This Is How I Like My Villains...

ʚɞ Gojo Satoru Fic Recommendations ʚɞ

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Sundered

Kick Off

The Unfaithful

I Still Want You

Untameable Waves (please come back)

absolutely beautiful...was listening to t.s. when reading 🩵

Whale Song - Orm Marius X Female Reader

Title: Whale Song

Orm Marius X Female Reader

Additional Characters: Clark (Mentioned), Bruce (Mentioned), Arthur, Damian (Mentioned), Orm's father (Mentioned), and the Justice League (Mentioned)

Requested by: Anon!

WC: 5,189

Warnings: Somewhat enemies to lovers, mild cursing, movie canon violence briefly mentioned, post-Aquaman and the Lost Kingdom, during post-credits, italics used, book reference, banter, flirting, teasing, mentioned prejudice, slight angst, and fluff

You were upset. No, more than upset, pissed off. Annoyed. Furious. Normally you would get calls from Clark or Bruce, but never Arthur Curry - Aquaman. As his hologram figure shot out of your watch, you immediately frowned. Only having recently joined the Justice League, Arthur was known for causing a bit of trouble. You were both very different from each other. You were one for talking to people, and he liked using his fists.

But when Arthur called you, it normally meant that he wanted something, needed you to do something for him while he was stuck down in the ocean doing his Kingly duties. All high and mighty. Well, you were fed up. The last time he asked you for something, you were pulled into a small battle, and you owed him twenty bucks - you weren't one to bet, but against Arthur, it was hard to not take part. You loved to see his face when he lost. And he lost most of the time.

But you knew that you were a pretty sensible person to go to when anyone needed anything. You were bright and always mindful. You were brilliant, having gone to Harvard before moving to the big city - Metropolis.

It wasn't long after you found yourself in the company of the world's strongest heroes. With your intellect and specific set of skills, both Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne thought you could be an invaluable member of the Justice League. Though, instead of fighting on the front lines, you would offer advice and wisdom when needed - along with helping the team with the tech that you created. 

So, it didn't come as a surprise when Arthur called you on your 'Super Watch' as you called it, when you made it for you and the team. He came to you when he needed advice, which was a lot. If it had been anyone else, you would've been more than willing to help. But it was Arthur. However, you were willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

"I need to cash in that favor." He said. There was no greeting - no pleasantries. Just straight to business. Like he usually did when he needed something. 

You rolled your eyes. If only you hadn't asked him to take you to see a Humpback Whale - him with his Kingly Atlantis powers. It had always been a dream of yours, and why wouldn't you take a chance to experience something new and amazing like that? During the time, in awe of the giant Humpback before you, asking for that favor was totally worth it. 

However, at the moment, you didn't want to know what he wanted. There were so many things that he could possibly want. But, it was the weekend. Saturday. Not the day for you to play babysitter for some superpowered superhero. You already had to watch over Damian Wayne. You loved the kid, but you didn’t really think babysitting was your thing. "What do you want?" You asked, not bothering to mask the impatience in your voice. "I have a book I need to get to..."

"I need you to watch over somebody for me." He answered, seemingly aware of your impatience as he continued with a small grin on his face, "I believe that you heard that my brother has joined the surface world. He'll be needing some help adjusting and I think you-"

"Oh, no, no, no," You interrupted, shaking your head as you glared daggers at the hologram before you, "I am not babysitting your murderous brother." You ran a hand through your hair, "Do you know how much damage control I had to do when he tried to kill us surface-dwellers? It took me weeks to fix all that he did - with little help by the way!" You pointed an accusatory finger at him, "I already have a tough time babysitting the supers, I am not babysitting him too."

He sighed heavily. "Look, I know that this is a bit of a big favor-"

You scoffed, "A bit?"

"And I understand that being around new people is not exactly fun for you-"

You couldn't help but roll your eyes again, "Not just that, Art, I am not like you and the other supers. If your brother tries anything, I won't be able to stop him."

"He won't try anything," Arthur grinned, "He's changed, dude. He's not the same as he was over a year ago." 

You nodded, taking another glance at the sky outside your window. "That's good if what you say is true." You agreed hesitantly. "If I am going to do this, and if," You emphasized, letting out a deep breath, "How am I going to find him in the first place? I don't know what he looks like or even where he is. On top of that, I don't even know what his name is."

Arthur gave a small nod. "His name is Orm. I believe he is residing in Metropolis at the moment. For the past couple of weeks, he's been going from city to city, with what little Atlantean money he has left on him. I'll send you a description of his appearance. That'll help, but I think you'll know it's him when you see him."

"Really?" You asked, resting your hand on your hip, "I'll know?" But, Arthur said nothing, only giving you that 'know-it-all' look before hanging up the hologram call. 

Huffing, you dropped your hands, only to raise them to your face and rub your cheeks; overall pretty annoyed. Freezing, you cursed at yourself, forgetting to ask how long you'll be watching over this Orm. 

~~~

Sitting on a small bench, you adjusted your open book, glancing down at the pages. But, instead of reading about a boy and his little sister who fell down a laundry chute and into a strange underground world, you let your eyes wander across the sheet of printer paper that you placed in between the pages. Hiding the fact that you were looking for someone by pretending to read. Your eyes scanned around the page slowly, trying to memorize what Arthur gave you. How could you possibly find this man? Especially with what Arthur had given you to help you find him? Metropolis was huge!

Looking up, your eyes quickly settled on someone in front of you at an outside restaurant, there was a man; tall - seemingly - and blonde; eating a burger. Immediately as your eyes landed on him, you knew. Arthur was right. This was definitely him. 

You suddenly stood, shutting your hardcover book with a snap before walking across the street. Your eyes again locked onto his frame, watching as he continued to chow down on the large burger in his hands. It confused and unnerved you, but the closer you were getting to the man, the more your heart began to race. And it may or may not have been because you thought this Orm was rather attractive. Arthur's family had some good ass genes. 

Before you could even figure out what you were supposed to say, you took a seat across from him; the metal of the chair's legs scraping against the concrete ground sharply. The younger Atlantean prince paused his chewing, his crystal blue eyes staring at you with confusion and obvious caution. You understood that if anyone sat before you while you were trying to enjoy your lunch, you probably would've reacted the same way.

"Hello," You began, immediately inwardly cringing at how awkward your own voice sounded, "Um, I'm Y/N." You watched as he continued chewing, though slowly, his eyes continuing to look over you; still wary. "I'm friends with your brother. He asked me to help you, uh, get used to the surface."

At that, Orm huffed, setting down his burger; annoyed. "I do not need any help." He spoke, his voice firm, but smooth; a shiver ran down your spine. “How did you find me?” Without another word, you pulled the paper from Arthur out of the book, showing it to him. Orm’s eyes widened before narrowing, “Is that supposed to portray me?” He asked, gesturing to the crude drawing of himself - drawn by none other than Arthur himself - you could tell that Orm was not fond of the portrayal at all.

You gave him a deadpanned look, mentally finding this whole interaction very funny - funnily enough. But, you still had work to do. "Listen, I don't really want to do this either. I'd rather be at home reading. But, I owe him a favor and I'm a woman of my word. I understand that you are perfectly capable of taking care of yourself, but you are technically a fish out of water in this situation. There are going to be things here on the surface that you won't be able to navigate." You let out a breath, rubbing your temple with two fingers, "So please, let me at least help you with a few things that are mandatory for those that live on land."

After a few moments of silence, Orm squared his jaw as he rubbed his hands clean of the burger's grease with a napkin. The silence between the both of you was unnerving and tense, but you fought through it, not wanting to back down. Even though you were rather annoyed by this whole fiasco, you were a good person, and you weren't about to let a guy with an attitude ruin things for himself just because of his pride or whatever.

"Fine." He grumbled finally, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. "What must I do then?

"Well," You began, gesturing to the side of his burger where you saw a pair of bug legs sticking out, "We have a lot to cover."

~~~

For the next couple of weeks, you began teaching Orm about the surface world, though he was rather hesitant to follow your instructions. In the beginning, he complained and made small comments here or there, but Orm seemed to have noticed your no-nonsense nature. He didn't complain anymore after another firm talking-to, and you found out afterwards that he was a rather fast learner. He had no consistent place to live, moving from hotel to hotel, you knew he could only do that for so long; plus you knew from experience that some hotels were less than ideal to stay in, especially ones that were located near the center of the city. 

Therefore, you decided that Orm staying in one of your homes, near the shore in California, was a more ideal option for him. And if you were being honest with yourself, you were beginning to enjoy the youngest Atlantean prince's company; far more than Arthur's, that was for sure.

During the time that Orm has been staying in your humble abode, you made sure to keep him up with the latest tech, which was far different than in Atlantis, you were sure. From the toaster, blender, microwave, and even computer, you made sure that Orm had at least some, if not all, basic knowledge on the appliances around the house. As said before, Orm was an incredibly quick learner, having mastered most of everything within a matter of days.

However, what you did not expect was for you to begin to like him.

~~~

It had been a long night. You were sending email after email to some of your closest contacts and employees, making sure that they were keeping your empire afloat all the while you were on your "vacation" away from Metropolis. Some of your employees tried to get you to enjoy your so-called vacation, but it was hard to just not check up on how things were doing. 

It was well past midnight, reading and re-reading past emails, and checking your phone every now and then, waiting for the familiar notification sound to go off signaling a new text message to come through. You frowned as you set your phone down on the desk beside your computer, letting out a sigh. You leaned your elbows on the table, rubbing your eyes with the palms of your hands, tired and absolutely exhausted. 

Standing up, you shut your laptop and headed to the kitchen, quickly making yourself a small cup of tea; praying that it would hopefully help you go to sleep. You silently wandered around your seaside home, faintly hearing the ocean waves crash upon the shore. Taking a small sip of your tea, you hummed as it warmed your throat before pushing the back door open and stepping outside. 

The warm breeze made you smile, as did the smell of the salty ocean a couple hundred feet away from you. It was hard to see it, but you could see the moon reflecting off the waves. Resting your forearms against the wooden railing of the porch, you occasionally sipped your tea while enjoying the quiet.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" The smooth, yet low voice asked, startling you slightly.

Raising a hand to your chest, you let out a deep breath as you swiftly turned to see Orm standing a foot or so behind you; arms clasped behind him. His eyes never met yours, the deep blues staring right back at the raging waves. 

"Of course." You replied softly, as he did, turning to look back at the ocean in question, "It always is."

Orm wandered over, taking the spot next to you before speaking, "Do you enjoy the ocean?" He asked, his question surprising you slightly, but you didn't hesitate to answer.

"Yes." You replied, "Ever since I was a kid." Taking a sip of your tea, you swallowed before continuing, "I always lived in the city. I hardly got to see the ocean, we- my family rarely went to the beach. But that never stopped me from loving it." You shuffled one of your feet, the soul of your slipper slipping against the white wood. Looking up, you finally made eye contact with him, "What about you? I mean, you lived in the ocean most of your life, what's it like?" You asked, your curiosity clear in your tone.

He looked at you, his sharp eyes almost glowing from the moon's rays in the darkness of the night. "It is wonderful." He replied simply, looking back out towards the sea once more. "But, I cannot really describe it; it is not something one can explain simply." You gave a nod, as he shifted uncomfortably in his stance. "You had spoken that helping me acclimate to the surface was a favor owed to Arthur, correct?"

You nodded once more, "Yes, it was," You began, glancing over at him only to see that Orm was already looking at you, "Though, to be perfectly honest, his favor was much bigger than mine was." You chuckled lightly, scratching the back of your neck as you stared into his blue eyes.

He tilted his head curiously, "Is that so?" He questioned, 

"Well, yes-" You bit your lip, shifting in your position as you glanced back at the horizon, "I just asked to see a whale." 

At that, Orm raised an eyebrow, "A whale?"

You hummed in confirmation, "Yep, I just wanted to see a whale. I really like whales. And sharks. But I like whales the most. They sleep upright which is super cool. They are just so fascinating." You gushed, a bright smile slowly spreading onto your face before you cleared your throat, "I mean, you must’ve noticed. I have like ten paintings of whales in there." You finished, gesturing back at the house with a nod of your head, feeling a bit embarrassed by your small rant. Meeting Orm’s gaze once again, you swore that you saw a small smile on his face, but before you could fully confirm it with yourself, he hummed before looking back at the ocean.

"Was it all that you hoped?" He then asked.

"Yeah, definitely. When I was available, he took me to Maine and used his ocean magic to summon a Humpback Whale." The memory of seeing that whale made your chest swell with pride. You smiled as you watched the waves ripple gently across the sand. "When it breached the water, I felt as if I took my first breath. It was the nicest thing Arthur has done for me."

Orm felt a pang in his chest, a wave of jealousy washing over him, making him shift in his stance, his grip on his hand behind his back tightening. For the past month or so, Orm had grown accustomed to being around you, and he had found himself liking you quite a bit despite how much he disliked humans. It wasn't something he'd admit to anyone else aside from himself, but you managed to make him feel a little better, more relaxed, even. And, he actually enjoyed spending time with you. "Does Arthur do nice things for you usually?" Orm inquired, attempting to push down his jealousy.

You shook your head, "Nope, never." You laughed lightly, before placing both hands on the railing, leaning forward slightly, "He usually likes to tease me, you know, joke around. I find him annoying most of the time." You admitted, "But, I should thank him next time I see him in person." You yawned, grabbing your empty cup from the wooden railing with one hand as Orm turned to look at you properly.

"Thank him?" He asked, his eyebrows furrowing together ever so slightly as you paused at the back door, your back facing him.

"Yeah." You responded softly, shrugging one shoulder, "If he didn't ask me to help you, I never would've met you." There was silence between the two of you for a few moments until you turned your head to look back over at him, meeting those same deep blue eyes that seemed to stare right into your very soul. You took the moment to let your eyes travel over his handsome features: the light stubble along his jawline, his blonde hair combed perfectly, the softness of his skin, and his lips. You could have stayed longer looking at him, staring at the man who unknowingly caused so much pain in your heart, but you could not allow yourself to continue. Instead, you quickly averted your eyes, clearing your throat awkwardly, "I'm going to head to bed. Goodnight, Orm." You said before ducking back inside.

"Goodnight, Y/N." Orm muttered, his voice low as he stared at the back door, where your figure had disappeared into, his blue eyes lingering on the door for a moment before he sighed, running a hand through his hair in frustration. It wasn't long until he looked back at the crashing ocean, his eyebrows furrowed. 

When Orm found himself living with you at your beach house, he did his best to keep his distance, avoiding you as much as he could when you weren't trying to teach him the ways of the surface-dwellers. His stubbornness was also partly due to the fact that he was brought up in such a way to hate surface-dwellers; to despise them as a whole, and everything they stood for. But, even still, he couldn't bring himself to truly dislike you. Despite the nagging of his father's words echoing in his mind whenever he was close to you. He felt... something towards you. Something different; something new.

~~~

The next morning, you were up bright and early, heading downstairs to grab yourself a cup of coffee. Humming a soft, upbeat tune, you shimmied around the kitchen as you poured yourself some coffee; adding cream and sugar.

Glancing around the kitchen, and tilting your body to the side to peer into the dining room, your humming came to a stop. Usually, at the time that you came down for coffee, Orm had already figured out how to make his breakfast. Which usually consisted of eggs, bacon, and tea. 

Frowning, you furrowed your eyebrows, glancing at the clock on the wall before finishing up stirring your tea. Grabbing the warm mug into your dominant hand, you pulled the edges of your cardigan closer around you; the mornings were always so chilly, being so close to the ocean and all. 

