moment presses down on you.

When Bucky finds you, his heart sinks painfully deep inside of his chest. He approached you slowly, his movements gentle and reassuring when he finds you. He kneels down beside you, his eyes filled with concern as he reaches out to take your hand. His touch is warm and grounding, a familiar anchor in the sea of chaos swirling around you. He doesn't try to force you to talk or explain, understanding that sometimes silence is the only language that makes sense especially in scenarios like this.

Bucky wraps his arms around you, pulling you close in a comforting embrace. He holds you tightly, letting you know that you're not alone and that he's there for you, no matter what. His presence is a soothing balm to your frayed nerves, a reminder that you're safe and loved. As you lean into his embrace, you begin to feel the first tendrils of calm washing over you, the storm inside slowly beginning to subside. In his arms, you find solace and the strength to face whatever lies ahead, knowing that you have him by your side.

You're in shock, the world around you muted and distant. It's like watching a movie where you're both the actor and the audience, detached from the unfolding events. Your mind struggles to process the reality of the situation, leaving you feeling numb and disconnected from the world around you. “I can’t do this! Please don’t make me do this! Please, Bucky! Please!” Your voice is shattered and raw, as you plead to have this pain taken away from you. Bucky is your anchor that keeps you grounded to him and him alone.

Bucky guides you to a quiet, secluded space where you can feel safe and protected. Your apartment that you share with him. Your solace and space from this mental hell. He creates an environment of calm and tranquility, dimming the lights, lighting candles, and playing soft music. He wants to create a haven where you can let go of your shock and begin to heal in your most vulnerable moments.

Bucky stays by your side, offering silent support and unwavering presence. He doesn't try to fill the silence with empty words or platitudes, knowing that sometimes the most comforting thing is simply being there. He sits with you, holding your hand, stroking your hair, or simply offering a shoulder to lean on. His presence is a constant reminder that you're not alone and that he's there for you, no matter what.

As the days pass, Bucky gently encourages you to talk about what happened, but only when you're ready. He listens patiently, without judgment, offering words of comfort and understanding. He reminds you of your strength, your resilience, and your ability to overcome challenges. He helps you to process your emotions, to grieve, and to find a path forward.

Together, you and Bucky navigate the long and winding road to healing. You lean on each other for support, sharing your fears, your hopes, and your dreams. You find strength in your love, your bond deepening as you face adversity together. With Bucky by your side, you slowly begin to emerge from the darkness, stronger and more resilient than ever before.

[fameandfiction]

IMAGINE PART I: “What Can I Do” — Reneé Rapp x Reader

— Best Friends With Unspoken Feelings.

Requested | PART1 - PART2

Los Angeles doesn’t sleep. It simmers. Like the stretch of sunlight that never really disappears between tinted windows and the buzz of people too pretty and too tired to care anymore.

It’s Friday night. Again. That kind of Friday that’s soaked in routine: the same familiar friends, half-hearted laughter, crowded rooftop air, the scent of weed curling through the wind and someone’s perfume always lingering too long in your sweatshirt.

And Reneé—God, Reneé—leans against the railing like she belongs to the city. Like she is the city. Bleached blonde strands tucked behind one ear, heavy silver rings catching the last of the amber glow in her whiskey glass. One boot up on the concrete edge. Her attention is split between the moon and you.

You’re on the couch just inside. Feet curled under you, sipping something way too sweet, staring at your phone and only half-listening to the guy beside you—your boyfriend—ramble on about a podcast he wants to start.

Reneé watches you the way people watch a train they know is about to crash.

And you? You smile when your name’s called. You look over, meet her eyes through the glass, wave her in. Oblivious.

That kills her the most.

You met her on set. Not a real set. Some indie thing you did PA work on because you needed a credit and free coffee. She was visiting a friend, wasn’t supposed to stay. But she did. She lingered, watched you tape cables, flirted like it was breathing. You thought it was a joke. An inside thing. Some celebrity habit to make herself feel normal around you.

She liked that you didn’t care about her fame. That you weren’t impressed.

You liked that she saw you. Really saw you.

You don’t remember when it shifted. When the casual texts became late-night calls. When voice notes turned into FaceTimes. When every party felt wrong if she wasn’t there, when she started inviting you to events like you were her date.

You told yourself it was platonic. It had to be. Because people like her don’t look at people like you that way.

And because you had a boyfriend by then.

You’ve always been bad at endings. You drag things out. Like splitting wood that should’ve snapped clean years ago. Like staying in relationships you’ve outgrown, too scared of the silence that might follow.

You love your boyfriend. Or maybe you love the idea of him. What he offers. Stability. Comfort. The illusion of safety. A straight line.

But Reneé is a wildfire. A question mark. A feeling that wakes you up at 3 AM and steals the air from your lungs.

You can’t admit that. Not even to yourself.

So instead, you keep things tidy.

Reneé is your best friend. You say it often, just to remind yourself. You wear her hoodies. You text her first when something good happens. You touch her without thinking: hands on her thigh when you laugh, fingers tangled in her hair when she cries at dumb movies.

She lets you.

She always lets you.

Even when it breaks her.

Tonight, she drove you here.

You were wearing that stupid denim mini skirt she always teases you about—“slutty for no reason, I respect it”—and your boyfriend was late. As usual. So you slid into her passenger seat, and she let you play your favorite playlist even though she hated half of it.

Somewhere near the freeway, her hand brushed yours on the gearshift. You didn’t move away. You didn’t look at her either.

She didn’t say anything, just swallowed hard, and turned the music up louder.

Now, an hour later, she’s still trying not to look at you like you matter too much.

She’s losing that fight.

You find her by the kitchen island. Everyone else is too drunk to notice the tension. Your boyfriend’s disappeared again, probably outside with the podcast guys. Your cup is empty. So is hers.

She pours tequila into two glasses, doesn't ask if you want one.

You down it together.

Then another.

The third is just her, and her voice is quieter now.

“Why are you still with him?”

The question lands like a slap. Uninvited. Inevitable.

You blink. “What?”

Reneé shrugs, but her mouth is tight. Her knuckles white against the counter. “He doesn’t get you. Not really.”

Your chest tightens.

“He tries,” you say, defensive out of habit.

“So do I,” she mutters.

The air shifts.

You laugh, too loud. Try to steer. “What is this, an intervention?”

She doesn’t laugh back.

Instead, she looks at you like she’s drowning. And she’s been drowning. For months. And you’re the one who keeps throwing her anchors instead of lifelines.

“I would never make you feel small,” she says.

You freeze.

Your heart beats once. Twice. Then faster.

“Reneé…”

She steps back like the space between you hurts her. Like touching you right now would ruin everything. And maybe it would.

“You don’t see it, do you?”

You don’t answer.

Because you do. Somewhere. Deep down. You feel the weight of it every time she texts goodnight and doesn’t say I love you even though it’s written in every word. You feel it when she lingers in your doorway. When she watches you dance like you’re hers and you let her. When she says, I got you, and means it more than anyone ever has.

