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OFF THE LEDGE
â Dr. Jack Abbot x fem! reader || WC: 4.6k
SYNOPSIS: Surviving is hard. You've become exhausted with the current circumstances of your life. When the pressure finally gets to be too much, you fall apart at the seams. Luckily, Jack is there to put you back together.
CONTENT/WARNINGS: MDNI/18+. NSFW. ANGST. Hurt/Comfort. Age Gap implied [Jack is late 40s, reader is late 20s/early 30s]. Power imbalances [Attending/Resident]. Established âsecretâ relationship. Mentions of a drug overdose & medical treatment (patient in ED). Mental health triggers & descriptions of depression, suicidal ideation, and a mental breakdown. Reader is passively turned actively suicidal. Injury from self-harm/self-infliction using a razor that results in bleeding & stitches. Brief references to past sh attempts from reader. Mentions of Jack struggling w/his mental health in the past. Jack being a good partner and providing support.
NOTE: This fic contains explicit descriptions of self harm, depression, and mental health issues that may be triggering for some readers. If you or a loved one are experiencing this, please reach out to someone or call the corresponding crisis lifeline in your state/country. For the U.S. - Dial 988 for the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline.
A/N: I usually don't write things like this, and a part of me was scared to even upload this, but Iâm gonna take the risk and do it anyway. I initially wrote this when I was going through something, especially this week, and just needed to release all of these built up emotions somehow and I created this, which was cathartic to write & read. We all deserve reassurance that we are still loved after our mistakes, and I hope those who are going through a hard time know that you are deserving of a long and joyful life and that you are loved. Thank you to @ozarkthedog for proofreading this and the constant encouragement, love you hun. Reblogs, comments, and likes are always greatly appreciated! <3
NAVIGATION | MASTERLIST | AO3
Youâd think by now things would get easier. That the ringing in your head would become more manageable; the noise would fade away, and the voices would quiet their chattering for once.
You thought wrong.
A part of you thinks you never shouldâve taken the time to go through high school, undergrad, and medical school to enter a field where you were frequently reminded of how fleeting life was. No matter what you did, no matter how hard you tried, the grim reaper was always there, breathing down your neck, watching the sand in the hourglass run out for those bound to leave the mortal coil. The emergency department was their personal hell, and you served as the angel of death, guiding them into the afterlife, witnessing the lights dim from their eyes and declaring the time they crossed the bridge like it was second nature.
It reminds you that it couldâve been you. Sometimes you think it should be.
Of course, that wasnât rational thinking, was it? The constant nagging voice drilling into your head that you donât belong here, you donât deserve to be walking the earth alongside everyone else. It was painfully ironic working in a field where your hands were capable of saving lives, all while you constantly battled to validate your own existence.
A walking contradiction you were.
You hid it well from everyone around you, continuing with business as usual during your night shifts at the Pitt, working doubles just to get through the day, regardless of your body begging for rest. It wasnât a problem; in fact, the staff were more than glad to have someone reliable to provide more support without asking, and with someone as capable as you, they had no qualms about adding overtime hours to your payroll.
But Dr. Abbot? He saw right through it, right through you.
He knows because he gets it.
Youâre good at your job, almost too good, and nobody would dare say otherwise. Despite your talents under pressure and your quick reflexes, there was a darkness that hung over your head like a shadow everywhere you went. Your eyes were clouded over, trying to hide something; the curl of your smile was subtleânever too wide; and your laugh was too tight to be considered a chuckle but enough for an exhale.
Jack knows, because itâs him.
The next time he goes up to the roof for some fresh air, he isnât entirely surprised to find you already there. You stood on the other end of the ledge, leaning against the railing, hands in your pockets as you stood straight, head held high to admire the Pittsburgh skyline. Jack doesnât make a sound as he steps closer to you, discreet in his footing, careful not to disturb your moment of reflection.
âYouâre in my spot.â
Looking back, he thinks his comment could pass off as reprimanding, spotting the same cues from you that recalls a version of himself he often tries to forget. The version of him that saw more men die than he can count, his past self that buried a piece of him along with his wife, the part of him that didnât care to see another day in spite of how long heâs fought to be here anyway.
You donât flinch when you hear Jackâs voice from behind you, tilting your head in acknowledgement and returning your focus to the buildings in front of you.
âHad to borrow it for a second. Wanted to take in the view.â
He only hums, arms reaching over the railing and clasping his hands. Leaning forward on the opposite side of you, he keeps his attention on the side of your face, observing you with keen eyes.
âNext time youâre up here, bring a drink. Really adds to the ambiance.â That got you to laugh dryly, and for a second, Jack considered it an accomplishment.
âIâll keep that in mind. Unless you plan on joining me for that drink, considering this is your spot and all.â You turn to face him then, and the twitch of a smirk tugs at his lips, taking in your features before glancing down to the floor.
âIâll put a pin in that for our next meet-up, kid.â
Jack was only half-serious when he said that, but your uncoordinated meetings became more consistent, the sight of Jack growing to be a welcoming one. Amongst the chaos of the Pitt, above all of the death and carnage that came through the ambulance bay every day, Jack was always there to keep you grounded in ways you didnât know you needed. A pat on the shoulder, a hand on your lower back, a squeeze on your arm, and an expression that inaudibly asks, âYouâre good?â To anyone else, theyâd think heâs just being a good mentor and doctor as he always was, but you knew there was a secondary motive, not that it wasnât reciprocated.
He made you stronger, better, and for the longest time you were okay, happy even. In a professional sense, he kept you on a tight self-care regimen, making sure you ate proper meals, slept a full 7 hours at minimum, and took supplements you wouldnât admit made you feel better even after being more energetic and clear-headed throughout your shifts. He did you the favor of setting you up to get connected to his therapist, at least for a consultation before being referred to someone who was better equipped to handle your needs, going as far as being your sponsor if necessary.
You knew he was only looking out for you, but when the concern transitioned to desire along the way, it felt natural, comforting, safe. Jack welcomed you into his reality, made room for you in his home and his heart, told you his nightmares and the memories that haunted him while making new ones with you. He let you weave yourself around his very being and made you promise to never let go, whispering those three words without issue to cite that you belonged with him, that he wanted you here where he could love you the way you deserved.
But even Dr. Abbot couldnât keep you safe from yourself.
He can always tell when your worst habits start to make a reappearance, when you have trouble sleeping and he finds you on the couch in the middle of the day, aimlessly watching something on the TV. You pick at your food more, no longer enthusiastic about your favorite lasagna heâs cooked for dinner, saying youâd save it for lunch at work and going to bed with a dwindling appetite.
You hide yourself from him, less receptive of his touch and affections; the kisses you returned were superficial at best, but it was better than nothing. The spark he adored was slowly dimming from your eyes, giving him a sad smile when he said he loved you, the words muted when they tumbled from your lips as if you were afraid of repeating it.
Back at the Pitt, your mask began to crack. Your laughs were minimal, your face permanently frozen and devoid of emotion, and your head tormenting itself as you strained to suppress your mood. You spend much longer on the roof during your shifts, and though he trusts you enough, he still keeps track of the number of times he spots you sneaking away and heading for the stairs. Heâs told you so many times beforeâ
âIf youâre not back in 5 minutes, Iâm coming up to get you.â
And Jack sticks to his word, running up to the roof and hoping heâd still find you on the other side. He always does, approaching you cautiously, talking to you in the same passive authority he uses in the ED. It does the job, bringing you into his chest and cradling the back of your head, feeling you grip onto him like heâs the only thing you had left. It does little to quell his own anxieties about your fraying state of mind when he finds you closer to the ledge every time he comes to get you.
He knows itâs only a matter of time before you fall apart, or worse.
Your shift at the Pitt was manageable for the most part until a case of a self-inflicted drug overdose came in at the wee hours of the night. An unresponsive teenager around the age of 17 came in through the ambulance bay with his parents, suspected of an extreme intake of Xanax, no reaction to pain or light, blown pupils, and weak pulse. Everyone knew there was limited time to bring them back from the brink, and the first attempt using Narcan was already unsuccessful.
The teen crashed in Trauma 1, you called for the crash cart and ordered two shocks before attempting compressions. You pumped the kidâs body full of atropine and epinephrine, cracked a few of their ribs and worked up a sweat giving compressions, but his overworked heart wouldnât restart on its own. You kept going for another 30 minutes before Jack called it, and you noted the flatline on the heart monitor, spacing out as your ears rang and the walls closed in on you.
Jack took the responsibility of notifying the parents, suggesting you take five to cool off. When he found you in your spot, you were sitting down on the edge of the roof, feet dangling on the edge and looking down to the ground.
That was the closest he found you to the ledge.
The drive back home was quiet, the air rigid between you, but he knew well enough it wasnât directed towards him. You didnât bother to look at him for the entire commute, staring out into the window, counting the streetlights passing you by. Rolling into the driveway, you grabbed your work bag and made your way to the front door, Jack matching your pace behind you, reading your body language like a hawk. After unlocking the door, you were quick to walk past him and march to the bedroom, but he was faster than you, grabbing your arm and bringing you back into the foyer.
âHey, hey. Talk to me.â He turns you to face him, one hand rubbing over your wrist and the other cupping your cheek. âI know today was hard, you donât have to hide it from me, you know that. But please, just talk to me. Iâm worried about you.â
âI just want to rinse off the day, Jack. Itâs been⊠Iâm tired, okay? Can we talk later when Iâve slept a bit? Please?â You held his gaze, his touches only unnerving you more, confused and struggling to focus. He didnât believe you; he knew you werenât okay, but the last thing he wanted to do was smother you when you couldnât give him a straightforward answer.
âAlright, weâll talk later. Go shower, Iâll make you something to eat before you sleep.â He planted a light kiss by your temple, breathing you in as if it were for the last time. âI love you.â
âI know.â It was the only thing you said, and he apprehensively let you go without hearing the sentiment returned to him, letting your silhouette disappear into the master bathroom.
It had been 40 minutes since he last saw you, and it was eerily too quiet for him to be tranquil. The hairs on the back of his neck stick up once heâs done packing away the food he made for you in hopes youâd be able to keep it down before heading off to bed. The danger senses that always protected him were firing off, and he knew you needed your space, but the urge to check up on you pestered him to the point of suffocation.
Stepping into the shared bedroom, you were nowhere to be found. The lights in the bathroom were still on, and the shower had long stopped running, but he heard the muffled sniffles, probably stifled with your hand covering your mouth.
Something wasnât right.
âSweetheart?â He knocks on the door, trying to get your attention. âAre you okay?â It was a stupid question, he thinks. He knows the answer is no, but when you donât give him a response, his worry deepens.
He instantly thinks of the worse-case scenario, compartmentalizing what could be happening in the small room closed off to him. He knew from the moment you lost that patient a switch had gone off, that your subconscious roamed into the abyss youâve been fighting to avoid. Youâve gone off the deep end, and he had to try to bring you back.
His trained ears pick up on the sound of something clinking in the sink, sharp and metallic, a hiss emitting from you followed by a restrained groan. You were in pain; something had caused you to react that way, and from the way you started to hyperventilate and cry, he can only imagine what happened.
âBaby, please. Let me in.â Jack calls out to you, reaching for the doorknob and twisting it open, but finds the door locked. He calls your name again, knocking on the door harder without trying to startle you further. âI wonât be upset with you, I promise, but I need you to open this door. You gotta let me in, or so help me, I will break it down to get to you.â
Your name tumbled out of his mouth in a plea, knuckles rasping harder against the wooden door, the knob rattling under his grip as he cursed to himself. He couldnât bear the thought of not being able to help, of being kept in the dark while you do God knows what to yourself. Silence on the other end made his blood run cold, shoulder and head now pressed to the door, trying to find any sign of your presence on the opposite side.
Already in position to ram into the door, the click of the lock registers in his ears. Wasting no time to swing it open, his heart pounded in his ears at the display before him.
There you stood, tears streaking your face and eyes empty from the mess that was your psyche. His sight trailed lower, nostrils flaring at the sight of crimson pooling in the sink, surrounding a bloody razor. Your trembling hand swathed your wrist, the red liquid staining your palm and your fingers digging into your tainted skin in a poor attempt to manage the flow.
âIâm sorryâŠâ You mumbled, your bottom lip wobbling as you refused to meet his eye.
He didnât react or think about anything else; his sole focus was on you.
âItâs okay. Itâs okay.â It wasnât, but he stayed collected for your sake. Coming into the bathroom, he held you by the hips, eyes anchored to your face because he knows heâll lose his shit the instant he looks at your arm. âIâm going to sit you down for a second, alright? Just breathe with me, Iâm right here.â
As much as your body could in its state of shock, Jack maneuvered you to sit on the toilet seat, keeping your eyes stuck on the tile. You could hear him moving around you, grabbing a boxed item from the cabinet and running the sink for a bit. Your breath lumped in your throat, lungs tight and wheezing on every exhale. It was a blur how you got to the kitchen, your feet moving on their own as you floated outside of your body, your cognizance wandering to anywhere but here.Â
âLet me see your wrist, honey.â Jack advised, his voice unwavering despite the constriction of his pupils disclosed his panicked nature.
Carefully, you revealed your injuries to the veteran, blood streaming down onto the sterile procedure underpad he placed your arm on. He sighed in slight relief, thankful the two wounds were horizontal like the rest of the faded scars instead of the opposite, not deep enough for immediate concern, but youâd still need stitches.
âTheyâre not too deep, but I need to stitch you up so they heal, okay?â He was talking, you think he was, and despite not fully processing his mouth moving, you nodded anyway.
Placing the lightest kiss on your forehead, Jack promptly got to work. Opening the tactical first aid kit he kept in the bathroom, stacked to the brim with medical supplies, he found some gloves and got his station ready. He treated you like any other case in the ED, holding off on everything else going on in his head until you werenât hurt anymore.
As serious as he can be, he numbed out the area for your comfort and flushed out the cuts for better visibility, taking hold of the suture and piercing the curved end to your skin. You didnât jerk your arm away as he did so, looping the metal hook into your flesh a few more times before neatly tying the end and cutting the rest off. He double-checked to make sure the wound would heal properly with minimal issues and wrapped your wrist up in some gauze and a medical-grade bandage.
You were silent the entire time, the tension thick enough to cut through. He was figuring out the best approach to this conversation, to make sure he wouldnât push you farther away.
âHowâs the wrapping?â He started off with that, something easy for you to answer.
âItâs fine.â You shrugged, thumbing over the bandage. âCanât feel anything.â
âGood, thatâs good.â He replies, maintaining his analytical gaze on you. He plotted what exactly he could say, the right sequence of words that would put you at ease, but you got to it before he could.
âJackâŠâ He scanned your distressed features, never taking his eyes off of you. âAre you upset with me?â
âWhy would I be upset with you?â The thought of your priority being his reaction to your behavior in such a high-stress environment ached him. âI couldnât be upset at you. Not for this, not for anything. You understand that, right?â
âI just⊠I feel so fucking stupid. For doing this, after being clean for so damn long.â You stared down at your wrists with sunken eyes, the self-deprecating thoughts banging around in your skull doing nothing to calm you down, eyes stinging with residual tears that never seemed to stop falling.
He uttered your name softly, reaching out to hold your hands as if you were made of porcelain, making an effort to dodge the new bandages covering your wrist.
âYouâre not weak, or any less deserving of a life worth living for repeating old patterns. Weâre not perfect, and when your mind is your worst enemy, itâs a constant battlefield up there. You think I didnât struggle the same way before? I still do sometimes, and Iâm sure if there was a remedy to get rid of all of the bullshit in our heads, we wouldâve taken it a long time ago. What matters is youâre still here, breathing, talking. Youâre still here.â
A pregnant pause followed his words, your grip tightening around his, blankly looking at his digits and mindlessly rubbing over his skin.
âIâm tired, Jack. Iâm tired of it all, of the noise, of constantly needing to fight everything, to find a reason to keep going.â The tears still pebbled at the corner of your eye, lids lined with red and irritated from the emotional turmoil youâve been working through. âItâs all becoming too much, and nothing was working, so I justâŠneeded something to release the pressure. I donât know how much more of this I can take, and that scares me. Iâm at my limit, and I donât know what to do anymore.â
It killed him to know youâve been carrying so much pain. He already knows of your background, of your prior attempts, and the skeletons hidden in your closet. Jack understands the cards that have been stacked against you from the very beginning of your existence, chasing a calm reality youâll never experience; the closest you got to that was being in a partnership with him. Jack loved you with every part of his soul, heâs told you countless times. He hoped his love was enough to nullify your suffering, but even he knew there was no remedy for being your worst enemy.
âYou donât need to have it all figured out right now, and you donât have to tell me everything youâre thinking or are choosing to forget. But just know, I love you, and I want to be able to love you in any capacity while youâre here with me.â His voice grew taut as he spoke, the faintest tell that he was being strong for your sake.
âThis doesnât change that, and whatever comes, I will help you through it. Youâre worth the fight, you always have been, and youâve been fighting for your place here for so long. Iâm not letting you go, not that easily, and I wonât let you give up on yourself either. You donât have to do this alone, not anymore.â
His words struck a chord with you, feeling them reverberate through your body, shuddering as he said everything you needed to hear. You sat together in the kitchen, letting his declaration to you hang in the air and marinate, breaking the silence after some time.
âThank you.â Your gratitude for Jackâs selflessness goes without saying, the hazel eyes that had been drawn to you from the start were kind as they always were, warm and full of adoration youâve never felt with or from anyone else.
âAlways.â His head tilts behind him, gesturing to the fridge. âMade something in case you still wanted a bite.â
âI donât think I can stomach anything right now, Iâm sorry.â
âItâs alright, I already wrapped it up in case you changed your mind.â Jack stayed quiet, pondering for a beat before talking again. âIâll ask the other residents to cover your shifts for the rest of the week, and Iâll switch out with Robby so I can stay here with you.â
âYou donât have to do that.â You didnât want to be any more of a burden than you already were.
âI know I donât, but I want to, I feel like I need to. Weâll just take a few days, recuperate, get you out of the house for some fresh air and do something together, maybe coordinate next steps. How does that sound?â
For the first time in what felt like weeks, that spark that slipped away appeared in your eyes again. It was faint and fleeting, but you were still there underneath all of that baggage.
âItâs much better than being in the Pitt. I donât want Robby on my ass for not showing up for a while.â He chuckles dryly, shaking his head in agreement.
âHeâll understand, trust me, and he loves being there with all of the rookies. Plus, the old man owes me, he wonât mind.â
Your shoulders dropped from their stiff position the entire night, your body language now more relaxed than before as the exhaustion from everything started to kick in.
âI think I want to go to bed now, sleep all of this off.â
âIâm right behind you.â He didnât debate with you or ask for more answers to his questions; there was no need if he knew you'd come to him when you were ready to talk.
Packing away the rest of his medical gear and disposing of the hazardous material properly, he made sure the rest of the kitchen was cleared before meeting you in the bedroom. You stood awkwardly in front of the bathroom, the same place where the offense took place, losing yourself in the constricting tiled room.
âDo you want me to help you?â He lingered, as he usually did, and youâve never been more grateful for his consistent support.
âPlease.â
He put the first aid kit back where he found it and searched around the bedroom, finding his overworn Army shirt you claimed was your favorite. He approached you with a cool and collected attitude, gently asking for permission before he slipped your current t-shirt off of your head and dressed you in the olive green cotton, caressing the side of your jaw affectionately.
Letting you go to slip under the sheets and claim your side of the bed, he sat on the edge of the mattress to take off his prosthetic, placing it against the bedside table for when he woke up. Tossing the duvet cover over him and filling the empty space beside you, he angled his body towards you, head digging into the pillow under him.
You shifted to him in an instant, nestling your face into his chest. The scent of him hit your nose, overpowering your senses and soothing your nerves, leaning against him with your full body weight and seeking out his warmth. A thick arm shielded you from the rest of the world, winding around your waist and bringing you closer, resting comfortably on your backside. Your breathing matched pace with his, mimicking his inhales and exhales as he coached you to fully settle.
âJack?â The hum he gave you vibrated underneath your cheek. âI love you, and I hope you know that, even if I donât say it all the time.â
âI know. I love you too.â He kisses your hairline again, your face tilting upwards to meet his lips, soft and sweet, and just enough pressure to reassure him you felt the same. âYou have me, sweetheart. Always.â
âTell me a story. Want to hear you while I sleep.â You requested shyly, throwing your free arm over his waist, stroking the arch of his spine under his t-shirt.
As he retold another memory from his past, a fond one from his childhood, while his hand rubbed the back of your head, kneading the nape of your neck and running lines over your scalp. His words trailed off as your eyes fluttered closed, your hand ceasing its movement over his back, falling limp along with the rest of your body. You fell asleep long before his story finished, but Jack didnât close his eyes just yet, he couldnât.
It was in the stillness of the night that his trepidation creeped up to the surface, his mind running a mile a minute, overrun by all the protocols of the worst-case scenarios and their proper reactions. When it came to you, the same rules never applied, his sense of reason always flew out of the window. He released a quivering breath he didnât realize he was holding; the thought of losing you, of not being there to save you, haunted him in his sleep. He never thought a part of his nightmare would manifest into reality, but he knows this was more than just him.
Whatever came next, however you wanted to handle this, he vowed to stick beside you, no matter the outcome. He was determined to prevent you from falling through the cracks, not if he could help it. You were worth the heartbreak and the sorrow; heâll share the burden of your existence with you if it means he can keep loving you for a bit longer if youâll let him.
In any way, Jack is here to stay like the loyal soldier he is, and heâs not planning on letting you go anytime soon.
Â©ïž ovaryacted 2025. Please donât repost, copy, translate, or feed into any AI. Support your fellow creators by reblogging, commenting, and liking!
#truly love the way you wrote jack in this#really keying in on his observant skills#also the bathroom scene I really loved how calm and collected he was#you always see people losing it when these situations happen and sometimes I think it actually makes things worse.#thanks for sharing op!!!#abbot angst#abbot fic
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OP this was so fantastic! My heart went through a full range of emotions on this one.
When Robby reveals all of Jackâs secrets the hide under his bed and his mannerisms, all I could think is thatâs the definition of grief and it kills me!
âYou were already shaking when he growled, âYou still taste like mine.ââ
LIKE OP WHEN I TELL YOU MY JAW DROPPED!! There is something so possessive yet sad about that.
Even though they end up together, it still ends pretty melancholy and I think thatâs nicer than a truly happy ending for a fic like this. Thanks for sharing your work đđđ
.đ„ Ę ËÖŽ àŁȘâ Built for Battle, Never for Me Ę ËÖŽ àŁȘâ âčË
âAnd I will fuck you like nothing matters.â
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 summerâair 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 wasnât the most Jack thing in the worldâequal 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 incarnationâevery 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 heâd get out once it was over. Once the years were served, the boxes checked, the blood debt paid in full. He promised heâd come backânot just in body, but in whatever version of wholeness he still had left. Said heâd 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 hadnât 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 nowâhe 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.
âIâm not being deployed,â he said, eyes fixed on the duffel bag instead of you. âIâm volunteering.â
Your arms crossed tightly over your chest, nails digging into the fabric of your sleeves. âYouâve fulfilled your contract, Jack. Youâre not obligated anymore. Youâre a doctor now. You could stay. You could leave.â
âI know,â he said, quiet. Measured. Like heâd practiced saying it in his head a hundred times already.
âYou were offered a civilian residency,â you pressed, your voice rising despite the lump building in your throat. âAt one of the top trauma programs in D.C. You told me they fast-tracked you. That they wanted you.â
âI know.â
âAnd you turned it down.â
He exhaled through his nose. A long, deliberate breath. Then reached for another undershirt, folded it so neatly it looked like a ritual. âThey need trauma-trained docs downrange. Thereâs a shortage.â
You laughedâa bitter, breathless sound. âThereâs always a shortage. Thatâs not new.â
He paused. Briefly. His hand flattened over the shirt like he was smoothing something that wouldnât stay still. âYou donât get it.â
âI do get it,â you snapped. âThatâs the problem.â
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.
âYou think this makes you necessary,â you whispered. âYou think chaos gives you purpose. But itâs just the only place you feel alive.â
He turned toward you slowly, shirt still in hand. His hair was longer than regulationâhe hadnât 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 heâd come back and choose something softer.
You.
âTell me Iâm wrong,â you whispered. âTell me this isnât just about being needed again. About being irreplaceable. About chasing adrenaline because youâre scared of standing still.â
Jack didnât say anything else.
Not when your voice broke asking him to stayânot 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. Youâd asked him softly. Carefully. Like you were trying not to startle something fragile. Like if you stayed calm, maybe heâd 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.
Youâd seen him fight for the life of a strangerâbare hands pressed to a wound, blood soaking through his sleeves, voice low and steady through chaos. But he didnât fight for this. For you.
You didnât speak for the rest of the day.
He packed in silence. You did laundry. Folded his socks like it mattered. You couldnât decide if it felt more like mourning or muscle memory.
You didnât 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 couldnât bear to name.
The windows were open, and you could hear the city breathing outsideâcar tires on wet pavement, wind slinking through the alley, the distant hum of a life you couldâve had. One that didnât 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 hadnât looked at it once.
âDo you want tea?â 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.
âNo.â
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 thisâyouâwas 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 hadnât made a choice that ripped something fundamental out of you both.
âI donât think I know how to do this anymore,â you said.
Jack turned, towel still in hand. âWhat?â
âThis,â you gestured between you, âUs. I donât know how to keep pretending weâre okay.â
He opened his mouth. Closed it again. Then leaned against the sink like the weight of that sentence physically knocked him off balance.
âI didnât expect you to understand,â he said.
You laughed. It came out sharp. Ugly. âThatâs 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 youâre only good when youâre bleeding out in a tent with your hands in someoneâs chest.â
He flinched.
âBut I also know you didnât even try to stay.â
âI did,â he snapped. âEvery time I came back to you, I tried.â
âThatâs not the same as choosing me.â
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 tooâlike the walls were holding their breath. You didnât look back. You couldnât.
The bed still smelled like him. Like cedarwood aftershave and something darkerâfamiliar, 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 didnât come.
And for a long time, he didnât follow.
But eventually, the floor creakedâsoft, 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 weightâslow, deliberate, like every inch he gave to gravity was a decision he hadnât 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 youâd almost forgotten.
Then, gentlyâlike he thought you might flinchâhis 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 heâd left behind.
Like maybe, if he held you carefully enough, he could keep you from slipping through the cracks heâd carved into both of your lives. Like this was the only way he still knew how to say please donât go.
âI donât want to lose you,â 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 skinâjust 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 wasnât 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 againâdeeper 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 wasnât franticâit 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 eyesâwhatever soft, shattering thing was thereâit might ruin you. He undressed you like he was unwrapping something fragileâcareful, 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 hadnât let himself crave in years. Like he was starving for the version of you that only existed when you were underneath him.Â
Your fingers threaded through his hair. You arched. Moaned his name. He pushed into you like he didnât 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.Â
His thumb brushed your lower lip. You bit it. He groanedâlow, guttural.
âSay it,â he rasped against your mouth.
âI love you,â you whispered, already crying. âGod, I love you.â
And when you came, it wasnât 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 didnât speak. Didnât move. He just stayed curled around you, heartbeat thudding against your spine like punctuation.
Because sometimes the loudest heartbreak is the one you donât say out loud.
The alarm never went off.
Youâd both woken up before itâsome silent agreement between your bodies that said donât pretend this is normal. The room was still dark, heavy with the thick, gray stillness of early morning. That strange pocket of time that doesnât 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 heâd 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 didnât speak.Â
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. âYou want coffee?â he asked, voice hoarse.
You shook your head. You didnât trust yourself to speak.
He paused in the doorway, like he might say somethingâsomething 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 itâmug 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 didnât smell like him anymore. The silence was different now. Not tense. Just done. He set his keys on the table between you.
âI left a spare,â he said.
You nodded. âI know.â
He took a sip of coffee, made a face. âYou never taught me how to make it right.â
âYou never listened.â
His lips twitchedâalmost a smile. It died quickly. You looked down at your hands. Picked at a loose thread on your sleeve.
âWill you write?â you asked, quietly. Not a plea. Just curiosity. Just something to fill the silence.
âIf I can.â
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.Â
He finally stood. Grabbed his bag. Slung it over his shoulder like it weighed nothing. He didnât 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.
âHey,â he said, softer this time. âYouâre everything I ever wanted, you know that?â
You stood too fast. âThen why wasnât this enough?â
He flinched. And still, he came back to you. Hands cupping your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like he was trying to memorize it.
âI love you,â he said.
You swallowed. Hard. âThen stay.â
His hands dropped.Â
âI canât.â
You didnât 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 didnât want him to come back.
But because you didnât want to hope anymore that he would.
PRESENT DAY : THE PITT - FRIDAY 7:02 PM
Jack always said he didnât believe in premonitions. That was Robbyâs departmentâgut feelings, emotional instinct, the kind of sixth sense that made him pause mid-shift and mutter things like âI donât like this quiet.â Jack? He was structure. Systems. Trauma patterns on a 10-year data set. He didnât believe in ghosts, omens, or the superstition of stillness.
But tonight?
Tonight felt wrong.
The kind of wrong that doesnât announce itself. It just settlesâlow 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 wasnât restfulâjust waiting. Like something in him was already bracing for impact.
The ER didnât 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 achedânot 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 didnât fully live in anymore. He tried to shake it off. He couldnât. He wasnât tired.
But he felt unmoored.
7:39 PM
The station was too loud in all the wrong ways.
Dana was telling someoneâprobably Perlahâabout her granddaughterâs birthday party tomorrow. There was going to be a Disney princess. Real cake. Real glitter. Jack nodded when she looked at him but didnât absorb any of it. His hands were hovering over the computer keys, but he wasnât 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 didnât even hear Ellis approach until her shadow slid into his peripheral.
âYouâre doing it again,â she said.