Stepping out onto the back porch, you paused. There was Orm, leaning against the wooden beam of your railing - just as he did the night before. He was dressed for the day, in the Surface-Dweller attire you helped him buy. Sometimes, it was hard to believe that he wasn't from the surface world, he fit in so perfectly. His forearms were resting against the railing, slightly bent at the hip, his stormy blue eyes staring off into the crashing waves of the ocean only a couple of mere hundred feet in front of him. You leaned against the doorframe, worrying on your bottom lip. He must have missed his home - Atlantis - you knew that he did. You couldn’t imagine leaving your home, being forced to never return, in fear of imprisonment or even death. Even though you and Orm had a pretty rough beginning, your heart broke for him. 

Your mind raced with possible ideas of how to try and cheer him up, your eyes flickering down at the wooden porch floorboard, spotting bits of sand sprinkled around here and there from your many adventures from the shore. You allowed your gaze to flicker back to the Atlantean man, studying the contours of the side of his face closely, taking in every detail. His brows furrowed tightly together, his lips slightly pursed in deep thought. He was so... Beautiful. Especially as the morning sun filtered into his hair, shining upon the blonde strands, causing them to appear almost white. 

You blinked for a moment, shaking your head slightly as you focused back on trying to come up with an idea to cheer the man up. And then, it hit you. A surge of excitement rushed through you, making your skin buzz slightly at just the idea. Making yourself known, you walked over, taking your place beside him as he had done last night for you. 

"Hey," You spoke up softly, setting your mug down on the railing, your fingers curling around the ceramic; warming them. "Good morning."

Orm turned his head, his gaze landing on yours before he returned his attention to the ocean, "Good morning."

You sighed, turning your gaze to stare at the ocean yourself, shuffling one of your socked feet against the wooden floorboards. "Have you eaten?" You breathed out, raising your cup to take a sip.

"Yes," Orm muttered, glancing at you briefly, "And you?"

You shook your head slightly, taking another sip, "No," You spoke against the rim of your mug, "I have not yet." You suddenly felt nervous, as the words that you had wished to say slithered on the tip of your tongue. "I was wondering if you'd like to go on an adventure with me?" You asked, turning your head to look back up at him, his eyes meeting yours. 

"An adventure?" He repeated, raising a single eyebrow.

You nodded, unable to stop a smile from spreading on your face, "Yeah, well, I was thinking, you've been cooped up in this house for far too long." You placed your mug aside, turning your body to face him, your eyes bright. "So..." You trailed off, tilting your head to the side a bit - trying to read him, he seemed curious. "What'd ya say?"

"Where is it that you would like to take me?" He asked then, sounding curious and yet, hesitant. 