But it’s safer to pretend.

Safer to stay stupid and scared.

So you say nothing.

And Reneé nods like she expected that.

Back at the car, she doesn’t drive.

You’re both sitting still, the city buzzing around you like static. The streetlamps flicker over her face, casting soft shadows. She’s staring at her steering wheel like it’ll give her the answers you won’t.

“I’m not gonna wait forever,” she says.

It’s not a threat. It’s a confession.

And you feel it in your bones. The slow-burn tragedy of it all.

You should say something. Anything.

But what can you say?

That you feel it too?

That you dream of her mouth on your collarbone and her name between your thighs?

That you think of her when your boyfriend holds you, and you wish it was her fingers instead?

You can’t. You won’t.

So you whisper, “I’m sorry.”

And her laugh is sharp and sad and small.

“You don’t even know what you’re apologizing for.”

You stop sleeping. Not really. Not deeply. You toss, you ache, you write unsent drafts in your Notes app that all start with “do you ever think about kissing me?” and end with “never mind.”

She texts less.

You check more.

She goes to a premiere without you.

You watch her red carpet photos alone.

She posts something cryptic—“people only get tired when they’re waiting for someone who doesn’t show up”—and your stomach drops like you’ve been punched.

Your boyfriend asks if you’re okay. You say yes.

You’re lying.

Weeks later, you run into her again.

Not planned. A friend's thing. A rooftop again. A circle of people you barely know. She’s wearing that dark green blazer that makes her look devastating.

You drink too much just to have an excuse to talk to her.

You bump her shoulder on purpose. “Miss me?”

She doesn’t smile.

“Not enough to keep pretending,” she says.

You blink.

And in that moment, you realize what you’ve done.

You didn’t just deny her.

You made her believe she wasn’t worth the risk.

Later, alone on your bathroom floor, you cry into the sleeves of the sweatshirt she left at your place months ago. It still smells like her. Something like vanilla and anger and secrets.

And you whisper into the cotton, voice shaking—

“I do. I do. I do feel it too.”

But no one hears.

Requested | PART1 - PART2

[ambeauty]

All the ways Carmy shows his love for Sydney….

[rambling-robot]

insane the kind of super-specific noises I can identify. the sound of someone clanking a ladder, for one example. the sound of my cat falling behind the washer is a second example. it’s the one that inspired this post but the specificness of it reminded me of the ladder.

[cairamarie]

being the oldest daughter, planning a wedding, and finishing the semester of grad school all while living at home is probably going to kill me

[fromdove]

you find him in your apartment. again. window cracked. boots still on. jacket slung over the back of your chair like it belongs there.

he’s sitting on your couch like he owns it, flipping through a half-read paperback he definitely didn’t bring. probably something you left lying around — some crime thriller he’s already tearing apart in his head.

“make yourself at home,” you say, dropping your keys.

he doesn’t look up. “already did. your lock’s still crap, by the way.”

“you say that every time you break in.”

“because it’s still true.” he finally glances at you, eyes tired but sharp. “what if i was someone else?”

“then you’d be bleeding on the floor right now.”

his mouth twitches. “cute.”

you toe off your shoes, drop your bag, move toward the kitchen. “what do you want, jason?”

“wow. straight to the point. no hi jay, how was patrol? want something to drink? here, take my couch and trample my boundaries some more?”

“you don’t drink anything that isn’t ninety percent caffeine or eighty proof.”

“true,” he says, stretching his legs out. “still rude.”

you eye him from the kitchen. his holsters are off, but the rest of the suit’s still there — the compression shirt, scuffed boots, scraped knuckles. he’s vibrating under the surface like he hasn’t slept in two days and isn’t planning to.

“you get hit again?” you ask, softer.

he lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “nothing important.”

“so yes.”

“do you want a play-by-play? i can act it out, real dramatic. throw myself against a wall. bleed on your furniture.”

“you already bled on my rug last month.”

“and it really tied the room together.”

you exhale through your nose. grab a glass of water, bring it over. he takes it without comment, drinks half in one go.

“why are you here, jason?”

this time, he doesn’t have a joke ready. his fingers tap the side of the glass, jaw tight.

“quiet,” he mutters. “it’s quiet here.”

you sit beside him. not close. not far.

“you ever gonna just ask to stay?” you ask.

“don’t need to.” he leans his head back, eyes closed now. “you always let me.”

“that’s not the same thing.”

“yeah,” he says, voice rough. “i know.”

the silence stretches. his foot nudges yours, casual, like he didn’t mean to. like he did.

“you gonna yell at me if i fall asleep here?”

“depends.”

“on what?”

“if you do that thing where you mutter weird half-words and twitch like you’re being electrocuted.”

he opens one eye. “that’s called trauma. look it up.”

“ever heard of therapy?”

“yeah. didn’t vibe with being psychoanalyzed by someone who’s never been shot in the face. weird, right?”

you huff a laugh. he shifts a little closer, not quite touching.

“you still smell like gunpowder,” you say.

“better than blood.”

“barely.”

he doesn’t look at you right away. just stares ahead like he’s watching something you can’t see. then, like it costs him, he says,

“couldn’t sleep.”

that’s all he gives you. not can I crash here? not I don’t want to be alone. just that.

but with jason, that’s enough.

you don’t ask. you just nod toward the blanket on the armrest.

“you want that, or are you gonna steal mine like last time?”

“wasn’t stealing. it was strategic heat distribution.”

“you’re unbelievable.”

“you say that a lot,” he murmurs, already leaning back into the cushions.

and still — he doesn’t leave.

not for hours.

[marvelstoriesepic]

Your Ghost Knows Me

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: On a mission to dismantle a Hydra base, Bucky’s activation codes are triggered. And what does he do without a kill order?

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: mind control; non-consensual behavior (not sexual but bodily autonomy themes); possessive behavior; gun violence (implied, not graphic); threats of violence; emotional manipulation (unintentional); PTSD; trauma responses; forced proximity; mentions of Bucky’s past; Hydra

Author’s Note: I'll never get tired of a possessive Winter Soldier!! Honestly, I should write about him more often. Anyway, this absolutely iconic request is from my sweet dear!! Thank you so much, and I hope you'll enjoy ♡

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

There is always something quiet about Bucky when he looks at you before the mission begins. Quiet in the way thunder is quiet just before the crack. As if he is holding something inside himself too loud for the world.

You always say his name and he would look at you like he’s afraid to blink.

You don’t think you’re supposed to notice the way he hovers at your side. You’re not supposed to feel his shadow, stitched to your steps. But you do. You always do. Because Bucky Barnes does not know how to stay subtle. Not with you. Not when he thinks you might not make it out of this alive.

Your mission is to break into an old Hydra base with heat still humming through the walls and ghosts still hanging from the rafters.

The team drops in like rain. Controlled chaos. Clint on the left flank. Sam from above. Steve on the right flank. Nat somewhere in the dark.

You are light-footed and fast and smart and alive. Bucky stays behind you. Always behind you. Watching your six. He never lets you fall.