Jack blinked. âDoing what?â
âThat thing. The haunted soldier stare.â
He exhaled slowly through his nose. âDidnât realize I had a brand.â
âYou do.â She leaned against the counter, arms folded. âYou get real still when itâs too quiet in here. Like youâre waiting for the other shoe to drop.â
Jack tilted his head slightly. âIâm always waiting for the other shoe.â
âNo,â she said. âNot like this.â
He didnât respond. Didnât need to. They both knew what kind of quiet this was.
7:55 PM
The weather was turning.
He could hear itâhow the rain hit the loading dock, how the wind pushed harder against the back doors. Heâd seen it out the break room window earlier. Clouds like bruises. Thunder low, miles off, not angry yetâjust gathering. Pittsburgh always got weird storms in the springâcold 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 didnât know who he was preparing forâjust that someone was coming.Â
8:00 PM
Robbyâs shift was ending. He always left a little lateâhovered by the lockers, checking one last note, scribbling initials where none were needed. Jack didnât look up when he approached, but he heard the familiar shuffle, the sound of a hoodie zipper pulled halfway.
âYou sure you donât wanna switch shifts tomorrow?â Robby asked, thumb scrolling absently across his phone screen, like he was trying to sound casualâbut you could hear the edge of something in it. Fatigue. Or maybe just wariness.
Jack glanced over, one brow arched, already sensing the setup. âWhat, 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 youâre someoneâs dad?â
Robby didnât look up from his phone. âClose. She thinks youâre the dad. Like⊠someoneâs brooding, emotionally unavailable single father who only comes to parent-teacher conferences to say heâs doing his best.â
Jack blinked. âIâm forty-nine. Youâre fifty-three.â
âShe thinks youâve lived harder.â
Jack snorted. âShe say that?â
âShe saidâand I quoteââHeâs got that energy. Like heâs seen things. Lost someone he doesnât talk about. Probably drinks his coffee black and owns, like, one picture frame.ââ
Jack gave a slow nod, face unreadable. âWell. Sheâs not wrong.â
Robby side-eyed him. âYou do have ghost-of-a-wife vibes.â
Jackâs smirk twitched into something more wry. âNot a widower.â
âCouldâve fooled her. She said if she had daddy issues, youâd be her first mistake.â
Jack let out a low whistle. âJesus.â
âI told her youâre just forty-nine. Prematurely haunted.â
Jack smiled. Barely. âYouâre such a good friend.â
Robby slipped his phone into his pocket. âYouâre lucky I didnât tell her about the ring. She thinks youâre tragic. Women love that.â
Jack muttered, âTragic isnât a flex.â
Robby shrugged. âIt is when youâre tall and say very little.â
Jack rolled his eyes, folding his arms across his chest. âStill not switching.â
Robby groaned. âCome on. Whitaker is due for a meltdown, and if I have to supervise him through one more central line attempt, Iâm walking into traffic. He tried to open the kit with his elbow last week. Said sterile gloves were âlimiting his dexterity.â I said, âThatâs the point.â He told me I was oppressing his innovation.â
Jack stifled a laugh. âIâm starting to like him.â
âHeâs your favorite. Admit it.â
âYouâre my favorite,â Jack said, deadpan.
âThatâs the saddest thing youâve ever said.â
Jackâs grin tugged wider. âItâs been a long year.â
They stood in silence for a momentâone of those rare ones where the ER wasnât screeching for attention. Just a quiet hum of machines and distant footsteps. Then Robby shifted, leaned a little heavier against the wall.
âYou good?â he asked, voice low. Not pushy. Just there.
Jack didnât look at him right away. Just stared at the trauma board. Too long. Long enough that it said more than words wouldâve.
ThenââFine,â Jack said. A beat. âJust tired.â
Robby didnât press. Just nodded, like he believed it, even if he didnât.
âGet some rest,â Jack added, almost an afterthought. âIâll see you tomorrow.â
âYou always do,â Robby said.
And then he left, hoodie half-zipped, coffee in hand, just like always.
But Jack didnât move for a while.
Not until the ER stopped pretending to be quiet.
8:34 PM
The call hits like a starterâs pistol.
âInbound MVA. Solo driver. High velocity. No seatbelt. Unresponsive. GCS three. ETA three minutes.â
The kind of call that should feel routine.
Jackâs already in motionâsnapping on gloves, barking out orders, snapping the trauma team to attention. He doesnât think. He doesnât feel. He just moves. Itâs what heâs best at. What they built him for.
He doesnât know why his heart is hammering harder than usual.
Why the air feels sharp in his lungs. Why heâs clenching his jaw so hard his molars ache.
He doesnât know. Not yet.
âPerlah, trauma cartâs prepped?â
âYeah.â
âMateo, I want blood drawn the second sheâs in. Jesseâintubation tray. Letâs be ready.â
No one questions him. Not when heâs in this modeâlow 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 itâthe wheels. Gurney. Fast.
Voices echoing through the corridor.
Paramedic yelling vitals over the noise.
âUnidentified female. Found unresponsive at the scene of an MVAâsingle vehicle, no ID on her. Significant blood loss, hypotensive on arrival. BP tanked en routeâwe lost her once. Got her back, but sheâs still unstable.â
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 sheâs here.
Unconscious. Barely breathing. Covered in her own blood. And nobody knows who she is but him.
âJack?â Perlah says, uncertain. âYou good?â
He doesnât respond. Heâs already at the side of the gurney, brushing the medic aside, sliding in like muscle memory.
âGet me vitals now,â he says, voice too low.
âSheâs crashing againââ
âI said get me fucking vitals.â
Everyone jolts. He doesnât care. Heâs pulling the oxygen mask over your face. Hands hovering, trembling.
âJesus Christ,â he breathes. âWhat happened to you?â
Your eyes flutter, barely. He watches your chest rise once. Then falter.
ThenâFlatline.
You looked like a stranger. But the kind of stranger who used to be home. Where had you gone after he left?
Why didnât you come back?
Why hadnât he tried harder to find you?
He never knew. He told himself you were fine. That you didnât 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 Jackâhe doesnât blink. He doesnât curse. He doesnât call out. He just moves. The team reacts firstâshock, noise, adrenaline. Perlahâs 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 doesnât flinch.
He steps forward. Takes position. Drops to the right side of your chest like itâs instinctâbecause 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 doesnât say your name. He doesnât let them see him.
He just works.
Like heâs still on deployment.
Like youâre just another body.
Like youâre not the person who made him believe in softness again.
Jack doesnât move from your side.
Doesnât say a thing when the first shock doesnât bring you back. Doesnât 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 doesnât speak. He doesnât check the room. Doesnât 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.
âGet her to CT,â he says quietly.
Perlah hesitates. âJackââ
He shakes his head. âIâll walk with her.â
âJackâŠâ
âI said Iâll go.â
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 PMÂ
The corridor outside CT was colder than the rest of the hospital. Some architectural flaw. Or maybe just Jackâs body going numb. You were being wheeled in nowâhooked to monitors, lips cracked and flaking at the edges from blood loss.
You hadnât moved since the trauma bay. They got your heart back. But your eyes hadnât 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 hadnât slowed since the flatline. He didnât speak to the transport tech. Didnât acknowledge the nurse. Didnât 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.
âTwo minutes,â someone said.
Jack barely nodded. The tech turned away. And for the first time since they wheeled you inâJack looked at you.
Eyes sweeping over your face like he was seeing it again for the first time. Like he didnât recognize this version of youânot broken, not bloodied, not dyingâbut fragile. His hand moved before he could stop it. He reached down. Brushed your hair back from your forehead, fingers trembling.Â
He leaned in, close enough that only the machines could hear him. Voice raw. Shaky.
âStay with me.â He swallowed. Hard. âIâll lie to everyone else. Iâll keep pretending I can live without you. But you and me? We both know Iâm full of shit.â
He paused. âYouâve always known.â
Footsteps echoed around the corner. Jack straightened instantly. Like none of it happened. Like he wasnât bleeding in real time. The tech came back. âWeâre ready.â
Jack nodded. Watched the doors open. Watched them wheel you away. Didnât 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 couldnât 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 hadnât.
And now here you were, barely breathing.
God. He wanted to scream. But he didnât. He never did.
Footsteps approached from the leftâlight, careful.
It was Dana.
She didnât 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 didnât drink.
âSheâs stable,â Dana said quietly. âNeuroâs scrubbing in. Walsh is watching the bleed. They're hopeful it hasnât shifted.â
Jack stared straight ahead. âSheâs got a collapsed lung.â
âSheâs alive.â
âShe shouldnât be.â
He could hear Dana shift beside him. âYou knew her?â
Jack swallowed. His throat burned. âYeah.â
There was a beat of silence between them.
âI didnât know,â Dana said, gently. âI mean, I knew there was someone before you came back to Pittsburgh. I just never thought...â
âYeah.â
Another pause.
âJack,â she said, softer now. âYou shouldnât be the one on this case.â
âIâm already on it.â
âI know, butââ
âShe didnât have anyone else.â
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 phoneâhis 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. âDo you want me to sit with her until she wakes up?â
He shook his head.
âI should be there.â
âJackââ
âI shouldâve been there the first time,â he snapped. Then his voice broke low, quieter, strained: âSo Iâm gonna sit. And Iâm gonna wait. And when she wakes up, Iâm gonna tell her Iâm sorry.â
Dana didnât move. Didnât 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 hadnât spoken in twenty minutes. He just sat there. Watching you like if he looked away, youâd vanish again. He leaned back eventually, scrubbed both hands down his face.
âJesus,â he whispered. âYou really never changed your emergency contact?â
You didnât get married. You didnât 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 heâd ruined it. Because he didnât know what to do with love when it wasnât covered in blood and desperation. He let you go. And now you were here.Â
âPlease wake up,â he whispered. âJust⊠just wake up. Yell at me. Punch me. I donât care. Justââ
His voice cracked. He bit it back.
âYou were right,â he said, so soft it barely made it out. âI shouldâve stayed.â
You swim toward the surface like somethingâs pulling you back under. Itâs slow. Syrupy. The kind of consciousness that makes pain feel abstractâlike youâve forgotten which parts of your body belong to you. Thereâs pressure behind your eyes. A dull roar in your ears. Cold at your fingertips.
Thenâsound. Beeping. Monitors. A cart wheeling past. Someone saying Vitals stable, pressureâs holding. A laugh in the hallway. Fluorescents. Fabric rustling. Andâ
A chair creaking.
You know that sound.
Youâd recognize that silence anywhere. You open your eyes, slowly, blinking against the light. Vision blurred. Chest tight. Thereâs a rawness in your throat like youâve been screaming underwater. Everything hurts, but one thing registers clear:
Jack.
Jack Abbot is sitting beside you.
Heâs hunched forward in a chair too small for him, arms braced on his knees like heâs ready to stand, like he canât stand. Thereâs a hospital badge clipped to his scrub pocket. His jaw is tight. Thereâs something smudged on his cheekboneâblood? You donât know. His hair is shorter than you remember, greyer.
But itâs him. And for a secondâjust oneâyou forget the last seven years ever happened.
You forget the apartment. The silence. The day he walked out with his duffel and didnât look back. Because right now, heâs here. Breathing. Watching you like heâs afraid youâll vanish.
âHey,â he says, voice hoarse.
You try to swallow. You canât.
âDonâtââ he sits up, suddenly, gently. âDonât try to talk yet. You were intubated. Rollover crashââ He falters. âJesus. Youâre okay. Youâre here.â
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.
âI thought you were dead,â he says. âOr married. Or halfway across the world. I thoughtââ He stops. His throat works around the words. âI never thought Iâd see you again.â
You close your eyes for a second. Itâs too much. His voice. His face. The sound of youâre okay coming from the person who once made it hurt the most. You shift your gazeâtry to ground yourself in something solid.
And thatâs when you see it.
His hand.
Resting casually near yours.
Ring finger tilted toward the light.
Gold band.Â
Simple.
Permanent.
You freeze.
Itâs 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.
âFuck,â Jack says under his breath, immediately leaning back like distance might make it easier. Like you didnât just see it.
He drags a hand through his hair, rubs the back of his neck, looks anywhere but at you.
âSheâs notââ He pauses. âItâs not what you think.â
Youâre barely able to croak a whisper. Your voice scrapes like gravel: âYouâre married?â
His head snaps up.
âNo.â Beat. âNot yet.â
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. Heâs not here asking for forgiveness. Heâs here because you almost died. Because for a minute, he thought heâd never get the chance to say goodbye right. But he didnât come back for you.
He moved on.
And you didnât 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.
âI didnât know,â he says. âI didnât know Iâd ever see you again.â
âI didnât know youâd stop waiting,â you rasp.
And thatâs it. Thatâs the one that lands. He goes very still.
âI waited,â he says, softly. âLonger than I shouldâve. I kept the spare key. I left the porch light on. Every time someone knocked on the door, I thoughtâmaybe. Maybe itâs you.â
Your eyes well up. He shakes his head. Looks away. âBut you never called. Never sent anything. And eventually... I thought you didnât want to be found.â
âI didnât,â you whisper. âBecause I didnât want to know youâd already replaced me.â
The silence after that is unbearable. And then: the soft knock of a nurse at the door.
Dana.Â
She peeks in, eyes flicking between the two of you, and reads the room instantly.
âWeâre moving her to step-down in fifteen,â she says gently. âJust wanted to give you a heads up.â Jack nods. Doesnât look at her. Dana lingers for a beat, then quietly slips out. You donât speak. Neither does he. He just stands there for another long moment. Like he wants to stay. But knows he shouldnât. Finally, he exhalesâlow, shaky.
âIâm sorry,â 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.Â
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 angleâenough 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 didnât ask for him. And stillâevery time a nurse came in, every time the door clicked open, every shuffle of shoes in the hallwayâyou hoped.Â
You hated yourself for it.
You hadnât cried yet.
That surprised you. You thought waking up and seeing him againâfor the first time in years, after everythingâwould snap something loose in your chest. But it didnât. It just⊠sat there. Heavy. Silent. Like grief that didnât 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 wasnât Jack.
It was a man you didnât recognize. Late forties, maybe fifties. Navy hoodie. Clipboard. Glasses slipped low on his nose. He looked tiredâbut held together in the kind of way that made it clear he'd been the glue for other people more than once.
âIâm Dr. Robinavitch.â he said gently. You just blinked at him.
âIâm... one of the attendings. I was off when they brought you in, but I heard.â
He didnât step closer right away. ThenââMind if I sit?â
You didnât answer. But you didnât say no. He pulled the chair from the corner. Sat down slow, like he wasnât sure how fragile the air was between you. He didnât check your vitals. Didnât chart.
Just sat.
Present. In that quiet, steady way that makes you feel like maybe you donât have to hold all the weight alone.
âHell of a night,â he said after a while. âYou had everyone rattled.â
You didnât reply. Your eyes were fixed on the ceiling again. He rubbed a hand down the side of his jaw.
âJack hasnât looked like that in a long time.â
That made you flinch. Your head turned, slow and deliberate.
You stared at him. âHe talk about me?âÂ
Robby gave a small smile. Not pitying. Not smug. Just... true. âNo. Not really.â
You looked away.Â
âBut he didnât have to,â he added.
You froze.
âIâve seen him leave mid-conversation to answer texts that never came. Watched him walk out into the ambulance bay on his nights offâlike 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.â
Your throat burned.
âHe never said your name,â Robby continued, voice low but certain. âBut thereâs a box under his bed. A spare key on his ringâbeen there for years, never used, never taken off. And that old mug in the back of his locker? The one that doesnât match anything? You start to notice the things people hold onto when theyâre trying not to forget.â
You blinked hard. âThereâs a box?â
Robby nodded, slow. âYeah. Tucked under the bed like he didnât mean to keep it but never got around to throwing it out. Lettersâsome 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 itâfaded, but folded like it meant something.â
You closed your eyes. That was worse than any of the bruises.
âHe compartmentalizes,â Robby said. âItâs how he stays functional. Itâs what heâs good at.â
You whispered it, barely audible: âIt was survival.â
âSure. Until it isnât.â
Another silence settled between you. Comfortable, in a way.
ThenââHeâs engaged,â you said, your voice flat.
Robby didnât blink. âYeah. I know.â
âIs sheâŠ?â
âSheâs good,â he said. âSmart. Teaches third grade in Squirrel Hill. Not from medicine. I think thatâs why it worked.â
You nodded slowly.
âDoes she know about me?â
Robby looked down. Didnât answer. You nodded again. That was enough.Â
He stood eventually.
Straightened the front of his hoodie. Rested the clipboard against his side like heâd forgotten why he even brought it.
âHeâll come back,â he said. âNot today. Maybe not tomorrow. But eventually.â
You didnât look at him. Just stared out the window. Your voice was quiet.
âI donât want him to.â
Robby gave you one last look.
One that said: Yeah. You do.
Then he turned and left.
And this time, when the door clicked shutâyou cried.
DAY FOURâ 11:41 PM
The hospital was quiet. Quieter than it had been in days.
Youâd 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 wasâyou didnât know where home was anymore. The hallway light outside your room flickered once. Youâd 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 didnât speak at first. He just stood there, shadowed in the doorway, scrub top wrinkled like heâd fallen asleep in it, hair slightly damp like heâd washed his face too many times and still didnât feel clean. You sat up slowly, heart punching through your chest.
He didnât move.
Didnât smile.
Didnât 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.
âI wasnât gonna come,â he said quietly, finally. You didnât respond.
Jack stepped inside. Closed the door gently behind him.
The room felt too small.
Your throat ached.
âI didnât know what to say,â he continued, voice low. âDidnât know if youâd want to see me. After... everything.â
You sat up straighter. âI didnât.â
That hit.
But he nodded. Took it. Absorbed it like punishment he thought he deserved.
Still, he didnât leave. He stood at the foot of your bed like he wasnât sure he was allowed any closer.
âWhy are you here, Jack?â
He looked at you. Eyes full of everything he hadnât said since he walked out years ago.
âI needed to see you,â he said, and it was so goddamn quiet you almost missed it. âI needed to know you were still real.â
Your heart cracked in two.
âReal,â you repeated. âYou mean like alive? Or like not something you shoved in a box under your bed?â
His jaw tightened. âThatâs not fair.â
You scoffed. âYou think any of this is fair?â
Jack stepped closer.
âI didnât plan to love you the way I did.â
âYou didnât plan to leave, either. But you did that too.â
âI was trying to save something of myself.â
âAnd I was collateral damage?â
He flinched. Looked down. âYou were the only thing that ever made me want to stay.â
âThen why didnât you?â
He shook his head. âBecause I was scared. Because I didnât know how to come back and be yours forever when all Iâd ever been was temporary.â Silence crashed into the space between you. And then, barely above a whisper:
âDoes she know you still dream about me?â
That made him look up. Like youâd punched the wind out of him. Like youâd reached into his chest and found the place that still belonged to you. He stepped closer. One more inch and heâd be at your bedside.
âYou have every reason not to forgive me,â he said quietly. âBut the truth isâIâve never felt for anyone what I felt for you.â
You looked up at him, voice raw: âThen why are you marrying her?â
Jackâs mouth opened. But nothing came out. You looked away.
Eyes burning.
Lips trembling.
âI donât want your apologies,â you said. âI want the version of you that stayed.â
He stepped back, like that was the final blow.
But you werenât done.
âI loved you so hard it wrecked me,â you whispered. âAnd all I ever asked was that you love me loud enough to stay. But you didnât. And now you want to stand in this room and act like Iâm some kind of unfinished chapterâlike you get to come back and cry at the ending?â
Jack breathed in like it hurt. Like the air wasnât going in right.
âI came back,â he said. âI came back because I couldnât breathe without knowing you were okay.â
âAnd now you know.â
You looked at him, eyes glassy, jaw tight.
âSo go home to her.â
He didnât move.
Didnât speak.
Didnât do what you asked.
He just stood thereâbleeding in the quietâwhile you looked away.
DAY SEVENâ 5:12 PM
You left the hospital with a dull ache behind your ribs and a discharge summary you didnât bother reading. They told you to stay another three days. Said your pain control wasnât stable. Said you needed another neuro eval.
You said youâd call.
You wouldnât.
You packed what little you had in silenceâfolded 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 APARTMENTâ 8:44 PM
It wasnât much. A studio above a laundromat on Butler Street. One couch. One coffee mug. A bed you didnât 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 hadnât turned on the lights.
You hadnât eaten.
You were staring at the wall when the knock came.
Three short taps.
Then his voice.
âIt's me.â
You didnât move.
Didnât speak.
Then the second knock.
âPlease. Just open the door.â
You stood. Slowly. Every joint screamed. When you opened it, there he was. Still in black scrubs. Still tired. Still wearing that ring.
âYou left,â he said, breath fogging in the cold.
You leaned against the frame. âI wasnât going to wait around for someone who already left me once.â
âI deserved that.â
âYou deserve worse.â
He nodded. Took it like a man used to pain. âCan I come in?â
You hesitated.
Then stepped aside.
He didnât sit. Just stood thereâawkward, towering, hands in his pockets, taking in the chipped paint, the stack of unopened mail, the folded blanket at the edge of the bed.
âThis place is...â
âMine.â
He nodded again. âYeah. Yeah, it is.â
Silence.
You walked back to the bed, sat down slowly. He stood across from you like you were a patient and he didnât know what was broken.
âWhat do you want, Jack?â
His jaw flexed. âI want to be in your life again.â
You blinked. Laughed once, sharp and short. âRight. And what does that look like? You with her, and me playing backup singer?â
âNo.â His voice was quiet. âJust... just a friend.â
Your breath caught.
He stepped forward. âI know I donât deserve more than that. I know I hurt you. And I know thisâthis thing between usâit'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.â
You looked down.
Your hands were shaking.
You didnât want this. You wanted him. All of him.
But you knew how this would end.
Youâd sit across from him in cafĂ©s, pretending not to look at his left hand.
Youâd laugh at his stories, knowing his warmth would go home to someone else.
Youâd let him inâinch by inchâuntil there was nothing left of you that hadnât shaped itself to him again.
And still.
StillââOkay,â you said.
Jack looked at you.
Like he couldnât believe it.
âFriends,â you added.
He nodded slowly. âFriends.â
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 wireâIt was going to break you.
DAY TEN â 6:48 PM Steeped & Co. CafĂ© â Two blocks from The Pitt
You told yourself this wasnât a date.
It was coffee. It was public. It was neutral ground.
But the way your hands wouldnât 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 wantedâexcept when it came to you.
âYouâre limping less,â he said, settling across from you like you hadnât been strangers for the last seven years. You lifted your tea, still too hot to drink. âYouâre still observant.â
He smiledâsmall. 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 âDoctor Doomâ under his breath.
It shouldâve 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 handâ
The ring.
You looked away. Pretended not to care.
âYouâre doing okay?â he asked, voice gentle.
You nodded, lying. âMostly.â
He reached across the table thenâjust for a secondâlike he might touch your hand. He didnât. Your breath caught anyway. And neither of you spoke for a while.
DAY TWELVE â 2:03 PM Your apartment
You couldnât sleep. Again.
The pain meds made your body heavy, but your head was always screaming. Youâd 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 didnât even ask how he got there so fast. You opened the door and he stepped in like he hadnât been waiting in his car, like he hadnât been hoping youâd 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.
âI canât sleep anymore,â you whispered. âI keep... hearing it. The crash. The metal. The quiet after.â
Jack swallowed hard. His jaw clenched. âYeah.â
You both went quiet again. It always came in waves with himâthings 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.
âI think about you all the time,â he said, voice low, wrecked.
You didnât move.
âYouâre in the room when Iâm doing intake. When Iâm changing gloves. When I get in the car and my left hand hits the wheel and I see the ring and I wonder why itâs not you.â
Your breath hitched.
âBut I made a choice,â he said. âAnd I canât undo it without hurting someone whoâs never hurt me.â
You finally turned toward him. âThen why are you here?â
He looked at you, eyes dark and honest. âBecause the second you came back, I couldnât breathe.â
You kissed him.
You donât 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 wasnât sweet. It wasnât 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.
âGo home,â you said, voice cracking.
âDonât do thisââ
âGo home to her, Jack.â
And he did.
He always did.
DAY THIRTEEN â 7:32 PM
You donât eat.
You donât 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 â 11:46 PM
The takeout was cold. Neither of you had touched it.
Jackâs gaze hadnât left you all night.
Low. Unreadable. He hadnât smiled once.
âYou never stopped loving me,â you said suddenly. Quiet. Dangerous. âDid you?â
His jaw flexed. You pressed harder.
âSay it.â
âI never stopped,â he rasped.
That was all it took.
You surged forward.
His hands found your face. Your hips. Your hair. He kissed you like heâd 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.
âFuckââ he muttered, grabbing your thigh, hitching it up. His fingers pressed into your skin like he didnât care if he left marks. âI canât believe you still taste like this.â
You gasped into his mouth, nails dragging down his chest. âDonât stop.â
He didnât.
He had your clothes off before you could breathe. His mouth moved downâyour 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.
âYou still wear my t-shirt to bed?â he whispered against your breasts voice thick. âYou still get wet thinking about me?â
You whimpered. âJackââ
His name came out like a sin.
He dropped to his knees.
âLet me hear it,â he said, dragging his mouth between your thighs, voice already breathless. âTell me you still want me.â
Your head dropped back.
âI never stopped.â
And then his mouth was on youâfilthy 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, âYou still taste like mine.â
You cried outâhigh and wreckedâand he kept going.
Faster.
Sloppier.
Like he wanted to ruin every memory of anyone else who mightâve 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 couldnât 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 stomachâdripping 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 gaspedâtoo full, too fastâand he buried his face in your neck.
âIâm sorry,â he groaned. âI shouldnâtâfuckâI shouldnât be doing this.â
But he didnât 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 heâd never let go again. Your nails digging into his back like maybe you could keep him this time. He fucked you like heâd 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 didnât know how to carry it anymore.
He spat on his fingers and rubbed your clit until you were screaming his name.
âLouder,â he snapped, fucking into you hard. âLet the neighbors hear who makes you come.â
You came again.
And again.
Shaking. Crying. Overstimulated.
âOpen your eyes,â he panted. âLook at me.â
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.
âInside,â you whispered, legs wrapped around him. âDonât pull out.â
He froze.
Then nodded, forehead dropping to yours.
âI love you,â he breathed.
And then he cameâdeep, 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 didnât speak.
Neither did he.
Because you both knewâ
This changed everything.
And nothing.
DAY EIGHTEEN â 7:34 AM
Sunlight creeps in through the slats of your blinds, painting golden stripes across the hardwood floor, your shoulder, his back.
Jackâs asleep in your bed. Heâs on his side, one arm flung across your stomach like instinct, like a claim. His hand rests just above your hipâfingers twitching every now and then, like some part of him knows this moment isnât real. Or at least, not allowed. Your body aches in places that feel worshipped.Â
You donât feel guilty.
Yet.
You stare at the ceiling. You havenât spoken in hours.
Not since he whispered âI love youâ 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 didnât say goodbye.
You shift slowly beneath the sheets. His hand tightens.Â
Like he knows.
Like he knows.
You stay still. You donât 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.
Thenâ
âMorning.â
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.
âShouldnât have stayed,â he says softly.
You close your eyes.
âI know.â
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 doesnât look at you when he says it.
âI told her I was working overnight.â
You feel your breath catch.
âShe called me at midnight,â he adds. âI didnât answer.â
You sit up too. Tug the blanket around your chest like modesty matters now.
âIs this the part where you tell me it was a mistake?â
Jack doesnât answer right away.
ThenââNo,â he says. âItâs the part where I tell you I donât know how to go home.â
You both sit there for a long time.
Naked.
Wordless.
Surrounded by the echo of what you used to be.
You finally speak.
âDo you love her?â
Silence.
âI respect her,â he says. âSheâs good. Steady. Nothingâs ever hard with her.â
You swallow. âThatâs not an answer.â
Jack turns to you then. Eyes tired. Voice raw.
âIâve never stopped loving you.â
It lands in your chest like a sucker punch.
Because you know. You always knew. But now youâve heard it again. And it doesnât fix a goddamn thing.
âI canât do this again,â you whisper.
Jack nods. âI know.â
âBut Iâll keep doing it anyway,â you add. âIf you let me.â
His jaw tightens. His throat works around something thick.
âI donât want to leave.â
âBut you will.â
You both know he has to.
And he does.
He dresses slowly.
Doesnât kiss you.
Doesnât say goodbye.
He finds his ring.
Puts it back on.
And walks out.
The door closes.
And you break.
Because thisâthis is the cost of almost.
8:52 AM
You donât move for twenty-three minutes after the door shuts.
You donât cry.
You donât 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, itâll still be warm.
You donât.
You donât want to prove yourself wrong. Your body aches everywhere. The kind of ache that isnât just from the crash, or the stitches, or the way he held your hips so tightly youâre going to bruise. Itâs the kind of ache you canât ice. Itâs 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 shirtâthe one you wore while he kissed your throat and said âI love youâ into your skinâgets tossed in the hamper like it doesnât 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 wonât drink.
You wash your face three times and still look like someone who got left behind.
You open your phone.
One new text.
âDid you eat?â
You donât respond. Because what do you say to a man who left you raw and split open just to slide a ring back on someone elseâs finger? You try to leave the apartment that afternoon.Â
You make it as far as the sidewalk.
Then you turn around and vomit into the bushes.
You donât 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 onceâhis hand pressed to your sternum like a prayer, whispering âdonât let go.â
When you wake, your chest is wet with tears and you donât remember crying.
DAY TWENTY TWOâ 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. Youâve been ignoring everything. Pain means youâre healing, right?
But by 4:41 p.m., youâre on the floor of your bathroom, knees to your chest, drenched in sweat. Youâre cold. Shaking. The pain is blooming nowâhot and deep and wrong. You try to stand. Your vision goes white. Then youâre on your back, blinking at the ceiling.
And everything goes quiet.
THE PITT â 5:28 PM
Youâre 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 heâs going to throw up.