"It's a surprise." You answered quickly - your excitement obvious - before grabbing your mug and speeding back inside. Pausing at the door, you braced your hand against the doorframe, looking back over at him. "You'll love it. I swear."

~~~

"May I open my eyes now?" Orm asked as you helped him out of your car, his hand covering his eyes, as you had asked him to do. From stepping out of the car, Orm could feel the difference in the air; it was warmer out, and he could still smell the salt of the ocean. And yet, he had no idea where you were taking him. 

"No yet," Orm felt you take his other unoccupied arm, your two hands intertwining as you led him away from your parked car towards what he assumed was the entrance of something.

Orm hummed, the hand over his eyes twitching slightly from the urge to just look, "You are not leading me to my death, are you?" He asked, his tone laced with amusement.

"Hmm, no." You played along as you pulled open one of the double doors, leading him inside, "I wouldn't have you stay with me, for almost four months, just to take you to some secondary location to kill you." Your words made Orm chuckle as you began to drag him further into whatever mysterious place you had taken him to.

As Orm followed blindly beside you, he tried to tighten his hearing, seeing if he could pick up anything around him. For the most part, he didn't hear any signs that anyone else might be around. As far as he could tell, it was only the two of you. He couldn't help but wonder, why the sudden trip? With a gentle tug, he felt you come to a stop, one of your hands dropping from his arm. 

"Okay," You breathed out, "You can look now." Dropping his hand, Orm blinked his eyes rapidly, before they widened. So... This was where you were taking him. An aquarium. The water from the aquarium tunnel reflected on the walls in a kaleidoscope effect, tinting in stunning blues and greens. Fish, some sharks, and even a few stingrays of all species swam about everywhere. The underwater tunnel gave off a soothing atmosphere, as if the water itself was saying; 'Welcome.' His eyes followed the graceful movements of the sea creatures above, his ocean-blue eyes flickering from fish to fish, his lips parted slightly. You broke your gaze from the tunnel, turning to look up at Orm, your smile slowly dropping as you took notice of the expression on his face. It was hard to decipher it, your mind beginning to overwhelm you with 'what ifs' and terrible doubts. "Do you not like it?" You asked softly, your voice filled with uncertainty. Orm swallowed hard, but you continued, "I mean, of course, you might hate it." You began to ramble, running a hand through your hair, looking anywhere else but at him, "I mean, this is technically like a prison for fish. But, I assure you, I practically built this aquarium - all the fish have all the food they could possibly want, all the space-" Orm looked down at you, watching as you continued to stumble over your words, “I know you must have been feeling homesick, and I know you can't really go into the ocean, so I thought that you might like it here-”

“Y/N.” He finally spoke, interrupting your rant, “Thank you.” The words seemed to have easily slid off his tongue, his eyes softening as you stared up at him with those eyes of yours. 

“So, I haven't upset you?” You asked, pulling your bottom lip under your teeth once more. 

Orm shook his head, reaching up with his hand, his thumb gently brushed against your bottom lip, pulling it from between your teeth, freeing it; you felt your cheeks heat at the touch, your eyes fluttering momentarily as the warmth of his finger pressed against your bottom lip. “You have not upset me.” Orm tried to reassure you, giving you that smile of his that made your heart flutter. “In fact, this must be the best surprise I have ever received.” 

“Really?” Your eyes lit up, your smile growing, and at Orm's nod, you sighed, “Wow…” Turning back to look at the fish swimming in the large aquarium glass around you, you spoke once more. “Beautiful, isn't it?” You mimicked his own words from two days prior.

"Yes," Orm muttered, "Very beautiful…” 

Looking up at him, you were surprised to find Orm already looking down at you. You felt your breath hitch, again, unable to look away as his eyes bore down into yours with such intensity. His eyebrows furrowed slightly, a faint crease appearing on his forehead. The air around you grew thick, and it wasn't until Orm reached out, cupping your cheek with one hand, that you finally realized just how much closer your faces were than usual. And yet, you did nothing to pull back. Instead, you simply held your breath, your gaze locked onto his, as his thumb ran along your cheek, his fingers tangling themselves in your hair slightly, drawing you closer to him.

His brows furrowed deeper, his eyes darkening slightly as he gazed down at you. His lips parted slightly, a breath leaving him, before he leaned forward; his lips barely brushing against yours. Slowly, hesitantly, he closed the distance between the two of you. Your eyes fluttered shut as his hand slid down from your cheek to cradle your neck, keeping you close. Your arms wrapped around his middle, your fingers gripping tightly at the fabric of his sweater - you never wanted this moment to end.

The kiss lasted mere moments before you both pulled apart, unable to stop yourselves from smiling at each other. Orm felt an immense sense of happiness overtake him as his blue eyes met yours, his cheeks tinted a soft pink. "Arthur was right," He said - mentally hating the words that seemed to slip so easily from his lips - his hand moved to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear, his thumb grazing across the shell of your ear.

You couldn't help but let out a small chuckle, raising one hand to press his palm into your cheek, "Arthur was right about what?" You narrowed your eyes playfully, "He's hardly right about anything."

Orm let out a deep sigh, silently agreeing with you, "The surface world is not as terrible as I always believed and was told." He smiled down at you, his hand falling from your cheek to take your hand in his, "You have proven that. As well as Arthur.” You tilted your head to the side lightly, letting out another laugh before shaking your head; Orm's smile quickly turned into a small, anxious frown, "Don't tell Arthur I said that."

"I won't." You promised, your eyes crinkling as you laughed out your words, "He wouldn't shut up about it if I did." Orm chuckled as he nodded his head as you interlaced your fingers with his, "So..." You trailed off, "Do you want to see the rest of the aquarium? I rented it out for the next two hours. So, we got the whole place to ourselves." You waved your free hand in the air, gesturing to the long empty tunnel that led the way to the rest of the aquarium.

"Lead the way." Orm smiled, squeezing your hand in his own gently as he allowed himself to be guided by you; he would follow you wherever you went.

---

Main Masterlist | DC Masterlist

i want this force of a man to give me his babies

Baby gojo reacts to: nanami!

idk if you did that already but just in case! Loved the last one too, thank you again sm! 🩵

“don’t— don’t paw at my glasses, please.”

nanami stares at the squirming baby almost apprehensively as he pins his little arms. “that’s not polite. here, you have to stay put.”

gojo has left his baby to him as he and you go on a date. why did he even agree? the clown told him both of you will be back before evening and you even apologized to him for the trouble. for old time’s sake, he relents.

“…?” baby tilts his head at him, and then he reaches out to his tie and grabs it. “waaa!”

“oh you.” nanami inwardly facepalms as the little thing happily plays with his tie. he’s about to reprimand him again when he realizes the kid is quiet as he fiddles with it. nanami decides to give in.

“at first glance you look calm but you resemble gojo greatly…” nanami sighs. “but of course, you’re his kid.”

baby turns to him as he smiles. “bwa?”

“nothing. grow up well, okay? don’t turn into your father too much.”

these are the type of characters I love- in books(especially), movies, shows

The Next Time I Hurt Somebody, It Could Be You

Summary: After saving you, Sergei thought it was too dangerous for you to be around him.

Masterlist (requests are currently open for now)

Pairing: Kraven/Sergei x female reader

"I thought I'll find you here," you said as you stepped out from the dark forest, walking closer to Sergei. He didn't move his stare from the lake and just continued even when you walked closer. You rubbed your arm and pulled your coat tightly around your body, as you continued with a little nervous tone, "You've been quiet since we came back."

"You saw what I did, right?" he suddenly asked. "What I can do."

You thought back to the three men he killed with his bare hands and just nodded, "Yes. That's not something new."

"Y/n," he said softly and he finally turned to you, "They tried to kill you, to get to me."

"I know, but I'm alive, I'm here," you said, trying to assure him that you were okay and took a step closer. "I'm here. I'm fine."

"No, you're not," he said, in a soft voice. He placed his hands on your cheeks, and caressed them softly. His expression was natural but you knew him too well, his eyes were sad, and heartbroken.

"As long as you with me, you won't be fine," he said, "You won't be safe."

"Sergei--"

"I can't let you get hurt again, do you understand?" he said softly. You released a breath as you felt your eyes burning. "You mean too much to me."

"Then let me stay, don't push me away," you said as you placed your hands on his arms.

"I can't," he said, "All that anger in me, every time I hunt, all I think about is what I will do to my father... I didn't care who I'll kill or hurt during that. Look at me." He brushed away a tear that fell down your cheek. "The next time I hurt somebody... it could be you."

"You won't," you said, "I'm on your side, you'll never hurt me, I know you won't."

"Calypso's on my side too, yet, I harmed her too," he reminded softly.

"That was an accident, you didn't knew she was there," you said, "She isn't angry with you, I'm not angry, please, just... don't." He let go of your cheeks. "Don't push me away."

You moved your hands from his arms to his face, this time you held his cheeks. You looked at him in the eyes with a soft expression, "I love you, Sergei."

He wrapped his arms around you and pulled you closer. "I love you, too," he said as you let go of his cheeks. He rested his forehead against you, and the both of you closed your eyes for a moment.

He moved his head and kissed your forehead gently as he placed his hand behind your head. You held his shoulders, afraid to let go.

His nose brushed down against yours as he closed his eyes again, inhaling your scent. "That's why, I need to let you leave." He moved his hand to your chin, and lifted your face to look at you. "I need to let you go."

You let another tear slip down your cheek and you took a step back. "If you love me, you wouldn't let me go," you said softly. He let go of you and you gave him one last tearful look before you wiped your tears away. "I'll go to Caly for the night, I'll grab a few things for now."

You quickly turned around and walked to the direction of your cabin. You quickly walked inside and wiped a few more tears from your cheeks. You sniffed silently as you walked to your bedroom and grabbed a bag to put a few clothes.

You heard the door opening and closing.

You placed a few shirts before hearing footsteps approaching the room. You felt him approaching you from behind. You closed your eyes when he wrapped his arms around you from behind.

You felt his lips kissing the side of your neck, inhaling your scent again.

You opened your eyes as he moved away from your neck and he gently turned you around to face him. You looked up at him as he brushed a piece of your hair from your face to your ear.

He stared down at you as he pulled you closer to his body. He didn't say anything, instead he lowered his lips against yours.

His tongue explored your mouth, kissing you hungrily and passionately. After a moment, he threw the bag off of the bed, and lifted you up.

You wrapped your legs around his hips and let him pull you down on the bed with him on top of you.

"God, I love you," he muttered as he moved his lips from yours and trailed them down to your neck, nibbling where your pulse was, making you moan softly.

"I love you, too," you breathed out and he moved from your body. You opened your eyes and saw him pulling his jacket and t-shirt off. You sat up and pulled your coat and shirt off of your body before he helped you with your jeans.

Not a minute after, both of you were completely bare.

And before you knew it, he entered you, rolling his hips as both of you moaned at the feeling of been connected after awhile.

Your fingers curled into fists as you gripped into the sheets, and your thoughts begin to turn fuzzy. His cock pounding again and again against that spot, making you moan out aloud.

"Sergei, please--" you moaned. His head tilted forward, eyes meeting yours. There’s a clench in his jaw that told you he wasn't far off, that he was just as wrapped up in this as you are.

After what felt like forward, you felt him spilling inside you, and you moaned at the feeling, coming as well. He kissed between your neck and shoulder as he stilled.

Both of you panted as he lifted his head and lowered his lips against yours, kissing you softly as you held onto him. "Don't push me away," you said softly.

"I won't," he said, "I can't do it." He brushed your hair from your face and kissed down your cheek and down to your neck.

it's so hard to pic my men and I'll be posting a lot if I'm gonna mention all of them (tho i can go all day, no problem)

compiled to top 5 because there's so many to choose from😩

this pic of geto lives rent free in my head, I love this baby so much🥹

im a s*ut for gojo. i wud use another adjective but community guidelines🤭

black butler is sooo underrated, for all those who haven't seen it please watch. sebastian is soooo goood🤤

mackenyu/zoro and song kang *im soaked*

i wanna post thai actors too but....there's A LOT

it's so unfair that most of the men i love are either fictional or completely unachievable😞

saw it on twt and I just wanna do it here too!

Reblog with ur taste in men!

doesn’t have to be anime

I like my men depressed (I like them better when they have something to live for too 🥰)

I like when they show their forehead (for yuuji maybe sukuna mode lol), is a sunshine, baby, deserve rest and love, cutest smiles, foreheads, is sweet and gentle, have feral side idk and omfg I wanna suck all of them-

tag (everyone who wants to join can join too!) @downforsanji @stephisokay @anemptypuddingcup @gojo-mochi @acesgf @hauntedhearthowl @milkzoro

Mizu's Little Shadow

You finish sewing the tear in your daughter's small kimono, tugging the end into a knot and snipping off the excess. You hold up the piece of clothing to your eye level and shake it out. "Little moon, come here," you call for her as you inspect it. It looks well, but you want her to try it on to see if your stitch will hold up to her energetic movements.

When you don't hear the patter of you six year old's little feet you call her again. No answer. Standing up from the chair, you stretch your back with a soft grimace as you walk to the bedroom where she last was. You do not find her.

You search the small house before quickly turning to set the kimono down and head outside to look for her. Maybe Mizu had spotted her running around while she's training.

As soon as you slide open the back door your hear your daughter's voice. She's making little grunts and huffs like she's straining herself, and you worry she's trying to climb the tree next to the house again. Bunching the bottom of your kimono in hand, you follow her voice and hurry from the south end of the house back around to the front.

But when you round the corner of the house, you're surprised to find she's not failing to scramble up the base of the trunk. She's several meters past it, stumbling around and kicking out as her eyes follow Mizu a way's away from the house near the tree line.

Her tiny green haori is dirtied, dirt clumped in patches at her shoulder and sides where she's fallen on the ground several times already. Before you can call out to her, she trips and falls into the dirty hands first. With the childish grunt of irritation and determination, she pushes herself back up. She sets her eyes on Mizu again, settling her feet in the same way your lover has hers and mirrors the rhythm of her steps. She holds her tiny hand out like she's grasping at a heavy sword.

She's copying Mizu's training movements.

A soft laugh of surprise quietly slips from under your breath as your eyes warm from this new discovery. You lean against the tree trunk and tilt your head at her to soak in this new development of your child.

Your little girl's mirroring of Mizu's slow, methodical twists and parries with her sword are adorably wobbly. Compared to Mizu's balanced, fluid motions that showcase her mastery of each movement, your little moon's dance is closer to flailing. Your hand covers your repressed giggle as your eyes brighten at her stumbling feet.

Your fingertips gently rest against your lips as your eyes follow the line from her to Mizu. The way she's moving taps at your mind, causing a soft furrow between your eyebrows. Isn't that her warm up exercises?

Mizu's never done those this late into the afternoon. She would be focused on slicing through trees during this time on any other day. And you know how long she's been out. She can't possibly still be focused on her balance and fine-tuning the flow of movement. So why...?

On the next turn, from farther away, Mizu rotates on her heel and ends up facing you as she mimics a block. Her blue eyes catch yours, and she quirks her eyebrows up at you with a knowing smile.

When your daughter's foot slides a little on the dirt, and she hops on one foot to get back into position, that's when Mizu just so happens to pause her movements. Her slowed motions only resume when your daughter finds her footing again.

Oh...

Your heart sings, unable to help the pure expression of love and adoration for the both of them from flowing from your face.

Later in the night, after you both put your little moon to bed, you press yourself up tight against Mizu in the candlelight, sealing your lips to hers as you cup her face.

"I really did give birth to your clone."

Mizu chuckles quietly, pressing her lips back into yours. "She really thought I couldn't spot her in the middle of a clearing."

She brushes her lips along your cheekbone. "I can train her, if you wish."

You chuckle. "Maybe further down the line. If she's anything like you, she wants to think she's being sneaky and doing something she shouldn't be." You push her away playfully, before you're snatched around the waist. The room tilts as you're pinned down to the bed with a squeal by a beautiful swordsman grinning devilishly.

Tummy ache

Do I have kids? No. Do I want kids? Fuck no. Did I still write this because dad logan makes me feel a certain type of way? HELL YES

Pairing: Worst!Logan x single mom!Reader

Summary: It's late and your little daughter Laura won't stop crying and screaming, no matter what you do. You take her to your best friend Wade, who lives in the same apartment buildung. Will he and Logan be able to help you?

Wordcount: 3.4k

Warning/tags: english is not my first language, fluff, slight missunderstandings, Wade bc he needs a warning, implied sexual themes, friends to lovers, just cuteness, Laura doesn't exists as an adult like in the movie, rushed ending?, leave me alone I finished this at midnight

__________________________________

Logan was snoring on the couch in Wades apartment when loud, frantic knocks sounded on the door. He grumbled in annoyance as he turned, pulling a pillow over his head.

He heard Wade skip to the door in a pair of white underpants with hearts on them and a loose, grey wolverine fangirl shirt. "Must be the horse dildo I ordered" he spoke happily as if it was the most normal thing to say. Once Wade opened the door, the piercing shrieks of a baby crying echoed through the apartment.