And you get the proof of this for the thousandth time when he throws his arm out and grabs your vest to yank you back hard enough to make you gasp. Your heart stutters in your throat. You stumble, twist, spin - and crash into him.

There was a tripwire. You almost walked into it. And Bucky saw. He sees everything.

“You okay?” He breathes, voice low, not quite touching worry but brushing the edges of it.

“Yeah,” you whisper back. “Thanks.”

He nods. Says nothing. Keeps moving.

You press forward into the maze of concrete and metal that is the Hydra base, gun raised, heart playing the drum in your ribs.

Bucky slows.

You glance over at him. “What is it?”

He stares at a rusted door, barely ajar. A soft static pulses from within, like an old radio dying in slow motion. The sound crawls down your spine. Your skin prickles.

“Bucky,” you start, reaching for him. “Let’s move.”

But he’s already walking toward that door with narrowed eyes.

The room is dark. Cold. Frost is on the walls like a memory that won’t let go. A machine in the corner makes low noises. Wires twitch on the floor like veins ripped from a corpse. The air stinks of metal and mildew and something old. Something wrong.

And then it speaks. A voice, thick with static, seeps out of the machine. A voice you don’t understand. Not really. You can’t make out the words, but you know them. You know what they mean.

“Желание. Ржавый.”

You spin around, heart rushing up to your ears, calling his name, but it’s too late.

“Семнадцать. Рассвет.”

Bucky stands frozen.

Stone. Steel. Silence.

His face is slack. That haunted stillness takes over.

He isn’t gone. But he isn’t Bucky anymore.

“Печь.”

His eyes go distant. Flat. His face cracks into something you’ve only seen in nightmares. No fury. No fear. Just absence.

“Доброкачественный.”

“No,” you breathe. Your heart forgets how to beat. “Bucky,” you basically yell at him. Nobody even knew there were still functioning systems here. But they’d been waiting. Planning.

“Девять.”

“Bucky please snap out of this.” You know it’s useless. You don’t know why you say it.

“Возвращение на родину.“

Your hand trembles around the grip of your weapon as you force yourself to jump out of the shock your limbs are locked in. You raise your arm and aim. You pull the trigger. One.

“Один.”

Two.

“Грузовой вагон.”

Three.

Four times.

The machine sparks. Cracks. Screams. A dozen red lights blink and die like stars going out. The voice cuts out, perhaps wanting to give a command, a final breath of Russian strangled by silence. And it slams into the room like a body.

For a heartbeat, for a breath, you think it’s over.

You hope it’s over.

But his name dies on your tongue when you turn back to him.

Bucky doesn’t speak. He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t breathe like a man. He doesn’t look at you - he tracks you, the way a sniper does. As if you’re a piece of intel.

Sam’s voice crackles over the comms. “Hey. We heard something. Everything good over there?”

You can’t answer right away.

Your voice is lost.

Because Bucky Barnes is gone.

And the Winter Soldier is standing in his place.

It takes you a minute to explain your situation and you hear the tremor in Steve’s voice when he tells you they’re on their way.

You try to breathe around the panic growing like thorns in your chest.

You whisper his name, again and again, as if it’s a spell that might pull him back. But the Winter Soldier does not know your voice.

Does not know you.

And when Steve finally rounds the corner, face pale, shield up, Bucky growls.

Low. Subhuman. A warning without words.

“Woah, woah- easy,” Steve says, holding up a hand. He looks at you. “He’s- He’s not gone. We’ll fix this. We can bring him back.”

You don’t know how promising he tries to make this sound.

But Bucky shifts his body, in front of you.

He plants himself between you and everyone else, like a wall, like a weapon.

Like a threat.

No orders. No hesitation. Just instinct.

He scans Steve’s hands. Sam’s gun. Natasha’s eyes.

Every time someone even twitches in your direction, he angles his body tighter around you, metal hand flexing. His breathing is shallow. Sharp.

He has no words. No explanations. He doesn’t seem to need them.

You try to take a step forward, away from his back. He moves with you. You stop. So does he.

“Please,” you whisper. “Bucky. Come back.”

But he doesn’t flinch.

Not for the begging in your voice. Not for the heartbreak in your eyes.

But you know he doesn’t hear you. He only hears the ghosts in his blood. The machine in his brain. The purpose Hydra seared into his bones.

“Alright, this can’t-“ The moment Sam takes a step forward, Bucky moves.

He grabs you. Not roughly, not violently, but fully. As if the air between your bodies has never existed. As if he’s made of magnets and you’re the only thing that ever pulled him north.

His metal arm anchors around your waist, his other hand at your shoulder, your spine, your hip - everywhere, all at once. He places himself between you and the others again and makes sure to keep you there as if you are a holy thing. His breath is ragged. Feral.

“Bucky,” Steve tries. There is something pained in his tone. Also something warning. “Let her go.”

But he doesn’t listen.

Because there is nothing left to listen to.

No more commands. No more codes. No more voice in his ear.

So he seems to have written a new directive into his mind and that is you.

You are the mission now. You are the purpose, the protection, the last thing left when everything else burns.

His hand is wrapped around your wrist so tightly, it makes your breath hitch. But you don’t pull away. You can’t. There is something in his eyes. Something not Bucky but not nothing either.

Not the soldier.

Not the man.

Just this animal of loyalty. Of violence. Of need.

You try.

God, you try.

You speak to him in pieces. In whispers. In words coming from trembling lips and bruised hope.

“Bucky,” you plead.

Soft. Like maybe softness will do it. Like maybe he’ll come back to the sound of your voice wrapped in love instead of command.

But he doesn’t.

And he doesn’t let anyone near you.

Not Steve, who takes one careful step and ends up with a knife lodged in the floor in front of his foot.

Not Sam, who reaches out and gets a warning growl that raises the hairs on your arms.

Not Natasha, who tries to circle behind, quiet as a whisper - and is met with the barrel of Bucky’s gun aimed clean between her eyes.

You frantically call Bucky’s name.

“Hey- easy,” she says, voice low. “Nobody wants to harm your girl, Barnes.”

He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t care.

He tightens his grip on you, fingers locking around your arm like a shackle. You try to find a piece of Bucky still breathing in there.

But all you see is possession.

He steps back into the shadows, pulling you with him, shielding you with his body as if the world is trying to take you and he’s the last wall still standing.

No one sees you now.

Because he won’t let them.

He moves you behind crates. Walls. Corners. Shadows. Always putting something between you and them. Always hiding you. Not out of shame. Not out of fear.

Out of possession.

Out of protection.

Out of a command he gave himself.

You are a mission. A precious object. A singular order sculpted into the ruins of his memory.

You hear Steve’s heavy sigh. His quiet and deep voice. The pain in it. “We need to sedate him.”

The next thing you pick up is the click of a safety releasing.

Bucky’s gun is pointed and ready.

He would kill for you right now.

He would kill them.

All of them.

Within the blink of an eye.

For you.