âMid-thirties female. No trauma this week, but old injuries. Seatbelt bruise still present. Suspected splenic rupture, possible bleed out. BPâs eighty over forty and falling.â
Jack is already moving.
He steps into the trauma bay like a man walking into fire.
Itâs you.
God. Itâs you again.
Worse this time.
âHer name is [Y/N],â he says tightly, voice rough. âWe need OR on standby. Now.â
6:01 PM
Youâre 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.
âHurts,â you rasp.
He leans close, ignoring protocol.
âI know. Iâve got you. Stay with me, okay?â
6:27 PM
The scan confirms it.
Grade IV splenic rupture. Bleeding into the abdomen.
Youâre going into surgery.
Fast.
You grab his hand before they wheel you out. Your grip is weak. But desperate.
You look at himââI donât want to die thinking I meant nothing.â
His face breaks. And then they take you away.
Jack doesnât move.
Just stands there in blood-streaked gloves, shaking.
Because this time, he might actually lose you.
And he doesnât know if heâll 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. Thereâs 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 thereâs a shadow.
Jack.
You try to say his name.
It comes out as a rasp. He jerks his head up like heâs been underwater.
He looks like hell. Eyes bloodshot. Hands shaking. Heâs still in scrubsâstained, wrinkled, exhausted.
âHey,â he breathes, standing fast. His hand wraps gently around yours. You let it. You donât have the strength to fight.
âYou scared the shit out of me,â he whispers.
You blink at him.
There are tears in your eyes. You donât know if theyâre yours or his.
âWhatâŠ?â you rasp.
âYour spleen ruptured,â he says quietly. âYou were bleeding internally. We almost lost you in the trauma bay. Again.â
You blink slowly.
âYou looked empty,â he says, voice cracking. âStill. Your eyes were open, but you werenât there. And I thoughtâfuck, I thoughtââ
He stops. You squeeze his fingers.
Itâs all you can do.
Thereâs a long pause.
Heavy.
ThenââShe called.â
You donât ask who.
You donât have to.
Jack stares at the floor.
âI told her I couldnât talk. That I was... handling a case. That Iâd call her after.â
You close your eyes.
You want to sleep.
You want to scream.
âSheâs starting to ask questions,â he adds softly.
You open your eyes again. âThen lie better.â
He flinches.
âIâm not proud of this,â he says.
You look at him like he just told you the sky was blue. âThen leave.â
âI canât.â
âYou did last time.â
Jack leans forward, his forehead almost touching the edge of your mattress. His voice is low. Cracked. âI canât lose you again.â
Youâre quiet for a long time.
Then you ask, so small he barely hears it:
âIf Iâd died... would you have told her?â
His head lifts. Your eyes meet. And he doesnât answer.
Because you already know the truth.
He stands, slowly, scraping the chair back like the sound might stall his momentum. âI should let you sleep,â he adds.
âDonât,â you say, voice raw. âNot yet.â
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 foreheadâgently, like heâs scared itâll hurt. Like heâs scared youâll vanish again. You donât close your eyes. You donât let yourself fall into it.
Because kisses are easy.
Staying is not.
DAY TWENTY FOUR â 9:56 AM Dana wheels you to discharge. Your hands are clenched tight around the armrests, fingers stiff. Jackâs nowhere in sight. Good. You canât decide if you want to see himâor hit him.
âYou got someone picking you up?â Dana asks, handing off the chart.
You nod. âUber.â
She doesnât push. Just places a hand on your shoulder as you standâslow, steady.
âBe gentle with yourself,â she says. âYou survived twice.â
DAY THIRTY ONE â 8:07 PM
The knock comes just after sunset.
Youâre barefoot. Still in the clothes you wore to your follow-up appointmentâa hoodie two sizes too big, a bandage under your ribs that still stings every time you twist too fast. Thereâs a cup of tea on the counter you havenât touched. The air in the apartment is thick with something you canât name. Something worse than dread.
You donât move at first. Just stare at the door.
Thenâagain.
Three soft raps.
Like heâs asking permission. Like he already knows he shouldnât be here. You walk over slowly, pulse loud in your ears. Your fingers hesitate at the lock.
âDonât,â you whisper to yourself. You open the door anyway.
Jack stands there. Gray hoodie. Dark jeans. Heâs holding a plastic grocery bag, like this is something casual, like heâs a neighbor stopping by, not the man who left you in pieces across two hospital beds.
Your voice comes out hoarse. âYou shouldnât be here.â
âI know,â he says, quiet. âBut I think I shouldâve been here a long time ago.â
You donât speak. You step aside.
He walks in like he doesnât expect to stay. Doesnât look around. Doesnât sit. Just stands there, holding that grocery bag like it might shield him from what heâs about to say.
âI told her,â he says.
You blink. âWhat?â
He lifts his gaze to yours. âLast night. Everything. The hospital. That night. The truth.â
Your jaw tenses. âAnd what, she just⊠let you walk away?â
He sets the bag on your kitchen counter. Itâs shaking slightly in his grip. âNo. She cried. Screamed. Told me to get outâ
You feel yourself pulling away from him, emotionally, physicallyâlike your bodyâs trying to protect you before your heart caves in again. âJesus, Jack.â
âI know.â
âYou donât get to do this. You donât get to come back with your half-truths and trauma and expect me to just be here.â
âI didnât come expecting anything.â
You whirl back to him, raw. âThen why did you come?â
His voice doesnât rise. But it cuts. âBecause you almost died. Again. Because Iâve spent the last week realizing that no one else has ever felt like home.â
You shake your head. âThat doesnât 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.â
He closes the distance slowly, but not too close. Not yet.
âYou think I donât live with that?â His voice drops.Â
You falter, tears threatening. âThen why didnât you try harder?â
âI thought youâd moved on.â
âI tried,â you say, voice cracking. âI 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 metâit was like eating soup with a fork. Iâd sit across from them, smiling, nodding, pretending I wasnât starving, pretending I didnât notice the emptiness. They didnât 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.â
Jackâs face shiftsâsubtle 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 doesnât have to spare.
âI didnât think I deserved to come back,â he says. âNot after the way I left. Not after how long I stayed gone. Not after all the ways I chose silence over showing up.â
You stare at him, breath shallow, chest tight.
âMaybe you didnât,â you say quietly, not to hurt himâbut because itâs 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 heâs still clutching like it might anchor him to the floor.
âI brought soup,â he says, voice low and awkward. âAnd real teaâthe 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 thoughtâŠâ
He trails off, unsure, like heâs realizing mid-sentence how pitiful it all sounds when laid bare.
You blink, hard. Trying to keep the tears in their lane.
âYou brought first aid and soup?â
He nods, half a breath catching in his throat. âYeah. I didnât know what else youâd let me give you.â
Thereâs a beat.
A heartbeat.
Then it hits you.
Thatâs what undoes youânot the apology, not the fact that he told her, not even the way heâs looking at you like heâs seeing a ghost he never believed heâd get to touch again. Itâs the soup. Itâs the gauze. Itâs the goddamn tea. Itâs the way Jack Abbot always came bearing supplies when he didnât know how to offer himself.
You sink down onto the couch too fast, knees buckling like your body canât hold the weight of all the things youâve swallowed just to stay upright this week.
Elbows on your thighs. Face in your hands.
Your voice breaks as it comes out:
âWhat am I supposed to do with you?â
Itâs not rhetorical. Itâs not flippant.
Itâs shattered. Exhausted. Full of every version of love thatâs ever let you down. And he knows it.
And for a long, breathless momentâyou donât 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. âYou said you'd come back once. You didnât.â
âI came back late,â he says. âBut Iâm here now. And Iâm staying.â
Your voice drops to a whisper. âDonât promise me that unless you mean it.â
âI do.â
You shake your head, hard, like youâre trying to physically dislodge the ache from your chest.Â
âIâm still mad,â you say, voice cracking.
Jack doesnât flinch. Doesnât try to defend himself. He just nods, slow and solemn, like heâs rehearsed this moment a hundred times in his head. âYouâre allowed to be,â he says quietly. âIâll still be here.â
Your throat tightens.
âI donât trust you,â you whisper, and it tastes like blood in your mouthâlike 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.
âI know,â he says. âThen let me earn it.â
You donât speak. You canât. Your whole body is tremblingânot with rage, but with grief. With the ache of wanting something so badly and being terrified youâll never survive getting it again.
Jack moves slowly. Doesnât close the space between you entirely, just enough. Enough that his handârough and familiarâreaches out and rests on your knee. His palm is warm. Grounding. Careful.
Your breath catches. Your shoulders tense. But you donât pull away.
You couldnât if you tried.
His voice drops even lower, like if he speaks any louder, the whole thing will break apart.
âIâve got nowhere else to be,â he says.
He pauses. Swallows hard. His eyes glisten in the low light.
âI put the ring in a drawer. Told her the truth. That Iâm in love with someone else. That Iâve always been.â
You look up, sharply. âYou told her that?â
He nods. Doesnât blink. âShe said she already knew. That sheâd known for a long time.â
Your chest tightens again, this time from something different. Not anger. Not pain. Something that hurts in its truth.
He goes on. And this partâthis part wrecks him.
âYou know what the worst part is?â he murmurs. âShe didnât deserve that. She didnât deserve to love someone who only ever gave her the version of himself that was pretending to be healed.â
You donât interrupt. You just watch him come undone. Gently. Quietly.
âShe was kind,â he says, voice barely above a whisper. âGood. Steady. The kind of person who makes things simple. Who doesnât expect too much, or ask questions when you go quiet. And even with all of thatâeven with the life we were buildingâI couldnât stop waiting for the sound of your voice.â
You blink hard, breath catching somewhere between your lungs and your ribs.
âIâd check my phone,â he continues. âAt night. In the morning. In the middle of conversations. Iâd look out the window like maybe youâd 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.â
You canât stop crying now. Quiet tears. The kind that come when thereâs nothing left to scream.
âI hated you,â you whisper. âI hated you for a long time.â
He nods, eyes on yours. âSo did I.â
And somehow, thatâs what softens you.
Because you canât hate him through this. You canât pretend this version of him isnât bleeding too.
You exhale shakily. âI donât know if I can do this again.â
âIâm not asking you to,â he says, âNot all at once. Just⊠let me sit with you. Let me hold space. Let me remind you who I wasâwho I could beâif you let me stay this time.â
And god help youâsome fragile, tired, still-broken part of you wants to believe him.
âIf I say yes... if I let you in again...â
He waits. Doesnât breathe.
âYou donât get to leave next time,â you whisper. âNot without looking me in the eye.â
Jack nods.
âI wonât.â
You reach for his hand. Lace your fingers together.And for the first time since everything shatteredâYou let yourself believe he might stay.
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WHEN I GET MY HANDS ON YOU OP
No Man's Land Part 2
Jack Abbot x f!reader || Part 1
18.6k || All my content is 18+ MDNI || CW: mentions of blood, mentions of bones breaking, mentions of guns/shootings/gunshot wounds, mentions and discussions of suicide/suicidal ideation, CPR, mentions/discussions of jack's injury and losing his foot, anxiety about partner's safety, angst, Jack's traumatized, everyone's traumatized honestly, probably incorrect description of medical events, potentially incorrect medical descriptions/knowledge, PIV sex, mentions of morphine and alcohol, age gap referenced in passing once kind of, reader loves Paris and the Louvre, reader's favorite flowers are daffodils, I had this idea and started drafting before we knew Jack was a widow so in this world he has never been married, no use of y/n or related.
Summary: The aftermath of you being shot and collapsing in the trauma room and a new reality.
AN: I'm a certified yapper like our man, so I apologize for how long this is.
You drop at just the right point in your swaying that you fall backwards, head first. You hit the floor back of your skull first with a sickening crack.Â
Everyone in the room knows what that was the sound of - your skull cracking.
âFuck me!â âFucking shit!â âHoly fuck!â âOh god!â âWas that her fucking skull?â Verbalized reactions fill the air from Robby, Dana, Heather, Mel and Santos, respectively. Jack is silent. Heâs not even sure heâs breathing. Heâs frozen as he looks at you, both struggling to process what has happened and already understanding what has happened at once, hearing dulled as he focuses on you.Â
Things have now gone from really fucking bad to somehow a lot fucking worse in a matter of seconds.
A head injury was the last thing you needed. And it was preventable. He should have prevented it. He should have stayed with you, told Robby to handle the code on his own, kept holding you, actually looked you over before letting you go but he didnât.Â
âSomebody get a fucking gurney in here!â Dana yells out the door.Â
âCollins, you handle this. Mohan, youâre with me!â Robby orders. Once your neck is secured in a c-collar and youâre on a gurney youâre rushed into trauma two, the team swarming you just like they do any other unfortunate soul who ends up here.Â
Jack suddenly finds himself again, hearing no longer dampened and follows your gurney into trauma two. âMannitol-â
âGet out Jack!â Robby shouts at him amid the chaos of getting you hooked up to monitors and IVs going. âYou canât be in here!â
âAnd yet here I fucking am.â Jack almost snarls back at him as he takes a place on the other side of you.Â
âDana.â Robby shoots her a look and she steps back and away from you, peeling her gloves off and tossing them to the floor.Â
âJack,â she says softly to him, rests a hand on his bicep and squeezes gently. âLetâs step out.â
He shrugs her hand off. âNo. No fucking way. SomebodyâŠâ He trails off as he looks down at you, freezing again. More blood pours from your mouth, and now your nose. He looks down and sure enough, itâs dripping out of your ear too, not unsurprising given the head trauma, but still. The image is seared in his brain. Â
âFuck!â Robby yells. âSheâs in DIC.â He takes a look at your vitals. To say theyâre abysmal would be a gross understatement. âOkay, massive transfusion protocol now, people! I wanna do two to one to one with how much blood sheâs lost. Set up for a central line.âÂ
âPush etomidate and roc!â Mohan yells into the chaos. â7.0 ET please.â
âJack, you have to move, okay? They need access to her.â Dana grabs Jackâs arm again and is able to pull him to the side. âOnce sheâs intubated you can sit by her, okay?âÂ
He gives a single nod in response, sits automatically when Dana pushes the stool into the back of his knees. It doesnât take the team long to get you intubated and Dana helps him move so that he sits at the top of your head.Â
Everything and everyone else fades away as he looks down at your face, your beautiful blood smeared face. He leans in towards you a little. He has so much he wants to say and yet he canât get a word out.Â
âWeâre taking her up to surgery, Jack.â Robby is suddenly leaning down next to him. âWe have to stop the internal bleeding before we can image her head.âÂ
âSheâs in DIC. She has a subdural from the fall, Iâm sure. Fractured skull. We have to address it.â Jack almost mumbles it as he watches them put the bed rails up and start to move you.Â
âI know,â Robby tells him gently, âbut if the major source of bleeding isnât stopped, you and I both know that the skull fracture and subdural arenât going to matter.â
Jack just nods and stands, follows your gurney in silence up to the OR floor. He hates it but he has to take one last look at you before turning to go into a locker room to grab a fresh pair of scrubs. He changes fast, finds Garcia and Shamsi in the scrub room.Â
âWhat are you doing Jack?â Garcia asks him, sharing a look with Shamsi. âYouâre not coming in the OR.â
âYes I am.â He ignores her, grabs a pack and starts to scrub. The door opens again and Jack doesnât need to turn to know itâs Robby.Â
âYou guys go.â Robby nods at Garcia and Shamsi. âJack, come on. Letâs go to the gallery or waiting room.â
âFuck that!â Jack yells as they walk in. Heâs still scrubbing furiously. âIâm not going to watch them hack her-â
âYou and I both know theyâre not going to âhack herâ and that thereâs nobody else youâd rather have operating on her. You need to let them do their work.â Robby stops next to the sink Jack is scrubbing at. âThat is the best thing you can do for her right now. Let them work.â
Jack keeps scrubbing for a minute, jaw clenched tight. But then he stops. He knows Robby is right. Knows that scrubbing in and being in the OR isnât going to fix you. It isnât going to let him make up for not noticing you were shot earlier, before you were already half dead on the floor with a broken fucking skull he could have prevented.Â
The combination of emotions is crushing. He throws the soap at one of the doors in the scrub room and yells a âfuck!â Thereâs a moment of silence and then a whispered âfuck,â that his voice crack on half way through.Â
âCome on.â Robby picks up the soap and throws it away, throws a towel at Jack for his hands. âLetâs get some air.âÂ
âIâm going to obs.â Jack tells him. Robby tries to speak. âNo. If I donât get to be in the OR with her I at least get to fucking watch over her from obs.â
âNo, Jack! Iâm not letting you fucking torture yourself by watching this. She wouldnât want that. She wouldnât want you seeing her like this-â
âYou donât fucking know her!â Jack seethes, getting up in Robbyâs face, chests touching. âSo stop fucking acting like you do.â
A tense silence passes, a staring match before Robby holds his hands up in defeat and looks away. âAlright. Iâm sorry.âÂ
âI have to watch her die, Robby. I have to have been there for her. Been there with her. I am not letting her go alone.â Jack shakes his head, eyes red rimmed and glassy but more serious than Robby has ever seen him before.Â
âI know.â Robby opens the door of the observation suite for him. âIf something happens and they get close to calling it you can go be with your girl, okay?â
âNo.â Jack huffs, treading water more and more to try and stay above the flood of emotions. âNo itâs not fucking okay! None of this is fucking okay! Sheâs not okay! Iâm not okay!â Jack takes in a shuddery breath and turns his back on Robby. âNone of this is okay,â he whispers, voice thick with emotion and tears that can no longer be held back.Â
Robby lets Jack have a minute to try and pull himself together. He knows that right now is not the time to have some sort of heart to heart with Jack. Instead he puts the intercom on so that they can hear whatâs happening in the OR but the OR canât hear them.Â
Itâs not good but itâs not bad, youâre not dead. Thereâs no conversation between the two men, just Jack up almost pressed into the glass to watch while Robby observes him more than the surgery.
âSo,â Robby says casually after a couple of minutes. âPeter?â
Jack huffs, shaking his head and coming to sit next to Robby. âDonât ask.â
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
âI really like this little routine, you know?â You smile at Jack as he peruses the shelves, coffee in one hand and your hand in the other. Youâre back at the bookstore where you met, off in the back shelves where itâs quieter, fewer people. Youâre alone in the aisle.Â
âComing here?â
âMhmm.â You nod at him. âIt was a really good idea.âÂ
Somewhere between dates number three and four Jack had suggested you guys go back to the bookstore once a week. Make it a thing. Get coffee, pick out books together. Just walk around. How could you ever say no?
âI have one every now and then.â He smiles at you.Â
You point to a book, say the title. âThat looks interesting.âÂ
Jack looks at the book. Itâs on the bottom shelf. You didnât ask for him to bend down and get it for you but he will anyway. And you knew when you said it that he would. Heâs just a gentleman like that. And so he does. Sets his coffee on the shelf and bends down to get it for you.Â
âWhy is it that every book you want is always on the bottom shelf?â He feigns a huff.
âBecause I like making you bend down so that I can check out your ass.â
He freezes for a second. It was so not the answer he was expecting. Heâs not sure he was expecting an answer. But then you come out with that. Always keeping him on his toes.Â
He grabs the book and stands back up, smirking as he hands it to you. His fingers find the belt loops of your jeans and pull you close to him, lips brushing against yours. âYou like my ass?âÂ
You giggle against his lips and kiss him. âI do.âÂ
âYouâre terrible, woman.â He gives you another kiss.Â
âMore like your terrible woman.â You can feel his jaw clench at that and he holds you a little tighter. Oh he liked that. A lot. It makes you smirk.Â
âDamn right you are.â One last kiss and then you break apart.
âI think Iâm falling in love with you, Peter.â
He cocks his head at the name. âPeter? Should I be concerned you canât keep your men straight?â He doesnât mean it, nor does any anxiety roll through him. He knows you, knows it was deliberate, and knows youâre about to give him some ridiculous explanation.Â
âRabbit,â you grin. âPeter Rabbit. Abbot. Jack Abbot always makes me want to call you Jack rabbit. Ergo, Peter.â You run the back of your second knuckle on your index finger over his shirt. âInspired by the book.â You nod and look to the side. He follows your eyes to the display you look over at where, sure enough, a copy of Peter Rabbit sits.
He groans and makes a face. âReally?â He grimaces. But you both know itâs fake. His eyes are too sparkly and the ghost of a smile is too present on his face. Itâs so ridiculous. If anyone else dared to call him that he would hate it and they would know it. Â
âReally, Peter. Better get used to it.â You wink and start walking down another aisle.Â
âI think Iâve already fallen in love with you, Doll.â Jack whispers to himself. âYouâre not allowed to go anywhere on me.âÂ
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You wake with a start, your body jerking for a second before pain rips through your stomach and head. Itâs bright. So so bright. Your eyes instinctively close and you pull your head back, trying to get away from the tube that feels like itâs down your throat but it follows. You start panicking.Â
It filters back in. What happened. Passing out in the trauma room. Jackâs face. The pain. The bullet hole youâd felt on your skin.
âHoney?â A voice you canât place calls out your name. A womanâs voice. âItâs okay.â You know sheâs trying to be reassuring but at the moment itâs not. Thereâs only one voice you want to hear and itâs not hers and you panic more when you donât hear his because where is he? Did something happen to him? Maybe heâs here and you just canât hear him. One way to find out.Â
Your eyes blink back open to an unfamiliar face above you. After you adjust to the light you quickly look around as much as you can without moving too much.Â
Jack isnât here.Â
The woman above you smiles down at you. âIâm Dana. Jack just stepped out to shower and I said Iâd stay with you. Heâs going to kill me for convincing him to go and you waking up while he wasnât here. It was his nightmare. Heâs on his way. Knowing him heâs liable to just have a towel wrapped around him and soap in his hair because god knows if he wasnât finished showering he wasnât going to finish when he heard youâre awake.âÂ
You blink a few times, start to calm. Dana. She has a calming presence. Jack told you about her. You trust her. âGood, thatâs good. Heâs going to be here any second. And Iâm going to get your doctor and see what we can do about getting this tube out of your throat, yeah?âÂ
You can hear Jack before you see him. Hear him running down the hall towards you. Heâs panting when he runs into your room, looks at you, your vitals, Dana and then back to you. âYouâre awake.â
All you can really do is look at him with wide eyes. Heâs over by you in a second, taking Danaâs place as she goes to find your doctor. One of his hands finds yours, squeezes reassuringly. âIâm here. God Iâm so sorry I wasnât when you woke up, I didnât want to go but they convinced me and-â
You squeeze his hand and then let go, make a motion like writing. âYou want to write? Hopefully you can be extubated soon, you might be breathing over the vent already, I can look.â
You squeeze his hand again and it focuses him back on you. âShit. Yes, umâŠâ He feels all the pockets on his scrub pants until he finds the little notebook and pen. He gives you the pen and holds the book for you.Â
Scared.
A piece of his heart shatters when he reads the word.Â
âI know Doll, I know. Itâs okay.â He strokes your hair gently. âIâm right here, okay? Iâm not going anywhere. I love you.â Jackâs eyes bore into yours and in the moment youâre so grateful for his need for direct eye contact. Itâs reassuring in a way you canât describe. Even if he hadnât said anything. If he had just looked at you like he is now it would have been enough to calm your fears. âIâm not going to let anything happen to you, okay?â
âI heard sheâs awake?â Your eyes leave Jackâs and look over at the man who entered, but Jackâs eyes never leave you.Â
âYeah, she is. This is Robby, sweetheart.â You blink slowly.Â
Itâs a lot. Everything is a lot and thereâs a tube in your throat and more people walk in, Dana again and your doctor, a nurse. Youâre overwhelmed. You just want it to be you and Jack and you want to be at home cuddled in bed together, both of you perfectly fine. You donât want this. It makes you kind of dizzy. And your inability to express yourself makes it all that much more difficult.
You focus on Jackâs eyes, try to block everything else out. Focus on his touch. His hand holding yours, the other stroking your hair. Thereâs a faint buzz of the others talking together and you know itâs about you but you remain centered on Jack. âThatâs right, Doll,â he murmurs, voice low, just between the two of you. âJust focus on me. Iâm right here. Youâre okay. Weâre okay.âÂ
âSheâs breathing over.â Robby says quietly. âWe can pull it.â
Jack raises his eyebrows at you and nods his head a little. âThatâs good. Weâre going to get the tube out, okay? Then youâll be able to talk.âÂ
Your eyes widen a bit and you move your hand towards the notebook again, point at the word.Â
Scared.Â
âI know. I know itâs all scary, and I know thinking about having the tube out is scary. But youâre safe, okay? If you need it back in then we will put it back in okay?â He squeezes your hand. You give the smallest nod.Â
Jack explains what will happen to you and then they do it. It hurts and is uncomfortable and you panic for a minute after itâs out because youâre coughing and it feels like you canât breathe. Jack puts an oxygen mask to your face. âBreathe, baby. Just breathe. Youâre just coughing, itâs okay. Itâll be better in a minute. I promise.âÂ
And just like he promises it does get better. âHow about we switch this,â he takes the oxygen mask from your face and hands it to Dana while taking the nasal cannula from her, âwith this.â He gets the cannula adjusted under your nose and over your ears and then smiles at you.Â
You still havenât spoken. You canât find words. You donât know what to say.Â
Robby hands Jack a cup of water with a straw silently before he, Dana, your doctor and the other nurse slip out.Â
âHere, Iâm sure your throat is dry.â Jack holds the straw for you. âSmall sips.â
You take a few before pulling back a little. âThank you.â Youâre quite hoarse and make a face at the sound of your voice but Jack. Jack beams. It makes you smile, makes everything start to melt away. Youâre here and awake and Jack is here and everything is okay. âI love you too.âÂ
You press your lips out a little and it hits him. He can kiss you now and he does, soft but lingering. He never wants to pull away.Â
âHow long was I out?ââ
âSince surgery?â Jack glances down at his watch. âSixteen hours and thirty seven minutes. Give or take ten seconds.â
You smile. Itâs a little weak which shoots a bit of a pang through him, but itâs okay because youâre smiling at him. âNot that you were counting.â
He laughs and rolls his eyes at you, eyes watery. âIâm really fucking glad youâre okay.âÂ
You get a little teary. âIâm really glad youâre here. I was really fucking scared Jack.â You let out a breath and a few tears.Â
âThere is nowhere else Iâd rather be than by your side.â He leans back in, kisses you again, kisses all the tears away. âThere is nowhere else I will be, okay?âÂ
You nod a little. You want to ask him what happened, what your injuries are but you canât bring yourself to. You donât want to know. Not now.Â
Jack doesnât volunteer anything. He figures that youâll ask when youâre ready. He knows what itâs like to have it shoved in your face when youâre scared and drugged out on morphine and other medications and overwhelmed and not in a mental place to process it.Â
You canât have been awake for more than thirty or forty minutes but youâre already so tired again. Jack can tell.
âSleepy?âÂ
âA little.â You pause. Then, a whispered admission. âKind of scared to go back to sleep.â
Jackâs heart squeezes. âThatâs understandable,â he nods. He knows the answer is no but he asks anyway. âCan I do anything?â
âHold me.â Your words are out before he finishes his questions. His eyebrows raise. He wasnât expecting that.Â
You can see him thinking. Thinking about how to say no. His face is pained and he tilts it. You know heâs afraid to hurt you. âPlease.â He bites his bottom lip. âI need this Jack,â you whisper. âYou need this.âÂ
âIf I hurt you at all you have to tell me, okay? If anything feels like itâs tearing or pulling or ripping, you have to tell me immediately.â He gives you a serious look, fear blazing in his eyes.
âI promise.â
He nods. âOkay.â It takes a while for him to help shift you over a bit and move all the wires and lines but eventually heâs in bed with you, holding you.Â
âThanks Peter.â Itâs completely sleep garbled but so precious and he has to laugh because even with all thatâs happened youâre still calling him that name. Â
âYouâre welcome, Doll.â
Once heâs sure youâre asleep Jack sobs as quietly as he can as he holds you. Lets himself process the emotions that he has tried to keep himself walled off from since you went down in the trauma room. He doesnât want you to see, doesnât want you to have to deal with him right now when you need to focus on yourself and recovering. He doesnât want you to feel guilty, because he knows you and he knows you already feel bad about all of this. Like itâs your fault.Â
Jack doesnât know it but you wake when you feel him start to tremble. You hear and feel every sob. A little piece of you dies inside.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Jack leans against one of the windows in his apartment, stares out into the dark city and alternates watching the rain fall under the light of the street lamps and tracking drops that slide down the window. The bedroom is dark, only illuminated by the light of the city that pours in. Heâs half dressed, shirtless, a pair of flannel pajama pants. The window is cold against his arm but he likes it. It reminds him in the moment that he can still feel.Â
You watch him from the bathroom doorway. Youâve been together seven and a bit months now.
Youâre struck by how beautiful he looks in the backlighting. Struck by how sad and conflicted he looks.Â
You walk over to him quietly, but making your footsteps just heavy enough so that you donât startle him when you wrap your arms around him from behind, rest the side of your head on the smooth skin of his back. Always so warm, your Jack, even now in the chill of the rainy night.Â
He leans back into you for just a second, just long enough to acknowledge that he knows youâre there, appreciates it.Â
Neither of you say anything for a few minutes before his voice interrupts the patter of the raindrops hitting the window.