You held your one year and a half old daughter in your arms, her face red as she cried into your shoulder. Wade noted that your hair was a mess and you seemed awfully tired. Well- it was late and on any other day, you and your daughter would already be sleeping. But there was clearly something that bothered her. She had been crying and screeching and in discomfort for an hour without you finding what caused it or how to fix it.

You tried feeding her, but she wouldn't open her mouth for the spoon. You tried reading to her, but she would always push away the books. You changed her diapers in case her sensitive skin was irritated by the dampness, but she hadn't peed. You didn't know why she was so distressed and nothing seemed to distract her from whatever it was that made her cry.

You were desperate. And while your best friend Wade wasn't really...fond of kids, which you couldn't blame him for, you still went to him for help. You never truly wanted kids yourself. But when the condom broke and your ex left you upon finding out you were pregnant, you were stuck with your baby. And now you wouldn't trade her for the world. Except in times where she was screaming with no appearant reason. "Hey Wade, I'm so sorry to bother you guys this late at night, but Laura, she won't stop crying. I've tried everything and I don't know what to do" you croaked, rocking the small child in your arms, shushing her to no avail.

Wade brought you inside so you wouldn't stay outside in the hallway any longer. No need for some neighbors to peek their head out of their doors to see what was going on.

In situations like these, Wade could be oddly serious and actually tried to help. He knew you were insecure because of your baby. You didn't want to be a nuisance or burden to anyone because you knew that your daughter could be a lot. Kids were high maintanance and you didn't want to make people feel like they were obligated to make room and drop everything once you arrived with your child. You couldn't expect from anyone that they were okay with you bringing your kid over. But Wade wanted you to know that even though he didn't like kids, you were his best friend and Laura had been nothing but a sweetheart so far. You were always welcome in his apartment.

Wade kicked Logan from the couch "Get your fat ass off the couch, the Lady needs a place to sit" he loudly said over Lauras crying. Logan groaned. You sat on the sofa and tried to take up as little space as possible. "Im sorry Logan, didn't want to disturb your sleep." you apologized meekly. "I can..I can move to the chair here" you muttered, pointing to an uncomfortable-looking wooden chair that replaced an armchair, which had recently been thrown out of the apartment due to mysterious stains and various rips and cuts in the fabric.

You had met Logan a few times since he lived with Wade and Althea. And you would be a liar if you said he didn't catch your eye. He was tall, broad and very handsome, pretty much right up you alley. But there was no way he was looking for a chaotic single mother that barely had her life together and struggled to raise an unplanned child because her ex left her. Yeah, no. You were miserable. Logan didn't need any of that.

Adding to that, he always seemed to avoid you when Laura was near. You just thought he didn't like kids, which was totally fair. Truthfully, Logan liked kids and had always wanted some of his own, but it just...never happened. With him being the worst wolverine and all.

Then why did he avoid you and your baby?

Simply said, he didn't want to scare her. Most kids looked at him like he was some sort of big, bad monster. Some ran away, some started crying, others hid from him behind their parents when he walked by. He wasn't good with children either because they never let him close enough before getting scared. He was afraid that Laura would react the same way like all children did. He didn't want you to back away once you realised that Laura didn't approve of him.

He couldn't bear only seeing you from afar.

As you were about to stand up from the couch, Logan stopped you. "No, its fine. Stay on the couch. I can move" he replied and you felt another pang as he moved away from you again.

Wade leaned over the couch, looking down at Laura who was still wailing uncontrollably. You sighed deeply, a throbbing ache behind your eyes. "Why won't you stop crying? What's wrong, sweetheart?" you nearly sobbed as well. You were so tired of this, so tired of this sound. You felt so helpless and stupid. "Maybe she wants some food? We have some left-over pizza, I can grind that stuff up into a slurry for her or something" Wade suggested.

You softly shook your head. "She doesn't want to eat, I tried. I also tried to read her a bedtime story, but she just push me away. I also changed her diapers but nothing helped" you rasped, ready to just fall asleep on the spot.

Wade reached down to get your crying daughter out of your arms. "How about you get some sleep while Wolvie and I take care of Laura? Maybe we'll find out what's rubbing her the wrong way." Wade said, cooing to your crying baby. You fell onto the couch, closing your eyes. "I can't just sleep when she is crying" you mumbled, clearly deadly tired.

"We'll take care of her. You go sleep" Logan drawled and his deep voice soothed you even more, made you even more sleepy. It was so easy to let your body betray your mind and you hated it. "Okay..." you whispered, too tired to argue. And before you could snuggle into the couch cushions, you felt two strong arms slip under your body and lifting you up as if you weighted nothing. You were so tired, you couldn't even gasp or protest as Logan brought you into Wades room, your senses enveloped with his scent.

He carefully lowered you down onto the matress, covering you up with a blanket. "Sleep tight, love. We'll take great care of your little one, so you don't have to worry about a thing" he drawled softly and only after closing the door behind him did he hope that you hadn't catched his slip-up, that he had called you love.

~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~

In had been another two hours of constant crying and screaming. The kid must be exhausted from all the crying, but she still didn't stop. If you asked Logan, it became even worse.

"God, can you shut up for a minute? I am trying everything here!" Wade stressed, bouncing Laura in his arms and patting her back. "Don't tell your mom I said that" he whispered right after. Laura wailed and pushed herself away from Wade with her tiny hands, which were surprisingly really strong. She squirmed in his grasp, desperate to be set down.

"This is how you thank me? I've worked my ass off the past hour to get everything to your liking and now you push me away?" he grumbled, but set her down with a loud 'ouch!' after she started to scratch him.

Her tiny feet waddled against the livingroom floor as fat tears rolled down her chubby cheeks. She had a tummy ache, but she couldn't communicate that with anyone. There were a few words she knew and could say- cat, dog, mama. But she didn't have the words to say that something was hurting.

Logan sat on the couch and watched her as she stood a few feet away from him with her red face, screaming together the whole neighborhood. He sighed deeply, the sound making his ears ring. Then, out of nowhere, she waddled over to him.

"No, no, bub. Not a good idea. Get back to uncle Wade" he told her, scooting up the couch a bit more. He could have just stood up and walk away- why didn’t he? Laura stood between his legs now, demanding uppies from him as she cried. Logan shook his head, ready to call Wade from the kitchen, when Laura began screetching, stretching herself to Logan, standing on her small tip toes.

With a huff, he picked her up, his big and warm hands eveloping her small body. He leaned back against the couch with her on his lap. To his surpise, she quieted down. "You okay now, bub?" he asked her, jumping as she snuggled herself against his chest. Due to his mutation, Logan was always very warm. His whole body was like a heater and that warmth soothed Lauras tummy ache, unbeknownst to him.

The apartment was quiet now, only a few hiccups and sighs coming from Laura as she let her stomach ache be washed away by Logans cozy warm body. He didn't know what to do! One minute he was tortured by her screams and now she was napping on him. On him! Out of all people, she chose to rest on him.

"Is she dead!?" It was now Wades turn to yell as he came stumbling into the kitchen because it suddenly went all quiet. Logan didn't answer him nor did he move a muscle, too scared to wake your baby up.

"What the fuck" Wade blurted out upon seeing something he had never thought he would ever witness in his entire life. Logan shushed him, making Wade frown. He came closer, his face next to Lauras sleeping one "You little cheating slut" he sharply whispered, earning himself a shove from Logan. "Seriously, did you knock her out? Why is she sleeping all of a sudden?" Wade asked with crossed arms.

"I don't know. She wanted me to pick her up, so I did. Then she stopped crying and fell asleep" Logan explained, a warm feeling spreading in his chest as he watched the slow rise and fall of Lauras breath, her tiny hand tightly holding onto his shirt.

"Wow" Wade said. "You're the baby whisperer" Logan shot him a glare.

Wade went on a rant about how everything would have been easier if Logan took Laura from the start before finally falling asleep draped over the chair, leaving Logan alone with his thoughts. For a moment, Logan thought about bringing Laura to you so she could sleep with her mom. But as he tried to peel her off of him, she started fuzzing and whimpering until she was laying back on his chest.

He sighed deeply. Well, gotta make the best of the situation, huh? With a grunt, he made himself comfortable on the couch and fell asleep with a broad hand securily holding Laura on top of him.

~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~

You woke up well rested. Weird. You haven't slept this good since Laura had been born.

Laura!

You jumped awake, stumbling over some stuff in Wades room before you reached the door. It was quiet as you opened it and you were met with the sight of Logan, the fucking Wolverine, sound asleep with your daughter cuddled up on him as if he was some kind of big teddy.

Your heart soared in your chest, your stomach did flips and summer saults. And your pussy throbbed. Couldn't help it, seeing him with your baby did something to your ovaries. It was...so cute. You wanted nothing more than to snuggle up with them, trace patterns onto his pecks while Laura would squeak out an adorable smile-

"Mama" Laura squealed suddenly, flashing you a smile with her few teeth. "Hey there, baby" you cooed to her, kneeling down next to the couch to be eye-level with her. She smiled brightly, whatever it was that had bothered her yesterday completely forgotten. "You seem happy using uncle Logan as a pillow" you said to her, kissing her chubby cheek.

Logan started waking up, only registering Laura at first. "You slept well, bub?" he muttered with a deep sleep laced voice, gently rubbing Lauras small head with his large hand that easily fitted around the back of her head.

"Yes, I did. Thank you for asking" you giggled softly, amused by the way Logan nearly jumped out of his skin upon noticing that you were there too, witnessing how he went soft for your daughter. An embarrassed blush krept onto his face and he cleared his throat, sitting up and avoiding your gaze. "Sorry, she...she only stopped crying when she sat on my lap"

You smiled softly at him. "Seems like she really likes you, then." and I like you too, you wanted to add, but didn't. "She is usually not that touchy with people she barely met" you said and hearing your reassurance- the fact that Laura seemed to like him- it warmed his heart. But he would never admit that.

"Well, I guess I'm flattered" Logan replied with the hint of a smile, his gaze soft as you lost yourself in his eyes, Lauras babbling fading into the background. For a moment, you let yourself think about what could have been. This baby, it could have been Logans and yours. She could have been born because two people truly loved each other. Did Logan love you? You doubted it. But when he looked at you like that, you allowed yourself to be fooled.

"I don't know how you manage to fuck each other just with your eyes, but get a room. There are children present" Wade suddenly said outraged, covering Mary Puppins eyes.

You picked up Laura from Logans lap, holding her against your hip to bring distance between you, Logan and Wades teasing. Logan cleared his throat, clearly disappointed.

"I am so, so thankful that you guys helped me. I don't know what you did or what was wrong with her, but she seems all better now. Is there anything I can do to show my gratitude? you asked, gently bouncing Laura in your arms.

Logan shook his head "No need, bub" he grumbled in his deep voice. He would have done this a thousand times if it meant he could hold your baby in his arms as if it was his. "Make that creamy ass mac and cheese and my life is yours. That stuff tastes and sounds better than any pussy" Wade chimes in, making you laugh. You promised to invite both of them over for dinner sometimes this week and they happily agreed. Laura squeaked out a cute "bye!" before you went back to your own apartment again.

~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~

Ever since that day, visits to either Wades or your apartment became more frequent and Laura couldn't be happier seeing Logan pretty much every day. She would stick to his leg from the minute she saw him and to the last second before he left. It was adorable and made you fall even deeper in love with someone you could never have.

Wade made it his mission to steal Laura away from you and Logan. Partly because he wanted you to spend more time alone, and to teach her some words since he was her 'uncle' after all.

Laura sat on his lap, staring down at Wades phone. He looked over her head. He had a picture open that showed you, Laura, Logan and Wade. "And who is that?" he pointed to you, earning a delighted squeal from Laura as she pointed to your smiling face on the picture as well "Mama!" she babbled. Wade cheered her on, applauding her. "That's right, and that is Dada. Dada" he pointed to Logan. Laura recognized him, smiling brightly and giggling, but she didn't say anything. "Can you say that? Dada?" Wade asked in the best baby voice he could muster. But still, Laura wouldn't say anything. "Come on, say Dada. Da-da" Wade tried one last time, but Laura unwrapped himself from his arms to go and play with some toys scrattered on the floor. He huffed in frustration. It was easier to teach kids swear words than this.

Two days later, the day for the dinner came and someone rang your doorbell. You left Laura to play on her playmat and went over to the door, opening it a slit before realising that it was Logan. You fixed your hair with flushed cheeks, you hadn't expected him to come this early, you had just started the dinner preperations. "Oh, hey Logan. What are you doing here? Dinner was planned in two hours" you said, gingerly letting him into your apartment which you hadn't had the time to tidy up yet. Logan wasn't the guy to judge, but you still felt insecure.

"I thought I'd help you with the cooking and all. Look after Laura so you can work in peace" he said, knowing that he was just here to spend more time with you and Laura alone to give him the feeling of having his own little domestic family that he will never actually experience.

You smiled at him "That's very nice of you, but Laura is actually being very umcomplicated today" speaking of which, you showed him that your kid was silently playing with her toys. Upon noticing you and Logan, she squealed and stood up slowly, trying to keep her balance, before she waddled up to him excitedly. "There's my little pumpkin" he drawled, bending down to pick her up swiftly.

"Dada!" she giggled, making you an Logan stop in your tracks. "Did you hear that?" he asked you, looking over at you with a shocked expression. You frowned. You had never taught her to say that. "Sweetheart, who is that?" You asked the little girl, tapping Logans arm, just to be sure you hadn't heard her incorrectly. "Dada" she squeaks again, playing with his coarse beard.

You both looked at each other in disbelieve and for a second, you feared Logan woulf shove Laura into your arms and leave. "Look, I'm sorry. I don't know where she got that from" you tried to apologize, but the rejection from Logan never came.

He held her lovingly to his chest, giving her forhead a kiss. It made your heart pound faster. "No, it's okay" he reassured you, his large hand enveloping the back of Lauras head. "I...I could be her dad. If you want me to be" his question struck you like lightning, it was like a damn marriage proposal.

A marriage proposal you would never say no to. He looked at you with hopeful eyes, waiting for your answer and worrying he had overstepped.

"Yes. Be the father she never had. And please be the love I always wanted" you whispered, leaning up to kiss him. The kiss was soft, your lips brushing against the other and it was nothing you had ever felt before. You had kissed your ex- but never did it feel like this. So right. His free hand snaked around your waist, deepening the kiss until Laura decided to pull at your shiny necklace.

You smiled at her, taking her into your arms. "Do you want to play with daddy while I make mac and cheese?" you asked your daughter and minutes later, Logan had brought her playmat and some toys into the kitchen to sit beside her on the ground to watch and entertain her. It was like nothing had changed. Little did you know, Logan had accepted the little girl as his daughter way before today, even if you guys had never confessed.

And as you stole glances down to Logan, who was already looking at you with these half lidded bedroom eyes, you knew that after dinner, Logan and you would be trying for Lauras sibling.

_______________________________

I really hoped you liked this, I feel like I've rusted a bit. Still got a lot of smut ideas and fics open that I need to finish. Wish me luck☹ if you saw any grammatical mistakes, no you didn't. Leave me alone im tired

Btw, thanks to @buck-star for motivation me to finally finish this <33

damn...that's just the way he makes me feel🫠

Charlie Hunnam Behind the Scenes in King Arthur: Legend of the Sword

P.7 Back

thanks to shawn and his characters, i want hot older men ;)

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪₊ Built for Battle, Never for Me ݁ ˖ִ ࣪₊ ⊹˚

“And I will fuck you like nothing matters.”

summary : You loved Jack through four deployments and every version of the man he became, even when he stopped choosing you. Years later, fate shoves you back into his trauma bay, unconscious and bleeding, and everything you buried resurfaces.

content/warning : 18+ MDNI!!! long-form emotional trauma, war and military themes, medical trauma, car accident (graphic details), infidelity (emotional & physical), explicit smut with intense emotional undertones, near-death experiences, emotionally unhealthy relationships, and grief over a still-living person

word count : 13,078 ( read on ao3 here if it's too large )

a/n : ok this is long! but bare with me! I got inspired by Nothing Matters by The Last Dinner Party and I couldn't stop writing. College finals are coming up soon so I thought I'd put this out there now before I am in the trenches but that doesn't mean you guys can't keep sending stuff to my inbox!

You were nineteen the first time Jack Abbot kissed you.

Outside a run-down bar just off base in the thick of Georgia summer—air humid enough to drink, heat clinging to your skin like regret. He had a fresh cut on his knuckle and a dog-eared med school textbook shoved into the back pocket of his jeans, like that wasn’t the most Jack thing in the world—equal parts violence and intellect, always straddling the line between bare-knuckle instinct and something nobler. Half fists, half fire, always on the verge of vanishing into a cause bigger than himself.

You were his long before the letters trailed behind his name. Before he learned to stitch flesh beneath floodlights and call it purpose. Before the trauma became clockwork, and the quiet between you started speaking louder than words ever could. You loved him through every incarnation—every rough draft of the man he was trying to become. Army medic. Burned-out med student. Warzone doctor with blood on his boots and textbooks in his duffel. The kind of man who took people apart just to understand how to hold them together.