“No,” you croak out, voice breaking. It feels wrong to call him Bucky. It feels wrong to call him Soldat. “Please don’t! Don’t do this!”

You don’t know if it’s something in your voice or something in your tense stance against his back, but he slowly lowers his gun, slowly turns his head to stare at you.

Empty.

Unreachable.

But somehow not cold.

And then his hand rises. Flesh fingers trace your jaw. So gently it nearly breaks you.

It’s not affection. It’s assessment.

He’s checking. For wounds. For weakness. For threats, you might be hiding beneath your skin.

You breathe as if forgetting how to.

You try to shift. Just a little. Just to look behind him. Just to meet Steve’s eyes, Sam’s, Natasha’s, Clint’s - who finally got his ass here as well.

But Bucky moves. Fast.

A hand around your chin. Tilting your face back toward him.

Eyes narrow. Jaw locks.

You know what it means.

He doesn’t want you to look at them.

He doesn’t want you to speak with them.

He doesn’t want you to think of them.

You are his now.

Because something in his mind burned the world down and left you standing in the wreckage, and he needs something to hold onto. Not just anything. Not just anyone. You.

You try again.

Whispers, again.

“I have to talk to them-”

He shakes his head. Once. Sharp. Final.

“No,” he growls. Not language. Not word. Just a sound scraped from somewhere too deep and too far gone.

You flinch and he feels it.

His grip grows stiff.

Your body goes still.

He doesn’t want to hurt you. But he doesn’t let you go.

You catch the glint of Steve’s shield out of the corner of your eye.

They haven’t moved in minutes.

They’re waiting.

They’re watching.

They don’t want to hurt him either. But they will if they have to.

“Don’t,” you murmur. “Don’t come closer. Don’t- don’t try to talk to me, he- he doesn’t want that.”

You hear Sam lower his weapon, just a hair. “We can’t leave you like this.”

You want to cry. You want to scream. You want to pull Bucky into your arms and shake him until something clicks and he remembers you. Remembers himself.

But the Winter Soldier only seems to be remembering his duty. Violence shaped into protection.

And right now, that protection looks like isolation.

You. Alone. Tucked behind crates and corners and silence and his broad shoulders.

You speak anyway. Because you have to. Because he’s in there somewhere. Because he might not hear the others, but maybe he can still hear you.

“Bucky,” you speak. Swallow. “They’re not the enemy.”

His hand twitches on your arm.

“They’re your friends.”

He tightens his grip.

“They’re my friends.”

He releases another deep and gravelly sound.

His body is tense, electric, fury held in the cage of his bones.

“Please,” you say. You hate the sound of your own voice now. You sound like you are shattering in slow motion. “You don’t have to protect me from them. You don’t- I’m not-”

You breathe out shakily.

Your lip trembles. Your eyes sting.

Because he’s looking at you as if he would kill the whole world to keep you safe. And he doesn’t even remember who you are.

You press your forehead to his chest. His body doesn’t move.

He’s breathing faster now. His pulse thrums under your cheek.

But he lets you stay there.

That has to be something.

Behind Bucky, someone whispers your name. Carefully. Cautiously. As though if they say it wrong you’ll be ripped out of this moment and Bucky will hunt them all down.

You lift your head.

Bucky sees it.

Sees the way your eyes pull toward Sam’s voice.

Sees the way you’re still trying to hold onto them. Still reaching.

He doesn’t like that.

He hates that.

His hand finds the back of your neck. He pulls you into him, hides your face in his chest. Your shoulders lock. His body shields you like a fortress of flesh and metal and confusion. As if your gaze is a window, and he is closing the shutters.

You are not theirs anymore.

And he will not let you be.

[matt-murdockk]

Statistically Speaking

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader

words: 600 words

summary: Spencer thought he was in a long-term relationship— turns out, he forgot to tell her.

warnings: none, babe. this is pure fluff <3

“Come on, man,” Derek said, arms folded as he stared Spencer down across the break room table. “You can’t just read a thousand relationship books and think that’s the same as the real thing.”

Spencer looked up from the folder in his lap, utterly unbothered. “Thirty-nine books. And they’re peer-reviewed studies. It’s not about anecdotes, it’s about data.”

Penelope leaned over her coffee, eyes sparkling. “Oh boy. He’s going full empirical. This should be good.”

“It’s not that I think I understand relationships,” Spencer continued, adjusting his glasses. “It’s just that I recognize functional dynamics when I see them. And I happen to know what one looks like.”

Derek snorted. “Yeah? Like what, The Notebook?”

“No,” Spencer said. “Like me and Y/N.”

There was a beat of silence.

Y/N, seated two chairs down with a half-drunk coffee in her hand, turned very slowly. “I’m sorry, what now?”

Spencer blinked at her like she’d asked if water was wet. “What?”

“What do you mean ‘you and me’?”

He frowned, confused. “I mean us. Our dynamic. It’s a prime example of a healthy relationship.”

Garcia dropped her muffin.

Derek leaned in like he was about to watch a car crash in slow motion. “Go on.”

Spencer tilted his head at Y/N. “You seriously didn’t know?”

She blinked. “Know what exactly?”

“That we’re in a relationship. Or— at least something adjacent to one. I assumed we were both aware of that.”

Y/N stared at him.

Spencer, sensing the disbelief, leaned back in his chair and began to list things off like he was briefing a case. “We text every night before bed. You bring me coffee the way I like it— three sugars, not stirred— almost every day, without asking. I’ve picked you up from the airport twice. You’ve stayed over at my apartment more than once, and you steal my hoodies.”

“That’s just…” She trailed off, looking helplessly at Garcia, who was frozen mid-bite.

Spencer wasn’t done.

“We hold hands when we walk across busy streets. You braid my hair when I’m stressed. I read you poetry once and you cried, which I took as a positive emotional response and not distress.”

Y/N slowly set her coffee down. “Okay.”

“I’ve memorized your Chipotle order,” Spencer added, like that sealed it.

“Okay.”

Spencer leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “We literally hold hands all the time.”

“…Okay, yeah, I see where I went wrong.”

Derek lost it.

Garcia was fanning herself with a napkin, whispering “my stars” under her breath.

Y/N looked like she was debating the moral and logistical weight of throwing herself into the nearest garbage can.

Spencer, meanwhile, just looked vaguely betrayed. “How did you not know?”

She gave him a look. “Because you never said it out loud?”

“I thought it was implied!”

Derek clapped once, loud. “Oh, I live for this.”

Garcia blinked. “Cool, so I’ve been third-wheeling a relationship that wasn’t even technically happening. Love that for me.”

Y/N turned back to Spencer, who was still trying to solve the mystery of how she missed this.

“Are you mad?” she asked.

“No,” he said, after a beat. “Just… surprised. I really thought we were on the same page.”

“Well.” She exhaled, slow and a little amused. “We are now.”

Spencer tilted his head. “Does this mean we’re officially dating?”

Y/N shrugged. “Statistically speaking?”