âIâm sorry.â
Your brows furrow. âFor what?â
âBeing like this,â he shrugs. âItâs been so long. It shouldnât still affect me like this.â
âWell first, should is a stupid word. Nothing should or shouldnât be. Things just are. And itâs okay for them to be as they are. Itâs okay for this to be as it is.â You lift your head from his back and gently pull at his torso a bit to get him to turn and look at you. He tries to avoid that eye contact he normally needs but you donât let him. âSecond, you have nothing to apologize for. And third, I donât know Jack, Iâd almost be more concerned if the anniversary of the day you lost a piece of yourself, literally, and woke up alone and terrified in a hospital bed ever stopped affecting you.â
As difficult as it is to hear, he likes that you just say it, say what happened. You donât shy away from it, donât avoid talking about it or speak about it without actually saying it. You never have. Youâve always just accepted it as part of him. He takes in a deep breath and then grabs your hand, leads you over to bed with him and waits for you to get in.Â
But you give him a look, a slight raise of your eyebrows and nod. He sits on the edge like you wordlessly asked. You kneel before him and it makes his heart pound, blood rush towards his groin even though he knows this isnât going there. Itâs just instinctual.Â
Jack watches you with glassy eyes as you push his pant leg up and remove his prosthetic for him, set it aside. You donât have to ask if itâs hurting, of course it is. Itâs the anniversary of losing his foot. Even when thereâs no real reason for it to be causing him pain it is anyway. You know it. He knows you know it.Â
You open the drawer of his nightstand and pull out the balm he has, get a little bit and warm it between your hands before placing them there. You glance up at him. You always do. Always make sure itâs okay. You know how hard it can be for him to have you touching there sometimes if heâs too in his head. He just barely narrows his eyes before letting them go back to being wide and round as he watches. An unspoken please.Â
You start massaging gently and he takes another big breath in and holds it for a moment before letting it out and leaning into your hands slightly. âMirror?â
He knows youâre asking if the pain is bad enough for him to want to do mirror therapy. He shakes his head. âNo. Itâs not that bad.â He gives you a small smile, cups your face with a hand. âEspecially not now. You make it better. You always make it better, make everything better.âÂ
A slow smile spreads over your face. You work on him a little more before his hands are on yours and pulling you towards him a little. He slides into bed and you follow.Â
You lay on your sides looking at each other. âYou wanna talk about it?â
âNot right now, no.â He swallows hard, looks like heâs waiting for you to be upset. âIs that okay?â
âCourse it is. Iâm never going to force you to talk about it with me.â You already have talked about it. You know everything, every detail he can remember and was told about what happened. About his hospital stay at Landstuhl, transfer to Walter-Reed. How depressed he got, the survivorâs guilt, the wishing he had just died instead.
But he knows what you mean. You donât have to talk about it now, about his feelings, what heâs carrying in his chest and mind at the moment. You lean in and kiss him. âWe can whenever. If and when youâre ready. Or you can talk to your therapist. It doesnât have to be me.â
The way he looks at you makes your stomach flip. Like youâre the most important thing in his world, like you hung the moon and stars for him, like heâs amazed by you. Like youâre helping to heal him.
He reaches out to cup your face again, runs a thumb over your cheek. âI want you.â
You smile at him, soft and small, befitting of the moment. âYou have me. Youâll always have me. No matter what.â
He gives you a look that acknowledges your words. âYou know what I mean.â His hand starts to wander down to the hem of his shirt you wear. âI need to turn that part of my brain off. Get lost in you.â
âGod, what a tough ask,â you click your tongue, voice teasing and full of feigned exasperation. âSuch a real hardship for me.â
He laughs a little. âIâll make it up to you.âÂ
âOh no Dr. Abbot,â you move closer to him and push at his chest so he rolls on his back, straddle his hips and bring your chest to his, lean in to kiss him but stop short, just let your lips move against his, âthis is all about you.â
Jack groans from somewhere deep in his chest. âYou know what doctor does to me,â he murmurs before he kisses you hard, possessively, holding the back of your head with one hand so you canât move away, not that youâd ever want to.Â
âIndeed I do, sir.â Another groan from him and a smirk from you as you sit up and push the covers back, pull his pajama pants and boxer briefs down all at once.Â
Jack swears you spend hours lavishing him in attention, kissing every inch of him, every scar. Even that one.Â
By the time you guide him inside of you youâre the only thing on his mind. You ride him slow, just fast enough to not be teasing, at the rhythm and pace youâve learned he loves, let him watch as he slides in and out of you because you know how much he loves it.Â
You lean back at one point, rest your hands on both his thighs and something about the move and the way youâre not afraid to get close to the missing part of him heals him and makes him lose it.Â
After, you lay on his chest, absentmindedly draw random shapes on his skin while he runs a hand up and down your back. âThis part always feels just as good but in a different way,â you murmur.Â
âCuddling releases oxytocin. Oxytocin makes you feel happy, helps you heal, reduces stress, bonds you to the one youâre snuggling with. Itâs called the love hormone.â Jack always makes you laugh when he does that, explains something medically, biologically. You like him sharing his knowledge, little pieces of his job with you, and you like that heâs not condescending about it, just tells you it like youâre a student.
You laugh a little. âThat tracks then.â
You sit in a comfortable silence for a bit. Jack thinks about everything youâve done for him tonight, over the past seven months, how you feel laying here on his chest. A surge of oxytocin hits him and heâs overwhelmed by it, how much he loves you, how much you do for him, care for him.
âI donât deserve you.â He says it quietly, almost like he doesnât mean to speak the thought out loud.
You stop tracing shapes, furrow your brows and lift yourself up to look down at him sternly, eyes burning with love. âIâm not even gracing that absolute bullshit with a reply tonight Peter.â You kiss him.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Four days pass. Things are simultaneously getting better and increasingly harder.Â
You meet everyone, the entire ED, you swear, everyone Jack has ever talked about. Theyâre all lovely and genuine. You hit it off with them all despite the circumstances. Part of you worries though, that they only like you because they pity you and because youâre in the hospital and what else can they do. Jack reassures you that youâre one of them now, youâre Pitt family, that even when they didnât know you or about you and had never met you, you already were.
Jack helps you shower. Really Jack showers you. Does it all for you. Itâs one of those most intimate things youâve experienced with him. Him taking care of you like this, when you canât take care of yourself. He takes his time washing your hair and body gently, like youâll break if he touches you just a little too hard. He makes sure your stitches and central line stay dry. Makes sure you donât lean your head back too far and aggravate your skull fracture.Â
Physically youâre doing okay. Improving. Maybe not as fast as everyone, Jack especially, would like. But youâre not getting worse.Â
Mentally, however, things are devolving. Rapidly.Â
Once the initial shock and happiness at being alive wore off youâre left with reality.Â
A nurse from the floor comes in to take vitals like they do a couple of times a day. Jack steps out to go grab a drink from the vending machine while you and the nurse chat a little. You ask her if you can move into the chair, go sit by the window. She says of course, unhooks you from some monitors and helps you move over. She takes your dinner and sets it on the table in front of you. You thank her and wait for Jack to come back.
Dusk is falling over the city. Itâs easier to sit and look outside when itâs not so bright. You keep the lighting in your room low to help with the headaches youâre still fighting. You suppose a broken skull will do that to you.
You havenât felt well all day, have slept more than usual. Youâre sure itâs just depression from being here and all the changes and mostly, probably, seeing what all of this already has done and continues to do to Jack, physically and mentally. Your stomach turns at the thought and you shiver despite your cheeks burning. Youâre so uncomfortable and thereâs no end in sight and you donât want to keep doing this to Jack, keep asking him to be here and sleep here. The logical and rational part of your brain knows that youâre not asking him to do anything. Heâs doing it because he wants to, because he loves you.Â
âYou need to eat,â Jack reminds you as he walks back in the room.Â
âIâm not hungry,â you murmur, continue to look out the window.Â
âI know, Doll, but youâve gotta eat to keep your strength up.â Jack says softly as he pulls up a chair to sit across from you. You nod a little at him but donât move to start eating. âWhatâs wrong?â he finally whispers.Â
It takes a moment but eventually you shrug. You donât want to burden him with it.Â
âTalk to me. Please. Even if just a little.âÂ
âI donât know⊠Iâm just tired, I think.âÂ
He tilts his head at you, eyes appraising and clinically evaluating you. Something is off, something has been off, heâs just struggling to figure out what.Â
âDonât look at me like that, please,â you whisper.Â
He furrows his brows. âLike what?â
âLike Iâm a patient who needs to be evaluated.âÂ
âI canât help it. It helps reassure me that youâre okay.â He lets out a bit of a breath. âIâm worried about you right now. Is everything okay? Do you feel okay?â
You take in a big breath of air and fight back the wince before letting it out. âIâm just⊠I donât know Jack. Iâm sad. Iâm fucking sad. All the time.â
Ah. Depression.Â
He knows it intimately and chastises himself mentally a bit for not realizing it sooner, not recognizing it. Not anticipating it from minute one. He gives you a moment to see if you want to say more.Â
âI⊠I feel sorry for myself, yes, but itâs more than that. I see what itâs doing to you, the pain itâs causing, Iâm causing you. Physically, having to sleep here. I can practically see your back and hip hurting, Jack. I can see the overcompensation when you walk. I know you cried. I was awake. And I didnât want to make it a thing and pressure you into talking to me. But I see how scared and on edge you are, all the time. Because of me-â
âNo.â He doesnât mean to interrupt but he has to right there. âNot because of you. This is not your fault. None of this is. This isnât because of you, itâs because of what happened to you.â
You shake your head. âNo, Jack, itâs me. It is me. I feel like Iâm sucking the fucking life out of you. Dealing with me is exhausting. I canïżœïżœïżœt keep asking you to do this, be here and take care of me. Itâs not fair.â You sniffle and wipe some tears you didnât know fell with the back of your hand. âI mean, Jesus, Jack, Iâm exhausted and all I have to do is sit in bed all day. I hate it.â The tears fall a little faster and he gives you space to let it all out. Your emotional brain takes his silence as some sort of tacit and silent agreement. That you are hurting him, that it is exhausting him, that you are sucking the life out of him.Â
The rational part of your brain is right there but youâre too exhausted to listen to it, to fight your emotional brain on it. So it all consumes you.Â
âI sit here and sometimes I just wish it would stop, wish it would be over, for both of us. Wish I had never even made it out of the OR, fuck out of the courthouse. You could be properly grieving already and working towards mo-â
âWhat the fuck?â It falls out of his mouth before he can even stop it. âAre you for fucking real?â He knows this reaction is wrong, that he should be validating your feelings. He knows far too well what itâs like to be depressed in a hospital bed wishing that you had died instead. But itâs too much for him because he already lived so intimately with the possibility of that reality. Of you dying. And so to have it brought up and brought up by you. All rational thought and ability to control himself disappears. âProperly grieving? You think Iâd be properly grieving? Jesus fucking Christ, Robby would have had to beat me to the fucking roof or theyâd be burying us together!â
You shake your head, tears falling harder. âI donât want that, I would never want you to do that. Iâd want you to take care of yourself! Iâd want you to live for me. For us. Find-â
âNo.â He shakes his head, runs both of his hands over his face, heel of his palms pressing into his eyes for a moment. âNo. I canât fucking-â He has to swallow hard through the intense nausea that threatens to make him dry heave. Just thinking about this, let alone living it. He knows this is not his finest moment, not a good reaction, that itâs a really really fucking bad one, but he canât think about it right now, about an alternate reality where you died, where he was anywhere other than right next to your side in this moment. Itâs too much. And so he reverts back a bit, starts to completely emotionally shut down. Youâve never seen him like this before. âI canât fucking talk about this right now.âÂ
A knock on the door interrupts you and you both look up and over at a smiling Robby. âHey! Look whoâs awake! How are you feeling sleepy? Youâve been asleep every time Iâve come to visit today.â He starts making his way closer.Â
âWe can talk about this more later,â Jack mutters at you under his breath. His tone is a little sharper and more brusque than he means or even realizes.Â
But with your emotions where they are already it feels a little like heâs pulled a piece of your heart away. You wonder if this is it. If heâs finally had enough of all of this. Of you.Â
He didnât sign up for this. There havenât been any vows of sickness and health.Â
The adrenaline runs icy through your fingers and toes and sits like a rock in the back of your throat, hugging tightly around your stomach so much that your incision burns and itches. It gets hard to breathe. Itâs panic, you tell yourself. You nod silently, fidget with your fingers and whisper the smallest âokay.â
Youâre thankful for the low lighting and the cover it gives you and your tears. âSorry about that,â you force a small laugh at Robby. âJust one of those days I guess.â You force a yawn this time. âHonestly Iâm actually a little sleepy again,â you admit sheepishly. âI think I might get back in bed.âÂ
Thereâs a pause as Robby waits for Jack to react. But Jack says nothing, and the look on his face tells Robby heâs a million miles away. You getting up is what brings Jack back to himself somewhat and heâs up and hovering behind you to make sure you donât fall in an instant.Â
âUm, well.â Robby runs a hand through his hair and over his beard. âJack, if you wanted weâre pretty backlogged down there, we could use someone for even just a few hours to help out. I just wanted to offer. Weâll be fine if you donât.â Robbyâs eyes flick between the two of you. âThought it might be a good way to help transition back to full shifts eventually.â He coughs awkwardly.Â
Jack looks at you with his eyebrows slightly raised, like heâll do whatever you say as opposed to what he actually wants. Despite looking at you itâs like he doesnât consciously take in your face at the moment, how hurt you look, how small, the tears lining your eyes, how scared you look, how anxious, how questioning.Â
âUp to you.â You give him a strained smile. âIâm just going to sleep, so itâs not like youâre going to miss much here. Robby is right, might be a good way to help transition.â
Jack nods. âOkay. Okay, yeah.â
âFuck, thank you so much,â Robby sighs in relief. âItâs pretty bad honestly.â He looks at you with a soft smile. âSleep well and Iâll keep an eye on him for you.âÂ
You give him a forced smile back and nod, waiting for Jack to come say goodbye before following Robby out the door. But Jack is so shut down and on autopilot he doesnât even give you a kiss or say anything other than an absent, âsleep well,â before he follows Robby out of the room. The sound of the door closing behind him may as well be the sound of your heart shattering.
Hours pass.Â
Hours you do not in fact spend sleeping but instead wide awake feeling like youâve got the flu. Everything hurts, you shake, youâre sweaty because youâre so hot but you feel so cold. You just feel so weak. Youâre so miserable youâre not even aware of the way breathing takes more effort and seems less effective, how much it hurts. Hours enough for you to miss Jack and wish he was here and want to call down and beg him to please come back up. But not quite enough hours for the next vitals check.
The hours are quick for Jack. Work helps him. It keeps his mind busy. The more and more he comes back to himself fully and opens back up with clear eyes the more desperate he is to get up to you and apologize. He feels awful about actually deciding to come down here. How could he leave you? He knows he didnât react well. It just caught him so off guard and he reverted back to a previous version of himself. All he can do is hope youâll forgive him, but he knows you well enough to know that youâll understand and be able to put yourself in his shoes and forgive him and you guys can talk.Â
He volunteers to take one last ambulance coming in. He goes outside to wait for it, to get some fresh air. To be out of the hospital if only for a moment.
Mel runs through the automatic door, head on a swivel to find him. She starts running to him when she sees him. âDr. Abbot!âÂ
Jack turns his head, thinks Melâs voice is off, but he guesses itâs been a bit since heâs heard it down here. But when he sees her face, the way sheâs running towards him, his heart speeds up and he shakes his head a little as she approaches him. Melâs eyes are wide, just the slightest bit wet. Â
âDr. Abbot,â Mel breathes. âSheâs crashing. Robby went up to see her and she crashed.â
âWhat?â Itâs whispered. Jackâs whole world stops again. He doesnât even wait for an answer, is sprinting inside and screaming to hold the elevator because he knows itâll be faster than he can take all the flights up to your room. He tries to hold onto hope. Mel had said crashing not coding.
This would fucking happen. This would fucking happen. He leaves you and then you crash. The realizations hit him when he gets in the elevator and presses the door closed button over and over. That the last thing you said to him was that small, barely audible âokay.â That your last interaction was an almost fight in a way, was him upset when you were telling him what was on your mind when thatâs what he has been begging you to do. That he walked out of your room without saying goodbye, without giving you a kiss, without telling you he loved you.
Sleep well.
That could be the last fucking thing he ever said to you. Sleep well. He pictures your face when he looked at you that last time, near tears, scared, small, anxious, questioning. Probably questioning whether he was going to come back or whether he loved you or whether he still wanted to be with you after so clearly hitting a nerve with him. Especially on top of all the guilt you were already feeling before that conversation. The guilt you were telling him about when he shut down.Â
The world already gave him a second chance with you and he fucked it all up in a minute. Somewhere deep in his bones he knows âsleep wellâ will be the last thing he ever said to you, that your last interaction together will be a quasi-argument. Because if youâre crashing at this point, this far out from surgery, something bad is happening. Differential diagnoses flip through his mind. Pulmonary embolism, having somehow reopened one of your internal wounds and bleeding out, sepsis, delayed collapsed lung, drug reaction, the list goes on and on. None of them are good. All of them would require you to fight hard to pull through.Â
And with fucking âsleep wellâ as the last thing he said to you after he practically jumped in your shit you probably think you have nothing left to fight for.Â
Youâre vaguely aware of Robby coming into your room and talking to you even though you canât make out any words at first. But then you become acutely aware of him screaming about you crashing and somebody call Jack.Â
Jack.Â
Robby says something about intubation but you get a hand up, cling to the fabric on the arm of that blue sweatshirt he always wears. âWait,â you choke out, wondering when it got so hard to breathe and how youâre just noticing. âJack,â you force out in a wheeze, âwant to talk,â you look up at Robby with terrified eyes heâs seen hundreds of times in patients who think theyâre about to die, only yours have a slight look of determination. âPlease.âÂ
He hesitates for just a second. âOkay,â he nods, looking down at you. âOkay. But only if heâs here within the next two minutes. Iâm counting.â He grabs an oxygen mask and holds it over your mouth and nose. Your eyes say âthank youâ in the most heartbreaking of ways. You both know heâll be there with one minute and fifty six or seven seconds to spare.Â
The elevator door opens on your floor and Jackâs sprinting out of it to your room, praying that maybe youâll still be alive when he gets there. He could talk to you, tell you heâs sorry and he loves you and please fight. Heâs panting when he runs into your room, looks at you, your vitals, and then Robby. âWhy the fuck isnât she intubated yet?!â
âShe wanted to be able to say something to you,â Robby tells him as he pushes drugs, barks out orders and gets ready to intubate you. âSheâs totally fucking septic Jack, out of fucking nowhere,â he calls back over his shoulder. âShe must have thrown a septic PE.â Robby pulls the oxygen mask away from your face.
Jack looks back at you as he moves closer. You lick your lips and rub them together a little, trying to get them wet and unstuck from each other. You look terrified but try to offer him a brave smile anyway. âI love you,â you manage to mouth before everything is consumed by black and quiet.
Where everything goes black and quiet for you, Jackâs senses are overwhelmed by the look on your face, the way your eyes shut, the way Robbyâs hands so gently turn your head back so he can intubate you and seconds later by the high pitched whine coming from your patient monitor announcing youâve flatlined and Robby yelling for someone to start compressions.Â
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Heâs not exactly looking for it when he spots it as he walks down a street to pick up the take out you ordered on his way home. But itâs there and it makes him think of you. Itâs almost perfect. Almost.Â
He slips inside, gets in a conversation with the store owner. They can customize it for him. He thinks youâll love that, the idea that nobody has the same engagement ring as you. The owner says heâll get him some sketches. Jack puts down a deposit. You text asking if heâs okay.Â
He says a quick goodbye to the owner and that heâll be back and runs to get the food and back to you. Heâs known for a while now that he wants to ask, wants to marry you. You just get him in a way he canât describe and knows heâll never find again.Â
That night in bed he lays awake spooning you and thinking about how to propose. You wouldnât want something too big and flashy. But he doesnât think youâd hate it being in public necessarily. God, what if you say no? What if youâre not ready or itâs too fast or heâs too old, too broken?Â
No. He knows you donât think heâs too old or broken at all. He knows youâll say yes, knows youâll cry. But how to do it. Where to do it.Â
The bookstore with the ring in the book feels like too much, a little too on the nose. You wouldnât hate it by any means but it doesnât feel right.Â
He thinks about a conversation you had in the travel section at the bookstore.Â
âI love travelling.â You say it as you look over the shelves. âEspecially internationally.â
âYeah?â
âMhmmm,â you hum. âWe should go somewhere.â You hand him a book on Paris. âI love Paris. Have you been?â
Jack shakes his head, starts thumbing through the book. âCanât say that I have.â
âI would love to show you around. Itâs just so pretty. The Eiffel Tower sparkles and they light up all the buildings at night and I swear almost every building looks so beautifully historic. And the Louvre. I love the Louvre. I donât even really know why, I just do. I like the inverted pyramids by the entrance and I like how you just get lost in there.â Youâre flipping through your own book, this one about France in general. âWe could do a France tour. Start in Nice or somewhere and work our way up.â You look up at him, and when he looks up from his book at you heâs surprised to see nerves. âIf you would want to, of course. Obviously. Thereâs no pressure. I know youâd have to take time off from work and you love work and it would waste a lot of time off, probably depending on how long we went for. If we did. So itâs okay. I could go by myself or with a friend if I got desperate enough.â You give a breathy, anxious laugh and fiddle with the book.Â
Jack gives you a little smile and puts the book back where it belongs. âIt might shock you to hear this but I have maxed out the amount of annual leave time off I can accrue. I donate everything I have leftover at the end of the year. Iâve donated all of it for a couple of years now because I canât accrue it anymore.â
âOh, well,â you clear your throat and it would almost be funny and adorable if he didnât hate seeing you in distress. âThatâs very nice of you. Youâre a very good man Peter.â
âI want to go with you.â Your lips twitch up and eyebrows raise. âI want us to do that.â
âYeah?â You beam at him and itâs straight sunshine. Youâre too good for him, he swears.Â
âYeah,â he nods, returns your smile, kisses you quickly. âRobby might try to kiss you like that for getting me to go. Heâs always on me about taking a vacation.âÂ
Yes. In Paris. That would be perfect. You havenât started planning the trip because life has gotten busy for both of you, but he mentions it enough to make sure you know he hasnât forgotten, you talk about when youâll start planning it some nights but often fall asleep mid conversation, exhausted from your day.Â
In front of the inverted pyramids at the Louvre. He can hire a photographer and they wonât even look suspicious. Just like someone taking photos of the Louvre.Â
He starts planning it, the France trip. Doesnât tell you. Reaches out to your boss who he has met to make sure you can get the time off. Heâll surprise you with it soon, he tells himself. Heâll tell you soon now that he has the ring hidden away in a box in a closet that you canât reach easily.Â
Soon. He knows he canât keep putting it off, can just hear Dana and Robby in his ear if they knew, telling him to grow a pair and do it, that tomorrow isnât promised, that he should do it here at the hospital so they can finally fucking meet you. That, while they donât know you, Dana would give him a sharp look then, they know youâll love it.Â
Youâll be at the courthouse tomorrow. Itâs not too far from his place. He could surprise you and pick you up, take you out somewhere nice. He has the day off too so he could go get the book you handed him, put the tickets and copy of the itinerary heâs planned so far in it.Â
He smiles to himself as he imagines the shock on your face, the way youâll struggle for words and repeat a bunch of one syllable ones for thirty seconds before the ability to form real sentences comes back to you. Yeah, thatâll work.Â
Tomorrow.Â
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Itâs a perfect day. Not too hot and not too cold. Like that Miss Congeniality bullshit that you made him watch and he secretly and surprisingly enjoyed.
Itâs your perfect day.Â
Jack thinks thatâs real fucking ironic.Â
Sleep well.Â
Jack was right.
Those were in fact the last words he ever spoke to you.Â
While you were conscious anyway. Itâs all he can think about as he sits here in his dress blues at your fucking funeral. He couldnât bring himself to buy a plain navy suit for the occasion.Â
No, that day he had said a lot more words to your unconscious self up by your head as Robby and the team tried and succeeded at stabilizing you enough to get you to the OR. And he had said a lot more words when they let him in the OR so that he could hold your hand and talk to you for just a bit longer before they called it. Somehow in the moment he had managed to block out Garcia standing on the other side across from him with her hand in your chest, manually beating your heart to give him more time with you.Â
And then he had said a lot more words to your dead body.
He must have sat in that stupid operating room with you for hours just holding you once they had closed your chest and sat the OR bed up a bit for him. He thinks he must have cycled through every stage of grief with you in his arms.Â
Denial. All he could do for a while was mumble to himself that this couldnât be happening. This couldnât be real. You werenât really dead. This is some twisted fucking joke youâre trying to play. To see if you could get him to cry. You can stop playing now, Doll, you got me to cry. Okay so not an elaborate joke. Well, youâd wake up in his arms any second now, shock everyone, the whole medical community with your recovery. Because this simply could not be fucking happening. Â
Anger. He yelled at you to wake up and not do this to him, to think about how unfair and selfish you were being, how fucking dare you. How dare you leave him here alone. How dare you for talking about him properly grieving. Does it look like heâs properly fucking grieving to you? And he knew, he fucking knew you were about to say moving on, that he could be working towards moving on as if heâs ever going to fucking move on, fuck you for that. He was supposed to propose and you ruined it. You left him How. Fucking. Dare. You.
Bargaining. He negotiated with himself. He should have looked you over before stepping away from you, should have taken you right into an exam room and checked every inch of you for injury before leaving you. If he could go back he would. He would do it all differently. He wouldnât let you out of the house, would have insisted you skip work that day. Heâs not a particularly religious man but heâs praying, bargaining with a God heâs not sure he believes in to bring you back to him. Take his other foot, take his hands, take his ability to be a doctor, take anything and everything thatâs enough to bring you back.Â
Depression. Crushing and all consuming. The reality that this was happening. A sadness so deep in his soul and causing so much physical pain in his heart that for one glimmer of a second he thought maybe he was suffering from broken heart syndrome, that maybe if he could keep himself worked up and sobbing it would kill him. A sadness so consuming heâd never pull himself out of it. There would never be enough tears shed or enough therapy or enough anything to make any of it better.Â
Acceptance. Eventually it washed over him. You were dead in his arms. He was holding your lifeless body. This was his new reality. One without you in it.
But mostly he just sat there and cried over you. Cried for you. Buried his face in your neck at times to muffle the screaming sobs that made him shake. Rocked you and held the side of your face against his when his sobs became so deep they were soundless.
For a while he thought Robby and Dana were going to have to drag him out of there, drag you out of his arms. But at some point he just broke in a different way. Became some sort of numb. Resigned. So he forced himself to leave.
The only thing he could think to do at the end as he laid you back down was to try and make them better. Those two words.Â
Brushing some hair back from your face and running his thumb over your jaw he had told you that he loves you and that he always will. He whispered for you to rest now, gave you one last unreciprocated kiss, and then murmured âsleep well.â
He had to damn near drag himself out of the OR after that. Robby knew it. Dana knew it. They were both right there waiting for him. He had needed to get the fuck out of the hospital and to somewhere he could just send himself into oblivion because he had no fucking idea how to deal with the pain, with the loss of you.Â
Danaâs hand on his arm grounded him a little. Enough that he heard Robby say quietly, âletâs get you home.âÂ
Home.Â
Jack had realized in that moment that he didnât have a home. You were his home. Your heartbeat. The one that was now gone. That simply no longer existed. That had been thrown away by the universe like it meant nothing when it meant everything to him.Â
Yes, he realized he had an apartment, he had somewhere to go. But that was the apartment that he was supposed to have shared with you. The apartment with all of his things, all of your things, still in boxes. You had been planning on spending the weekend unpacking and painting and getting furniture where you wanted it. You had been planning on making it your home. Together. And then you got shot.
And now, Jack had realized, there was no more together. There was simply an apartment full of boxes of shit and furniture haphazardly placed just to get it in.Â
He had had to laugh about it, it was so fucked up. He had barely even realized that he, Dana, and Robby had made it outside somehow, through a side door so that he didnât have to walk through the entire Pitt. And so out there on the sidewalk in the sun - because of course it couldnât have been night, he couldnât have had one thing to give him comfort - heâd broken down in a fit of laughter for a moment that quickly devolved into sobs.Â
Big wracking ones that required Robby to hold him up until he had let Jack slide down the side wall onto the ground where the sobs came so hard they were silent. It hadnât been just you he was weeping for at that point. It had been for you and for himself and for the future you should have had together. For the apartment whose lease would be broken and the trip to Paris he had planned to surprise you with that would never be gone on. For the engagement ring that would never grace your finger. For everything that could have been. For everything that already was.
Heâd stopped crying at some point. Dana had gotten her car and driven him and Robby to Robbyâs place. Everything since then had more or less blurred together.Â
Schedules had been changed so that Dana and Robby worked opposite shifts so that one of them could always be with him. Always watching him. Acutely aware what was likely to happen if they didnât.
You had no family so everything had been left to Jack, which meant it really had been left to Dana because Jack was barely functioning. Funeral planning. Burial or cremation. Dealing with all of your things.
Unsure of your preferences Dana had picked burial, found a cemetery, bought a plot, gotten it all arranged. Unbeknownst to Dana the one thing Jack had managed to do during all of this was purchase the burial plot next to yours. Only time would tell how long that space next to you would remain empty. Not long if Jack had it his way.
And so here they all were. At the cemetery. On your perfect day.
The funeral was to be held graveside and then back to somewhere for the celebration of life, Dana told him where at one point but he doesnât remember. Somewhere in his mind he notes that it feels like the entire damn department is here and he canât help but wonder who the fuck is staffing it right now. As if it matters. As if heâll ever bring himself back to that hospital.Â
Jackâs completely zoned out, unaware of whatâs being said, if anything is being said. Your casket is right there. With you in it. He wants to climb inside with you and let them bury you both with him alive. He wants to let your grave smother him to death. He realizes it already is in its own way. So then he might as well be with you, right? No. Youâd specifically told him you wouldnât want that. You said youâd want him to take care of himself and live for you, for the two of you. But he doesnât fucking want to. He just wants to be with you.