He used to say he’d get out once it was over. Once the years were served, the boxes checked, the blood debt paid in full. He promised he’d come back—not just in body, but in whatever version of wholeness he still had left. Said he’d pick a city with good light, buy real furniture instead of folding chairs and duffel bags, learn how to sleep through the night like people who hadn’t taught themselves to live on adrenaline and loss.

You waited. Through four deployments. Through static-filled phone calls and letters that always said soon. Through nights spent tracing his name like it was a map back to yourself. You clung to that promise like it was gospel. And now—he was standing in your bedroom, rolling his shirts with the same clipped, clinical precision he used to pack a field kit. Each fold a quiet betrayal. Each movement a confirmation: he was leaving again. Not called. Choosing.

“I’m not being deployed,” he said, eyes fixed on the duffel bag instead of you. “I’m volunteering.”

Your arms crossed tightly over your chest, nails digging into the fabric of your sleeves. “You’ve fulfilled your contract, Jack. You’re not obligated anymore. You’re a doctor now. You could stay. You could leave.”

“I know,” he said, quiet. Measured. Like he’d practiced saying it in his head a hundred times already.

“You were offered a civilian residency,” you pressed, your voice rising despite the lump building in your throat. “At one of the top trauma programs in D.C. You told me they fast-tracked you. That they wanted you.”

“I know.”

“And you turned it down.”

He exhaled through his nose. A long, deliberate breath. Then reached for another undershirt, folded it so neatly it looked like a ritual. “They need trauma-trained docs downrange. There’s a shortage.”

You laughed—a bitter, breathless sound. “There’s always a shortage. That’s not new.”

He paused. Briefly. His hand flattened over the shirt like he was smoothing something that wouldn’t stay still. “You don’t get it.”

“I do get it,” you snapped. “That’s the problem.”

He finally looked up at you then. Just for a second.

Eyes tired. Distant. Fractured in a way that made you want to punch him and hold him at the same time.

“You think this makes you necessary,” you whispered. “You think chaos gives you purpose. But it’s just the only place you feel alive.”

He turned toward you slowly, shirt still in hand. His hair was longer than regulation—he hadn’t shaved in days. His face looked older, worn down in that way no one else seemed to notice but you did. You knew every line. Every scar. Every inch of the man who swore he’d come back and choose something softer.

You.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” you whispered. “Tell me this isn’t just about being needed again. About being irreplaceable. About chasing adrenaline because you’re scared of standing still.”

Jack didn’t say anything else.

Not when your voice broke asking him to stay—not loud, not theatrical, not in the kind of way that could be dismissed as a moment of weakness or written off as heat-of-the-moment desperation. You’d asked him softly. Carefully. Like you were trying not to startle something fragile. Like if you stayed calm, maybe he’d finally hear you.

And not when you walked away from him, the space between you stretching like a fault line you both knew neither of you would cross again.

You’d seen him fight for the life of a stranger—bare hands pressed to a wound, blood soaking through his sleeves, voice low and steady through chaos. But he didn’t fight for this. For you.

You didn’t speak for the rest of the day.

He packed in silence. You did laundry. Folded his socks like it mattered. You couldn’t decide if it felt more like mourning or muscle memory.

You didn’t touch him.

Not until night fell, and the house got too quiet, and the space beside you on the couch started to feel like a ghost of something you couldn’t bear to name.

The windows were open, and you could hear the city breathing outside—car tires on wet pavement, wind slinking through the alley, the distant hum of a life you could’ve had. One that didn’t smell like starch and gun oil and choices you never got to make.

Jack was in the kitchen, barefoot, methodically washing a single plate. You sat on the couch with your knees pulled to your chest, half-wrapped in the blanket you kept by the radiator. There was a movie playing on the TV. Something you'd both seen a dozen times. He hadn’t looked at it once.

“Do you want tea?” he asked, not turning around.

You stared at his back. The curve of his spine under that navy blue t-shirt. The tension in his neck that never fully left.

“No.”

He nodded, like he expected that.

You wanted to scream. Or throw the mug he used every morning. Or just… shake him until he remembered that this—you—was what he was supposed to be fighting for now.

Instead, you stood up.

Walked into the kitchen.

Pressed your palms flat against the cool tile counter and watched him dry his hands like it was just another Tuesday. Like he hadn’t made a choice that ripped something fundamental out of you both.

“I don’t think I know how to do this anymore,” you said.

Jack turned, towel still in hand. “What?”

“This,” you gestured between you, “Us. I don’t know how to keep pretending we’re okay.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. Then leaned against the sink like the weight of that sentence physically knocked him off balance.

“I didn’t expect you to understand,” he said.

You laughed. It came out sharp. Ugly. “That’s the part that kills me, Jack. I do understand. I know exactly why you're going. I know what it does to you to sit still. I know you think you’re only good when you’re bleeding out in a tent with your hands in someone’s chest.”

He flinched.

“But I also know you didn’t even try to stay.”

“I did,” he snapped. “Every time I came back to you, I tried.”

“That’s not the same as choosing me.”

The silence that followed felt like the real goodbye.

You walked past him to the bedroom without a word. The hallway felt longer than usual, quieter too—like the walls were holding their breath. You didn’t look back. You couldn’t.

The bed still smelled like him. Like cedarwood aftershave and something darker—familiar, aching. You crawled beneath the sheets, dragging the comforter up to your chin like armor. Turned your face to the wall. Every muscle in your back coiled tight, waiting for a sound that didn’t come.

And for a long time, he didn’t follow.

But eventually, the floor creaked—soft, uncertain. A pause. Then the familiar sound of the door clicking shut, slow and final, like the closing of a chapter neither of you had the courage to write an ending for. The mattress shifted beneath his weight—slow, deliberate, like every inch he gave to gravity was a decision he hadn’t fully made until now. He settled behind you, quiet as breath. And for a moment, there was only stillness.

No touch. No words. Just the heat of him at your back, close enough to feel the ghost of something you’d almost forgotten.

Then, gently—like he thought you might flinch—his arm slid across your waist. His hand spread wide over your stomach, fingers splayed like he was trying to memorize the shape of your body through fabric and time and everything he’d left behind.

Like maybe, if he held you carefully enough, he could keep you from slipping through the cracks he’d carved into both of your lives. Like this was the only way he still knew how to say please don’t go.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he breathed into the nape of your neck, voice rough, frayed at the edges.

Your eyes burned. You swallowed the lump in your throat. His lips touched your skin—just below your ear, then lower. A kiss. Another. His mouth moved with unbearable softness, like he thought he might break you. Or maybe himself.

And when he kissed you like it was the last time, it wasn’t frantic or rushed. It was slow. The kind of kiss that undoes a person from the inside out.

His hand slid under your shirt, calloused fingers grazing your ribs as if relearning your shape. You rolled to face him, breath catching when your noses bumped. And then he was kissing you again—deeper this time. Tongue coaxing, lips parted, breath shared. You gasped when he pressed his thigh between yours. He was already hard. And when he rocked into you, It wasn’t frantic—it was sacred. Like a ritual. Like a farewell carved into skin.

The lights stayed off, but not out of shame. It was self-preservation. Because if you saw his face, if you saw what was written in his eyes—whatever soft, shattering thing was there—it might ruin you. He undressed you like he was unwrapping something fragile—careful, slow, like he was afraid you might vanish if he moved too fast. Each layer pulled away with quiet tension, each breath held between fingers and fabric.

His mouth followed close behind, brushing down your chest with aching precision. He kissed every scar like it told a story only he remembered. Mouthed at your skin like it tasted of something he hadn’t let himself crave in years. Like he was starving for the version of you that only existed when you were underneath him. 

Your fingers threaded through his hair. You arched. Moaned his name. He pushed into you like he didn’t want to be anywhere else. Like this was the only place he still knew. His pace was languid at first, drawn out. But when your breath hitched and you clung to him tighter, he fucked you deeper. Slower. Harder. Like he was trying to carve himself into your bones. Your bodies moved like memory. Like grief. Like everything you never said finally found a rhythm in the dark. 

His thumb brushed your lower lip. You bit it. He groaned—low, guttural.

“Say it,” he rasped against your mouth.

“I love you,” you whispered, already crying. “God, I love you.”

And when you came, it wasn’t loud. It was broken. Soft. A tremor beneath his palm as he cradled your jaw. He followed seconds later, gasping your name like a benediction, forehead pressed to yours, sweat-slick and shaking.

After, he didn’t speak. Didn’t move. He just stayed curled around you, heartbeat thudding against your spine like punctuation.

Because sometimes the loudest heartbreak is the one you don’t say out loud.

The alarm never went off.

You’d both woken up before it—some silent agreement between your bodies that said don’t pretend this is normal. The room was still dark, heavy with the thick, gray stillness of early morning. That strange pocket of time that doesn’t feel like today yet, but is no longer yesterday.

Jack sat on the edge of the bed in just his boxers, elbows resting on his thighs, spine curled slightly forward like the weight of the choice he’d made was finally catching up to him. He was already dressed in the uniform in his head.

You stayed under the covers, arms wrapped around your own body, watching the muscles in his back tighten every time he exhaled.

You didn’t speak. 

What was there left to say?

He stood, moved through the room with quiet efficiency. Pulling his pants on. Shirt. Socks. He tied his boots slowly, like muscle memory. Like prayer. You wondered if his hands ever shook when he packed for war, or if this was just another morning to him. Another mission. Another place to be.

He finally turned to face you. “You want coffee?” he asked, voice hoarse.

You shook your head. You didn’t trust yourself to speak.

He paused in the doorway, like he might say something—something honest, something final. Instead, he just looked at you like you were already slipping into memory.

The kitchen was still warm from the radiator kicking on. Jack moved like a ghost through it—mug in one hand, half a slice of dry toast in the other. You sat across from him at the table, knees pulled into your chest, wearing one of his old t-shirts that didn’t smell like him anymore. The silence was different now. Not tense. Just done. He set his keys on the table between you.

“I left a spare,” he said.

You nodded. “I know.”

He took a sip of coffee, made a face. “You never taught me how to make it right.”

“You never listened.”

His lips twitched—almost a smile. It died quickly. You looked down at your hands. Picked at a loose thread on your sleeve.

“Will you write?” you asked, quietly. Not a plea. Just curiosity. Just something to fill the silence.

“If I can.”

And somehow that hurt more.

When the cab pulled up outside, neither of you moved right away. Jack stared at the wall. You stared at him. 

He finally stood. Grabbed his bag. Slung it over his shoulder like it weighed nothing. He didn’t look like a man leaving for war. He looked like a man trying to convince himself he had no other choice.

At the door, he paused again.

“Hey,” he said, softer this time. “You’re everything I ever wanted, you know that?”

You stood too fast. “Then why wasn’t this enough?”

He flinched. And still, he came back to you. Hands cupping your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like he was trying to memorize it.

“I love you,” he said.

You swallowed. Hard. “Then stay.”

His hands dropped. 

“I can’t.”

You didn’t cry when he left.

You just stood in the hallway until the cab disappeared down the street, teeth sunk into your lip so hard it bled. And then you locked the door behind you. Not because you didn’t want him to come back.

But because you didn’t want to hope anymore that he would.

PRESENT DAY : THE PITT - FRIDAY 7:02 PM

Jack always said he didn’t believe in premonitions. That was Robby’s department—gut feelings, emotional instinct, the kind of sixth sense that made him pause mid-shift and mutter things like “I don’t like this quiet.” Jack? He was structure. Systems. Trauma patterns on a 10-year data set. He didn’t believe in ghosts, omens, or the superstition of stillness.

But tonight?

Tonight felt wrong.

The kind of wrong that doesn’t announce itself. It just settles—low and quiet, like a second pulse beneath your skin. Everything was too clean. Too calm. The trauma board was a blank canvas. One transfer to psych. One uncomplicated withdrawal on fluids. A dislocated shoulder in 6 who kept trying to flirt with the nurses despite being dosed with enough ketorolac to sedate a linebacker.

That was it. Four hours. Not a single incoming. Not even a fender-bender.

Jack stood in front of the board with his arms crossed tight over his chest. His jaw was clenched, shoulders stiff, body still in that way that wasn’t restful—just waiting. Like something in him was already bracing for impact.

The ER didn’t breathe like this. Not on a Friday night in Pittsburgh. Not unless something was holding its breath.

He rolled his shoulder, cracked his neck once, then twice. His leg ached—not the prosthetic. The other one. The real one. The one that always overcompensated when he was tense. The one that still carried the habits of a body he didn’t fully live in anymore. He tried to shake it off. He couldn’t. He wasn’t tired.

But he felt unmoored.

7:39 PM

The station was too loud in all the wrong ways.

Dana was telling someone—probably Perlah—about her granddaughter’s birthday party tomorrow. There was going to be a Disney princess. Real cake. Real glitter. Jack nodded when she looked at him but didn’t absorb any of it. His hands were hovering over the computer keys, but he wasn’t charting. He was watching the vitals monitor above Bay 2 blink like a metronome. Too steady. Too normal.

His stomach clenched. Something inside him stirred. Restless. Sharp. He didn’t even hear Ellis approach until her shadow slid into his peripheral.

“You’re doing it again,” she said.

Jack blinked. “Doing what?”

“That thing. The haunted soldier stare.”

He exhaled slowly through his nose. “Didn’t realize I had a brand.”

“You do.” She leaned against the counter, arms folded. “You get real still when it’s too quiet in here. Like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

Jack tilted his head slightly. “I’m always waiting for the other shoe.”

“No,” she said. “Not like this.”

He didn’t respond. Didn’t need to. They both knew what kind of quiet this was.

7:55 PM

The weather was turning.

He could hear it—how the rain hit the loading dock, how the wind pushed harder against the back doors. He’d seen it out the break room window earlier. Clouds like bruises. Thunder low, miles off, not angry yet—just gathering. Pittsburgh always got weird storms in the spring—cold one day, burning the next. The kind of shifts that made people do dumb things. Drive fast. Get careless. Forget their own bodies could break.

His hand flexed unconsciously against the edge of the counter. He didn’t know who he was preparing for—just that someone was coming. 

8:00 PM

Robby’s shift was ending. He always left a little late—hovered by the lockers, checking one last note, scribbling initials where none were needed. Jack didn’t look up when he approached, but he heard the familiar shuffle, the sound of a hoodie zipper pulled halfway.

“You sure you don’t wanna switch shifts tomorrow?” Robby asked, thumb scrolling absently across his phone screen, like he was trying to sound casual—but you could hear the edge of something in it. Fatigue. Or maybe just wariness.

Jack glanced over, one brow arched, already sensing the setup. “What, you finally land that hot date with the med student who keeps calling you sir, looks like she still gets carded for cough syrup and thinks you’re someone’s dad?”

Robby didn’t look up from his phone. “Close. She thinks you’re the dad. Like… someone’s brooding, emotionally unavailable single father who only comes to parent-teacher conferences to say he’s doing his best.”

Jack blinked. “I’m forty-nine. You’re fifty-three.”

“She thinks you’ve lived harder.”

Jack snorted. “She say that?”

“She said—and I quote—‘He’s got that energy. Like he’s seen things. Lost someone he doesn’t talk about. Probably drinks his coffee black and owns, like, one picture frame.’”

Jack gave a slow nod, face unreadable. “Well. She’s not wrong.”

Robby side-eyed him. “You do have ghost-of-a-wife vibes.”

Jack’s smirk twitched into something more wry. “Not a widower.”

“Could’ve fooled her. She said if she had daddy issues, you’d be her first mistake.”

Jack let out a low whistle. “Jesus.”

“I told her you’re just forty-nine. Prematurely haunted.”

Jack smiled. Barely. “You’re such a good friend.”

Robby slipped his phone into his pocket. “You’re lucky I didn’t tell her about the ring. She thinks you’re tragic. Women love that.”

Jack muttered, “Tragic isn’t a flex.”

Robby shrugged. “It is when you’re tall and say very little.”

Jack rolled his eyes, folding his arms across his chest. “Still not switching.”

Robby groaned. “Come on. Whitaker is due for a meltdown, and if I have to supervise him through one more central line attempt, I’m walking into traffic. He tried to open the kit with his elbow last week. Said sterile gloves were ‘limiting his dexterity.’ I said, ‘That’s the point.’ He told me I was oppressing his innovation.”

Jack stifled a laugh. “I’m starting to like him.”

“He’s your favorite. Admit it.”

“You’re my favorite,” Jack said, deadpan.

“That’s the saddest thing you’ve ever said.”

Jack’s grin tugged wider. “It’s been a long year.”

They stood in silence for a moment—one of those rare ones where the ER wasn’t screeching for attention. Just a quiet hum of machines and distant footsteps. Then Robby shifted, leaned a little heavier against the wall.

“You good?” he asked, voice low. Not pushy. Just there.

Jack didn’t look at him right away. Just stared at the trauma board. Too long. Long enough that it said more than words would’ve.

Then—“Fine,” Jack said. A beat. “Just tired.”

Robby didn’t press. Just nodded, like he believed it, even if he didn’t.

“Get some rest,” Jack added, almost an afterthought. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“You always do,” Robby said.

And then he left, hoodie half-zipped, coffee in hand, just like always.

But Jack didn’t move for a while.

Not until the ER stopped pretending to be quiet.

8:34 PM

The call hits like a starter’s pistol.

“Inbound MVA. Solo driver. High velocity. No seatbelt. Unresponsive. GCS three. ETA three minutes.”

The kind of call that should feel routine.

Jack’s already in motion—snapping on gloves, barking out orders, snapping the trauma team to attention. He doesn’t think. He doesn’t feel. He just moves. It’s what he’s best at. What they built him for.

He doesn’t know why his heart is hammering harder than usual.

Why the air feels sharp in his lungs. Why he’s clenching his jaw so hard his molars ache.

He doesn’t know. Not yet.

“Perlah, trauma cart’s prepped?”