That got the smallest smile out of him.

“I’ll take it,” he said.

a/n: first spencer fic can i get a whoop whoop (i hope this is good, oh god)

[barnesonly]

Imagine telling bestie!Bucky you’ve always had to fake it in bed with men… You know he’d fuck you till you see stars

STOP. you are a genius honestly. the bestfriend energy turning into fucking?? i’m so damn bad for this…. And bucky would be also so confident about himself in bed like UGH i just know HE knows how good he is… squeezing my thighs at the thought.

You’re walking side by side, milkshakes in hand, the way you always do after a long week. your hands occasionally brushing. It’s easy — it always is with him. Talking about everything and nothing — something stupid. First dates. Red flags. Sex that was just… meh.

And then, casually, like it’s no big deal, you say it.

“I’ve faked it, like, every time.”

He slows mid-step. “Wait. Every time?”

You shrug like it’s nothing. “I mean, yeah. Guys always think they’re doing a good job if you moan a little and say their name once or twice.”

Bucky blinks at you, stunned. “That’s…” He shakes his head, lips twitching. “That’s criminal. I think I need a moment.”

You laugh. “Relax, Barnes. It’s not like they were terrible. It just wasn’t… memorable. Or about me, really.”

He’s still looking at you — only now, there’s something behind his eyes. Heat. Focus.

“You’re tellin’ me not one guy’s made you come?”

“Not from sex, no.”

He stops walking. You take another sip of your milkshake, trying not to smile.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you say lightly.

“I’m not looking at you like anything,” he mutters, jaw tight, voice low.

“Oh, you’re looking.”

He licks his lips, eyes dragging down your face, your throat, the shape of your mouth around the straw. “You shouldn’t tell me shit like that, doll.”

You raise a brow. “Why not?”

“Because now I can’t stop thinking about what I’d do different.”

There’s a beat of silence — thick, electric. You swallow, hard.

“…You think you could do it right?” you ask, teasing, testing.

He steps closer, leans in. You feel the heat of him, the weight of that look — the one that makes your knees go soft.

“I know I could.”

———

You’d said it was a bad idea.

That crossing that line would ruin everything.

But now you’re ruined in a completely different way — your body spread beneath him, flushed and trembling, every nerve frayed raw from the way he touches you like he’s memorizing it. Like he’s waited years.

He kisses you like he owns your mouth. Fucks you like he wants to prove every man before him was a waste of time.

“Look at me,” he growls against your throat. “I wanna see it.”

Your eyes flutter open just as your body clenches around him again. You moan his name, your voice cracked, your legs shaking.

He watches, entranced — every twitch, every gasp, the way you fall apart under him, for him.

“God, Bucky—” you gasp, and he leans down, lips brushing your ear.

“You feel that?” he pants, dragging his cock deep again, slow and deliberate.

You nod helplessly, mouth open on a cry as he fucks into you again — rougher now, steady, each thrust angled perfectly to grind against that devastating spot inside you. His name tumbles out of you over and over, no space left in your brain for anything else.

“Bucky—oh, fuck—don’t stop—”

“I’m not stoppin’, baby,” he growls, gripping your hips tighter. “Not ‘til you give it to me again.”

He lifts your legs over his shoulders without warning, folding you in half, and the new angle knocks the air from your lungs. You sob, reaching for him, your hands trembling as they claw at his back.

“That’s it,” he hisses, watching you unravel. “You gonna come for me again? Let me feel it?”

Your whole body’s on fire, skin flushed and slick with sweat, muscles clenching around him so hard it’s a miracle he doesn’t come first — but he holds on, jaw clenched, arms straining as he pounds into you like he means it.

You break with a cry — raw and shaking beneath him, thighs quivering, your release crashing through you like lightning. And Bucky loses it.

“Fuck, you’re squeezin’ me so tight—god, you’re perfect,” he gasps, driving into you harder, chasing his high as your body pulses around him. “So fuckin’ perfect.”

He buries himself to the hilt one last time and groans, deep and wrecked, as he spills inside you, his entire body going tense, then trembling against yours. His mouth is on your shoulder, your neck, anywhere he can reach, pressing kisses between desperate breaths.

“You okay?” he murmurs, brushing his nose against yours.

You nod, dazed. “I… I saw stars.”

[littlelamy]

boat scene with rafe

requested by @gibson-g1rl l <3 😘 part 2

credits: oysters png from @saizun , and amazing gifs from @rafeyscurtainbangs

The boat rocks beneath you as you step toward where Rafe sits bound against the wall, looking both furious and oddly vulnerable. You catch his eye as you enter the room, holding a small packet of aspirin and a plate of food. His eyebrows lift slightly in surprise, but his cocky smirk returns almost immediately.

“Look who’s here to take care of me,” he drawls, his voice dripping with that familiar teasing tone, though there’s a flicker of genuine relief in his eyes.

“Don’t flatter yourself.” You roll your eyes, but there’s no real bite to your words. You set the plate down next to him and hand over the aspirin, glancing away to avoid letting him see the small, reluctant smile tugging at your lips. “Thought you’d need this. Can’t have you passing out on us.”

Rafe takes the aspirin from your hand, holding your gaze just a little too long before he swallows it dry. “I’ll admit, I wasn’t expecting room service,” he murmurs, eyes never leaving yours. “Didn’t know you cared this much.”

You scoff, folding your arms. “You should know by now I don’t want you dead, Rafe,” you say with a wry smile. “But don’t expect this to become a habit.”

He chuckles, the sound low and a little smug. “We’ll see about that,” he says, shifting against the ropes, clearly enjoying the attention. He nods toward the plate. “So, what—are you gonna feed me, too?”

You blink, taken aback by his nerve, and then raise an eyebrow, letting sarcasm color your voice. “Would you like me to? Or do you think you can manage?” You narrow your eyes, daring him to keep pushing.

Rafe’s smirk wavers, his cheeks turning the faintest shade of pink as he quickly looks away. “I can handle it,” he mutters, clearly flustered but trying to play it off. “Don’t get carried away.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I wasn’t planning to.” But you can’t help the grin tugging at your lips as you settle back, watching as he tries to pick up a piece of food from the plate with an awkward, fumbling grip, struggling against the restraints.

You stifle a laugh as he tries to eat without making a mess, and he catches you smiling, his jaw tightening. “Something funny?” he snaps, though there’s a hint of embarrassment in his tone.

You shrug, biting back your amusement. “Nothing at all. You look perfectly in control.”

Rafe grumbles under his breath, focusing intently on his food to avoid meeting your eyes. Another wave rocks the boat, causing you to steady yourself against the wall, and you look back to find him watching you, something almost like concern flickering in his gaze.

“Be careful,” he mutters, his voice softer, dropping the bravado for a split second.

For a moment, you just look at each other, the storm outside and the chaos around you fading into the background. His cocky expression softens, and he gives you a small, grateful nod. He won’t say it, but you know he’s thankful.

“Thanks,” he says quietly, his gaze lingering on you a beat longer.