He tracks your casket as it lowers six feet down. He wants to dive in after you. After a moment Dana nudges him. Right. Itâs time. Time for him to throw a flower and some dirt on the top of your grave.Â
He forces himself to stand, takes the two daffodils from Dana and approaches your grave. One for him and one for you. Theyâre your favorite. He stops for a second and just stares down at the wooden box that houses you. Some sort of broken and raw moan slips out before he can stop it, a whimper just a second long, just enough to prove to himself that heâs alive and youâre not standing next to him and there to comfort him and make it all better. He canât cry. Not here. Not now. Not in front of all of these people.Â
He brings a shaky hand up and reaches under his overly pressed shirt until he finds the chain, pulls his dog tags up and over his head, wraps them around the stems of the two daffodils. His chin trembles as he tosses them on top of your casket before following with a little dirt. He thought about tossing the ring he bought you in too, but instead he wears it on a different chain around his neck for now.Â
The symbolic burial of himself with you through his dog tags doesnât escape anyoneâs notice and if anyone present wasnât crying already they were now. Robby and Dana share a heavy tear blurred look with each other. He still canât be alone.Â
Jack just stares down. Canât bring himself to move. To go sit back down. So the funeral ends with him standing there, looking down at you.Â
Robby and Dana give him a few minutes. As he senses people leave he lets the tears slide down his face silently but copiously. His shirt is darkened by his tears quickly. Eventually Robby clears his throat and steps up behind him.Â
âJack?â Robby says his name softly at first. Jack doesnât respond. âJack, come on.â Itâs a bit louder this time, but still nothing. Robby grabs his shoulder and gives it a little squeeze, is much louder now. âJack!âÂ
âWhat? What happened?â Jackâs head snaps up, the rest of his body following and pushing him out of the chair in seconds. His neck twinges from the awkward angle as his two fingers curl over your wrist automatically, finding your pulse as his vision clears and the patient monitor showing your vitals becomes readable.
All your vitals are normal. Stable.
Your eyes remain closed. Comatose.Â
âNothing,â Robby says quietly, squeezing his shoulder again. âYou fell asleep. It didnât look comfortable. Youâre going to fuck your neck if youâre not careful.â
âJesus fucking christ,â Jack pants, the sheer amount of adrenaline spreading through his system so fast making him shake. He closes his eyes as he tries to bring his heart rate and breathing back to normal. He takes a second to focus and itâs there, under his two fingers thumping along in time with the reading on the patient monitor. Your heartbeat.Â
âFuck.â Jack brings his free hand up and uses it to wipe away the tears itching his face. His chest is wet, shirt undoubtedly darkened by his tears.Â
âAnother one?â Robby gives him a knowing look. âFuneral again?âÂ
Jack just nods. Itâs not the first nightmare Robby has woken him from in the last three days. Itâs not the first time Robby has woken him up from that nightmare.Â
âYou talked to your therapist recently?â Robby asks as he sits in the other chair near your bed.Â
âI donât have fucking time for the psych-bullshit right now, Robby.â Jack huffs as he sits back in his chair, stretching out his neck. âAnd I donât need therapy. I need her to wake the fuck up and come back to me.â He leans forward to kiss your hand, gives it a squeeze and holds his breath that youâll squeeze back. You donât. âItâs been five days Robby. Five fucking days.â
Robby nods slowly. âI know. Her body has been through a lot. Sepsis on top of a gunshot and skull fracture is a lot and brain bleed is a lot. And she had a PE, and they had to crack her chest, Jack.â You got lucky and didnât need surgery to fix the brain bleed. And nobody had wanted to do a thoracotomy on you, not while you were septic, but with your other injuries they had to be careful with blood thinners and the thoracotomy quickly became the only real option. The last ditch option. âAll of that is a lot. She needs time. And itâs not bad news. Sheâs been extubated. Thatâs a big thing, you know that.âÂ
âI know,â Jack sighs. Itâs small and as exhausted as he sounds and makes him deflate into the chair. âI just⊠canât Robby. I canât keep having that nightmare. I need to hear her voice. I need to know she heard something from me other than fucking âsleep well.â I need this to have never fucking happened!â
Robby doesnât reply immediately, gives Jack a few minutes to come back down. âShe knows you love her, Jack. She knows that you guys would have worked through whatever it was. Deep down she knows that, even if in the moment she was having anxiety.âÂ
âYou donât even fucking know her. You canât say that.â Jack shakes his head at Robby âYou have no fucking idea.âÂ
Robby just raises his eyebrows and gives him a resigned look, lets the silence take back over.Â
âI need to get back down there, but Dana is going to come up in a bit,â Robby tells him as he stands up.Â
âI donât need babysat.â Jack huffs.Â
Robby walks by and squeezes Jackâs shoulder again. âThereâs a difference between being babysat and your friends wanting to sit with you to be with you through a difficult time, Jack. We just want to help and right now all we can really do is be here. Itâs not babysitting. Itâs being a friend. Itâs loving a friend. Let us do it, okay?â He doesnât wait for an answer before walking out.Â
And so here you are again. Just the two of you. Only one of you conscious. Jack runs a hand through his hair, moves his chair back closer to your bed and holds your hand. Heâs exhausted but terrified to sleep. It always ends the same.Â
Heâs hardly aware of time passing but knows it must because Dana walks in, hands him a cup of tea. âHowâre you?â Jack shrugs. Dana lets him. âDrink the tea.â
He takes a sip, if for nothing more than to get her off his back about it. They sit mostly in silence. Sometimes Dana volunteers a funny story or tells him about some ridiculous patient they had, keeps him up to date on the Pitt gossip.Â
âYou should shower,â she suggests to him. Sheâd gone over to your guyâs place at some point and brought in toiletries, fresh clothes for you both. âIâll sit with her.â
âIâm fine. Itâs not like I do anything other than sit here.âÂ
âStill, itâs a good place to take a minute to yourself. Clear your head.â Dana tilts her head at him. âLook at me.âÂ
After a second he does, tears his eyes from you to look at her. âSheâd want you to take care of yourself.âÂ
Her words are a little too close to what you had said to him and he bristles, looks back at you. âNerve there,â Dana observes, always perceptive. âI know Iâm right. I know she must have told you that at some point or it wouldnât have pulled whatever that reaction was.âÂ
âIâm not leaving her. I donât care if I can use the shower in her room.â All he can think about is showering you there, watching the pink water go down the drain as he got all of the blood out of your hair and off the rest of your body, the way you melted into his touch and thanked him. How intimate it was. Potentially one of your last moments of intimacy.Â
âAnd the last time I gave into you and showered she fucking woke up without me.â The words hit him and he looks at Dana. âThe last time I showered she woke up,â he whispers. Heâs not really one to normally believe in such a thing but right now heâs clinging to anything. âI should shower.â
Dana gives him a long nod with a small smile. âYeah.â
So he does. Tries to split the difference between quickly so that he doesnât have to spend too much time alone thinking but slow enough to give you time to wake up. But when he turns the water off and doesnât hear Dana talking he already knows.Â
You havenât woken up.Â
âIâm sorry, hon. I was hoping it would work.â Dana looks at him apologetically.Â
He shakes his head. âItâs fine.â
Dana nods a bit and walks out.Â
Jack finds it hard to talk to you like this. He doesnât really know why. Maybe itâs just too hard for him to stand the silence he gets in return.Â
Sometimes heâll read to you. That feels nice. You go on and on sometimes about how much you love his voice. You guys met at a bookstore, both love reading. So it just feels right. And he doesnât have to stop talking and forget and be waiting for a reply that you wonât give him. He can just read.Â
He picks up whatever he had been reading to you and starts back up. He doesnât make it through much though because he just canât. The sun is setting outside again, another whole day of you in a coma almost finished and he canât stand it.Â
It burns him from the inside, makes him feel like he needs to crawl out of his skin. He needs you to wake up. He needs to fix you. Heâs a doctor. Fixing is what he does. Heâs fixed countless people.Â
But he simply cannot fix you. The only one that matters.
âYou know,â he starts, leans back in his chair and looks at you. He scoffs. âGod I donât even know. I donât know how to do this. What to say to you.â He shakes his head. âAnd I hate that,â he whispers.Â
He sets the book down and the authorâs name catches his eye. He moves in closer to you, gets up and sits on the edge of your bed, leans his head in a bit towards you as he holds one of your hands. He needs you to hear this. âIâve decided that if you donât wake the fuck up soon Iâm going to have no choice but to have someone bring me that book and start reading it to you.â He squeezes your hand and shrugs. âSo there. Thatâs my motivating wake up talk.â Tears hit his eyes and his lips wobble a little. âWake the fuck up or Iâm reading you the god damn book.âÂ
Jack watches you for a moment and sighs. He leans in and gives your cheek the lightest kiss. He canât bring himself to kiss your lips again and not feel yours move back against his. He settles back in his chair and picks up the book he was reading. Instead of opening though he just vaguely hits himself straight in the face with it a few times. He doesnât even know why. He just has the impulse. Itâs not hard, it doesnât do anything. Itâs just tapping, just something to ground him maybe. He rests it on his face, closes his eyes and leans his forehead into the cover just to feel the resistance when he pushes the back against him a bit. Maybe he tries to pretend itâs your forehead and the way you lean into each other with your foreheads together sometimes.Â
âShould I be jealous of the book Peter?â Your voice is barely audible with how cracked and dry your throat is.Â
It takes a second for the book to drop out of Jackâs hands and hit the floor. âHoly fucking shit,â he breathes. âYouâre awake.âÂ
Heâs frozen for a minute, shaking hard as adrenaline pours into his system and he feels every emotion he can think of at once.Â
âFuck me,â he huffs. âReally? All I had to do was threaten to read that stupid book to get you to wake up?â
You give him a pained smile and small laugh. It sends him into action.Â
âWhat can I say? I really hate that book. Couldnât have you torture both of us. I think Iâm doing that enough to the both of us right now.â You lick your lips and try to swallow. âWater?â You whisper at him.Â
He brings you a cup quickly, holds the straw for you. âSips,â he says softly. âLittle sips right now, okay?â You do as he says, eventually nodding for him to take it away. âPain? Are you in pain?â He looks on your bed and finds the remote. âHere.â He puts it in your hand, your thumb on top of the red button. âIf you need a booster of morphine press the button.âÂ
Youâre immediately pressing it over and over. âWhat happened?â You groan slightly. âMy chest, Jack. Itâs so bad. It hurts to breathe, like a weightâs on it.â Your words are a little slurred as the boost of morphine hits. It takes him back to the way you slurred in the trauma room and he has to fight not to go right back there in his mind. You need him.Â
âI know.â He strokes your hair. âI know, Iâm so sorry.â He looks over at one of your IV pumps. âI can ask them about upping your dose now that youâre awake, okay?â
You nod, blink at him. Your hand drops the button and finds one of his and gives it a little squeeze. âWhat happened?â
He searches your eyes with his, lets them flit about your face. His lip trembles. It breaks your heart. Whatever it was destroyed him.Â
He sits back in his chair, moves it as close to you as he can get it. You reach up to cup his face with your hand and he leans into it immediately, puts both of his hands over yours. âYou went septic. Threw a clot. It was bad. It was really bad. You coded. They had to crack your chest to get you back. So thatâs why your chest hurts so bad. Youâve been in a coma for five days. Iâm so sorry,â he whispers, âIâm so sorry I didnât-â
âHey, hey,â you whisper back to him. âDonât do that. Donât apologize. None of this is your fault. You didnât do anything, didnât cause this.âÂ
âNo,â he sniffles, âI know, but I just⊠IâŠâ Tears start to stream down his face as he looks at you helplessly and shrugs. âI couldnâtâŠâ
âJack.â The way you say his name shatters him and he folds, buries his head in your lap, wary of hurting you, and sobs as he keeps squeezing your hand. âItâs okay,â you whisper, run your free hand through his hair. You both know its a lie. Nothing is okay right now.Â
But youâre awake.Â
He doesnât cry for long, too conscious of how exhausted you must be, how he doesnât want this to be how he spends the time he just got back with you. Not right now anyway. There will be time for tears and emotions and processing later.Â
He rubs his face in your lap a bit to wipe his eyes and then lifts his head before resting it on its side against your legs. âIâm just so happy youâre awake.âÂ
âMe too.â You give him a sleepy smile. âWas always going to wake up, couldnât leave you here alone could I?â
He gives a little half laugh, half sob. âGood. Because I donât know what Iâd do without you.â You want to tell him heâd figure it out but you donât.Â
âYou gonna give me a kiss now Jack Abbot? I know I havenât brushed-â
Heâs moving the second you say kiss. He feels bad it didnât occur to him immediately but he was just so overwhelmed with you being awake. His lips against yours cut you off. Itâs not just one kiss, itâs two and three and you lose count.Â
Soft ones, small, just long enough. They say more than he could figure out how to say with his words right now. Each one is perfect in its simplicity.
âYou should rest,â he murmurs against your lips. You hum at him in response, eyes already fluttering closed. âYou know I love you right? More than anything. More than I deserve.âÂ
You open your eyes back up and look at him. âCourse I know that,â you murmur. âYou know I love you right?â
He smiles at you. Itâs a little watery, a little trembly. âCourse I know that.âÂ
You swallow hard, just from all the meds and fighting the exhaustion. âGet in bed.â Your tone doesnât leave much room to argue but he does anyway.Â
âNo. Itâs not safe. I could hurt you. You need to heal a bit more.â He squeezes your hand. âBut believe me, I want to, more than anything.â
âYou wonât hurt me. Didnât last time.â You look at him with big sleepy eyes that kill him. âHeal better with you in bed with me.â He bites his lip, torn, so scared of causing you any pain and so desperate to give you what you want. To give himself what he wants. âYouâre the one that said oxytocin helps healingâŠâ Your eyes flutter closed again.Â
He has to laugh through some tears. âGod, you really do listen and learn donât you?â
You hum at him. âSomeone has to be your best student. And it better always be me Dr. Abbot.âÂ
He laughs at that. Itâs so you, such a you thing to say. For the first time in days he really laughs even with as short as it is. For the first time in days he feels hope. Hope that everything is going to be okay and youâre going to go home together and unpack and set up your place and paint and just be together. Â
âYouâre my best everything,â he murmurs as he gently shifts you and all your wires and climbs carefully into bed next to you. He needs it. And you need it. And so he lets you both have it. He lets himself hold you as best he can while keeping you in a neutral position that wonât hurt you. Your head falls to rest on his shoulder and you sigh softly as you fall asleep. Jack kisses the top of your head, lets his lips linger.Â
âSleep well.â
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
âDoll, I am not a dancer. I promise you. Nobody wants to see it.âÂ
âI donât believe you,â you pout at him. âAnd Iâve seen those hips in action Peter. I know how much control you have over them. How you can isolate all the little muscles in them.â
âNone of the muscles in your hips are particularly little-â
âYouâre not changing the subject,â you cut him off. âItâs a wedding. Weâre going to have to dance. At least to the slow songs.âÂ
âAre you sure you really want to take me?â He doesnât even really mean to ask it, it just comes out.Â
You look up at him and pause, drop his comforter that you were pulling back to get into his bed. âI⊠Is it too soon? Too serious too soon? I guess going to a wedding together is kind ofâŠâ you trail off looking for the word. âI donât know a thing.â
âNo!â Heâs quick to reassure you. He leans up and pulls the comforter back for you. âGet in bed.âÂ
You do as he says. âItâs not too soon, and I want to go with you, trust me. Even under threat of dancing. I just wanted to make sure you donât feel like you have to take me. I know a lot of your friends will be there and if youâre not ready to make those introductions, thatâs okay,â he explains as he pulls you to him, arms wrapping around you but loose enough so that you can see each other.Â
âI donât feel like I have to take you. I want to. I want people to meet you. I want to show you off.â One of your hands slips into the back of his hair and plays with it, ruffles the curls and scratches at his scalp on and off as you look at each other.Â
âShow me off?â He smirks at you. âYou wanna show me off?â
âMy intelligent, thoughtful, hot as all fuck doctor of a boyfriend? Yeah. I wanna show you off.â You grab at the old shirt heâs wearing to sleep in and give it and him a look of mock offense at it being on but pull him to you by it anyway. âWanna see you in a partial suit. Nice slim fit pants, collared shirt, a tie, one or two buttons open at the reception and the tie shoved in your pocket to use on me later.âÂ
Jack sucks in a sharp breath of air and you just give him a little raise of your eyebrow, start to roll onto your back. Heâs on top of you and kissing you and has his hands roaming all over you the second your head hits the pillow.Â
He always pauses for a moment and makes eye contact with you before letting himself collapse on top of you after heâs done fucking you like this. The intimacy of that quick moment always makes your heart metaphorically skip a beat. This time is no exception.Â
Jack snuggles into your chest, kissing at the top of your breasts as he does before he settles. You run your hands through his hair, are always running them through his hair or up and down his back or both. He loves it.Â
âHey Jack?â Heâll never get used to hearing his name come off your tongue.
He makes a little hum of acknowledgment, still blissed out and coming down.Â
âWeâre dancing at the wedding.â
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Days blur together.Â
Your Pitt family rallies around both of you.Â
You start seeing a therapist and it helps, you improve some, mentally. Jack finally makes an appointment with his therapist and it helps him.Â
Everyone helps distract you, but itâs not just sitting in your room with you. One night Samira, Javadi, McKay, Mel and Heather show up in your room with painting supplies, easels, foldable stools, and a woman youâve never met before.Â
Paint and sip, they explain. Youâre doing a paint and sip right here in your room, minus the sipping, unfortunately, because of your meds. Itâs so sweet and thoughtful it makes you teary. Jack will never admit it but it may or may not have made him a little teary as he gave you a kiss and walked out to be with Robby for a bit as you guys did your painting.Â
There are more things. There are a lot more things that they all do for you, and for Jack. Robby forces Jack to leave the hospital, just to go home, get more things for you, pick up food you like, small things. The first time is rough for both of you. But it gets better.
Of course, the most special though, the one that helps your mental health the most, is what Jack does for you.Â
One night a good two and a half weeks into your hospital stay, Jack goes out to pick up dinner and Dana, Samira and Heather show up in your room again, but this time they have clothes for you. Nice clothes. A nice dress, the one you were going to wear to the wedding. Nice shoes. Make-up. Perfume.Â
The Pitt is having a little get together on the roof and you should come, they explain. You worry that Jack is not going to be happy with you out of your room and on the roof, that itâll scare him and you donât want to scare him any more than you already have. They convince you that itâs okay, that Robby called Jack already and told him and so he knows to meet you up there. Youâre confused by it all but donât feel youâre in a position to really question anything and also very excited about the prospect of getting to be out on the roof in fresh air and city noise.Â
The girls help you get dressed and your makeup and hair done nicely. Dana sprays some perfume on you. It makes you smile.Â
âWhat?â She asks, but itâs a little too knowing.Â
âI wore this perfume on Jack and Iâs first date.âÂ
She hums. âWell isnât that special? Youâll have to see if he remembers.âÂ
Heather and Samira disappear, say theyâll meet you up there, theyâre going to go change. Dana brings you up, opens the roof door and tells you to go, sheâs gotta go change. You look at her confused and shaking your head and now you know something is up. But sheâs off before you can question her.
You turn around and walk out onto the roof a little, around a little corner and thereâs Jack.Â
Thereâs Jack standing next to a dinner table with a white linen tablecloth with candles on it, fairy lights strung up on the guard rail. Thereâs Jack holding a bouquet of daffodils for you and looking at you like youâre a vision. Thereâs Jack standing in front of you in nice slim fit pants, a collared shirt with two buttons undone.Â
You look shocked because you are so far fucking beyond shocked you didnât even know it was possible. He did this for you.Â
âWe didnât get to go to the wedding,â he calls to you as he walks over while you walk to him. âYou look gorgeous.â
Youâre speechless. Beyond. Youâre thoughtless, struggling to process this, all this work that he did for you.
âI promise to give you a raincheck on the tie,â he smirks as he reaches you, leans in and kisses you. He pulls back, brows furrowed like heâs confused and it makes you laugh a little because how the hell is he the confused one now. âYou smell like our first date.â
âIâŠJack, this is⊠Yeah, itâs the same perfume. Dana brought it.â You pause, think back on your conversations with Dana. She dragged it out of you so casually one day you thought nothing of it. You shake your head and laugh a little. âShe asked me about it one day and I didnât even think about it.
âSheâs pretty good, isnât she?â Jack laughs. You nod.Â
âJack, Iâm,â you look around, hold onto his forearms to ground you. Youâre teary. Of course. âYou did all this? For me?â
âWell I certainly had many co-conspirators who helped me get it all set up, but yeah. It was my idea. You needed it. I needed it. We needed it. A date night. And this was the only place we could get in.â He hands you the daffodils, grabs your hand and leads you over to the table where you stop.
âIâŠâ You look around again. âItâs safe? For me?â You look back at him and he knows from the look in your eye that youâre not asking because youâre worried about yourself. Youâre asking because youâre worried about him, worried about putting him through more trauma and more pain if something were to happen to you up here.Â
âYes.â He helps you into the chair. âYouâre probably the safest diner in all of Pittsburgh tonight. Youâve got a physicianâs supervision.â He smirks at you. His eyes flick to the ground on the side. His go-bag. Heâs prepared, just in case. That brings you back to reality, brings you back to yourself, makes you smile and give a soft laugh.Â
He sits down opposite you, starts to take a drink of water. âHave I ever told you how hot I find it that youâre a doctor?â
Jack chokes, starts coughing and it makes you giggle.
âWhat?â You draw the word out with a bit of that shit-eating grin he loves. âWhat did you expect me to say?âÂ
âI donât fucking know but not that! You were so speechless a minute ago!â Heâs laughing a bit now, looking at you like youâre one of the seven wonders of the world.Â
âItâs just the truth!â you say through a laugh. He reveals dinner to you. Your favorite dish from your favorite place. You thank him for this, all of it, you keep saying it because youâre so blown away.Â
You eat dinner. You eat all of yours for the first time in two weeks and it makes Jack so incredibly happy and relieved. After youâre done with dinner you sit for a bit, chat a little before Jack stands up and holds out his hand to you. You raise an eyebrow at him.Â
He takes his phone out and thirty seconds later your guy's song, soft and slow, starts playing from a speaker he had hidden under the table. He offers you his hand again.Â
âOh Jack.â You pull the words out a little bit as you start to cry.
Through tears you take it and let him pull you close into a dancing hold. âI hope theyâre good tears,â Jack murmurs as he holds you close.
âTheyâre the best,â you sniffle. âI love you so much.â
Jack kisses your temple at the side of your eyebrow. âI love you more.â
The song plays on a loop. Jack dances with you until you admit youâre tired and need to rest. Itâs not even really dancing more than just swaying together, him holding you close, murmured conversation. But itâs everything. Heâs everything.Â
Youâre there for weeks. Weeks that are beautifully uneventful, the only exception being when you hit some milestones in your recovery.Â
And then one day is eventful again because a word starts being used. The word youâve both been desperate to hear.Â
Home.Â
Youâre desperate to get out of the hospital and home. Jack is just as desperate to get you there. He never wants to let you out of it again, but thatâs a conversation for a later day. Heâs dreading when you have to go back to work, back to that courthouse. Rationally he knows with the increased security since the shooting itâs probably one of the safest places for you to be but his emotional brain doesnât give a single fuck about that.Â
You laugh about it with Jack one day, how youâre going to go home to your apartment thatâs still in boxes with furniture pushed to the center of rooms so you could paint. âItâs okay, we can wait to paint or I can make Robby help. And then you can just boss me around and tell me where to put things as I unpack while you rest on the couch.â
He gives you a very pointed look.Â
âI think Iâll be okay to help you unpack. At least some things and at least for a while. If I get tired Iâll rest and I wonât go lifting a box of books, okay?â You give him a reassuring smile.Â
âNo.âÂ
You let out a deep sigh. âJack, weâve talked about this. You canât treat me like Iâm glass forever. Especially once weâre home.âÂ
âWhy not? And itâs not even treating you like glass, itâs making sure you take it easy and recover.â His face is set, but not quite as hard as it has been when youâve had this conversation in the past.Â
âI will take it easy. And I will recover. And you will be there to make sure I do both of those things. But being active, to an extent, I know, is important. Robby has said it. Dana. Heather, Mel, Santos, Shen, Parker, Perlah, Princess, Shamsi, Whitaker, Garcia, Javadi, Mohan, Mateo, everyone who has ever stepped in this room. Even you told me that, back when I didnât want to get out of bed.â You run your hands over his chest, try to be soothing. You donât want to upset him. âI know you have been through a lot with this. I know I have been. I know we have a lot to process and work through together and individually. I donât want to argue. And I know that if our positions were reversed I would be the exact same way towards you, and that if anything you have it worse because youâre a doctor and so you know way too much about the things that could go wrong. But Iâm okay. I will be okay. You tell me everyday how Iâm getting stronger.â
Jack settles his hands on your hips, rests his forehead against yours. âI know. I just⊠struggle. Because you were better and then you werenât. And I am terrified thatâs going to happen again even though I know the chances at this point are so low.â His hands squeeze your hips. âI think maybe seeing you out of here will help. Seeing you at home. Itâll make it more real. That youâre really okay.â He pulls his head from yours. âIâm sorry.âÂ
âHey,â you cup his face with both of your hands. âI donât want you to be sorry, Jack. Not for caring so much, for loving so much. Because thatâs what this is and I know it. Itâs not micromanaging or not trusting me or wanting to control me. I know that. I promise. I know this is motivated by fear and by love. Weâre going to get through this together, okay?â
He nods because he knows itâs true.Â
And then thereâs another eventful day, with a phrase youâve both been itching to hear.Â
Discharge instructions.Â
They let Robby give you them even though heâs not technically your doctor. He gives them to you even though he doesnât need to because you have Jack whoâs going to be all over you and enforce stricter ones. But you still appreciate hearing them so that you have some idea of whatâs okay and what isnât and what appointments you have scheduled for follow ups and the meds theyâre sending you home with.Â
You ask about sex.Â
Jack almost drops the bottle heâs packing away for you. âWhy, please tell me why on earth,â he draws the word out, âyouâre thinking about sex? And not recovering.â
You look at him, hold a finger up and then riffle through the bag next to you on the bed. You take out the small stand mirror Dana had brought you so that you could do your makeup that one night. You open it and hand it to Jack. âTake a look in the mirror Dr. Abbot.â
Youâre so nonchalant with how you say it, like itâs obvious and just a fact and nothing you should really have to be explaining.Â
âOh my god,â he mutters.Â
Robby ends up totally snorting his laugh because he tried to stifle it for Jack for a minute but itâs too good, itâs too funny. Robby smiles at you as he pulls it together, thinks how good you are for Jack. How youâre what he needed.
âYou could have just asked me, you know! Iâm a doctor! I know you know that, you tell me how hot it is all the time! We didnât have to fucking drag Michael into this,â he huffs. But all of you know itâs not serious. Heâs not really mad. Heâs just worried and scared and wants to protect you and doesnât want anything to happen to you and more than anything he doesnât want to hurt you. But thereâs the subtlest tinge to his voice that reflects his lust, his want, his desire to have you like that again.Â
âYes, but I donât trust you to give me a straight answer right now,â he goes to interrupt you but you shake your head and continue, speaking over him, and Jack pouts. Truly pouts. âAnd you know thatâs valid and you would have given me the most conservative answer possible. And itâs Robby,â you shrug, âheâs a doctor and your best friend and obviously knows weâre having sex, or were before all of this. Plus he saw my tits when he coded me, I think we lost some boundaries when that happened.â
âTheyâre very nice b-â
Jack shoots him a glare, one that would have Robby dead on the floor if looks could kill.
Robby stops talking and clears his throat. âRight, well, uh,â Robby hugs his tablet to him and rocks back and forth a bit. âI mean as soon as youâre ready and feel up to it.â You look over at Jack and flash a pleased smile, raise your eyebrows. âBut nothing too rough or overly strenuous. Keep it soft, slow. You know real love-making-â
âIâm going to fucking quit if you keep talking.â Jack interrupts Robby who wears the biggest self-satisfied shit eating grin.Â
You snort a laugh because the whole situation is so fucking absurd. âThank you, Robby.â Â
âOf course.â He opens his arms and you hug. âDonât take this the wrong way but I am really fucking glad I wonât see either of you tomorrow.âÂ
The three of you share a laugh. âReady?â Jack asks you. Itâs funny how in the moment youâve been dying for youâre suddenly terrified and unsure. The hospital is safe. There are doctors and medications.Â
You remind yourself that thereâs a doctor and medications at home too and the thought lets you smile at Jack and nod.
He flicks his chin to the wheelchair. âOh you cannot be serious. That is so unnecessary.â
âHospital policy.â Jack shrugs.Â
âHospital policy or Jack policy?â
âThat one actually is hospital policy.â Robby confirms.Â
Jack gives you a triumphant smirk and you roll your eyes and stick your tongue out at him. He does it back.Â
And then he wheels you out.