“Yeah.”

“Mateo, I want blood drawn the second she’s in. Jesse—intubation tray. Let’s be ready.”

No one questions him. Not when he’s in this mode—low voice, high tension. Controlled but wired like something just beneath his skin is ready to snap. He pulls the door to Bay 2 open, nods to the team waiting inside. His hands go to his hips, gloves already on, brain flipping through protocol.

And then he hears it—the wheels. Gurney. Fast.

Voices echoing through the corridor.

Paramedic yelling vitals over the noise.

“Unidentified female. Found unresponsive at the scene of an MVA—single vehicle, no ID on her. Significant blood loss, hypotensive on arrival. BP tanked en route—we lost her once. Got her back, but she’s still unstable.”

The doors bang open. They wheel her in. Jack steps forward. His eyes fall to the body. Blood-soaked. Covered in debris. Face battered. Left cheek swelling fast. Gash at the temple. Lip split. Clothes shredded. Eyes closed.

He freezes. Everything stops. Because he knows that mouth. That jawline. That scar behind the ear. That body. The last time he saw it, it was beneath his hands. The last time he kissed her, she was whispering his name in the dark. And now she’s here.

Unconscious. Barely breathing. Covered in her own blood. And nobody knows who she is but him.

“Jack?” Perlah says, uncertain. “You good?”

He doesn’t respond. He’s already at the side of the gurney, brushing the medic aside, sliding in like muscle memory.

“Get me vitals now,” he says, voice too low.

“She’s crashing again—”

“I said get me fucking vitals.”

Everyone jolts. He doesn’t care. He’s pulling the oxygen mask over your face. Hands hovering, trembling.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes. “What happened to you?”

Your eyes flutter, barely. He watches your chest rise once. Then falter.

Then—Flatline.

You looked like a stranger. But the kind of stranger who used to be home. Where had you gone after he left?

Why didn’t you come back?

Why hadn’t he tried harder to find you?

He never knew. He told himself you were fine. That you didn’t want to be found. That maybe you'd met someone else, maybe moved out of state, maybe started the life he was supposed to give you.

And now you were here. Not a memory. Not a ghost. Not a "maybe someday."

Here.

And dying.

8:36 PM

The monitor flatlines. Sharp. Steady. Shrill.

And Jack—he doesn’t blink. He doesn’t curse. He doesn’t call out. He just moves. The team reacts first—shock, noise, adrenaline. Perlah’s already calling it out. Mateo goes for epi. Jesse reaches for the crash cart, his hands a little too fast, knocking a tray off the edge.

It clatters to the floor. Jack doesn’t flinch.

He steps forward. Takes position. Drops to the right side of your chest like it’s instinct—because it is. His hands hover for half a beat.

Then press down.

Compression one.

Compression two.

Compression three.

Thirty in all. His mouth is tight. His eyes fixed on the rise and fall of your body beneath his hands. He doesn’t say your name. He doesn’t let them see him.

He just works.

Like he’s still on deployment.

Like you’re just another body.

Like you’re not the person who made him believe in softness again.

Jack doesn’t move from your side.

Doesn’t say a thing when the first shock doesn’t bring you back. Doesn’t speak when the second one stalls again. He just keeps pressing. Keeps watching. Keeps holding on with the one thing left he can control.

His hands.

You twitch under his palms on the third shock.

The line stutters. Then catches. Jack exhales once. But he still doesn’t speak. He doesn’t check the room. Doesn’t acknowledge the tears running down his face. Just rests both hands on the edge of the gurney and leans forward, breathing shallow, like if he stands up fully, something inside him will fall apart for good.

“Get her to CT,” he says quietly.

Perlah hesitates. “Jack—”

He shakes his head. “I’ll walk with her.”

“Jack…”

“I said I’ll go.”

And then he does.

Silent. Soaking in your blood. Following the gurney like he followed field stretchers across combat zones. No one asks questions. Because everyone sees it now.

8:52 PM 

The corridor outside CT was colder than the rest of the hospital. Some architectural flaw. Or maybe just Jack’s body going numb. You were being wheeled in now—hooked to monitors, lips cracked and flaking at the edges from blood loss.

You hadn’t moved since the trauma bay. They got your heart back. But your eyes hadn’t opened. Not even once.

Jack walked beside the gurney in silence. One hand gripping the edge rail. Gloved fingers stained dark. His scrub top was still soaked from chest compressions. His pulse hadn’t slowed since the flatline. He didn’t speak to the transport tech. Didn’t acknowledge the nurse. Didn’t register anything except the curve of your arm under the blanket and the smear of blood at your temple no one had cleaned yet.

Outside the scan room, they paused to prep.

“Two minutes,” someone said.

Jack barely nodded. The tech turned away. And for the first time since they wheeled you in—Jack looked at you.

Eyes sweeping over your face like he was seeing it again for the first time. Like he didn’t recognize this version of you—not broken, not bloodied, not dying—but fragile. His hand moved before he could stop it. He reached down. Brushed your hair back from your forehead, fingers trembling. 

He leaned in, close enough that only the machines could hear him. Voice raw. Shaky.

“Stay with me.” He swallowed. Hard. “I’ll lie to everyone else. I’ll keep pretending I can live without you. But you and me? We both know I’m full of shit.”

He paused. “You’ve always known.”

Footsteps echoed around the corner. Jack straightened instantly. Like none of it happened. Like he wasn’t bleeding in real time. The tech came back. “We’re ready.”

Jack nodded. Watched the doors open. Watched them wheel you away. Didn’t follow. Just stood in the hallway, alone, jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

10:34 PM

Your blood was still on his forearms. Dried at the edge of his glove cuff. There was a fleck of it on the collar of his scrub top, just beneath his badge. He should go change. But he couldn’t move. The last time he saw you, you were standing in the doorway of your apartment with your arms crossed over your chest and your mouth set in that way you did when you were about to say something that would ruin him.

Then stay.

He hadn’t.

And now here you were, barely breathing.

God. He wanted to scream. But he didn’t. He never did.

Footsteps approached from the left—light, careful.

It was Dana.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just leaned against the wall beside him with a soft exhale and handed him a plastic water bottle.

He took it with a nod, twisted the cap, but didn’t drink.

“She’s stable,” Dana said quietly. “Neuro’s scrubbing in. Walsh is watching the bleed. They're hopeful it hasn’t shifted.”

Jack stared straight ahead. “She’s got a collapsed lung.”

“She’s alive.”

“She shouldn’t be.”

He could hear Dana shift beside him. “You knew her?”

Jack swallowed. His throat burned. “Yeah.”

There was a beat of silence between them.

“I didn’t know,” Dana said, gently. “I mean, I knew there was someone before you came back to Pittsburgh. I just never thought...”

“Yeah.”

Another pause.

“Jack,” she said, softer now. “You shouldn’t be the one on this case.”

“I’m already on it.”

“I know, but—”

“She didn’t have anyone else.”

That landed like a punch to the ribs. No emergency contact. No parents listed. No spouse. No one flagged to call. Just the last ID scanned from your phone—his name still buried somewhere in your old records, from years ago. Probably forgotten. Probably never updated. But still there. Still his.

Dana reached out, laid a hand on his wrist. “Do you want me to sit with her until she wakes up?”

He shook his head.

“I should be there.”

“Jack—”

“I should’ve been there the first time,” he snapped. Then his voice broke low, quieter, strained: “So I’m gonna sit. And I’m gonna wait. And when she wakes up, I’m gonna tell her I’m sorry.”

Dana didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just nodded. And walked away.

1:06 AM

Jack sat in the corner of the dimmed recovery room.

You were propped up slightly on the bed now, a tube down your throat, IV lines in both arms. Bandages wrapped around your ribs, temple, thigh. The monitor beeped with painful consistency. It was the only sound in the room.

He hadn’t spoken in twenty minutes. He just sat there. Watching you like if he looked away, you’d vanish again. He leaned back eventually, scrubbed both hands down his face.

“Jesus,” he whispered. “You really never changed your emergency contact?”

You didn’t get married. You didn’t leave the state.You just… slipped out of his life and never came back.

And he let you. He let you walk away because he thought you needed distance. Because he thought he’d ruined it. Because he didn’t know what to do with love when it wasn’t covered in blood and desperation. He let you go. And now you were here. 

“Please wake up,” he whispered. “Just… just wake up. Yell at me. Punch me. I don’t care. Just—”

His voice cracked. He bit it back.

“You were right,” he said, so soft it barely made it out. “I should’ve stayed.”

You swim toward the surface like something’s pulling you back under. It’s slow. Syrupy. The kind of consciousness that makes pain feel abstract—like you’ve forgotten which parts of your body belong to you. There’s pressure behind your eyes. A dull roar in your ears. Cold at your fingertips.

Then—sound. Beeping. Monitors. A cart wheeling past. Someone saying Vitals stable, pressure’s holding. A laugh in the hallway. Fluorescents. Fabric rustling. And—

A chair creaking.

You know that sound.

You’d recognize that silence anywhere. You open your eyes, slowly, blinking against the light. Vision blurred. Chest tight. There’s a rawness in your throat like you’ve been screaming underwater. Everything hurts, but one thing registers clear:

Jack.

Jack Abbot is sitting beside you.

He’s hunched forward in a chair too small for him, arms braced on his knees like he’s ready to stand, like he can’t stand. There’s a hospital badge clipped to his scrub pocket. His jaw is tight. There’s something smudged on his cheekbone—blood? You don’t know. His hair is shorter than you remember, greyer.

But it’s him. And for a second—just one—you forget the last seven years ever happened.

You forget the apartment. The silence. The day he walked out with his duffel and didn’t look back. Because right now, he’s here. Breathing. Watching you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

“Hey,” he says, voice hoarse.

You try to swallow. You can’t.

“Don’t—” he sits up, suddenly, gently. “Don’t try to talk yet. You were intubated. Rollover crash—” He falters. “Jesus. You’re okay. You’re here.”

You blink, hard. Your eyes sting. Everything is out of focus except him. He leans forward a little more, his hands resting just beside yours on the bed.

“I thought you were dead,” he says. “Or married. Or halfway across the world. I thought—” He stops. His throat works around the words. “I never thought I’d see you again.”

You close your eyes for a second. It’s too much. His voice. His face. The sound of you’re okay coming from the person who once made it hurt the most. You shift your gaze—try to ground yourself in something solid.

And that’s when you see it.

His hand.

Resting casually near yours.

Ring finger tilted toward the light.

Gold band. 

Simple.

Permanent.

You freeze.

It’s like your lungs forget what to do.

You look at the ring. Then at him. Then at the ring again.

He follows your gaze.

And flinches.

“Fuck,” Jack says under his breath, immediately leaning back like distance might make it easier. Like you didn’t just see it.

He drags a hand through his hair, rubs the back of his neck, looks anywhere but at you.

“She’s not—” He pauses. “It’s not what you think.”

You’re barely able to croak a whisper. Your voice scrapes like gravel: “You’re married?”

His head snaps up.

“No.” Beat. “Not yet.”

Yet. That word is worse than a bullet. You stare at him. And what you see floors you.

Guilt.

Exhaustion.

Something that might be grief. But not regret. He’s not here asking for forgiveness. He’s here because you almost died. Because for a minute, he thought he’d never get the chance to say goodbye right. But he didn’t come back for you.

He moved on.

And you didn’t even get to see it happen. You turn your face away. It takes everything you have not to sob, not to scream, not to rip the IV out of your arm just to feel something other than this. Jack leans forward again, like he might try to fix it.

Like he still could.

“I didn’t know,” he says. “I didn’t know I’d ever see you again.”

“I didn’t know you’d stop waiting,” you rasp.

And that’s it. That’s the one that lands. He goes very still.

“I waited,” he says, softly. “Longer than I should’ve. I kept the spare key. I left the porch light on. Every time someone knocked on the door, I thought—maybe. Maybe it’s you.”

Your eyes well up. He shakes his head. Looks away. “But you never called. Never sent anything. And eventually... I thought you didn’t want to be found.”

“I didn’t,” you whisper. “Because I didn’t want to know you’d already replaced me.”

The silence after that is unbearable. And then: the soft knock of a nurse at the door.

Dana. 

She peeks in, eyes flicking between the two of you, and reads the room instantly.

“We’re moving her to step-down in fifteen,” she says gently. “Just wanted to give you a heads up.” Jack nods. Doesn’t look at her. Dana lingers for a beat, then quietly slips out. You don’t speak. Neither does he. He just stands there for another long moment. Like he wants to stay. But knows he shouldn’t. Finally, he exhales—low, shaky.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

Not for leaving. Not for loving someone else. Just for the wreckage of it all. And then he walks out. Leaving you in that bed. 

Bleeding in places no scan can find.

9:12 AM

The room was smaller than the trauma bay. Cleaner. Quieter.

The lights were soft, filtered through high, narrow windows that let in just enough Pittsburgh morning to remind you the world kept moving, even when yours had slammed into a guardrail at seventy-three miles an hour.

You were propped at a slight angle—enough to breathe without straining the sutures in your side. Your ribs still ached with every inhale. Your left arm was in a sling. There was dried blood in your hairline no one had washed out yet. But you were alive. They told you that three times already.

Alive. Stable. Awake.

As if saying it aloud could undo the fact that Jack Abbot is engaged. You stared at the wall like it might give you answers. He hadn't come back. You didn’t ask for him. And still—every time a nurse came in, every time the door clicked open, every shuffle of shoes in the hallway—you hoped. 

You hated yourself for it.

You hadn’t cried yet.

That surprised you. You thought waking up and seeing him again—for the first time in years, after everything—would snap something loose in your chest. But it didn’t. It just… sat there. Heavy. Silent. Like grief that didn’t know where to go.

There was a soft knock on the frame.

You turned your head slowly, your throat too raw to ask who it was.

It wasn’t Jack.

It was a man you didn’t recognize. Late forties, maybe fifties. Navy hoodie. Clipboard. Glasses slipped low on his nose. He looked tired—but held together in the kind of way that made it clear he'd been the glue for other people more than once.

“I’m Dr. Robinavitch.” he said gently. You just blinked at him.

“I’m... one of the attendings. I was off when they brought you in, but I heard.”

He didn’t step closer right away. Then—“Mind if I sit?”

You didn’t answer. But you didn’t say no. He pulled the chair from the corner. Sat down slow, like he wasn’t sure how fragile the air was between you. He didn’t check your vitals. Didn’t chart.

Just sat.

Present. In that quiet, steady way that makes you feel like maybe you don’t have to hold all the weight alone.

“Hell of a night,” he said after a while. “You had everyone rattled.”

You didn’t reply. Your eyes were fixed on the ceiling again. He rubbed a hand down the side of his jaw.

“Jack hasn’t looked like that in a long time.”

That made you flinch. Your head turned, slow and deliberate.

You stared at him. “He talk about me?” 

Robby gave a small smile. Not pitying. Not smug. Just... true. “No. Not really.”

You looked away. 

“But he didn’t have to,” he added.

You froze.

“I’ve seen him leave mid-conversation to answer texts that never came. Watched him walk out into the ambulance bay on his nights off—like he was waiting for someone who never showed. Never stayed the night anywhere but home. Always looked at the hallway like something might appear if he stared hard enough.”

Your throat burned.

“He never said your name,” Robby continued, voice low but certain. “But there’s a box under his bed. A spare key on his ring—been there for years, never used, never taken off. And that old mug in the back of his locker? The one that doesn’t match anything? You start to notice the things people hold onto when they’re trying not to forget.”

You blinked hard. “There’s a box?”

Robby nodded, slow. “Yeah. Tucked under the bed like he didn’t mean to keep it but never got around to throwing it out. Letters—some unopened, some worn through like he read them a hundred times. A photo of you, old and creased, like he carried it once and forgot how to let it go. Hospital badge. Bracelet from some field clinic. Even a napkin with your handwriting on it—faded, but folded like it meant something.”

You closed your eyes. That was worse than any of the bruises.

“He compartmentalizes,” Robby said. “It’s how he stays functional. It’s what he’s good at.”

You whispered it, barely audible: “It was survival.”

“Sure. Until it isn’t.”

Another silence settled between you. Comfortable, in a way.

Then—“He’s engaged,” you said, your voice flat.

Robby didn’t blink. “Yeah. I know.”

“Is she…?”

“She’s good,” he said. “Smart. Teaches third grade in Squirrel Hill. Not from medicine. I think that’s why it worked.”

You nodded slowly.

“Does she know about me?”

Robby looked down. Didn’t answer. You nodded again. That was enough. 

He stood eventually.

Straightened the front of his hoodie. Rested the clipboard against his side like he’d forgotten why he even brought it.

“He’ll come back,” he said. “Not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But eventually.”

You didn’t look at him. Just stared out the window. Your voice was quiet.

“I don’t want him to.”

Robby gave you one last look.

One that said: Yeah. You do.

Then he turned and left.

And this time, when the door clicked shut—you cried.

DAY FOUR– 11:41 PM

The hospital was quiet. Quieter than it had been in days.

You’d finally started walking the length of your room again, IV pole rolling beside you like a loyal dog. The sling was irritating. Your ribs still hurt when you coughed. The staples in your scalp itched every time the air conditioner kicked on.

But you were alive. They said you could go home soon. Problem was—you didn’t know where home was anymore. The hallway light outside your room flickered once. You’d been drifting near sleep, curled on your side in the too-small hospital bed, one leg drawn up, wires tugging gently against your skin.

Before you could brace, the door opened. And there he was.

Jack didn’t speak at first. He just stood there, shadowed in the doorway, scrub top wrinkled like he’d fallen asleep in it, hair slightly damp like he’d washed his face too many times and still didn’t feel clean. You sat up slowly, heart punching through your chest.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t smile.

Didn’t look like the man who used to make you coffee barefoot in the kitchen, or fold your laundry without being asked, or trace the inside of your wrist when he thought you were asleep.

He looked like a stranger who remembered your body too well.

“I wasn’t gonna come,” he said quietly, finally. You didn’t respond.

Jack stepped inside. Closed the door gently behind him.

The room felt too small.

Your throat ached.

“I didn’t know what to say,” he continued, voice low. “Didn’t know if you’d want to see me. After... everything.”

You sat up straighter. “I didn’t.”

That hit.

But he nodded. Took it. Absorbed it like punishment he thought he deserved.

Still, he didn’t leave. He stood at the foot of your bed like he wasn’t sure he was allowed any closer.