“Yeah, yeah,” you reply, crossing your arms as you lean back against the wall. “Just don’t make me regret it.”

Rafe grins, his cockiness slipping back into place, but now it’s warmer, less of a wall and more like something shared just between the two of you. As he reaches for another bite, he murmurs, “Wouldn’t dream of it.” And as much as you try to resist, you can’t help the small, reluctant smile that crosses your face in response.

The storm hits hard, the boat rocking violently beneath your feet. You’re barely able to keep your balance as you make your way through the narrow, dimly lit hallway. Waves crash against the hull, each one sending a jolt of panic through your body. But there’s something else clawing at you—something that won’t let you ignore the sound of Rafe’s voice, sharp and desperate, calling from another room.

“Come on! Cut me loose!” His voice cracks, the desperation in it too raw to ignore.

You freeze, breath catching in your throat. Rafe. He’s still tied up. The ropes are holding him in place as the boat teeters precariously on the brink of capsizing. You can hear Pope and Cleo yelling from the kitchen, their voices overlapping, trying to convince you to leave it alone. To save yourself. But you can’t. Not this time.

You grip the knife tighter, your fingers cold and trembling from the anxiety rising in your chest. There’s no time to think. Rafe’s call keeps echoing in your head, and that voice—the urgency, the fear—pushes you forward. You make your way toward the room where you heard him last, the sound of the storm growing louder as it pounds against the sides of the boat.

Before you even get to the door, Cleo’s voice rings out. “No! Y/N, No!”

Pope’s voice follows, sharper. “Y/N, stop don’t let him out!”

But you keep moving. You don’t stop. You can’t. There’s no way you’re going to let Rafe stay there, helpless and bound, when you can do something about it.

When you reach the door, you shove it open, and the sight of Rafe tied up against the far wall hits you with a jolt. He’s slumped slightly, sweat slicking his forehead, his face drawn with exhaustion and frustration. His eyes snap to you, and for a split second, they soften with something almost like relief.

“Cut me loose, come on!” He says again, his voice strained, but louder this time, more insistent.

His hands are bound tightly in thick ropes, his legs spread out uncomfortably beneath him. The ropes seem too thick for him to break on his own. You can see the tension in his body, the way his muscles twitch from the strain, and the panic that flickers behind his gaze. There’s no time to waste. You don’t think twice. You crouch in front of him, the knife in your hand glinting in the low light.

Rafe watches you, his chest rising and falling unevenly. “Don’t make me regret this,” you murmur, feeling your heart beat faster as you cut into the thick rope that’s holding him in place. Your hands are shaking, the knife slipping slightly as the boat tilts again, but you focus on the task at hand.

“Come on, hurry up.” His words are clipped, desperate, and you push aside the nervous tightness in your chest as you work faster, cutting the ropes.

You’re close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body, a stark contrast to the cold, wet air from the storm. The boat groans as another wave slams against it, and Rafe’s eyes flicker to the window, then back to you.

“Please,” he breathes, and it’s that one word that makes everything else fade away—the roaring storm, the panicked shouting from the others, the ticking clock of time slipping away.

The last thread gives way with a sharp cut, and Rafe’s hands are free. His arms immediately reach for you, grabbing hold of your wrist with a surprising amount of force, pulling himself upright.

“Thanks,” he mutters, his voice rough, but there’s something deeper in it, something like a sense of vulnerability you’ve never seen from him before.

You don’t have time to say anything, to wonder if he’s really thankful or if he’s just grateful to be free. The boat shudders violently, and you both stumble as the hull groans beneath you. The wind howls outside, whipping against the windows, and you know there’s not much time before things get worse.

Rafe doesn’t wait for an invitation. He grabs your arm, pulling you toward the narrow hallway. “We need to get to somewhere safer,” he says, his tone not leaving any room for an argument.

You’re both moving quickly, though the boat keeps pitching wildly. The wind screeches, and water sloshes against the floorboards. Every step feels like a risk, like the boat could capsize at any moment. But Rafe doesn’t let go of your arm. He pulls you behind him, guiding you toward a small corner near the engine room, the only place that might offer even the slightest bit of shelter.

You slide into the corner, pressing yourself against the cold wall. It’s not the safest place, but in the madness of the storm, it’s all you have. Rafe follows, wedging himself beside you. There’s barely enough room for the two of you, but you don’t mind. You’re not focused on that right now. All you can think about is how the boat is rocking, how you’re both on the brink of disaster, and how Rafe’s body is so close to yours.

He leans into you, his breathing ragged and uneven. For a moment, he pulls away, but then his hand is at your waist, his grip tightening. It’s almost like he’s afraid you might slip away from him. He presses his body closer, his face now inches from yours, and you can feel the rapid beat of his heart.

Rafe places his head on your neck, his face buried in the crook of your shoulder. The warmth of his breath on your skin is both comforting and unsettling, but you don’t pull away. Instead, you place your hand on his back, the pressure of your touch grounding both of you as the storm rages on around you.

“You’re okay,” you whisper, though you’re not sure if you’re trying to reassure him or yourself.

Rafe doesn’t respond, but you feel his muscles relax, his tense body unwinding little by little. He’s not just holding onto you for stability; it feels like he’s holding onto you for something more. You can’t explain it, but there’s something in the way he leans into you, something raw and vulnerable that you’ve never seen before.

taglist: @namelesslosers @princessslutt @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @starkeysprincess @sixrosberg @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @kissrotten @rafesangelita @sstargirln

[abbotjack]

I Can’t Protect You From Everything

pairing: jack abbot x nurse!reader (fem!reader, no physical description)

summary : You’re assaulted in the ER. Jack sees red. But it’s not just the rage—it’s the fallout, the quiet after, the grief, the guilt, the way he holds you like his own body can bring you back to life.

content: medical trauma, assault aftermath, blood, concussion, strong emotional themes, PTSD undertones, canon-level violence, smut (established marriage), soft dom!Jack, comfort sex, hurt/comfort, healing arc

word count: ~3K , not beta read (this is just a hobby <3)

18+ ONLY

You hear the voice before you see him.

Low. Sharp. Controlled like a lit match held too close to a fuse.

“Move.”

The nurses part without a word. Not because they recognize the attending. But because they feel the shift in the air.

Jack Abbot is in motion. And he’s not stopping.

You’re still on the floor of Room 12. Head spinning. The tile’s cold under your cheek, but everything else burns—your skull, your vision, the jagged pulse in your throat.

The patient—drunk, belligerent—just laughs.

“She got in my face, man,” he slurs to no one. “Shoulda stayed outta it.”

The next sound is a crash. A metal tray sent flying.

Jack doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t need to. One look at your body on the ground, your hair matted with blood—and he’s on the guy in seconds.

“Jack—Jack!” Robby grabs him from behind, arms locked around his chest. “She’s down—she needs you, not this.”

“Let me go,” Jack growls, low and lethal.

“You touch him, you’re done. You hear me? She’s bleeding. Focus, man.”