Being home is strange. Itâs a whole new normal to get used to again. There are lots of emotions. Youâre all over the place, somehow more emotional labile the first two days at home than you ever were in the hospital.Â
Despite his own emotions Jack is your rock through it and things start to get better. He paints with Robbyâs help. You talk him into letting you paint. You direct Jack and Robby on where furniture should go, with Jackâs input of course. You and Jack unpack boxes together.Â
Six or seven days after you came home youâre down to just two boxes left. All books. You and Jack are unpacking them together, him bending to get them out of the box and you alphabetizing as you put them on the shelves.Â
Jack picks up a book. The book. The one that started it all. The one âMove in with me?â is written in. He stares down at it.Â
Earlier today heâd unpacked the box where heâd hidden the ring. The ring box is in his pocket, pants loose enough to hide it.Â
âPeter?â You hold a hand out behind you to get the next book from him but Jack doesnât put one in your hand or say anything. âJack?â you repeat as you turn around to him staring at the book. He has a weird look that you canât really place. Your brows furrow in concern. âAre you okay?â
He sets the book back in the box and looks up at you for a second. And then heâs sliding down to one knee and your eyes widen. âJack,â you whisper, already teary.Â
âWeâre going on the France trip,â he starts. âItâs all planned. You should be well enough to travel by then and we can adjust to take it easier if we need.â Your mouth drops open a little. âI had this all planned too. Proposing. I was going to take you to the Louvre, propose in front of the inverted pyramids, have a photographer. I had planned to tell you about the trip the night of the day you got shot. And then the entire time you were in the hospital I wanted to ask but I didnât want it to feel like I was asking because you were in the hospital and things were scary.âÂ
You bring a trembling hand to your mouth. âBut I canât wait anymore. I canât wait for Paris. You know this has nothing to do with what happened. I had planned this before what happened. I knew I wanted to marry you within a month. That time you met me outside of the hospital after I coded that vet at the very end of my shift. We had spoken on the phone for less than a minute, I didnât tell you about it or say anything was wrong and yet you just showed up. In your work clothes. When I asked why you were there you said you could hear it in my voice, that I needed someone, needed to not be alone and so you took the day off, and itâs funny because up until you said it I had been telling myself that I needed to be alone. But you were right. When I started to argue you just put a hand to my chest and kissed me, told me that it was already done, youâd already let your boss know, grabbed my hand and started walking to my place. And thatâs when I realized you knew me better than I knew myself and that you werenât afraid to just do things for me, that you werenât going to make me ask, ever, for anything, when you knew I wouldnât be able to. You werenât going to make me struggle, force me to either open up or not get what I need from you. Thatâs when I knew I wanted to marry you.â He pauses and swallows, trying to clear the tears that line his eyes from his voice. âThereâs so much I wanted to say in this moment, so much you deserve to hearâ he laughs a little, the sound wet with tears, âbut everything has fallen out of my mind. I promise though that, if youâll let me, Iâll spend the rest of our lives making sure you hear them and know how important and necessary you are to me, how much I love you.âÂ
Tears stream down your face. They have been for a while now. Your mouth and chin tremble under your hand.Â
Jack gets the box from his pocket and opens it.
The way Jack says your name is etched into your memory. Then. âWill you marry me?â
You move your hand from your mouth, give him a look and move your shoulders in a way that says he didnât even have to ask.Â
âYes.âÂ
Itâs not exactly whispered, your voice is just so choked with tears it makes it sound like it. Jackâs face breaks out into the biggest teary smile and yours matches. Shaking hands get the ring on your finger and then Jack is standing up, arms going straight to hold your face and he kisses you like he never has before. Itâs indescribable. Itâs perfect.Â
You hug him tightly for a minute before you both pull away. âIs it okay? The ring?â
âOh,â you sniffle, try and wipe at your eyes with your hands. âYouâre going to laugh,â your voice gets a little more high pitched as another wave of emotion hits you. âThe tears, thereâs too many, I havenât been able to see it.â You cover your mouth with your hand.Â
And Jack, Jack starts laughing. Because itâs so you, from being too teary to see it to the way you got even more emotional when you told him. You laugh-cry with him.Â
The entirety of the proposal is perfect.Â
As is what follows once youâve seen the ring, almost screamed about it and how perfect it is, and gushed about it for several minutes to him.Â
Jack takes your hand and leads you to your bedroom. Your shared bedroom. He lays you down on soft sheets. Itâs your first time after what happened.Â
He takes his time with you. Kisses every inch of you, every scar, new and old, lingers on the new ones. He worships you. Takes you apart and puts you back together again. Lets you do the same to him.Â
The groan of relief that comes from his chest when he finally pushes inside of you is unholy. He holds you tight to him. He adjusts so that heâs on top of you, arms under your shoulders with his elbows supporting him, holding your face in his hands. Itâs all panting and breathy and sloppy kisses and uncontrollable groans and moans and warm sweaty skin and eye contact and Jack slowly losing it and groaning nonstop as he fucks you and chases your hips harder and harder, moving you both up the bed a bit as he tries to get deeper and closer to you.Â
You take a bath after to clean the sweat off of you both and just to feel each other. He pours in so much epsom salts to help you heal that you tease him youâre going to float in the water. Itâs so warm and his touch is so relaxing that you actually fall asleep leaning back against him for a few minutes. He lets you sleep. Tries to commit the moment to memory.Â
You decide to have a housewarming party. You invite everyone from the Pitt, time it so that the night shifters can drop by for a little bit before their shift starts if they want. You invite some of your friends too.Â
You use it to announce your engagement. Every time someone knocks you and Jack go get them and you hold your left hand up. Everyone is happy for you. Some cry which makes you get teary. Jack hears you discussing the ring with Dana, Samira, McKay, and Javadi, you holding your hand out and all of them looking closely at it. He canât hear the conversation but he catches, âhe custom designed it,â and âitâs so perfect, just like him.â
He stands alone for a minute watching you and the party. He smiles as you walk up to him, arms automatically opening for you to step into. âAnd how is my beautiful fiancĂ©e doing?â You giggle at the word. FianceĂ©. It makes it so real. âTired?â Heâs checking in on you and you know heâd have all of these people out in a literal minute if you said you were tired and needed to rest.Â
âNo, Iâm okay, I promise.â You lean up and give him a kiss. âHowâs my handsome fiancĂ©?âÂ
âIâm pretty perfect, Doll.â He gives your hip a squeeze. âThank you.â
âFor what?â You cock your head at him a little and he melts even more for you somehow.Â
âFor everything.â Jack kisses you. âFor saying yes.â Another kiss. âFor waking up.â Another kiss. âAnd for telling me that book wasnât worth it.â
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I wanted both without having to destroy Jack because he deserves everything so here we are. I hope it was okay! Please let me know your thoughts and comments!! Liking, replies and reblogging are so so appreciated! My inbox and requests are open (see masterlist for more)! Thank you for reading all of this, I know it was long!
And let me know if you'd like to see more of these two! Wedding, more before reader is shot, just little domestic moments between the two? I'm hoping to do a follow up to Perfumer and maybe a few more shorter things, maybe some Robby? Who knows, certainly not I.
Thank you again for reading and your support!
#got fucking WHIPLASH#WAS ON THE VERGE OF TEARS AND THEN BAM#I thought it was game over on GOD#I love the flashbacks tho bc of the context it brings to the present#also love the way you wrote abbott what a dream boat#what a treat thanks op!!#abbott fic#abbott angst
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Iâve never been super into somnophilia but this was hot (and dare I say a tad sad???). Something about passion deriving from love and hardship makes me CRAZY!!!
Also stating the fact old man Logan would definitely be a possessive partner in this sense. If he can control one thing, it will be the way he makes you fall apart and he canât get enough.
Thank you for sharing!!!!
k06. free use + somno | use your love
old man logan x f!reader
rated e - 2.4k
tags: free use, possesive!logan, somno, kitchen sex, car sex, masturbation, oral, spitting, light encouraged choking, cock warming, creampie, feelings
Thereâs already a throb in his cock when his fist twists the doorknob. Some sort of conditioning. The unspoken way that he knows that youâre his.
Plucking at this deep, possessive streak that he never knew he had, until he started losing everything. Everyone.
Or maybe it just feels good to admit that he wants something. To allow himself to take something thatâs offered so freely. To finally feel something, after months - years - of tamping everything down.
(Or - you and Logan have a certain, unspoken arrangement.)
Thereâs a certain sense of relief knowing that youâre waiting for him.
An outlet for the frustration that simmers inside. A prickle under his skin, teeth gritting a little too hard. Another night of playing nice. A chauffeur for dickheads that he wouldâve threatened to stab through, a lifetime ago.
Back when things didnât matter, the way they did now. Before the weight he carries. When a brawl at a bar would an inconvenience at best - that ache of pain that healed with a breath - instead of something that would have him down for days.
Never liked killing, deep down. Just never had to worry about it like this before.
Achingly aware of how heâs slowed. The groan of his joints, the pull of his muscles. Knuckles swollen, as he grips the steering wheel, pulling up in front of the smelting plant.
Itâs still early. Still needing his headlights to navigate the backroads, eyes narrowed in the pale, rising sun.
The crunch of his steps against gravel is the only sound, as he heads inside.
Thereâs already a throb in his cock when his fist twists the doorknob. Some sort of conditioning. The unspoken way that he knows that youâre his.
Plucking at this deep, possessive streak that he never knew he had, until he started losing everything. Everyone.
Or maybe it just feels good to admit that he wants something. To allow himself to take something thatâs offered so freely. To finally feel something, after months - years - of tamping everything down.
Putting Charles first. Grieving silently. Keeping secrets.
Itâs familiar, how he finds you. Even as the days grow shorter, the desert heat lingers. The thin sheets twisted around your legs.
An invitation, in the way youâre already stripped bare - a glint of silver between your breasts.
He always looks for it.
That silent sign youâve come up with. An encouragement to take what he wants, when he wants it.
Only once had you taken his dog tags off, since he gifted them to you. He can still remember your glare as you ripped them from your throat, slamming them down on the bedside table.
He had pissed you off. Said something shitty. Leaving you to fume.
But you had still come back to him, in the night. Letting him write out apologies between your thighs. Murmured in your ear, as he ground himself into you.
Forgetting by morning. You always were forgiving. Knows you deserve better, but heâs been an old dog for a long time now.
Hard to change, even though he tries.
He lingers now in the doorway, for just a second.
Should eat something, canât remember the last time he did. Something packaged, taste secondary to the fuel that he needs more than ever, as he slowly knits himself back together.
Used to taking whatever he could find, before you.
Thereâs leftovers in the fridge, but all he can think about is how he bent you over the counter as you waited for the timer to wind down.
How you laughed and squirmed as his chest pressed to your back, when he surprised you. Slipping into stifled moans, as his fingers dipped beneath your waistband. His mouth against your throat, lips pressed against the flutter of your pulse.
The food tastes better when he remembers the way you had cried out his name, his cock hilted inside of you. Almost burnt dinner, with how distracted you were.
But that will have to wait, now that heâs seen you.
Would love to wake you up. Hear the morning-early rasp of his name. The scratch of your nails against his shoulders - ones that might linger for hours instead of seconds.
Finds that he doesnât mind getting a little marked to, as long as itâs you thatâs doing it.
But you look so sweet, sleeping on your side, and he loves the little moans you make as he tries not to wake you up. Tongue fitting between the cleft of your thigh as he hikes your leg a little higher. Bending himself down to the mattress - ignoring the dull ache in his back - so he can fit his mouth fully against you.
Heâs become greedy, over time. Resource-guarding affection, teeth bared in a snarl.
Needing that proof that you want him. Still so focused on all your little signs, even if youâre his to take.
Another lick, feather-light. Resisting the urge to press himself flush. Work his tongue into your pussy, until he can taste himself from last night.
Knows he has your sleep schedule fucked up. Finding moments in the liminal space at dusk and dawn. His edges softened with sleep.
Heavy-limbed, as your ass pressed against his front, earlier. Squirming, teasing, until he had pulled you astride him. Looking every bit an angel with the way the setting sun haloed around you, his eyes half-lidded as his morning dawned.
âGo on, sweetheart,â He had rasped, voice low, âIf you need it that bad, then âm sure you can put in a little work.â
His salvation glinting between your tits with each bounce - your moans pitching high as your nails bit into his chest.
Itâs returned, now. Palms curving where your thigh meets your ass. Cupping and squeezing, angling you until he can taste your dampness against his mouth.
Always so fucking responsive. Your hips flexing in their sleep, when he dips down to tease at your clit.
Letting your dreams swirl in and out, winding with pleasure as the taste of you swells against his tongue. Skin turning slick beneath the spit that he lets drop from parted lips.
Making sure you can take him. You always can, always do. But his cock throbs at the thought of slipping so easily into you, the wet and warm heat that awaits him.
Another bitten-back groan as his mouth covers you again, and itâs then that you stir.
He meant to give you a little more time. Let you come from just his mouth, wake from your dreams with a shout as you pulse against his tongue.
Hands squeezing your thighs, keeping you in place for a little longer. The sleepy cadence of your breath turning short, sharp, as youâre brought back out.
His name mumbled out in your sleep, and itâs enough that heâs tugging at his belt, loosening the buttons.
Layers peeled off and kicked down at the edge of the bed, leaving them to them crumple on the floor.
Hand rough as he fists his cock, another drop of spit smeared across before his thighs nudge yours wider. You shift easily, belly-down, with the guidance of a rough palm against your hip.
And for a moment, he just looks.
Admires.
A hand coming down heavily against your ass. His palm molding to flesh, soft skin giving as he tugs you open.
Pretty little holes that he canât get enough of stuffing full. A rough groan in his chest as his other hand works faster, squeezing at the leaking head. A thumb shifting down to press at your folds, until he can see you clench in your sleep.
Empty. He can fix that.
Angling himself down, until heâs nudging at your hole. Smearing himself against spit and slick, watching how the tip just eases inside you. How you clench instinctually around him.
A soft sound pulls from you then, as he sinks a little deeper. Watching how you stretch tight around him, as he disappears into your wet warmth.
Pulled from sleep by the time heâs pressed flush, your fingers digging into the sheets as your back arches.
Awoken from a pretty dream, only to find it true. Already youâre trying to take more. Eyes heavy-lidded as your head turns, trying to see him in the golden blush of dawn.
âFeel so fucking good, sweetheart.â
Fingers splay out against your waist. Dimpling your curves as he squeezes - a reminder that you are only flesh and bone, beneath him.
Heat and warmth and rushing blood in your veins, as he inches out, only to drive deep.
âLogan.â You squirm, each rock of his hips dragging you out of your haze.
Your ass sways, as he sets the pace. The syrupy-slowness gone, when you use your leverage to meet his thrusts. Face buried in a shared pillow as you muffle your sounds.
"Lemme hear âem." He husks, pitching forward - a low rumble as he keeps you pressed flat against the mattress, âCome on baby, wanna hear what Iâm doing to you.â
Another rut of his hips, as his forearms settle on either side of your ribs. A hand slipping beneath, cupping a soft breast as his nose skims up the base of your neck.
Inhaling you, how his own scent clings to your skin. Melding with the sweet musk of your arousal - heâd bottle it up, if he could.
You moan, at the squeeze of his hand. At the heavy slap of his balls against your clit, sticky from the arousal that drips from you.
Calloused fingers pinching at your nipple, as the beast inside him growls, whines, then goes silent. That anger ebbing, with the way you clench down each time he slips from you, as if trying to keep him inside.
Another whine, when his elbow plants by your arm, his hand spanning loosely beneath your jaw. The ball chain cool against his skin, where the silver hooks around his thumb.
An urge to taste you again, and he does - a groan at the way your lips part so quickly for him as he angles your face to his.
The moan he swallows when his tongue brushes yours, how he knows youâre close with the way you string tight beneath him.
âFuck, I missed you.â Itâs breathed out against his lips, your fingers mapping his. Encouraging his hold to tighten around your throat, until youâre fully anchored in his grasp.
Almost an embrace. Could be, if he let himself soften. Instead, his hips snap harder against the soft flesh of your ass, and he hears the whine it pulls from you.
âJust like that. Donât stop.â Your nails prick the back of his hand, your voice strained, âOh my god, Iâm so close-â
Doesnât think thereâs anything that could drag him away. Spearing himself again and again, the head of his cock grinding against a spot that makes your eyes roll.
A spot that has you panting, murmured pleas that turn into broken moans.
Doesnât know when you got him so wrapped around your finger, but heâs curled firmly around each knuckle. A growl in his throat, his own release nipping at his heels.
Holds back just long enough to feel you tremble beneath him. The way you arch into his weight, loosening the moan you held back before. Brought over the edge by the rocking weight of his cock, the pinch of his fingers.
Pride washes over him, as you leak around his cock. The tight pulse thrumming as he fucks you through the waves of pleasure, soaking in your pitched-high cries. His life went to shit years ago, but even in the throes of exhaustion heâs never grown tired of pulling them from you.
He can do this, at least.
âFuckinâ choking me, sweetheart.â He grunts, that tell-tale tightness in his belly. An urge to pin you down, hips pounding until heâs finally spilling inside you.
Letting the fire in his veins burn off the last of the thorns that sank into his skin throughout the day.
You let him.
He lets himself - face buried in your neck ask he finds that rough pace again. The slick slap of his hips as you pant beneath him.
âPlease, Logan.â Your voice buzzes against his palm, âWanna help you. Use me-â
Been using you a long time. Dependent now on the reassurance. On the way you look at him, touch him - so fucking soft. Soft beneath him now, as his groan pitches low.
âGonna fucking come, baby.â
Itâs gravel-rough, teeth gritting as you tighten around him, âGonna keep it inside, yeah?â
âYes.â You beg. Tugging at his palm until it loosens, until you press your lips to his skin. Across his knuckles, tongue dipping between - slipping against sensitive skin.
Itâs dangerous, being that close.
It makes him come - hand wrenching away just as his claw threaten to prick through. Just able to hold them back, as his hips drive flush against yours.
A ragged moan muffled against your skin as Logan holds himself deep - letting your walls milk his orgasm from him. Fingers pinching into skin, as he keeps you in place, still enough that you can feel each throbbing pulse as he fills you.
He missed you too.
Always does.
The hours away are spent going over memories like snapshots. Ones that cling to him, his limo.
The echo of you on top of him, in the backseat. A payment you didnât have to make - heâd take you anywhere - but you were all too willing to.
Eager to prove to him you could take it, as your nails bit into his suit. Still dripping out of you, pooling against soft fabric, when your face nuzzled into his lap as he drove you back home.
Knuckles pinched white around the steering wheel, as you kept him warm in your mouth.
Didnât have time to take you a second time before he had to leave, but it didnât stop him from fitting those fingers inside you - making you squeal as he fucked himself deeper, just before his evening began.
Stroking himself to the thought, each and every night he was away. Never could get enough.
It all leads back to this.
His arm bands around your stomach. Still nudged flush, as he eases you both onto your sides.
Heâll eat, later. Fingers drifting, as they dip. Not ready to go again just yet - heâs slowed, in his old years.
But his fingers can still fit against you. Swirling against slick skin as you moan, until he can feel you clenching down around him again.
Drifting off after, with his cock still buried deep. With his cheek cradled against the top of your head, an arm slung across to keep you close.
Never had enjoyed sleeping. A means to an end, everything he pushes down loosening - flashing vividly behind closed eyes.
Not until you. Not until this.
The nightmares going hazy, then quiet, when he wrapped in you the way exhaustion curls around him. A day, finally ending.
Hoping that if he dreams, it will be of you.
Just canât get enough.
Even now, still using you.
thank you so much for reading!! đ
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DOMESTICATED LOGAN STANS RISE!!!!!!!
This was just so wholesome. As a found family fiend, this made me emotional. Logan finding two people who showed him what love truly feels like is such a gift. Also enjoyed the angst too I love how everything came together for them in the end. Thank you for sharing!!!
in this home / logan howlett

PAIRING: logan howlett x f!witch!reader
SUMMARY: after the avengers disbanded, you were left with no direction. what happens when you save a certain mutant from the brink of death and invite him and his daughter into your home? (or rather, co-parenting and falling in love with Logan to give him and Laura the life they never had)
WC: 9.1 k
WARNINGS: SLOWWWWW burn, use of y/n, witchcraft (mcu style. i started this during agatha), hopelessness, mentions of death, injuries, nightmares, reader nearly getting killed, guns, a wannabe murderer, violence, blood, angst but also fluff!!
logan masterlist | inbox | masterlist
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What most stories fail to discuss is what happens after the day is saved. They complete with a delicate happily ever after, wrapped in a bow and shipped off to the Void where the characters, presumably, live in domestic bliss for the remainder of their days.
You wish that were the case.
What they don't discuss is the mourning once the adrenaline has worn off- a gnawing grief that brings you to the knees in the middle of cooking dinner and a pain in your chest that renders you dizzy. They don't discuss they days you feel numb, sitting in the driver's seat of the car with nowhere to go.
You had spent years devoted to the Avengers. In a way, all you knew was saving people. But with Thanos defeated, fifty percent of the population returned to their loved ones, and the team disbanded, you were left with nowhere to go.
Some say if people no longer talk about a thing, it ceases to exist. With your name out of papers and no longer slipped into children's nighttime prayers, you wondered if maybe that were true.
Certain people, however, kept you from fading into the abyss as you knew it.
It was a Sunday morning and the cafe you sat in was packed. Between Sam Wilson being late and the awkward shuffle to steal a table the moment another couple sat up, you had almost gone home.
The conversation had been pleasant but you drifted in and out of focus, not being able to forget what this same conversation would have been like before.
Glancing out the window, you felt as if you were trapped within an aquarium.
The sharp, fluorescent lighting above had given you a migraine and the sounds of innocent forks scraping cake off their plates sounded like nails on a chalkboard in your ears. The passerbys laughing with their friends on the sidewalk shook you as if you were in a snow globe- as though everyone was living, moving... going someplace-while you were bound.
Sam's hand waved in front of you, breaking you from your thoughts.
"You could work for the government?" Sam suggested. He leaned back in his seat and pointed two thumbs at himself. "You've got an in."
You snorted. For several reasons, you'd have to decline but you imagine that sharing the same skillset as Wanda Maximoff would not go over well with the government.
Bringing a piping hot cup of coffee to your lips, you shook your head.
"No thanks."
Sam waved his hands in the air as if to brush off the suggestion entirely.
"Alright," Sam said, tapping his finger against his chin as if to think. "What about dating? My sister met her boyfriend on Tinder. Have you tried that?"
You raised your eyebrow at him as if to ask, "really?"
"I'm serious!" Sam defended. "Some lovin' could be good for you."
Besides the fact that that sentence alone made you throw up a little in your mouth, you couldn't think of anything less appealing.
Not to be a snob, but you weren't sure if the bright-eyed men holding fish in their photos and promising to let you steal their sweatshirt were right for a woman like you. In the past few years you had become a reclusive storm with trauma a mile long. Sprinkle in the fact that you were a former Avenger who dealt with the threat of danger and uncertainty daily, that was a recipe for disaster.
Who could deal with a life like that?
You shuffled in your seat.
"Can we change the subject?" You asked, clearing your throat.
Sam looked at you for a moment before leaning in. His arms laid crossed on the table as his voice lowered.
"Listen, I get. I do." He said, glancing at the passerbys. "But when Tony left you that land, he didn't want you to sit around and be alone forever, okay? You're alive and you've got some pretty cool wizard-"
"Witch-"
"Whatever, powers." Sam finished. "You think Nat or Steve would want you to sit around and mourn them?"
Despite how you failed to meet his eyes, instead opting to look at the dregs of your coffee at the bottom of its glass, his words hit you deep.
He was right.
"No," You said. "but I don't know what to do, Sam. What's next for me?"
Sam leaned back in his seat and shrugged.
"The whole damn multiverse is open." He sighed, lifting his own mug up to his lips. "You'll find something."
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A divination witch set you on your path.
Since breakfast, you hadn't been able to shake off your conversation with Sam. After your fellow Avengers' deaths, it had almost felt wrong to do something for yourself. Why did you get to live while the others perished?
But now you wondered how upset they would be to find out you had become a living ghost. You couldn't bear their disappointment.
It took you three fake fortune tellers before you found a proper witch in a hole in the wall shopfront. The pleasantries were short before her power overcame her.
Her eyes rolled back as the candles scattered about flickered. The light above you flashed as the bulb exploded, raining glass over your head. With a pen in hand, she scribbled on the paper in front of her. You listened to the etching of lead against paper while shielding yourself from the falling pieces of glass.
In an instant, as if you had imagined it, the lights fell back to their usual dim appearance, the rumbling stopped and she cleared her throat, suddenly composed.
She handed you that same piece of paper and sent you on your way.
Now, as the sun set beyond the horizon you skimmed the paper once more. Your candles had been lit and the aroma of the potion that had used up most of your stores wafted throughout the space, gurgling in its cauldron. Your symbols had been etched on the floor, written with your fingers dripped into the prior substance.
Now all that was left was the setting sun.
Check.
It was now or never.
With a deep breath you sat on the floor. The wood creaked beneath you as you did, as if your home could feel the weight of the spell you were about to cast- the future you were about to create. You crossed your legs into an all too familiar position and laid your hands palm-up on your knees.
The beat of your heart quickened in your chest, uncertainty threatening to take hold. You took a shaky break and cleared your throat. The silence of the room made it echo in your ears.
You closed your eyes.
"Oh maiden, mother, crone,
Show my path
written in thy stone."
The floor rumbled beneath you. A breeze filtered in through the opened window and brushed against you, raising your skin. You heard the sound of wood creaking, churning as if the house were renovating itself- expanding and rearranging the makeup of your walls. Finally, and most odd of all, you heard a lock click.
You turned around.
A door had appeared in your once solid wall.
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So this is what it feels like.
When Logan opened his eyes, he was greeted by a warm, inviting light. The evening sun had begun to peak through the windows of the bedroom, leaving shadows on his arm from where the blinds stood, weakly shielding him from its rays. A jazz song hummed from the distance, luring Logan with its melodic keys.
The first thing he noticed was the lack of pain. The last Logan remembered, he was impaled by a branch- body beaten beyond return. Laura was holding him, the children were safe, and for the first time, he learned what it was like to die.
After all the stories that he had heard, Logan thought that this was it. What comes next. Peace.
It took a bit of effort for him to get his eyes open- something he had experienced more than a handful of times after a particularly strong night drinking. At first, all he saw was light. Blinking a few more times a familiar figure came into clarity:
"Laura?"
His voice was raspy and he felt his vocal chords scrape against one another, dry. Just as he had made out Lauraâs figure, she ran from the room.
Logan rubbed at his eyes with his left hand as he gripped the sheets with his right.
"Laura?" He called again. "Kid?"
Finally gaining clarity, Logan discovered that he was in a bedroom. The rocking chair that Laura had been in moments before sat facing him and continued to creek forwards and back after she had left. Throughout the room, various books and bottles littered every surface.
Before he had time to process, you came bolting into the room with Laura at your heel. The mutant rubbed at his eyes, as the image of the two of you wobbled in his vision. Logan, upon your entrance, attempted to lift himself up with a groan.
"Hey... hey." You cooed, gently easing Logan back into bed. "Easy tiger. Relax."
Laura took her place at his side as your soft hands laid against his bare chest.
"Relax?" Logan asked, a dry laugh escaping his throat. "Listen lady, I thought I was fucking dead. Where the hell am I?"
If there was one thing that Logan was terrible at- it was relaxing. And also probably mathematics if he really thought about it, but after nearly dying and being tasked with saving a dozen kids, relaxing was about the last thing on his mind.
He was tempted to fight back. Afterall, you were a stranger and it was rare that one of those had the best intentions with him. That was until he saw Laura- safe and clean and, most importantly, calm- looking up at him with her doe eyes.
The last time he saw her this calm was with Charles. He felt a pang in his chest.
"She fixed you." Laura said as she glanced between Logan and yourself. "She's magic."
Logan furrowed his eyebrows, pulling his eyes away from Laura to look at you.
One of your hands remained on Logan's chest while the other flipped through a spell book on the bedside table. Your hand was gentle against his skin, encouraging him to relax without forcing him into the pillow. Your face was scrunched, focused on the passage below and yet, you seemed perfectly calm. It was odd almost. Logan couldn't remember the last time a person, especially a mutant, had been relaxed in his presence.
A part of him, albeit a one that often failed in the fight for dominance, was relieved to relinquish himself to you. He had fought, and fought, and fought, and fought. And, god, it didn't matter how many times Logan's body healed himself- he was tired. Exhausted.
If it weren't for Laura, after two hundred years, he was ready to die in the middle of that forest.
"Where am I?"
Shifting your attention back to logan, you placed your hands on your hips- leaving the spot on his chest where your hand had once been cold.
You and Laura exchanged looks and the girl giggled quietly.
"Well, the short answer is upstate New York." You responded with a flair, watching as his eyebrow arched. "More specifically? You're in a different universe."
Huh?
Logan glanced between you and Laura. A silence hung in the air as you both looked at him with playful grins on your faces.
Logan had been unconscious for about a week while his body healed. In that time, you had watched over Laura- explaining the different universes, your magic, and the way those with abilities were perceived in your world. By now, this had become home. Logan, however, would need a bit more convincing.
When he realised the both of you were being serious, a congested laugh left his throat.
"Oh c'mon." Logan chuckled in his gravely voice. "I must've hit my head real fucking hard-"
"-She's not lying!" Laura interrupted, squeezing Logan's arm enough to draw blood. "It's safe. Look."
Laura picked up his hand and held it in front of his face.
His wrinkles had vanished, elasticity restored in his skin. His scars had faded into nonexistence. The spot where Laura had just drew blood healed quickly, erasing any trace of injury. He watched the edges of his skin lace together again, born anew.
âHowâŠâ Logan began, noting how the callouses on his hands had seemingly disappeared. âHow in the hell did you do that?â
You smiled.
âA magician never reveals her secrets.â
Logan continued to stare at you incredulously, his mind racing, trying to make sense of the matter at hand. Despite you never having done something this drastic before, you had seen this look your fair share of times and understood it well.
As the sun continued setting in the distance, the light peeking in had become more faded by the minute. With a wave of your hand, you shut the blinds, and the candles littering the space had alit at once with a resounding "whoosh".
Logan, more confused than ever, tugged at the bedsheet that had laid over him, kicking his feet over the side of the bed with a humph.
Laura had told you that he would be difficult... stubborn even. The life that he had lived, albeit longer, was not unfamiliar to yours. It was hard to trust and more difficult to accept comfortability. Even after being comatose for a week, in autopilot fashion he was onto his next mission. Despite you not affording the same grace to yourself, you weren't going to let that happen to him.
âLaura, honey,â You said. âWhy donât you let your dad and I talk a bit, okay?â
The child glanced between you and her father before nodding and making her way from the room. The door shut behind her with a click.
The air in the room felt thick. You could feel Logan's eyes burning a hole right through you.
You cleared your throat.
"Look, I'm sure you've got a lot of questions-"
The man ran one of his hands through his tussled hair while the other scratched his overgrown beard. As messy as he was in this state, a deeper part of you couldn't help but think of him as the definition of rugged.