“Why are you here, Jack?”

He looked at you. Eyes full of everything he hadn’t said since he walked out years ago.

“I needed to see you,” he said, and it was so goddamn quiet you almost missed it. “I needed to know you were still real.”

Your heart cracked in two.

“Real,” you repeated. “You mean like alive? Or like not something you shoved in a box under your bed?”

His jaw tightened. “That’s not fair.”

You scoffed. “You think any of this is fair?”

Jack stepped closer.

“I didn’t plan to love you the way I did.”

“You didn’t plan to leave, either. But you did that too.”

“I was trying to save something of myself.”

“And I was collateral damage?”

He flinched. Looked down. “You were the only thing that ever made me want to stay.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

He shook his head. “Because I was scared. Because I didn’t know how to come back and be yours forever when all I’d ever been was temporary.” Silence crashed into the space between you. And then, barely above a whisper:

“Does she know you still dream about me?”

That made him look up. Like you’d punched the wind out of him. Like you’d reached into his chest and found the place that still belonged to you. He stepped closer. One more inch and he’d be at your bedside.

“You have every reason not to forgive me,” he said quietly. “But the truth is—I’ve never felt for anyone what I felt for you.”

You looked up at him, voice raw: “Then why are you marrying her?”

Jack’s mouth opened. But nothing came out. You looked away.

Eyes burning.

Lips trembling.

“I don’t want your apologies,” you said. “I want the version of you that stayed.”

He stepped back, like that was the final blow.

But you weren’t done.

“I loved you so hard it wrecked me,” you whispered. “And all I ever asked was that you love me loud enough to stay. But you didn’t. And now you want to stand in this room and act like I’m some kind of unfinished chapter—like you get to come back and cry at the ending?”

Jack breathed in like it hurt. Like the air wasn’t going in right.

“I came back,” he said. “I came back because I couldn’t breathe without knowing you were okay.”

“And now you know.”

You looked at him, eyes glassy, jaw tight.

“So go home to her.”

He didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t do what you asked.

He just stood there—bleeding in the quiet—while you looked away.

DAY SEVEN– 5:12 PM

You left the hospital with a dull ache behind your ribs and a discharge summary you didn’t bother reading. They told you to stay another three days. Said your pain control wasn’t stable. Said you needed another neuro eval.

You said you’d call.

You wouldn’t.

You packed what little you had in silence—folded the hospital gown, signed the paperwork with hands that still trembled. No one stopped you. You walked out the front doors like a ghost slipping through traffic.

Alive.

Untethered.

Unhealed.

But gone.

YOUR APARTMENT– 8:44 PM

It wasn’t much. A studio above a laundromat on Butler Street. One couch. One coffee mug. A bed you didn’t make. You sat cross-legged on top of the blanket in your hospital sweats, ribs bandaged tight beneath your shirt, hair still blood-matted near the scalp.

You hadn’t turned on the lights.

You hadn’t eaten.

You were staring at the wall when the knock came.

Three short taps.

Then his voice.

“It's me.”

You didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Then the second knock.

“Please. Just open the door.”

You stood. Slowly. Every joint screamed. When you opened it, there he was. Still in black scrubs. Still tired. Still wearing that ring.

“You left,” he said, breath fogging in the cold.

You leaned against the frame. “I wasn’t going to wait around for someone who already left me once.”

“I deserved that.”

“You deserve worse.”

He nodded. Took it like a man used to pain. “Can I come in?”

You hesitated.

Then stepped aside.

He didn’t sit. Just stood there—awkward, towering, hands in his pockets, taking in the chipped paint, the stack of unopened mail, the folded blanket at the edge of the bed.

“This place is...”

“Mine.”

He nodded again. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

Silence.

You walked back to the bed, sat down slowly. He stood across from you like you were a patient and he didn’t know what was broken.

“What do you want, Jack?”

His jaw flexed. “I want to be in your life again.”

You blinked. Laughed once, sharp and short. “Right. And what does that look like? You with her, and me playing backup singer?”

“No.” His voice was quiet. “Just... just a friend.”

Your breath caught.

He stepped forward. “I know I don’t deserve more than that. I know I hurt you. And I know this—this thing between us—it's not what it was. But I still care. And if all I can be is a number in your phone again, then let me.”

You looked down.

Your hands were shaking.

You didn’t want this. You wanted him. All of him.

But you knew how this would end.

You’d sit across from him in cafés, pretending not to look at his left hand.

You’d laugh at his stories, knowing his warmth would go home to someone else.

You’d let him in—inch by inch—until there was nothing left of you that hadn’t shaped itself to him again.

And still.

Still—“Okay,” you said.

Jack looked at you.

Like he couldn’t believe it.

“Friends,” you added.

He nodded slowly. “Friends.”

You looked away.

Because if you looked at him any longer, you'd say something that would shatter you both.

Because this was the next best thing.

And you knew, even as you said it, even as you offered him your heart wrapped in barbed wire—It was going to break you.

DAY TEN – 6:48 PM Steeped & Co. Café – Two blocks from The Pitt

You told yourself this wasn’t a date.

It was coffee. It was public. It was neutral ground.

But the way your hands wouldn’t stop shaking made it feel like you were twenty again, waiting for him to show up at the Greyhound station with his army bag and half a smile.

He walked in ten minutes late. He ordered his drink without looking at the menu. He always knew what he wanted—except when it came to you.

“You’re limping less,” he said, settling across from you like you hadn’t been strangers for the last seven years. You lifted your tea, still too hot to drink. “You’re still observant.”

He smiled—small. Quiet. The kind that used to make you forgive him too fast. The first fifteen minutes were surface-level. Traffic. ER chaos. This new intern, Santos, doing something reckless. Robby calling him “Doctor Doom” under his breath.

It should’ve been easy.

But the space between you felt alive.

Charged.

Unforgivable.

He leaned forward at one point, arms on the table, and you caught the flick of his hand—

The ring.

You looked away. Pretended not to care.

“You’re doing okay?” he asked, voice gentle.

You nodded, lying. “Mostly.”

He reached across the table then—just for a second—like he might touch your hand. He didn’t. Your breath caught anyway. And neither of you spoke for a while.

DAY TWELVE – 2:03 PM Your apartment

You couldn’t sleep. Again.

The pain meds made your body heavy, but your head was always screaming. You’d been lying in bed for hours, fully dressed, lights off, scrolling old texts with one hand while your other rubbed slow, nervous circles into the bandages around your ribs.

There was a text from him.

"You okay?"

You stared at it for a full minute before responding.

"No."

You expected silence.

Instead: a knock.

You didn’t even ask how he got there so fast. You opened the door and he stepped in like he hadn’t been waiting in his car, like he hadn’t been hoping you’d need him just enough.

He looked exhausted.

You stepped back. Let him in.

He sat on the edge of the couch. Hands folded. Knees apart. Staring at the wall like it might break the tension.

“I can’t sleep anymore,” you whispered. “I keep... hearing it. The crash. The metal. The quiet after.”

Jack swallowed hard. His jaw clenched. “Yeah.”

You both went quiet again. It always came in waves with him—things left unsaid that took up more space than the words ever could. Eventually, he leaned back against the couch cushion, rubbing a hand over his face.

“I think about you all the time,” he said, voice low, wrecked.

You didn’t move.

“You’re in the room when I’m doing intake. When I’m changing gloves. When I get in the car and my left hand hits the wheel and I see the ring and I wonder why it’s not you.”

Your breath hitched.

“But I made a choice,” he said. “And I can’t undo it without hurting someone who’s never hurt me.”

You finally turned toward him. “Then why are you here?”

He looked at you, eyes dark and honest. “Because the second you came back, I couldn’t breathe.”

You kissed him.

You don’t remember who moved first. If you leaned forward, or if he cupped your face like he used to. But suddenly, you were kissing him. It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t gentle. It was devastated.

His mouth was salt and memory and apology.

Your hands curled in his shirt. He was whispering your name against your lips like it still belonged to him.

You pulled away first.

“Go home,” you said, voice cracking.

“Don’t do this—”

“Go home to her, Jack.”

And he did.

He always did.

DAY THIRTEEN – 7:32 PM

You don’t eat.

You don’t leave your apartment.

You scrub the counter three times and throw out your tea mug because it smells like him.

You sit on the bathroom floor and press a towel to your ribs until the pain brings you back into your body.

You start a text seven times.

You never send it.

DAY SEVENTEEN — 11:46 PM

The takeout was cold. Neither of you had touched it.

Jack’s gaze hadn’t left you all night.

Low. Unreadable. He hadn’t smiled once.

“You never stopped loving me,” you said suddenly. Quiet. Dangerous. “Did you?”

His jaw flexed. You pressed harder.

“Say it.”

“I never stopped,” he rasped.

That was all it took.

You surged forward.

His hands found your face. Your hips. Your hair. He kissed you like he’d been holding his breath since the last time. Teeth and tongue and broken sounds in the back of his throat.

Your back hit the wall hard.

“Fuck—” he muttered, grabbing your thigh, hitching it up. His fingers pressed into your skin like he didn’t care if he left marks. “I can’t believe you still taste like this.”

You gasped into his mouth, nails dragging down his chest. “Don’t stop.”

He didn’t.

He had your clothes off before you could breathe. His mouth moved down—your throat, your collarbone, between your breasts, tongue hot and slow like he was punishing you for every year he spent wondering if you hated him.

“You still wear my t-shirt to bed?” he whispered against your breasts voice thick. “You still get wet thinking about me?”

You whimpered. “Jack—”

His name came out like a sin.

He dropped to his knees.

“Let me hear it,” he said, dragging his mouth between your thighs, voice already breathless. “Tell me you still want me.”

Your head dropped back.

“I never stopped.”

And then his mouth was on you—filthy and brutal.

Tongue everywhere, fingers stroking you open while his other hand gripped your thigh like it was the only thing tethering him to this moment.

You were already shaking when he growled, “You still taste like mine.”

You cried out—high and wrecked—and he kept going.

Faster.

Sloppier.

Like he wanted to ruin every memory of anyone else who might’ve touched you.

He made you come with your fingers tangled in his hair, your hips grinding helplessly against his face, your thighs quivering around his jaw while you moaned his name like you couldn’t stop.

He stood.

His clothes were off in seconds. Nothing left between you but raw air and your shared history. His cock was thick, flushed, angry against his stomach—dripping with need, twitching every time you breathed.

You stared at it.

At him.

At the ring still on his finger.

He saw your eyes.

Slipped it off.

Tossed it across the room without a word.

Then slammed you against the wall again and slid inside.

No teasing.

No waiting.

Just deep.

You gasped—too full, too fast—and he buried his face in your neck.

“I’m sorry,” he groaned. “I shouldn’t—fuck—I shouldn’t be doing this.”

But he didn’t stop.

He thrust so deep your eyes rolled back.

It was everything at once.

Your name on his lips like an apology. His hands on your waist like he’d never let go again. Your nails digging into his back like maybe you could keep him this time. He fucked you like he’d never get the chance again. Like he was angry you still had this effect on him. Like he was still in love with you and didn’t know how to carry it anymore.

He spat on his fingers and rubbed your clit until you were screaming his name.

“Louder,” he snapped, fucking into you hard. “Let the neighbors hear who makes you come.”

You came again.

And again.

Shaking. Crying. Overstimulated.

“Open your eyes,” he panted. “Look at me.”

You did.

He was close.

You could feel it in the way he lost rhythm, the way his grip got desperate, the way he whimpered your name like he was begging.

“Inside,” you whispered, legs wrapped around him. “Don’t pull out.”

He froze.

Then nodded, forehead dropping to yours.

“I love you,” he breathed.

And then he came—deep, full, shaking inside you with a broken moan so raw it felt holy.

After, you lay together on the floor. Sweat-slicked. Bruised. Silent.

You didn’t speak.

Neither did he.

Because you both knew—

This changed everything.

And nothing.

DAY EIGHTEEN — 7:34 AM

Sunlight creeps in through the slats of your blinds, painting golden stripes across the hardwood floor, your shoulder, his back.

Jack’s asleep in your bed. He’s on his side, one arm flung across your stomach like instinct, like a claim. His hand rests just above your hip—fingers twitching every now and then, like some part of him knows this moment isn’t real. Or at least, not allowed. Your body aches in places that feel worshipped. 

You don’t feel guilty.

Yet.

You stare at the ceiling. You haven’t spoken in hours.

Not since he whispered “I love you” while he was still inside you.

Not since he collapsed onto your chest like it might save him.

Not since he kissed your shoulder and didn’t say goodbye.

You shift slowly beneath the sheets. His hand tightens. 

Like he knows.

Like he knows.

You stay still. You don’t want to be the one to move first. Because if you move, the night ends. If you move, the spell breaks. And Jack Abbot goes back to being someone else's.

Eventually, he stirs.

His breath shifts against your collarbone.

Then—

“Morning.”

His voice is low. Sleep-rough. Familiar.

It hurts worse than silence. You force a soft hum, not trusting your throat to form words.

He lifts his head a little.

Looks at you. Hair mussed. Eyes unreadable. Bare skin still flushed from where he touched you hours ago. You expect regret. But all you see is heartbreak.

“Shouldn’t have stayed,” he says softly.

You close your eyes.

“I know.”

He sits up slowly. Sheets falling around his waist.

You follow the line of his back with your gaze. Every scar. Every knot in his spine. The curve of his shoulder blades you used to trace with your fingers when you were twenty-something and stupid enough to think love was enough.

He doesn’t look at you when he says it.

“I told her I was working overnight.”

You feel your breath catch.

“She called me at midnight,” he adds. “I didn’t answer.”

You sit up too. Tug the blanket around your chest like modesty matters now.

“Is this the part where you tell me it was a mistake?”

Jack doesn’t answer right away.

Then—“No,” he says. “It’s the part where I tell you I don’t know how to go home.”

You both sit there for a long time.

Naked.

Wordless.

Surrounded by the echo of what you used to be.

You finally speak.

“Do you love her?”

Silence.

“I respect her,” he says. “She’s good. Steady. Nothing’s ever hard with her.”

You swallow. “That’s not an answer.”

Jack turns to you then. Eyes tired. Voice raw.

“I’ve never stopped loving you.”

It lands in your chest like a sucker punch.

Because you know. You always knew. But now you’ve heard it again. And it doesn’t fix a goddamn thing.

“I can’t do this again,” you whisper.

Jack nods. “I know.”

“But I’ll keep doing it anyway,” you add. “If you let me.”

His jaw tightens. His throat works around something thick.

“I don’t want to leave.”

“But you will.”

You both know he has to.

And he does.

He dresses slowly.

Doesn’t kiss you.

Doesn’t say goodbye.

He finds his ring.

Puts it back on.

And walks out.

The door closes.

And you break.

Because this—this is the cost of almost.

8:52 AM

You don’t move for twenty-three minutes after the door shuts.

You don’t cry.

You don’t scream.

You just exist.

Your chest rises and falls beneath the blanket. That same spot where he laid his head a few hours ago still feels heavy. You think if you touch it, it’ll still be warm.

You don’t.

You don’t want to prove yourself wrong. Your body aches everywhere. The kind of ache that isn’t just from the crash, or the stitches, or the way he held your hips so tightly you’re going to bruise. It’s the kind of ache you can’t ice. It’s the kind that lingers in your lungs.

Eventually, you sit up.

Your legs feel unsteady beneath you. Your knees shake as you gather the clothes scattered across the floor. His shirt—the one you wore while he kissed your throat and said “I love you” into your skin—gets tossed in the hamper like it doesn’t still smell like him. Your hand lingers on it.

You shove it deeper.

Harder.

Like burying it will stop the memory from clawing up your throat.

You make coffee you won’t drink.

You wash your face three times and still look like someone who got left behind.

You open your phone.

One new text.

“Did you eat?”

You don’t respond. Because what do you say to a man who left you raw and split open just to slide a ring back on someone else’s finger? You try to leave the apartment that afternoon. 

You make it as far as the sidewalk.

Then you turn around and vomit into the bushes.

You don’t sleep that night.

You lie awake with your fingers curled into your sheets, shaking.

Your thighs ache.

Your mouth is dry.

You dream of him once—his hand pressed to your sternum like a prayer, whispering “don’t let go.”

When you wake, your chest is wet with tears and you don’t remember crying.

DAY TWENTY TWO— 4:17 PM Your apartment

It starts slow.

A dull ache in your upper abdomen. Like a pulled muscle or bad cramp. You ignore it. You’ve been ignoring everything. Pain means you’re healing, right?

But by 4:41 p.m., you’re on the floor of your bathroom, knees to your chest, drenched in sweat. You’re cold. Shaking. The pain is blooming now—hot and deep and wrong. You try to stand. Your vision goes white. Then you’re on your back, blinking at the ceiling.

And everything goes quiet.

THE PITT – 5:28 PM

You’re unconscious when the EMTs wheel you in. Vitals unstable. BP crashing. Internal bleeding suspected. It takes Jack ten seconds to recognize you.

One to feel like he’s going to throw up.

“Mid-thirties female. No trauma this week, but old injuries. Seatbelt bruise still present. Suspected splenic rupture, possible bleed out. BP’s eighty over forty and falling.”

Jack is already moving.

He steps into the trauma bay like a man walking into fire.

It’s you.

God. It’s you again.

Worse this time.

“Her name is [Y/N],” he says tightly, voice rough. “We need OR on standby. Now.”

6:01 PM

You’re barely conscious as they prep you for CT. Jack is beside you, masked, gloved, sterile. But his voice trembles when he says your name. You blink up at him.

Barely there.

“Hurts,” you rasp.

He leans close, ignoring protocol.

“I know. I’ve got you. Stay with me, okay?”

6:27 PM

The scan confirms it.

Grade IV splenic rupture. Bleeding into the abdomen.

You’re going into surgery.

Fast.

You grab his hand before they wheel you out. Your grip is weak. But desperate.

You look at him—“I don’t want to die thinking I meant nothing.”

His face breaks. And then they take you away.

Jack doesn’t move.

Just stands there in blood-streaked gloves, shaking.

Because this time, he might actually lose you.

And he doesn’t know if he’ll survive that twice.

9:12 PM Post-op recovery, ICU step-down

You come back slowly. The drugs are heavy. Your throat is dry. Your ribs feel tighter than before. There’s a new weight in your abdomen, dull and throbbing. You try to lift your hand and fail. Your IV pole beeps at you like it's annoyed.

Then there’s a shadow.

Jack.

You try to say his name.

It comes out as a rasp. He jerks his head up like he’s been underwater.

He looks like hell. Eyes bloodshot. Hands shaking. He’s still in scrubs—stained, wrinkled, exhausted.