Jack’s breathing hard, jaw clenched so tight you think it might snap. But his eyes are locked on you now. Not the patient. Not the shouting.

Just you.

He drops to his knees beside you. Gently turns your face toward him with trembling fingers.

“Hey,” he says, soft. Too soft for a man who just looked ready to kill. “Stay with me, sweetheart. C’mon.”

You try to smile.

“Didn’t like that, huh?” you whisper, lips barely moving.

His eyes go dark. “I’m gonna kill him.”

“No you’re not.”

“He touched you.”

You blink. Everything spins.

“Jack—my head hurts.”

His breath catches. All that fury folds into fear. And you know—if your heart stopped right now, his would go with it.

“You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

He always says that. And you always believe him.

Your fingers twitch weakly against his scrubs, barely a brush.

"…Don’t go anywhere,” you breathe, eyelids fluttering shut.

You're out before your head even hits the pillow of the gurney.

Jack doesn’t move from your side. Blood—your blood—dries tacky and rust-colored on your temple.

“Let’s go,” he barks at the transport tech. His voice is too sharp, but no one challenges him. Not now. Not when the calm, collected attending has cracked.

Robby walks beside him, clipboard clutched tight. “She needs a non-contrast head CT, stat. LOC, blunt force trauma, disorientation. I already paged neuro.”

Jack doesn't respond. Doesn’t blink. His eyes are fixed on your face as they wheel you through the fluorescent-lit hall.

In the CT bay, he’s forced to stop outside the radiation line.

“I’ll be five minutes,” the tech promises. “You can see her again once she’s cleared.”

Jack doesn’t nod. Just stands there, like a soldier on post, watching through the glass as your body is slid into the machine like it’s a coffin.

Later.

“Concussion,” Robby says quietly, handing Jack the annotated imaging results. “No hemorrhage. No skull fracture. She is lucky.”

Jack doesn’t feel lucky. He feels like he's going to throw up.

Robby gives him a look. One Jack doesn’t like.

“Maybe don’t start a war in the trauma bay next time someone touches her.”

You wake slowly, brain fogged, heart pounding. For a second, the disorientation pulls you under—you're sure you're still in the trauma bay. The smell of antiseptic, the beeping, the chaos.

But then you feel it.

A warm hand curled around yours. The scent of Jack’s cologne. The distant hum of your house’s old heating unit.

You’re not in the hospital anymore.

You’re home.

The small home you share with Jack—the one he remodeled himself, every corner touched by his hands, from the creaking floorboards to the stubborn cabinet hinges. Medical journals are stacked high on the coffee table, dog-eared and covered in notes, like neither of you quite know how to leave work behind. It's lived-in and quiet and yours—built like a fortress to keep the world out.

Jack’s sitting beside the bed, one hand cradling your wrist, thumb brushing your pulse point.

“You’re awake,” he says.

You blink slowly. “Am I supposed to be?”

He exhales like it hurt to hold in. “You scared the shit out of me.”

You smile faintly. “Don’t I always?”

He doesn’t laugh. His eyes are rimmed red—and it kills you to see it.

“You didn’t say anything when I went down,” you whisper.

“I couldn’t,” he says, voice cracked and raw.

You reach for his face. He leans into your touch like he’s starved for it.

“I was going to kill him,” he murmurs. “If Robby hadn’t pulled me off—I was gone. I saw red.”

You stroke his hair. “You didn’t. That’s what matters.”

He shakes his head. “No. What matters is that you were hurt because I wasn’t there.”

“That’s not fair.”

“I don’t care.”

“Come here,” you whisper.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t. You never do.”

He slides into bed, quiet and heavy beside you.

“Why’d you marry me?” you ask.

Jack flinches. “Because no one’s ever looked at me the way you do. Like I’m not broken.”

“You’re not.”

He kisses you then.

And when you say, "Show me I’m still here," he pulls back just enough to search your face. His thumb brushes along your cheekbone, like he still doesn’t trust what he sees.

Then he nods, just once. Like he’s made up his mind.

His hands shake as they trail down your sides, memorizing the feel of you again. He looks like he’s on the edge of breaking open entirely.

Still half-dressed, the soft stretch of sweatpants low on his hips, he leans down slowly. His shirt’s already gone. His breath is warm against your collarbone.

He shifts his position like he’s not sure he’s allowed. Like he’s still that eighteen-year-old kid who enlisted too young, carried too much, and learned how to weaponize silence before he ever understood how to ask for comfort. Still moving like he’s made of edges—too strong, too fast, too sharp.

He’s always been gentle with you. But tonight, he’s something else entirely.

He kisses you like it hurts. Like every inch of skin he touches could vanish. His lips are hot and searching, pulling at yours with need, like he's starving and you’re the only thing that will bring him back.

You reach for his waistband and push his sweatpants down, his breath catching when your fingers graze him—thick, heavy, already hard.

“Please,” you whisper. “I need to feel you. All of you.”

He exhales harshly, like it’s killing him to take his time, but he does.

Jack kisses his way down your neck, slow and reverent, his hands now slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts. He peels them down with slow, careful movements, like he’s unwrapping something fragile. Only when they’re off does he lower himself between your thighs. His breath ghosts across your skin before his tongue follows—warm, wet, devastating. He licks into you like he’s memorizing you all over again. Like this is the only proof you’re still here.

Your hips buck, but his hands pin you in place, steady on your thighs. The stubble on his jaw scrapes softly against sensitive skin, the contrast enough to make your vision blur.

"You taste like home," he groans, eyes dark. "I needed this—needed you—more than I want to admit."

He cuts himself off with a moan as you tangle your fingers in his hair.

Your climax builds fast. It feels too good. Too much. You try to warn him, but he groans against you, and it tips you over—your whole body arching off the bed as you cry out his name.

He doesn’t stop until your thighs are trembling and you’re panting for air.

Only then does he crawl back up, mouth slick, pupils blown wide.

You pull him into a kiss, tasting yourself on his lips, and reach between you to guide him into place.

He lines up, breath ragged, and you feel the blunt pressure of him at your entrance.

“Look at me, Y/N”.

You do.

And then he pushes in.

Slow. So goddamn slow. Stretching you inch by inch until he’s buried deep, forehead pressed to yours like the contact is the only thing anchoring him.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yes,” you breathe. “More than okay.”

Then he starts to move.

Each thrust is deliberate, controlled, like he’s checking your pulse with his body. The slide of skin on skin. The soft drag of his mouth along your throat. The way he groans when your nails rake down his back.

“I missed this,” he chokes out. “Missed you.”

“I’m right here.”

“You scared the shit out of me.”

You grip his face. “So fuck me like it matters.”

Something in him breaks.

He shifts, grabs your hips, and starts to thrust harder, deeper. The bed creaks under the rhythm, sweat building where your bodies meet, breath punching out of you with every stroke.

You meet him thrust for thrust, your gasps syncing with his groans until you’re both unraveling.