"You think?" Logan quipped sarcastically. "Where's the rest of 'em?"
The other mutant children.
"They're here too." You said, crossing the room to your rocking chair. "I'm part of this sort of ... uh... organization.. for people like us. With special abilities. When I ended up in your universe and came back here, I contacted some people I knew and they've adopted them. We're starting a school for them too, but otherwise they're going to grow up like any other kid. Not soldiers." You crossed your legs, allowing the old wooden chair to creek back and forth. "They deserve it."
Logan couldn't help a scoff that escaped him. A light, tired smile fell to his lips as he thought of a new school for mutant kids. The old Logan would have laughed, but with the death of the professor remaining a fresh wound, it felt like a relief.
You did what he couldn't.
"A school, huh?" He asked.
You smiled.
"A school."
For a moment, silence hung in the air. The only sound was the persistent creak of wood emanating from your rocking chair.
"Logan, I-" You pierced the silence.
"I'll take the kid and get out of your hair in the morning."
And there it was.
What you had been fearing the past week.
"Logan," You treaded carefully, fearful that one wrong movement would send him out the door. "Don't. I'm serious when I say that I want you here. I... it's been nice."
He looked at you quizzically. As if a cartoon lightbulb had flashed with an animated ding! above him, the answer came.
"That uh... what did you call it? Organization?" He pondered, looking at you solemly. "Let me take a guess- it's not around anymore?"
A silence hung in the air once more.
"Let me take a guess," You said just above a whisper. "Yours isn't either?"
His unresponsiveness answered your question.
"Right, well," you said, ceasing your rocking. "If you want to go, I won't keep you here. I'll help you out in whatever way you need to get your life started. But between us... I like the company."
You pushed yourself to your feet.
"I'm going to go start dinner." You announced, slipping towards the door. "Think it over and let me know."
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Laura was perched in front of the television while you sat planted behind her, braiding her damp hair. The blue light of the television reflected off of her face as she absentmindedly shoved popcorn into her mouthâ focused solely on the screen.
Above the crunching of popcorn kernels you heard Logan's sock padded feet make their way into the room.
His hair was still wet and you could tell that he had tried to tame it by brushing his fingers through either side, sticking it up.
Logan smiled when he was greeted by you and Laura dressed in pajamas watching some princess movie on the television. Although he would never be caught dead in pants with ice-skating penguins on them, instead adorned in the matching gray sweatpants and t-shirt you laid out on the bed for him, he found it.. comforting. One would even say "cozy" and "domestic" if they had it in their vocabularies, to which Logan did not.
All he knew was this was a far cry from what he had been experiencing the week prior.
"Hey," You smiled up at him, nudging your head to the next room. "Dinner's in the dining room. I'll be there in a minute once I finish up her hair."
He wanted to argue about how you didn't need to make dinner for him or, better yet, spend the effort to come keep him company, but Logan knew better.
And, to be completely transparent, he didn't want to say no.
Logan instead nodded and pushed himself off the wall he had been leaning against. He moved towards the dining room, grabbing a handful popcorn from Laura's bowl as he went past.
"Hmph!" She snarled, snatching it back.
Logan shrugged and shoved a few kernels into his mouth, "Taxes."
You giggled as you watched the two of them interact, tying off Laura's hair.
"All good to go, missy." You announced.
In the dining room, the candle that you had left burning on the table illuminated Logan's face. The warm tones of the flame highlighted the curve of his nose and the reddened blush on his cheeks from the warmth of the space. An old jazz song played on the record player as Logan leaned back in his seat, taking a sip from the glass of whiskey you had left for him on the table.
When he heard your footsteps, Logan looked up and tipped the glass towards you.
"How'd you know?"
You shrugged, pulling out the chair beside him.
"Lucky guess."
Leaning forward in his seat, Logan placed the glass back down on the table. The silence between you was comfortable- your feet resting on the rungs of his chair as the melody from the record filled the room.
Logan leaned forward and took a bite from the plate you had laid out, humming as he did.
"You made this?" He asked, mouth full.
You leaned forward, inspecting his plate.
"Well yeah," You responded warily. "Is it okay? I've just been cooking for myself the past few years so it might not-"
"You kidding?" He responded with a chuckle that came from deep within his chest. "I can't remember the last time I had a home cooked meal."
You smiled.
"Well I don't remember the last time I had someone to share it with."
The comment came out before you had the time to quite think about it. You had only really met this man hours ago and here you were, feeding, clothing him, and having an air of intimacy surrounding you both that was owed to a pair who had known each other far longer.
To your relief, a crooked smile rose to Logan's face as he shook his head.
The two of you sat in silence, Logan eating his meal as you relaxed into your seat, letting the music soothe you. The noise from the television playing in the other room periodically carried into the one you sat in but you, and unbeknownst to you, Logan, found solace in it. The company, the warmth of sitting close to someone, and the mashup of various sounds were a comforting reminder that you weren't alone.
After a moment, Logan cleared his throat.
"I'll go find some work tomorrow."
"Logan, you really don't have to-"
He shot you a look- eyebrows raised and lips drawn in a thin line- that told you that he was firm in this.
"Listen," He said. "I appreciate all this, but if the kid n' I are gonna stay, I need to do something, alright? Let me help."
You nodded, biting back your smile at his decision to remain.
"There's a lumberyard up the road if that's your thing." You said bringing a glass to your lips. "The owner's always complaining he can't find new guys out here."
Logan scooped up another bite with his fork.
"That'll work."
"Good." You said with a smile. "Then it's settled. Your new life starts tomorrow."
Or was it today?
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At the end of the first week, Laura's nightmares began.
Her screams- not of her usual rage, but of sadness... fear- would pull you and Logan from your slumber. You'd rush from your bedrooms on opposite ends of the hall towards Laura. His hands would reach for the knob first, but you'd be at her bedside in an instant, brushing past him.
He'd flick on the light as you brushed her hair from her forehead, cooing her awake.
"Laura, honey, it's a dream." You said, shading her from the light as she opened her eyes. "We're right here."
We.
It was the first time that you referred to you and Logan as a pair. A team. The other half that made you whole.
It became the same pattern every night. You'd wake up to her cries, rush to her aid, then read with her until she fell asleep. With you both within reach, she'd fall peacefully back to sleep- staying that way until the morning.
This night, when you went to tuck Laura in, however, you never made it back to your beds. With either of her hands, she held onto one of your wrists, urging you to stay with her as she fell asleep. The look on her face could melt even the Wolverine's heart, how did you stand a chance?
You and Logan made room for each other at the edge of the bed, sitting side by side with your backs against the baseboard. There were whispered sorrys and mumbles of discomfort as elbows collided with ribs and knees with shins.
"Kid did this on purpose." Logan grumbled.
Before you could ask why, his arm wrapped around your shoulder, alleviating the discomfort as you melted into his side.
"There."
At first you stiffened, in unfamiliar territory with the man you had only just met a week ago, but as you heard Laura's breathing turn to snores, you relaxed into his chest.
You could hear how his breath rattled in his chest, your head rising and falling with each inhale. You couldn't help but smile at the fact that Logan smelt like the body wash and shampoo you had left in the bathroom specifically for him. But not the conditioner. You should have guessed.
The nightlight in the corner spun, casting silhouettes of horses around the room. It looked as if they were running, chasing after one another but never able to reach the finish line.
The light ran over Logan's face, highlighting the scruff he had missed from that morning. His head had tilted back against the board, his eyes closed shut. You thought that if he had been normal, you would have noted razor burn on his neck.
With Laura's snores and Logan's eased breathing, you felt your eyes begin to lull, luring you into the sleep you so desperately craved. Laying your head on Logan's chest completely, you surrendered yourself to the wave of exhaustion.
Logan felt your head fall lower on his chest and your body go limp in his arms. As your breathing slowed, your hands fell into his lap and your leg draped over his.
He wanted to laugh. Really, he did, but the idea of waking either of his girls up stopped the laugh in its track, it falling to a scoff that just barely escaped his lips.
If only the man he was two weeks ago could see him now- tucking his daughter into bed and falling asleep with a woman in his arms all without a single worry in the world. Maybe he was dead and somehow made it to heaven.
But then he remembered his imagination couldn't make up a woman like you. One who took him in without a second thought, who worried about if he ate enough, who bought him new clothes because "they reminded me of you". Logan hadn't been able of conceiving normalcy. That, he left to you.
But he was still learning you then.
It was in that moment that his heart skipped a beat for the first time as your face nuzzled into his neck, hair brushing against his cheek. It was such a shocking feeling- one he hadn't known in decades- that his hand flew to his chest.
Then he realized- it was you. You did that to him.
Fuck.
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After a month, Logan got his own vehicle: a truck with a front bench seat. Although it was old and a bit beat up, he took pride in it. And besides, you wouldâve been lying if you said your ears didnât perk up every time you heard that rusty door slam signaling his return from work.
Without thinking, all three of you had fallen into a routine. Laura, who had been playing in the front yard after school, would run up to her father, roping him into whatever she had been getting up to that afternoon. You, hearing the truck's engine turn off and the playful giggles of Laura, would find yourself on the porch watching the two of them- shawl wrapped cozily around your shoulders as you brought a hot drink to your lips.
And whether it was while he was drawing the most awful scribble you've ever seen in chalk, or roughhousing on the front lawn, you'd manage to catch Logan's eye.
What you didn't know, was that Logan had his own routine. He'd join Laura in whatever she doing, but when he heard that squeak of the hurricane door opening, signalling your arrival to the scene? He was like a dog. Logan would pause whatever he was doing, looking up to meet your eyes.
Only when you gave him the same, warm smile that he thought about morning, noon, and night, did he find the permission to continue what he had been doing prior.
He'd go back to passing the ball to Laura, giving her pointers on her throw, or pushing her on the tire swing he'd set up a week earlier; but now he had an added pep in his step knowing your watchful gaze was on him. It wasn't daunting, but peaceful, warm, and comfortable. It made him want to be better... do better.
It was always in him, but your faith in Logan is what brought out his potential.
Jean always said he had a soft spot for women. The same bitter resolve Logan reserved for the rest of the population would dissipate in the presence of the opposite sex- a remanent of a bygone era maybe. Maybe.
When the sun began to set- "God damn daylight savings," Logan would grumble- all three of you would begin to head inside, the warm glow of the house inviting the three of you in. Sometimes Logan would hold the door open for you, insisting he be the last to go in and lock up.
You figured it was chivalry. He knew it was the care and concern that had grown for not only Laura, but you.
Alternatively, you'd sometimes catch him before he crossed the threshold. You'd watch Laura skip out of earshot, and gently grab Logan's arm.
The feeling of your touch against his skin was foreign yet familiar, but most certainly welcomed. The absentminded rub of your thumb against the fabric of his shirt was enough to make his heart sink in his chest. Then, you'd look up at him with thankful eyes, peeking beneath your eyelashes and he'd wonder whether he'd physically be able to restrain himself much longer.
You'd comment on something you watched him do and remind him how good he was. But once, in a moment Logan would never forget, as the two of you watched your girl run inside, you snaked your arm around his back.
"We're lucky to have you, you know?"
Logan, stunned, wasn't sure what to respond, but luckily you didn't give him the space to.
"Now, what are we thinking for dinner? I'm starving."
Still, he waited for your foot to cross the threshold before he allowed himself to enter.
That night when Logan went to sleep, the interaction played over and over in his mind. He could feel the ghost of your touch against his skin as he fell asleep to the lullaby of your soft voice reminding him that you were his.
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After how many years does a person stop remembering their own birthday?
For Logan, it was complicated but he stopped considering the day very early on. When there was no one there to celebrate with and you had the "gift" of never ending regeneration, was it worth commemorating another year in a seemingly endless life? Especially with one such as his, he wondered...no. was sure.... that there wasn't anything worth celebrating.
It was like any other day: Logan woke up, ate breakfast, went to work... but unlike the rest of them, when he slammed his truck door shut after a long day on the job, Laura wasn't playing outside despite the sun's rays still peeking through the trees. Shrugging it off, he grabbed his bag from the bed and made his way inside.
On most occasions, Logan would have stopped.
Logan would have heard the hushed whispers between you and Laura, her giggles spurning you on to do the same. He would've noted the click of the lighter on the other side of the door, but in the complete opposite of Wolverine fashion, he had gotten comfortable.
"Just like we practiced-" Your hushed voice whispered from the other side of the thick wood.
Raising his eyebrow, Logan opened the door.
On the other side, you and Laura stood with a homemade cake in your hands. The candle on top- a "1"- flickered brightly as your voices rang out singing happy birthday.
"Happy birthday to you. Happy Birthday to you.."
Logan could count on one hand the number of times he had cried in his very long life, but seeing the two of you standing in front of him, he felt pressure grow behind his dark eyes. Your smile, bright as ever, welcomed him in and he couldn't help but admire the way that the flame made your eyes sparkle.
You had the option of anybody- anyone in the multiverse- and you chose him to share this family and home with. Although Laura may have encouraged you, Logan knew that this was your idea. The cake, the song, the candles, the banner hanging above the door- it had your scheming written all over it. You were warm and kind and, Logan would admit, so beautiful that in that moment, he got choked up. Never had he been shown care like this.
"Happy birthday dear Logan-"
"-Daddy..."
"Happy birthday to you!"
In one hand you brought the cake close to the burly man. With the other, you brushed a stray tear from his cheek.
"Make a wish!" Laura shouted, tugging on his arm.
Pulling himself back into the moment, Logan ruffled his daughter's hair.
"Well I don't know, kid." He said. "Doesn't seem like there's much to wish for."
"Oh c'mon, Lo." You said, brushing his hair from his face absentmindedly. "There's gotta be something."
And something there was. Rather, someone.
The Logan that had existed three months ago was a changed man. To be clear, he was just as stubborn and hotheaded as always, but the unshakable doom, gloom and overall nihilistic manner about him had shifted.
Once, Charles had told Laura that Logan was ready to die... wanted to die. Now, he would never let anything happen to him, not for his own sake but for yours and the mutant girl the two of you shared.
He wanted to wake up in the morning and smell the bitter coffee you brewed for him in the kitchen before work. He wanted to go to work and have the men tease him about his "missus" they knew nothing about. He wanted to come home at the end of the day to hear your laughs and jokes at his expense. Most importantly, he wanted to fall asleep at night knowing it would be the same tomorrow.
Logan, the lone wolf, the Wolverine, in his vulnerability had found a safe haven in Laura and you.
You, who gave yourself freely and optimistically. It almost felt wrong how he wanted more from you, but how could he help it? You gave him a taste and he wanted more.
Taking a deep breath- and rolling his eyes for show- Logan blew the candle out with a wish in mind.
"What's your wish?" Laura asked, bouncing on her toes as the smoke flitted through the air.
Logan, a bit embarrassed but not wanting to admit it, was preparing to mess with Laura about wishing for something completely asinine, but to his relief, you stepped in.
"He can't tell you, silly." You said, placing your hand on Laura's back to guide her towards the kitchen. "If he tells you, then it won't come true."
Glancing over your shoulder, you shot Logan a wink.
God, he was fucked.
Logan and you followed Laura into the kitchen, dragging a few feet behind.
"Didn't wanna know what I wished for?" Logan asked.
The Logan of long ago- the one who had the time and heart to devote to a woman- had slowly appeared the more time he spent with you. It's as if in the warmth of your love, the harsh exterior had melted away.
Sometimes Logan wondered if you were right that first day when you told him the old him was dead. Then, a moment like this would happen and he would be reminded that it was always in him, waiting for the right condition, or person, to bring it forth.
"I don't know what you're talking about," You said, smiling. "I meant what I said. I don't wanna know. I want your wish to come true... don't you?"
Logan in that moment wondered whether you had peeked into his mind. Had you fished out his deepest desires and decided to dangle them in front of his face?
You hadn't given him time to ask. Instead, you left him standing in confusion in the foyer as you rushed into the kitchen.
"Laura!" You shouted, "Do not stick your hand into that cake! Laura-"
Shaking his head in disbelief at what his life had become, a dry chuckled escape Logan's throat.
"Jesus."
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Considering the portion of her life that she had spent locked up in comparison to being free, you were proud of the progress that Laura had made. She picked up incredibly quick on the way things worked. She knew not to steal, how to use a fork and knife, to wait until the little green man appeared to cross the street- she was quick, intelligent, and incredibly perceptive.
One part she still struggled with, however, was managing her anger: a trait she had inherited from her father.
It was a minor concern. The life that you and Logan had created for her was one that made the likelihood of outbursts scarce- only a heated argument with Logan over something as silly as a game would be able to bring her claws out... metaphorically of course.
"Logan, she doesn't know what property tax is." You'd say after she stormed off with a stomp and growl. "Give her a break."
"That's not how the game goes." Logan would argue. "If the kid wants to survive out there, she's gotta know how the world works."
"It's Monopoly, Logan!"
However, as with any child, you couldn't always control when those outbursts occurred.
The three of you had had a nightmare of a weekend. A short trip that had otherwise gone smoothly, went up in flames last minute when all flights were canceled due to an impending blizzard. Rather than stick it out, with Logan needing to get back to work, the two of you decided it would be best to road trip back home.
For the most part it was fine. Intermittently Logan would scold Laura for kicking his seat absentmindedly and you'd all argue over whether to use air conditioning or windows, but besides that it was perfectly fine. Normal even. Which was rare for two immortals from a different universe and a witch.
When Laura begged to pull over for a snack, how were you supposed to know that it could go so wrong?
As you browsed the aisles, occasionally picking up a snack, skimming the back and placing it back where it came from., Laura had drifted from your side. A beverage in the back had caught her eye without you realising and by the time you noticed her departure, it was too late.
When you heard her sweet voice turn to cursed growls that resembled her fathers, you were across the store in an instant.
An old man stood before her with a hand wrapped around one of her wrists.
"Woah!" You shouted, standing between the man and Laura. "What's going on here?"
"Your brat kid stomped on my foot, that's what!" The man growled. "You oughta teach that girl a lesson!"
Although you had created a gap between her and the man, that comment had you throwing Laura behind you entirely. A part of you that had been buried for years- an aggression you barely recognized- came to the surface.
"Don't talk to my daughter like that!" You shouted, shoving your finger in his face. "You have some fucking nerve-"
All of the commotion piqued Logan's ears from across the shop. The unfamiliar pitch of your voice had Logan tossing his keys on the counter and quickening his pace to you.
"Oh good," The guy said. "Maybe you can tell your bitch of a wife to-"
In the past few months, Logan had become a man that the old Logan- figuratively and literally- would have never recognized. He was cool, calm, and collected. His outbursts were few and far between and never, ever violent.
But, hearing that bite in your voice? Seeing the fire in your eyes? And, worst of all, some man call you that? No Logan would have let that slide.
A part of him- a primal one that called to action when needed- came out then.
Before he had even had time to process the implication of what the asshole said, Logan had grabbed the collar of his shirt with a growl and slammed him against the freezer. Bottles rattled on their shelves as the collective hiss of a spare few crashing on the floor echoed throughout the convenience store.
"We got a problem here, bub?â Logan hissed.
The confidence of the man whose feet were now dangling in the air had deteriorated. The fear in his eyes was palpable as he gasped for air.
âNo!â He gasped. âEverythingâs fine!â
âYeah?â Logan asked, shoving the man up higher, eliciting a whelp. âWhy donât you apologize to the lady then.â
âIâm- ah!â He hissed. âIâm sorry!â
Logan's face burned red as he held him high. A visible vein protruded from his neck.
"Logan." You called. "He's not worth it. Let him go."
The man's shoes scraped against the glass doors he was pressed against.
"Let's just go home."
Logan glanced to where you stood with Laura shielded in your arms. On any given day of his other life he would have beat that man to a pulp for insulting the only two people breathing who mattered to him. He would of let his conscience take a back seat while his fists led, the only consequence being a stinging in his knuckles for a brief moment.
But now, there was stuff- or rather, people... his girls- at stake. Any confrontation with the law could put the dynamic you had in jeopardy. His ego wasn't worth the price.
Logan dropped the man to the floor and wiped his hands against his jacket. Before he could allow himself to turn back and get himself into trouble, he placed his hand on your shoulder and gently guided you towards the door.
"C'mon, let's go."
Later, as the sun set beyond the horizon, Laura laid asleep with her head in your lap. Had she been anyone besides the daughter of the Wolverine, you would have argued for seatbelt safety. However, seeing her content face nuzzled in a sweatshirt on your lap- her feet kicked up onto her father's- how could you say no?
Logan lazily hummed along to an old tune playing on the radio, one arm leaning out the window.
He cleared his throat.
"Daughter, huh?"
His eyes were trained on the road but you saw a hint of a smile at the edge of his lips.
"Am I your wife?"
If he had been the old Logan- before the endless pain, before the wars, before the deaths of his loved ones- he would have told you he loved you right there.
I wish you were.
But he wasn't. Despite his appearance he was an old, disgruntled, traumatized, burdened man. Logan didn't have the same confidence he did decades ago where he could say it, mean it and not worry about the consequences.
And your love, romantic or not, was not something he was willing to gamble.
But God he wanted you.
"If you were my wife, I'd treat you helluva lot better." He said. The smile had disappeared, replaced by a stoic, knitted line.
The fingers of yours that had been running through Laura's hair stopped. Your breath caught in your throat as you glanced out the window, watching the trees on the side of the highway blur past you.
"You treat me pretty damn well, Logan." You said, trying to sound humorous but ultimately falling flat. "I envy the woman who gets you."
This should have been the moment that it changed.
This should have been the moment that Logan pulled the car over to the side of the road and told you that he didn't want to pretend to be a family anymore- three people who were falling into the roles assigned to them- he wanted you to be a family because you were one. It wasn't pretend. It wasn't a facade. You were a family in every sense of the word.
Because he was yours, you were his and Laura belonged to you as much as Logan.
When the guys at work asked about his missus, he wanted to say your name. The lines had been blurred, but he wanted to straighten them out beyond where they had begin- where they were meant to be. You with him, him with you, you all together.
How could he think about another woman when his world revolved around you?
But then Laura stirred in your lap and his built-up confidence crumbled.
She yawned, curling herself into your lap.
"Are we home yet?"
Pulling your eyes from the road, you smiled and resumed brushing your fingers through her hair.
"Almost, honey."
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"Logan!"
Your sharp cry woke Logan from his slumber with a start. Before he had entirely processed that it was your voice calling for help, he had flung the sheets from his body and threw himself out of bed.
"Y/n?" Logan shouted, his sock covered feet hitting the floor.
Below, he heard a shatter. He could make out the sound of distinct pieces of glass sliding across the floor as you screamed his name.
"Get off of-" He heard your muffled voice grunt from the floor below. "Logan, help!"
Hearing your pleas, Logan threw open the bedroom door and ran down the stairs- skipping three steps at a time. He felt his heart pounding against his chest so aggressively that he was sure he would be able to see the imprint of it on his skin had he looked in a mirror.
Despite his descending the staircase at a rapid pace, your voice became more distant the closer he got.
Then, he heard the back door swing open.
Logan dodged his way through the threshold of the living room, running over the shattered vase that littered the floor. Drops of blood stained the rug. The television that had been on when you fell asleep on the couch hours earlier was still playing reruns of your favorite show.
Logan quickened his pace. He felt the chilled breeze hit his skin coming from the backdoor left ajar. When he crossed from the kitchen onto the porch, he froze.
He could hear the rhythmic buzz of the electric collar around your neck- suppressing your powers- from where he stood. Your socks were wet from the freshly melted snow that stained where you stood on the grass. A deep red gash drew blood from your forehead, dripping down your face and over your cheeks.
Behind you, a man stood with a gun to your back.
"Who the fuck are you?" The stranger called, shaking you 'til you lost your balance.
You fell to your knees in front of him with a cry.
"I'm gonna be the guy who kills you if you don't let her go." Logan growled, fists balled up at his sides.
His voice echoed amongst the trees and as sturdy as it sounded, the feeling of his fingernails digging into his palms was the only thing that kept Logan from shaking.
You- precious, kind, loving- you were on your knees powerless, preparing yourself for your own demise. Tears pooled at the corner of your eyes as you heaved, no doubt from the fight you had just lost in the living room. Logan realized that for the first time in the months he had known you, you were scared.
You were like a fortress in a storm- sturdy, powerful, confident- but now it was as though a battering ram had been taken to your resolve, leaving you destroyed. There was something about that knowledge that terrified him even more- if you were scared, he had every reason to be terrified.
"Oh I'm not letting her go," The guy laughed. "The Avengers ruined my life. This used to be the Avengers Compound base and she's going to die here like the rest of them. You can kill me all you want, but she," He pulled your hair, "is going out with me."
As he tugged your hair, your face raised to meet Logan's. By now, tears stained your cheeks, running down your neck and into the hem of your shirt.
Finally, when life was going the way you wanted- in the way you felt you deserved- it was coming to an end.
The only comfort brought was that Logan was here with you.
"Logan-" You cried, a sob lodged in your throat.
Logan could feel his heart shatter into a thousand pieces at your soft, yet broken voice.
Holding back his own emotions for your sake, he breathed shakily.
"Sweetheart... I'm gonna fix this. Just-"
"I love you." You sobbed, hands tied behind your back. Your chest rose and fell with a wheeze as another cry escaped you. "God, I loved you so much it hurt. I wanted us to-"
Past tense.
Just like that, the dam broke.
Tears that had been burning behind Logan's eyes fled the corners, blurring his vision. His fists loosened their grip as one moved to balance himself on the railing. All the while, his chest burned with the fire of a thousand suns.
"Don't talk like that." Logan huffed, blinking back tears.
Then, Logan heard the click of the bullet falling into place.
"Show's over." The stranger announced. "Say hi to your friends for me."
People often wonder what thoughts go through your head the moment before you die. Some say their life flashes before them, others disappear without even knowing. You?
Oddly enough you wanted to remind Logan to clean up the glass in the living room before Laura could step on it. That you had bread rising in the kitchen that he should bake, or remember to throw out before it got moldy. That the deed to your land was in the safe in your office. The combination was your birthday.
But all you could manage was an-
"I love you."
You think that covered it.
You could hear his index finger fiddling with the trigger behind you. You swore later that you could even make out the sound of his knuckles popping as they bent into position.
Both were interrupted by a whiny slishhh as two shimmering claws shot from his torso.
Laura.
Like a gun going off at the races, Logan broke into a run across the yard. When you were feet away, he slid onto his knees in the wet grass and pulled you into him.
If his brain hadn't been so fogged, Logan would have worried that he hurt you from how tight he squeezed you. His calloused fingertips tangled themselves in your hair as your forehead found its home against his own. His other hand gripped your shirt for dear life, feeling the chill of your skin through the cloth.
His warm breath enveloped your face as he held you tighter- fearing what would happen if you escaped his reach.
Soft cries escaped your lips as he peppered your forehead in kisses.
"You're safe now, I got you." He said, more for himself than you. "I love you too, darlin', I'm right here."
Logan heard the earth crunch beside him as Laura wordlessly kneeled beside you both and slipped into your embrace.
.:*
After the first responders had come and gone, it was 3am.
You and Logan put Laura to bed together. When you leaned over to tuck her in, her arms wrapped around you, pulling you into her. Her fingers dug into the fabric of your shirt as her face hid in your shoulder.
For the second time that evening, tears burned in your eyes. This time, not out of fear of the unknown but peace at the future revealed.
You brushed her hair back and kissed her forhead.
"I love you." You said, quelling the shake in your voice. "I'm not going anywhere."
She pulled away and allowed you to tuck the blanket up to her chin.
"Sweet dreams."
As you handed her the stuffed animal you had gifted her the first day, her voice spoke out barely above a whisper.
"I love you too, Mommy."
And the dam broke. As if sensing your composure, Logan reached out and laid a hand on your shoulder.
"Night kiddo."
Logan ushered you from the room, carefully closing the door as you exited. He took your hand in his and led you to your room.
His hands were just as you imagined them- callous and rough. But they didn't scare or deter you. No, they were a physical manifestation of his perseverance. The hands he would use to love, provide and protect you. They had to be strong, they carried the weight of the world in his hands. It was a comfort and privilege to be loved by them.
In your room, Logan turned the lamp on and guided you under the covers. He pulled the covers over your form and as he did, you snatched his wrist in your hand.
"Stay."
It wasn't question, an order, or a command.
It was a plead. A begging on your knees.
"I'm not goin' anywhere."
His voice was dry, tired.
Moving to the other side of the bed, he carefully slid into the space beside you.
"C'mere."
He stretched his arm over your back and eased you into his side. Like a woman stranded in the ocean and he your life raft, you slipped your arms around him and held him as if your life depended on it. You nuzzled your face in the crook of his neck and breathed in his scent for the first time.
Although it was new, the intimacy felt familiar. Whether because of your dreams made real or that you both had fallen into the place destined for you, you weren't sure. But the ease lulled you to surrender to your exhaustion.
"I love you." You mumbled into his neck, your vision fleeing from focus as your eyes drooped.
Logan breathed in deeply, stroking his face with your knuckles as your breathing slowed.
"I love you too, darlin.'"
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This has been in the drafts for months and i'm SO excited to finally put it out into the world. replies and reblogs are greatly appreciated. I would love to know what you all think <3 laura's perception of reader and logan are very much based on the end of logan where she calls logan daddy (i wanna SOB) and i did edit a few chunks out to limit the word count aflkdjal, anyway thank you for reading!! -cass
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made one of those buddy quizzes if you're interested in taking it!
#4#every question I second guessed I fucked myself#EXCEPT THE COLOR INK EW WHAT IT WAS AND NY DUMBASS CLCIKED THE WRING INE BY MISTAKE AGHHH
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Currently drafting an Old Man Logan fic! My brain cooked so hard while I was flying this past week and I can't get this specific scenario out of my head đ€
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OH GOD IVE BEEN SHOT BROUGHT BACK TO LIFE THEN SHOT AGAIN
Lub this is just fantastic! Everything about how you wrote Loganâs inner demons is so good-I felt like I was in his brain. His characterization in this is just FLAWLESS!!! Also Iâm so glad the reader can just feel so deeply. It compliments Loganâs dialogue so well.