“Hey,” he breathes, standing fast. His hand wraps gently around yours. You let it. You don’t have the strength to fight.

“You scared the shit out of me,” he whispers.

You blink at him.

There are tears in your eyes. You don’t know if they’re yours or his.

“What…?” you rasp.

“Your spleen ruptured,” he says quietly. “You were bleeding internally. We almost lost you in the trauma bay. Again.”

You blink slowly.

“You looked empty,” he says, voice cracking. “Still. Your eyes were open, but you weren’t there. And I thought—fuck, I thought—”

He stops. You squeeze his fingers.

It’s all you can do.

There’s a long pause.

Heavy.

Then—“She called.”

You don’t ask who.

You don’t have to.

Jack stares at the floor.

“I told her I couldn’t talk. That I was... handling a case. That I’d call her after.”

You close your eyes.

You want to sleep.

You want to scream.

“She’s starting to ask questions,” he adds softly.

You open your eyes again. “Then lie better.”

He flinches.

“I’m not proud of this,” he says.

You look at him like he just told you the sky was blue. “Then leave.”

“I can’t.”

“You did last time.”

Jack leans forward, his forehead almost touching the edge of your mattress. His voice is low. Cracked. “I can’t lose you again.”

You’re quiet for a long time.

Then you ask, so small he barely hears it:

“If I’d died... would you have told her?”

His head lifts. Your eyes meet. And he doesn’t answer.

Because you already know the truth.

He stands, slowly, scraping the chair back like the sound might stall his momentum. “I should let you sleep,” he adds.

“Don’t,” you say, voice raw. “Not yet.”

He freezes. Then nods.

He moves back to the chair, but instead of sitting, he leans over the bed and presses his lips to your forehead—gently, like he’s scared it’ll hurt. Like he’s scared you’ll vanish again. You don’t close your eyes. You don’t let yourself fall into it.

Because kisses are easy.

Staying is not.

DAY TWENTY FOUR — 9:56 AM Dana wheels you to discharge. Your hands are clenched tight around the armrests, fingers stiff. Jack’s nowhere in sight. Good. You can’t decide if you want to see him—or hit him.

“You got someone picking you up?” Dana asks, handing off the chart.

You nod. “Uber.”

She doesn’t push. Just places a hand on your shoulder as you stand—slow, steady.

“Be gentle with yourself,” she says. “You survived twice.”

DAY THIRTY ONE – 8:07 PM

The knock comes just after sunset.

You’re barefoot. Still in the clothes you wore to your follow-up appointment—a hoodie two sizes too big, a bandage under your ribs that still stings every time you twist too fast. There’s a cup of tea on the counter you haven’t touched. The air in the apartment is thick with something you can’t name. Something worse than dread.

You don’t move at first. Just stare at the door.

Then—again.

Three soft raps.

Like he’s asking permission. Like he already knows he shouldn’t be here. You walk over slowly, pulse loud in your ears. Your fingers hesitate at the lock.

“Don’t,” you whisper to yourself. You open the door anyway.

Jack stands there. Gray hoodie. Dark jeans. He’s holding a plastic grocery bag, like this is something casual, like he’s a neighbor stopping by, not the man who left you in pieces across two hospital beds.

Your voice comes out hoarse. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I know,” he says, quiet. “But I think I should’ve been here a long time ago.”

You don’t speak. You step aside.

He walks in like he doesn’t expect to stay. Doesn’t look around. Doesn’t sit. Just stands there, holding that grocery bag like it might shield him from what he’s about to say.

“I told her,” he says.

You blink. “What?”

He lifts his gaze to yours. “Last night. Everything. The hospital. That night. The truth.”

Your jaw tenses. “And what, she just… let you walk away?”

He sets the bag on your kitchen counter. It’s shaking slightly in his grip. “No. She cried. Screamed. Told me to get out”

You feel yourself pulling away from him, emotionally, physically—like your body’s trying to protect you before your heart caves in again. “Jesus, Jack.”

“I know.”

“You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to come back with your half-truths and trauma and expect me to just be here.”

“I didn’t come expecting anything.”

You whirl back to him, raw. “Then why did you come?”

His voice doesn’t rise. But it cuts. “Because you almost died. Again. Because I’ve spent the last week realizing that no one else has ever felt like home.”

You shake your head. “That doesn’t change the fact that you left me when I needed you. That I begged you to choose peace. And you chose chaos. Every goddamn time.”

He closes the distance slowly, but not too close. Not yet.

“You think I don’t live with that?” His voice drops. 

You falter, tears threatening. “Then why didn’t you try harder?”

“I thought you’d moved on.”

“I tried,” you say, voice cracking. “I tried so hard to move on, to let someone else in, to build something new with hands that were still learning how to stop reaching for you. But every man I met—it was like eating soup with a fork. I’d sit across from them, smiling, nodding, pretending I wasn’t starving, pretending I didn’t notice the emptiness. They didn’t know me. Not really. Not the version of me that stayed up folding your shirts, tracking your deployment cities like constellations, holding the weight of a future you kept promising but never chose. Not the me that kept the lights on when you disappeared into silence. Not the me that made excuses for your absence until it started sounding like prayer.”

Jack’s face shifts—subtle at first, then like a crack running straight through the foundation. His jaw tightens. His mouth opens. Closes. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough around the edges, as if the admission itself costs him something he doesn’t have to spare.

“I didn’t think I deserved to come back,” he says. “Not after the way I left. Not after how long I stayed gone. Not after all the ways I chose silence over showing up.”

You stare at him, breath shallow, chest tight.

“Maybe you didn’t,” you say quietly, not to hurt him—but because it’s true. And it hangs there between you, heavy and undeniable.

The silence that follows is thick. Stretching. Bruising.

Then, just when you think he might finally say something that unravels everything all over again, he gestures to the bag he’s still clutching like it might anchor him to the floor.

“I brought soup,” he says, voice low and awkward. “And real tea—the kind you like. Not the grocery store crap. And, um… a roll of gauze. The soft kind. I remembered you said the hospital ones made you break out, and I thought…”

He trails off, unsure, like he’s realizing mid-sentence how pitiful it all sounds when laid bare.

You blink, hard. Trying to keep the tears in their lane.

“You brought first aid and soup?”

He nods, half a breath catching in his throat. “Yeah. I didn’t know what else you’d let me give you.”

There’s a beat.

A heartbeat.

Then it hits you.

That’s what undoes you—not the apology, not the fact that he told her, not even the way he’s looking at you like he’s seeing a ghost he never believed he’d get to touch again. It’s the soup. It’s the gauze. It’s the goddamn tea. It’s the way Jack Abbot always came bearing supplies when he didn’t know how to offer himself.

You sink down onto the couch too fast, knees buckling like your body can’t hold the weight of all the things you’ve swallowed just to stay upright this week.

Elbows on your thighs. Face in your hands.

Your voice breaks as it comes out:

“What am I supposed to do with you?”

It’s not rhetorical. It’s not flippant.

It’s shattered. Exhausted. Full of every version of love that’s ever let you down. And he knows it.

And for a long, breathless moment—you don’t move.

Jack walks over. Kneels down. His hands hover, not touching, just there.

You look at him, eyes full of every scar he left you with. “You said you'd come back once. You didn’t.”

“I came back late,” he says. “But I’m here now. And I’m staying.”

Your voice drops to a whisper. “Don’t promise me that unless you mean it.”

“I do.”

You shake your head, hard, like you’re trying to physically dislodge the ache from your chest. 

“I’m still mad,” you say, voice cracking.

Jack doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t try to defend himself. He just nods, slow and solemn, like he’s rehearsed this moment a hundred times in his head. “You’re allowed to be,” he says quietly. “I’ll still be here.”

Your throat tightens.

“I don’t trust you,” you whisper, and it tastes like blood in your mouth—like betrayal and memory and all the nights you cried yourself to sleep because he was halfway across the world and you still loved him anyway.

“I know,” he says. “Then let me earn it.”

You don’t speak. You can’t. Your whole body is trembling—not with rage, but with grief. With the ache of wanting something so badly and being terrified you’ll never survive getting it again.

Jack moves slowly. Doesn’t close the space between you entirely, just enough. Enough that his hand—rough and familiar—reaches out and rests on your knee. His palm is warm. Grounding. Careful.

Your breath catches. Your shoulders tense. But you don’t pull away.

You couldn’t if you tried.

His voice drops even lower, like if he speaks any louder, the whole thing will break apart.

“I’ve got nowhere else to be,” he says.

He pauses. Swallows hard. His eyes glisten in the low light.

“I put the ring in a drawer. Told her the truth. That I’m in love with someone else. That I’ve always been.”

You look up, sharply. “You told her that?”

He nods. Doesn’t blink. “She said she already knew. That she’d known for a long time.”

Your chest tightens again, this time from something different. Not anger. Not pain. Something that hurts in its truth.

He goes on. And this part—this part wrecks him.

“You know what the worst part is?” he murmurs. “She didn’t deserve that. She didn’t deserve to love someone who only ever gave her the version of himself that was pretending to be healed.”

You don’t interrupt. You just watch him come undone. Gently. Quietly.

“She was kind,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Good. Steady. The kind of person who makes things simple. Who doesn’t expect too much, or ask questions when you go quiet. And even with all of that—even with the life we were building—I couldn’t stop waiting for the sound of your voice.”

You blink hard, breath catching somewhere between your lungs and your ribs.

“I’d check my phone,” he continues. “At night. In the morning. In the middle of conversations. I’d look out the window like maybe you’d just… show up. Like the universe owed me one more shot. One more chance to fix the thing I broke when I walked away from the one person who ever made me feel like home.”

You can’t stop crying now. Quiet tears. The kind that come when there’s nothing left to scream.

“I hated you,” you whisper. “I hated you for a long time.”

He nods, eyes on yours. “So did I.”

And somehow, that’s what softens you.

Because you can’t hate him through this. You can’t pretend this version of him isn’t bleeding too.

You exhale shakily. “I don’t know if I can do this again.”

“I’m not asking you to,” he says, “Not all at once. Just… let me sit with you. Let me hold space. Let me remind you who I was—who I could be—if you let me stay this time.”

And god help you—some fragile, tired, still-broken part of you wants to believe him.

“If I say yes... if I let you in again...”

He waits. Doesn’t breathe.

“You don’t get to leave next time,” you whisper. “Not without looking me in the eye.”

Jack nods.

“I won’t.”

You reach for his hand. Lace your fingers together.And for the first time since everything shattered—You let yourself believe he might stay.

It was nice while it lasted

My (now ex) best friend just ended our four year friendship, said she didn't see any future in it because we weren't chatting as much as we used to. She was my best friend, but i wasn't hers. I probably haven't been for a while. My birthday is this sunday and I wished she hadn't done this just two days before my birthday. I need comfort, so here is a short Logan drabble♡

Pairing: Logan Howlett x mutant!reader

Wordcount: 1k-ish, maybe a bit less

Warnings: english isn't my first language, none, just fluff, and a bit angst, friends to lovers, implied chubby reader

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You sniffled quietly as you looked down at your bright phone screen. I'd like to break off contact. You read it over and over again. You had hoped you would never have to see these words, not with her. You were so stupid to think that your friendship would get repaired somehow.

You lived at the x men mansion, she lived far away in another city. So meeting each other was rare. The first time you met, she slept over in the mansion. Everyone liked her and you both had a great time. You would have done everything to get that back, that time, these moments when everything seemed like it was just how it was supposed to be.

After she finally found a job after searching for months, everything changed. She didn't answer your texts anymore, only if you were lucky. You tried to reach for her, tried to talk to her. But her replies were sparse and often dry. Said it was because she didn't know how to answer your texts and that she was so tired every day from work.

You tried to be understanding, tried to reassure her that it was alright. But when you saw pics of another girl on her instagram and later some random guy that turned out to be her new boyfriend, you felt it. That ache. You weren't her best friend any more. She could easily live without you. You were the only one suffering. You needed her, but she didn't need you.

You sat on your bed, wiping your tears. Why were you so damn stupid, you should have seen it coming. You were no ones favourite, you never have been. You weren't the number one for anybody, no one would chose you in a room full of people. You knew that, and that hurt.

Suddenly, the door to your room opened. It was Logan, he had a plate loaded with your favourite food in hand. He wasn't looking at you yet. "I got you some food, bub. Why weren't you down for dinner-" he started to ask but as he lifted his head and saw your tear stained face, his brows knitted together on his handsome face and he strided over to you with purpose, putting the plate on your beside table. "What's going on, bub?" He asked in the softest voice he could muster.

Your voice was hoarse and you just couldn't get a word out. He climbed into bed with you, sitting next to you and wrapping one arm around your shoulder to pull you against his side, his head on top of yours as he let you cry and shake in his arms. He wore that grey oversized sweater with nothing underneath. The fabric was so soft under your cheek. And so warm, smelling like him. You shoved your unrequited feelings aside, trying to calm your racing heart as he hugged you.

As Logan let you sob, his gaze shifted to your phone that laid abandoned on the sheets. I'd like to break off contact. He read the name over the chat and it dawned on him. He didn't need more information to know exactly what happened. You had always talked about your best friend and he had even met her one time. She was decent back then, but you would always come to him to vent when your best friend did something that hurt you. He had always told you to drop her, that she wasn't good for you, that you had so many friends and people that actually loved you around you every day. With people he meant himself. He loved you so much but never spoke up.

There was a time where he thought you and your best friend were together. Back then you'd get that question a lot because you were just that close. He was a bit salty about it and secretly hoped you would break up. When he found out you weren't actually together, he was awfully happy about it, a kick in his step.

As bad as it sounded, he was glad that the horror was finally over. He had witnessed your mental health worsen every time you beat yourself up over your best friend. He was frustrated when you blamed everything on yourself and wouldn’t see how bad she was for you. Still, he understood your tears. There had been a time where she really was your best friend and you loved her, you could tell her anything back then. And that was the version of her that you missed, the version you still held onto.

"I know this sounds rough, but you are better off without her" he mumbled against your temple, planting an experimental kiss there. As you didn't back away, he saw it as an invitation to leave his lips pressed against the side of your head. You hiccuped, nuzzling even further into him. "Why...why does it always happen to me? Why can't I keep friends, why do I always get so attached when I am worth nothing for the other person?" you questioned, voice thick from the tears. "All I want is to be loved by someone just as much as I love them" you muttered, swallowing the lump in your throat, but it didn't seem to budge.

He loved you. He loved you like you loved him. He did, so badly. But both of you didn't know. And it was eating you up inside.

You pulled back to look into his eyes "Am I unloveable, Logan? Don't lie to make me feel better" you asked him. You always told you that you couldn't be loved. But slowly you really started to believe it. I mean, who could possibly love someone like you? You were chubby, pretty introverted and didn't dress like the average. You had been bullied all your life for your looks, your personality and your mutation. The fat funny friend is who you were, the one that got asked out as a joke and was told, that they couldn't imagine you in a relationship. It was something you never truly learned to live with. You tried to hold onto the illusion that was love, hoped that one day it would find you like in the sappy romance movies you watched. You doubted it.

Your question hit Logan like a ton of bricks. "Unloveable? Are you even hearing yourself?" He asked and you had never seen him this shocked. You couldn't understand why. You had expected him to agree with you, allthough you never wanted to hear that from him.

Ever so gently, he held your soft face in his hands, wiping your tears away with his strong thumb. "You are the most easiest person to love, trust me on that"

Unbelieving, you shook your head. "I said don't lie-" you started but he shushed you quickly, your head secure in his grip as he forced you to look at him. "Look into my eyes and tell me that I am lying. Come on. Say it" he urged you on, his gaze intense and burning that it took your breath away, silencing any words you might have had. Even though you didn't correct him, he knew you weren't believing him.

He sighed, it would take a while to get all these insecurities out of your head. And your heart. But you were worth that effort.

"Let me show you just how much I love you" he mumbled before your heart threatened to jump out of your chest as his lips landed on yours. It was everything you had ever hoped it would be and you could almost not believe that this was real, that you weren't dreaming.

Pulling away, more tears spilled over your cheeks and Logan panicked. "Oh- shit, I'm sorry, that wasn't right of me" he coughed, his neck burning red in embarrassement. He was taking advantage of you, wasn’t he?

But before he could slide off your bed, you pulled at his sleeve. "No, no, it was alright. You couldn't have reacted any better" you giggled through your tears. His breath hitched as you zipped down his hoodie to snuggle against his warm, bare chest. You could feel his heartbeat quicken underneath your ear, though Logan quickly eased against the contact.

He zipped his hoodie back up behind you, keeping you close to him as you cuddled and kissed on your bed with this newfound information of you both having pinned for each other for years. You felt warm and safe and for the first time in a while, you felt like everything would be okay.

As long as he was with you.

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This was painful to write and incredibly personal in some aspects. I know that this probably won't gain as much attention because of that, as it may not be relatable for most.

But still, if you are going through something similiar, you aren't alone. There are many people that struggle, that feel this way about themselves. And while knowing that this doesn't really sooth the ache, it will get better. One day. I hope.