When you come again, it rips through you—louder this time, body shuddering beneath him. He follows with a hoarse shout of your name, hips stuttering as he spills inside you.

But even then, he doesn’t let go.

His arms stay locked around you. His face buried in your neck. His chest rising and falling against yours as he stays inside you, warm and still.

After a moment, he shifts—just slightly—and you feel him stir again. Still hard. Still aching. But this time, there’s a tension in his body that feels less like hesitation and more like possession.

He doesn’t speak. Just kisses you—rougher now, teeth grazing your bottom lip, hand sliding down your side to pull your leg around his waist. You feel it in the way he grabs your thigh, in the low growl that escapes when he sinks into you again without warning.

The pace is different this time. Less reverent. More raw. His thrusts are deeper, heavier, his body pressing you into the mattress with every stroke. You whimper his name and he groans—head falling to your shoulder, teeth grazing your skin.

It’s all slick heat and friction. The sound of skin meeting skin, the rasp of his breath in your ear. He fucks you like he needs to burn out the fear, chase away the image of your blood on tile. Like your body is the only thing tethering him to the present.

Your nails rake down his back. He hisses, grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head.

“Jack—”

“You’re mine,” he grits out. “Still mine.”

He leans in, kissing you hard, sloppy, teeth clashing. His hips piston into you harder, faster, building to the edge with brutal precision.

You come with a cry, your entire body curling around him as your walls clamp down, trembling and wet and perfect.

He follows with a low, broken moan, collapsing into you as he spills deep inside, every inch of him wrapped around you like a shield.

And when he finally stops shaking, he doesn’t pull out.

Doesn’t move.

Just holds you there, sweat and heat and breath shared between you.

This time, when he whispers, “You’re okay,” it sounds less like a question.

And more like the truth.

He kisses the corners of your eyes. Your jaw. The inside of your wrist.

"I’m here, Jack.”

You wake up alone.

The panic is immediate. But then you hear the soft clang of a mug in the kitchen.

You find him by the stove, shirtless. Dog tags dangling against his chest.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you ask softly.

He doesn’t turn. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

You come up behind him, wrap your arms around his waist.

He sinks into it. Finally exhales.

“I keep seeing it,” he murmurs. “The blood. Your eyes. I thought I lost you… I felt it. Just like I did overseas. That second where it all slows down, and you just know."

You press your cheek to his back. "You're here. I'm here. That's what matters."

He turns then. Cups your face. And this time, when he kisses you, it's not frantic. Not heavy.

It's soft.

And finally—it's peace.

The peace doesn’t last.

By 7:03 a.m., Jack’s badge is clipped back to his scrubs, his jaw freshly shaved, and his eyes—still bruised at the edges from lack of sleep—are locked on the hallway leading to trauma intake.

You’re behind him. Walking slower than usual, sure. But walking.

The minute you swipe into the main ER pod, it’s like someone hit pause. Heads lift. Conversations stop. A nurse stops mid-sentence and stares at the dried red line still barely visible at your temple.

Jack says nothing. Keeps walking.

You’re used to the way the ER stares. What you’re not used to is the way they stare at him.

Whispers follow.

"Did you hear he nearly decked that guy?"

"Dr. Robby had to physically restrain him."

"Jack's lucky he still has a license."

Jack doesn’t flinch, but you see it. The way his knuckles go white holding the patient chart. The way he refuses to make eye contact with anyone.

Robby catches up to Jack just outside the nurses station. He leans against the wall beside him, quite a beat before he speaks.

"You holding up?"

Jack huffs out a breath. "Define 'holding up.'"

Robby studies him. "Everyone’s talking. You know that, right? About what happened. About you."

"Let them talk."

Robby nods slowly. "They will. But for what it's worth, people know you didn't lose it. Not really. You stopped yourself. That matters."

Jack doesn’t say anything, but the line of his jaw softens—barely. He looks over at you down the hall, where you're laughing quietly with another nurse, a clipboard in your hands.

Robby claps Jack gently on the back. “Get back out there. But maybe… don’t take the guy in Room 9.”

Jack stiffens.

He knows who’s in Room 9.

It’s another combative drunk. Came in swinging at EMS. Male, mid-40s, belligerent as hell, already yelling at a med student for trying to take vitals. It’s not the same guy—but it’s close enough. Same profile. Same energy. Same trigger.

“I wasn’t planning to,” Jack mutters, voice low.

Robby just nods. “Didn’t think so.”

You head back to your rounds, trying to pretend like it’s a normal day. But you feel Jack’s eyes on you like a second shadow.

Every time you so much as check a patient’s IV or lean in to auscultate a chest, you can feel the weight of his stare across the room.

By the time you step out of Room 4 with a vitals chart in hand, Jack intercepts you mid-hallway and drags you to the nearest supply closet.

“You’re done,” he says quietly. “For today.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“You’re not ready to be back. You shouldn’t even be on the floor. Let me talk to–.”

You cross your arms. “I passed neuro eval. Twice. I’m cleared.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re safe.”

His voice is low but firm, eyes darting toward passing residents. You pull him into the side med supply closet before someone catches the tail end of his tone.

Inside, it’s quiet. Fluorescent lights buzzing.

“I need to be here,” you say. “For my own head. I need to prove to myself that I’m okay.”

Jack leans against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. He looks at you like it’s killing him to hear that. “I almost lost you on the floor you’re walking back into like nothing happened.”

“I’m not walking in like nothing happened,” you snap.

He exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “What if it happens again?”

“Then it does. And I deal with it. And you deal with it. But you can’t wrap me in gauze and keep me behind the nurses’ station just because you’re scared.”

He closes his eyes for a second. When he opens them, his voice is softer. “You’re the only thing I’ve ever cared about more than this job.”

You step toward him. Let your fingers hook in the front of his scrubs.

“I’m not asking you to stop caring,” you whisper. “I’m asking you to trust me. The same way I trust you every time we walk into the emergency room together.”

His jaw works, eyes closing again. He leans forward, rests his forehead to yours.

“I’m trying,” he murmurs. “I’m really fucking trying.”

And you believe him.

But when you step out of the closet and head toward your next patient, you don’t need to turn around to know he’s still watching you. Still waiting for the worst.

Still holding his breath.

That night, you don’t talk much on the drive home.

The hospital faded in the rearview, but the weight of the day hasn’t.

You both pretend to wind down—but everything feels like if either of you speak too loudly, you both might crack.

So you turn off the lights.

You crawl into bed.

And Jack follows.

It’s only when you’re curled together under the covers, his chest to your back, that he finally says it:

“I can’t protect you from everything.”

You nod, fingers wrapped around his. “I don’t want you to. I just want you to be there. Like you always are. That's why I married you.”

“I was scared,” he murmurs. “Like full-body, I-don’t-know-who-I-am scared. I haven’t felt like that in a long time.”

“I know,” you whisper. “Me too.”

He presses a kiss to the back of your shoulder. He exhales, the air leaving him slow and steady.

He holds you closer.

And for the first time in two days, he sleeps.

And so do you.