This was one of the best fics Iâve read in a while. Thank you for sharing!!!
Come A Long, Long Way

SYNOPSIS: His days are long and his nights are longer. He comes to you during those hours when the rest of the world stills, lured in by something almost like fate.Â
PAIRING: Old Man Logan x fem!readerÂ
WC: 12.2k
WARNINGS: smut 18+, mdni; angst; swearing; non-explicit mentions of wounds, scars and healing; gratuitous sexual tension; mentions of alcohol/alcohol consumption; dirty talk; frottage; nipple play; surprise appearance by Charles; oral (f receiving); fingering; unprotected p in v; sex with feelings; cowgirl; mating press; creampie; brief mentions of Laura; happy ending because I said so
A/N:Â The idea for this story came to me through a song--My Fair Lady by Kaleo. I was struck by this verse: I'm weary from my travels // I've come a long, long way // I haven't felt a woman // Since last that I was here // Oh, won't you bring me whisky // And run your fingers through my hair? // Oh, won't you whisper sweet words // Oh, so softly in my ear? I thought, "Wow, that's so Old Man Logan" and this is what I birthed from that. This may be one of my favorite things I've ever written, and I sincerely hope you think so too. Huge, huge thank you to @yxtkiwiyxt for betaing this for me and making the final draft what it is; you helped end this in such a beautiful way. Thank you to @saradika for the use of her graphics. And as always, I hope you enjoy this and any likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated!
He shouldnât care about the car pulled over on the side of the road, hazard lights blinking as the rain pours down.Â
For three days, Loganâs entertained a rowdy bachelorette party, chauffeuring them from bar to bar, dinner to dinner. The scent of cheap perfume and desperation still linger inside the limo, the drunken, whispered advances still burn against his skin.Â
Heâs tired. Exhausted down to his very marrow and he wants nothing more than to crawl onto his sagging mattress and steal whatever amount of sleep his shattered mind will give him.Â
So, no. He shouldnât care about the car.Â
But he finds himself easing off the gas, the limo starting to slow as he nears. He feels drawn, like a month to a flame, as if some unseen force has wound itself around his sternum and is pulling him forward.Â
Pulling him to you.Â
As the limo approaches, he spots you crouched down by the front left tire, struggling with a lug wrench, the tool slipping in your rain-soaked fingers. He can almost hear the curses spilling from your lips as you glance up and look towards where heâs sitting.Â
Logan knows you canât see him, not well anyway with the headlights shining directly upon you and the rain pouring down in sheets, but he swears you find his gaze, your eyes seeming to pierce down directly to his soul. He feels the flutter of something deep in his chest and he feels exposed, like a raw wound that hasnât quite healed.Â
For a moment, he hesitates, and wonders if youâre a siren, out here in your element to lure him to his death. Then your gaze drops and the thought dissolves but only just. Before he can talk himself out of it, Loganâs throwing the car in park and opening the door.Â
The rain is frigid, the cold biting at his skin as the downpour soaks him down to the bone. You glance up at him as he approaches, your fingers loosening around the wench but still keeping it firmly in your grasp. Straightening up, you push wet strands of hair out of your face, your fingers trembling from the cold.Â
âNeed a lift?â
He doesnât know why he asks. What he should do is swap out the old tire for the spare and let you go on your way. But those eyes of yours are piercing him again, the hook youâve sunk deep in his sinew pulling taut once more and Logan feels compelled to take you home.Â
For a few moments, you continue to silently assess him, your gaze flitting between your car, the limo behind him and back to his now soaked frame. Then, you stand and open the driverâs side door, tossing in the wrench and pulling your purse close to your chest. You follow him to the limo and climb into the backseat as Logan slips back in behind the wheel.Â
He glances back at you through the rearview mirror, watching as you lean back into the seat, your wet clothes clinging to every curve of your body. Which is another thing he shouldnât care about and yetâŠ
Clearing his throat, he turns up the heat. âWhere you headed?â
âNorth. About twenty miles or so.â
Logan nods and shifts the car into drive, heading back down the road as the rain continues to come down. Several minutes pass in silence, save for the rhythmic thump of the windshield wipers. Finally, your voice breaks through the silence, soft and lilting.Â
âGot a name?â
âWhoâs asking?â
A half smile tugs at your lips as you slide from the seat and slip into the row directly behind the partition. Logan can feel the damp of your skin as you lean into his space, the scent of rain flooding his nostrils almost intoxicating. You say your name and wait for him to respond in kind.
âLogan,â he answers, eyes fixed on the road ahead.
âLife hasnât been kind to you, has it, Logan?â you ask, his name dripping from your lips like honey and just as sweet.
Logan stiffens, his grip tightening on the wheel as your words cut through the night. Thereâs no pity in your tone, which heâs silently grateful for, but an unsettling mixture of curiosity and understanding.
At the best of times, he doesnât like anyone trying to scratch below the surface, to worm themselves into all the soft and vulnerable bits he tries so desperately to hide away. Now that heâs older and feeling every bit of his age, the weight of his bones threatening to drag him down with each step, he likes it even less.
âItâs not kind to anyone,â he answers, turning his head just enough to glance sideways at you.Â
You tilt your head slightly, a wordless noise humming in your throat. âMaybe,â you concede, voice soft, like youâre mulling over his words. âExcept your life has carved itself into you a little more than most.â
He wants to be annoyed, to slam his foot on the brake and send the limo careening into reverse back towards your broken down car. But something stirs in him, thrumming in time with the pulse beating in his veinsâa spark of irritation mixed with that pull thatâs been gnawing at him since he first saw you.Â
âYou a therapist or somethinâ?â
You chuckle softly, the sound low and intimate, as you lean back into the seat, finally putting some space between you. âNo. Just intuitive.â
âYeah?â He looks up at you through the rearview mirror with a scowl. âIntuit less. Just tell me where Iâm goinâ.â
A soft, chiding âtskâ falls from your lips and you shake your head, but Logan doesnât miss the smile playing on your lips. You give him directions to your house and for moment you both sit in silence but the air remains heavy with unspoken tension.Â
Logan pulls off the highway, beginning to wind through the smaller streets of the town as he gets closer to your place. The thought of this ride ending, of you leaving this car, both thrill and disappoint him.Â
âYou believe in fate?â
The question cuts through the silence, pulling Loganâs focus back to you. He glances at you briefly, your expression thoughtful as you wait for him to answer.Â
âNo,â he finally says, voice flat.Â
A soft hum escapes your throat. âUnsurprising. But donât you think, Logan,â you begin, leaning back into his space, âthat maybe fate is what brought us together?â
You have that knowing look in your eye again, a sly smile tugging at your lips. As if youâre in on some cosmic secret heâs not privy to. It unnerves him.Â
But it intrigues him, too.Â
âI think a broken down car brought us together.â
âOr maybe life decided to be kind to you,â you challenge. âTo bring me to you.â
Logan turns into a quiet subdivision as your words rattle around in his brain. The rain has mostly subsided, but is still falling in a gentle drizzle as he pulls up in front of your house, a single porch light illuminated in welcome. It looks small, yet homey, the kind of place he could have seen himself in once if life had been kinder to him.Â
âYou should come in,â you say as you gather your belongings. âGet out of those wet clothes.â
Your eyes meet his again through the review mirror, a mischievous glint in your gaze and an even more sinful smile on your lips.Â
Itâs been a while since heâs been with anyone. The thrill of finding a partner for the night having lost its luster around the time his bones started to ache. More often than not, his sexual escapades involve his own calloused hands and memories from when he was a younger man.Â
âThink about it,â you offer as you open the door and slip out of the limo. âDoorâll be open.âÂ
Logan sits, hands gripping the steering wheel, contemplating whether or not to follow you into the house.
Your offer is tantalizing, ripe for the picking, and the baser part of himself wants to acceptâfollow you into sin. Youâve already injected yourself into his veins, he might as well see the high through.Â
The rational part of his brain knows he should leave, throw the limo in reverse and tail it back to the life heâs carved out for himself in the desert. Experience has hardened him, left him unable to, or maybe unwilling to, open himself to others. He doesnât need whatever it is you think you can offer him, no matter how alluring and sweet your words may be.Â
The weight of his wet clothes against his skin begins to feel almost suffocating and with a low curse under his breath, Logan steps from the limo and follows the path you took up the porch and into the house.
A trail of water leads from the front door to a small laundry room just off the foyer and then damp footprints lead deeper into the house. He can hear the low rumble of a dryer as he steps further into the space, the squeak of his shoes against the hardwood doing nothing to hide his approach.Â
Logan finds you in the kitchen, lights dimmed low, standing in only a pair of mismatched underwear, the damp fabric barely concealing whatâs underneath as you gently swirl a glass of whiskey. A second, untouched glass sits next to your hip on the counter.Â
âYou seem like a whiskey man,â you say, your smile curving around the glass as you take a slow sip. âDid I get it right?â
Stopping in the doorway, he flexes his hands at his sides, and wills himself to moveâforward, backward, heâs not quite sure. The muted light catches along your curves, the damp sheen of your skin enticing, the dark outline of your nipples and curls between your thighs acting like a beacon. Logan can feel himself hardening against his slacks.Â
He can smell youâbright and earthy and wholly intoxicating. Your heartbeat echoes in his ears, quick, but steady, betraying no fear.Â
âIf you wanted to hurt me, you would have done it by now,â you say and he has half a thought to wonder if you can read his mind.Â
A sly smile spreads across your face as his eyes finally meet yours, a knowing edge to your expression that further sets him off balance.Â
âWhatâs happeninâ here?â Logan finally rasps, his voice low and rough.Â
You give a nonchalant shrug of your shoulders as you grab the glass next to you and take a step towards him, your movements slow yet deliberate. He doesnât move, rooted to the spot as you approach him.Â
âThatâs up to you,â you reply, handing him the glass. âYou can get out of those wet clothes and enjoy this whiskey with me, or,â you pause to step closer, âyou can walk back out that door and pretend like you werenât curious about whatâs waiting for you here.â
Loganâs fingers grip the glass in his hands just a little too tight as you stare up at him, holding his gaze a beat longer than necessary. Youâre challenging him, daring him to act, and he knows the minute he breaks, heâs done for. He wonât be able to stop.Â
You risk another step closer, leaving barely a breadth of space between you. He can feel the heat radiating off your body, can smell the rain on your skin, as your closeness overwhelms his senses. He wants to drown in you.Â
âWhatâs it gonna be?â you ask in a whisper, your fingers trailing along the edge of his belt buckle.Â
Your touch and proximity ignites something primal in him, something he thought long extinguished. Logan can feel pure want, need, surge through his veins and lick flames along his skin. His free hand moves on instinct, wrapping around your wrist, halting your teasing fingers before they venture any further. His restraint is hanging by a thread, fraying and threatening to snap.
âYou sure this is what you want?â His voice is low, all gravel and grit as he stares down at you, his eyes darkened by a hunger begging to be fed.
Your lips curve into a slow, knowing smile as you press yourself fully against him, soft and warm. Rising up onto the balls of your feet, you drop your gaze to his lips before flicking your eyes back up to his and ghosting your mouth along his jawline. âStay with me,â you whisper, sliding your hand up his chest. âJust this once.â
Loganâs restraint snaps. The glass tumbles from his hand, shattering against the floor, but neither of you seem to notice. His hand moves to the small of your back, wanting to press you impossibly closer as his lips crash into yours, hot and demanding.Â
You respond in kind, a whimper dying in your throat as your fingers tangle in his damp hair, urging him closer. A growl tumbles from his lips as he trails his mouth down your neck, nipping and tasting as he goes, his tongue finding your pulse point and sucking. His hands roam freely, his calloused fingers sliding over your smooth flesh, palming your hips and gripping you as if youâre the only thing grounding him to earth.
He feels alive. Every cell in his body hums beneath your touch, the constant aches and pains temporarily erased. Youâre a balm to his very soul, smoothing the ever deepening cracks and making him feel whole.Â
You gasp as he nips at a spot just below your ear and he smirks against your skin, the sound spurring him on. âTell me where your room is, or Iâm fuckinâ you right here on the table,â he husks, his voice thick with desire, breath fanning over the shell of your ear.
Pulling back just enough to meet his gaze, your lips swollen and eyes dark, you reach for his hand and wordlessly lead him past the living room and down the small hallway to your room. Once inside, he pulls you back towards him, mouth slanting back over yours, stealing the very air from your lungs.Â
His cock is almost painfully hard as he walks you towards the bed, only pulling his mouth away from yours as your knees hit the edge of the mattress. Instead of sitting back on the bed, you reach for the buttons on his shirt, easing them open before sliding the fabric from his shoulders. Thereâs an eagerness to your movements, your fingers fumbling with his belt buckle as he sheds his undershirt and tosses it somewhere behind him.Â
Logan watches with a hooded gaze, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths, as you shove his pants down his legs, barely getting them past his knees before youâre reaching for the waistband of his boxers.
His fingers curl around your wrist, halting your movements and you gaze up at him, licking your lips. âSlow down, sweetheart,â he murmurs, a smirk tugging at his lips. âWe have all night.â
A shiver runs through you and then his mouth is on you again, hungry and all-consuming. He drinks you in like a man parched, lips and teeth mapping the curve of your jaw, the solid edge of your collarbone as your pretty little moans and gasps fill the air. You tilt your head back and offer yourself to him, your hands grasping at his shoulders, fingers digging into the muscle to keep him close.
His hands are rough against your skin as he slides them up your sides, tracing the soft, damp skin below the band of your bra. Unfastening the clasps, he trails the fabric down your arms, his eyes darkening as he finally takes in your bare breasts.
âFuck,â he breathes, his voice dripping with raw want.
Any final restraint he has evaporates and he kicks the last of his clothes off before tightening his hands around your waist and setting you down on the bed. Logan steals the gasp from your mouth as his body covers yours, easing himself between your thighs and thrusting once against your clothed cunt.
He cups your jaw, thumb stroking over your bottom lip, pulling it down just enough to wet the skin. âLast chance,â he husks, his breath fanning across your lips. âLast chance to stop before I ruin you.âÂ
Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging just hard enough to elicit a growl, his teeth bared. A sinful smile spreads across your face. âOh, Logan,â you coo, âwho says Iâm not going to ruin you?â
Logan lets out a deep, guttural sound, something between a growl and a groan before he slots his mouth back over yours and follows you into temptation. Â
âFigured youâd try and sneak out.â
Logan whirls around at the sound of your voice, claws slowly unsheathing from between his knuckles. Blood wells up from the wounds, dripping between his fingers as he finds you dressed in an oversized shirt, the hem just concealing the edge of your panties. Your expression belies no fear as you take in the metal jutting out between his skin, your eyes alight with an acceptance heâs not use to.Â
Fear, disgust, repulsion, but rarely acceptance.Â
Slowly, he retracts his claws as you move further into the kitchen, stopping at the sink to grab and moisten a washcloth before coming to stand in front of him. Logan instinctively pulls away from your touch, but youâre undeterred, taking his hands in yours and wiping the blood away from his skin. Your movements are gentle, taking care to avoid the still healing slits.
Washed of blood, you finally glance up at him. âYou can stay, you know.â
âIâm not the stayinâ kind, sweetheart,â he mutters.
One of those slow, knowing smiles tugs at your lips as you release his hands and Logan actually mourns the loss. âWeâll see,â you say with a shrug, stepping back just enough to put space between you. âI donât think fate is done with us yet.â
Your words hang in the air like smoke, curling around him and pressing into his skin. He wants to argue, the words burning on his tongue, but he doesnât. Because despite his earlier claims that he didnât believe in fate, he canât deny the unnatural pull you have on him. A pull Logan doesnât necessarily dislike.
At his silence, you lean up and press the faintest of kisses to the corner of his jaw. âIâll leave the light on for you,â you whisper into his skin.
Itâs then he knowsâhe wonât be able to stay away.Â
Logan shows up at your door again two weeks later.Â
Heâs been driving around some bigwig CEO, chauffeuring him from conference to conference during the day and dropping him off at random hotels during the night. When he gives Logan the address to tonightâs hotel, Logan knows instantly heâs in trouble. Just his luck the hotel is in your town.Â
Pulling off the freeway, he feels that familiar tug behind his ribs. His hands itch with the want, the need, to turn the wheel towards you instead of the address on his GPS. Since that night, youâve haunted him, your face showing up in his dreams, waking with the sensation of your softness burning into his skin.Â
Logan knows he could stay at the hotel or sleep in the back of the limo like heâs done so many times before. But as he slowly inhales at his cigar and waits for Mr. CEO to stop fingering his mistress in the back seat and get the fuck out, the need to be near you only grows stronger.Â
And damned if he knows why.Â
He doesnât need a relationship, or whatever the hell this is. Enough of him has been spread to others, for better or worse, and heâs already worn thin. The last remnants of any family he has are hanging off a very precarious ledge and he canât bear the heartache of more loss if he opens himself to you.Â
But as much as Logan keeps telling himself heâs closed off, fortified against anything new, he can feel himself bleeding through the cracks.Â
By the time he finally turns down your street, itâs well past a respectable visiting hour. Most houses are dark for the night, but not yours. The front porch light illuminates just like it did two weeks ago and the dim lights of the kitchen shine through the pulled blinds. Youâre up and a frisson of anticipation shoots through him.Â
He parks the limo and stamps out the cigar before walking up your driveway. As he approaches the door, he hesitates. He doesnât know what the fuck heâs doing. While your final words to him were open ended, did that give him the right to just show up in the middle of the night?Â
You open the door as he contemplates and when his gaze finally focuses on you, he relaxes. A well worn robe is tied around your waist, your hair tied up in a messy bun, your face cleaned of makeup and yet youâre more alluring to him than you were that night in the rain.Â
âI donât know why Iâm here,â he confesses, stepping just a bit closer towards you.Â
A slow, soft smile spreads across your face. âIâm sure youâll figure it out eventually,â you reply. You open the door to allow him entrance and he steps in after you.Â
Logan follows you into the kitchen, where you already have a glass of whiskey ready for him. Handing him the glass, you nod your head towards the living room. âCome. Relax for a bit.â
He follows you into he living room, the single lamp casting a soft glow within the space. You settle onto the sectional, tucking your legs beneath you and turning yourself towards him as he joins you. For a moment, neither of you speak, but the silence isnât awkwardâitâs comfortable, like it always is around you.Â
âYou look tired,â you say, finally breaking the quiet. Your voice is soft, a sense of familiarity laced in with your words, as if you understand the magnitude of his fatigue.
Logan huffs as he swirls the whiskey in his glass, watching the amber liquid catch the light. âHoney, Iâm always tired,â he replies. âComes with the territory.â
You give a small hum, your head tilting to the side as you assess him. âYouâre in pain, too.â
Logan freezes at your words, his eyes flicking up to your face. His gaze locks with yours, sharp and guarded, like youâve peeled back a layer he wasnât ready to expose. And yet, youâve been doing this since the beginning. Finding the cracks in his facade and wedging yourself in until the gap widens, uncovering the raw nerves underneath.
âWhat makes you say that?â he asks, his tone challenging.
You gaze remains steady and calm, holding a softness that unnerves him more than the question itself. âBecause itâs written all over you,â you say simply. âI see it in your scars, in the way your hands are always clenched, as if steeling yourself against a blow thatâll never come.â
Logan exhales a low, humorless laugh before taking a long sip of whiskey, relishing the burn as it slides down his throat. âDonât even notice it anymore,â he lies, shifting in his seat.Â
Your mouth tugs into a gentle frown as you shift, crawling closer to where he sits. You pluck the glass from his fingers, swallowing down the rest of the whiskey before setting it on the coffee table. Logan watches as you swing your legs over his lap, your robe riding up to reveal the smooth expanse of your thighs.Â
The weight of you against his lap sends a rush of arousal down his spine and he can feel his cock stir in his slacks. If you notice, you ignore it, instead reaching for a small bottle of lotion on the end table and squeezing a dollop into your palm. You rub your hands together twice before reaching for his right hand.Â
Your thumbs dig into the meat of his palm, a low groan slipping from his throat before he can stop himself. You bite your lip, but Logan can see the sly smile beneath.Â
âYou help take care of everyone else,â you begin, rubbing the lotion further into his calloused palms. âWho helps care for you?â
Logan feels flayed open, that pull that spins him into your orbit only growing stronger as you see down to his very soul. Caliban swore you werenât a mutant but Logan still couldnât shake the idea that you were something more.Â
âWhat are you?â he asks, his eyes tracing the lines of your face, watching you concentrate on his hand.Â
You slide your fingers along the pink, puffy lines between his knuckles, a slow hiss escaping between his teeth as you massage the tender flesh. He wonders if you know how sensitive his skin is now, how each time his claws come out it hurts just a little bit more than the last time.Â
âIâm human,â you reply, positioning his hand to focus on the back, tracing the fine scars there. âSame as you.â
âI ainât human.â
Your eyes flick to his as you drop his right hand and reach for his left. âYouâre human where it counts,â you say, beginning to massage his hand.Â
Logan scoffs. âYeah? And whereâs that?â
You release his hand and place your palm in the center of his chest, your fingers splayed over his heart. âIn here.â
He swallows hard, his gaze dropping to where your fingers are resting against him. You touch him like youâre unafraid, undeterred by the metal in his bones and the sometimes primal rage that courses through his blood. His killedâfor the sake of war, self preservation, and for reasons not so innocentâbut you can somehow still see past that, to some soft part of him that still lingers.Â
Logan itches to touch you, to pull you closer andâ
âYou can touch me,â you say, as if pulling the thought from his head. âI like when you touch me.â
Logan slides his palms up your thighs and around your hips, pulling you flush against his lap, your clothed center pressing against the fly of his slacks. He doesnât miss the gasp that falls from your lips or the shift of your hips as you try and press closer.Â
That thrum of aliveness begins to churn in his veins as he slowly unties the sash of your robe, allowing the fabric to fall to the side. Youâre bare underneath and Logan canât help but lean forward and press a kiss to the center of your chest.Â
âYou dress like this jusâ for me?â he asks, dragging his lips towards your breast and pulling a nipple into his mouth, working into a taut peak beneath his tongue.
Your fingers wind themselves into his hair, holding him close. âYes,â you breathe, a whimper falling from your lips as he moves to your other breast. âOnly for you.â
A surge of possessiveness rushes through his veins and Logan can feel the prickle between his knuckles, his claws threatening to unsheathe at the thought of you with another man. Instead, he doubles his focus onto you, his beard scraping against your skin as he licks a hot stripe across your nipple. âDamn right, only for me,â he growls.Â
You shift your hips in response, seeking more friction against the hard length of his cock pressing against you. Logan groans, his fingers digging deeper into the flesh of your hips, urging you to move against him. The soft, wet heat of your cunt through the thin fabric of your panties and his slacks sets his control on a razors edge.Â
Logan leans back slightly to lock eyes with you, your pupils blown wide with want, your skin flushed with desire. You find his gaze, hazy with pleasure, but focused and then you smile at him, bottom lip pinned between your teeth.Â
âAnd you, Logan,â you whisper, your hands sliding down the column of his neck, âyouâre only for me.âÂ
That hook youâve lodged in him sinks deeper and heâs too far gone to care. The mystery behind your presence in his life is one heâs willing to spend the rest of his days unraveling so long as you stay right here, continuing to bewitch him with the beauty of your soul.Â
Your allure was more potent than any pheromone, more intoxicating than any aphrodisiac. In his waking moments, Logan found his thoughts drifting to you more often than not and the frequency between his visits grew shorter and shorter until he found himself lured into your embrace almost every night.Â
He was good at lying to himself, writing off these visits as nothing more than comfortâthe need to find warmth in a world that so seldom offered him that luxury. But that lie grew bitter, warped in the liminal space between midnight and dawn where you stripped him down to his very bones, saw through the gruff and grit he wrapped himself in. Saw him as something more than the sum of his sins.Â
Logan couldnât hide from you and he didnât know if he wanted to. Those carefully crafted walls that surrounded him cracked and crumbled, turning to dust at his feet. In that mysterious way of yours, you always knew what he neededâa warm meal; your tender, healing touch as you helped him stitch the worst of his wounds; the soft, pliant feel of your skin on his as you kissed him deep, the kind of kiss that burned like wildfire and whiskey.
God help him as your gravity pulled him in closer, your orbits circling tighter and tighter, destined for an inevitable crash.Â
âWhat am I to you?â
Those five words root him where he stands, flaying him down to his very marrow. Logan should have expected this question, should have known that eventually youâd ask.Â
He wants to tell you the truth, speak those words that burn against his tongue, begging to be said.
He wants to tell you of his need to find you when the days are long and the nights are longer. When the weariness he feels in his bones aches more than usual and seems to bleed into his very soul.Â
When he needs to feel something more than the hollowness that seems to grow inside his chest. The slow carving away of his humanity thatâs been scraping closer and closer to emptiness for years.Â
When he needs to be wrapped in warmth and set afire by something almost like love. Like home.Â
But he says none of this as he gazes over at you sitting at the kitchen table, one knee pulled up to your chest. You look small sitting there, vulnerable in a way he hasnât seen before.Â
And instead, he remains silent, praying youâll let the conversation slide. But he knows better.Â
You glance up at him, your gaze piercing straight through the heart of him and then you devastate him with three simple words.Â
âI love you.â
The air punches from his lungs and for a moment it feels like heâs forgotten how to breathe. Your words tear through him, cutting deeper than any knife, and his hands curl into fists as you slice him open.Â
âDonât,â Logan rasps, his voice rough, barely more than whisper. He avoids your eyes, knowing that if he looks and sees the sincerity in your gaze, itâll be his undoing. âDonât say that.â
âWhy not?â Your voice cracks with emotion as you push away from the table, your arms wrapping around yourself. âWhat about those words canât you hear?â
His jaw clenches and for every step you take closer him, he takes a half step back, as if heâs trying to distance himself from the truth beginning to swirl between you. You canât love him. Loving someone has brought him nothing but misery and pain, loss and suffering and heâll be damned if he drags you down that road.Â
So, instead he lies, the words bitter in his mouth.Â
âThis ainât love, sweatheart,â he says, gesturing between the two of you, âThis is fuckinâ.â
You inhale sharply between your teeth and your expression twists into disbelief, the beginning of tears welling in your eyes. âFucking?â you bite back, your voice trembling but still firm. âYou think after all these months that this is just fucking?â
Logan doesnât answer. And he doesnât move. He simply stands there, jaw clenched so tightly he could shatter bones. He canât say yes. If he does that, if he voices that lie into existence, heâll have to spend the rest of his days remembering the look in your eyes right nowâdestroyed.Â
Your breath starts to shudder as you continue to step closer towards him. And he can feel you, warm and comforting, even though you shake with barely contained anger. âLook me in the eye and tell me thatâs all this is,â you demand, your voice thick with emotion. âTell me that when you come to me in the middle of the night, broken down, bloody and bruised, itâs just fucking. Tell me that when I touch you, hold you, love you, that it means nothing.âÂ
He remain silent.Â
You let out a sharp, bitter laugh. âGod, for someone with heightened senses, youâre blind to whatâs right in front of you.â Your trembling voice matches the shake to your hands, your fury pouring off you in waves. âYou really are a coward, arenât you?â
Logan nostrils flare at the insult and he can feel the prickle of his claws between his knuckles. He knows his rage isnât with you, but himself. And yet he can still feel his lips curl into a snarl. âYou donât know what youâre talkinâ about,â he growls.Â
âOh, fuck you, Logan,â you seethe, your voice now raw, pain bleeding through every syllable. âYou canât even look me in the eye when you lie.â
His jaw clenches impossibly harder and he swears he can taste bone. Then, he finally meets your gaze head on, eyes flashing. âYou think this ends well between us? You think I get to have somethinâ like this? Like you?â Loganâs voice cracks in a way that he loathes. âI canâtââ
The crack of your palm against his face is deafening. He barely moves from the impact, but emotionally youâve landed him on his ass. Your eyes are wide as you stare up at him, unblinking.
Logan stands there, immobile, as he processes the sting of your slap. It doesnât hurt, not physically. Itâs the fact that you did it, the fact that youâre standing in front of him, chest heaving from the effort of your breathing as if you just ripped yourself open for him.
âGet out of my house,â you seethe, your voice softer than before, deflated.
Your words shouldnât sting as much as they do. They shouldnât wreck him and make him feel like heâs been ripped apart limb from limb. He should relish them, the push, the shove. He should revel in the confirmation that youâre finally seeing him for what he truly isâsomething undeserving of all the warmth and love youâve given him. A stray animal that never should have been fed.
Logan swallows, his throat tight as he gives you a small nod. And then he does the only thing he knows how to do.Â
He turns. And he walks.
His legs feel like lead, each step a feat and his brain is screaming at him to turn around. To fight. To beg. To plead. To say something, anything.Â
But he doesnât.
Logan exits the house, the front door slamming shut behind him. As he steps off the front step, the porch light above him clicks off, plunging the house into darkness. Your guiding light is gone, lost in the storm of his destruction.
Of all the wounds heâs ever taken, of all the scars that mar his skin, nothing has ever bled quite like this.
Charles watches with sharp eyes as Logan enters the old water tank and shuts the door behind him. The older man is in his wheelchair, tending to his plants as Logan walks around the place, picking up random bits of trash and the tray from breakfast.Â
A soft âtskâ falls from Charlesâ lips and echos in the small space. âWill you ever learn, Logan?â Charlesâ voice seems tired, weary.Â
Logan pauses and looks over at him, irritation already prickling along his skin. âStay outta my head,â he snaps, slamming the tray down on a nearby table.Â
He doesnât need this, doesnât want Charles sifting through his mind, seeing those pieces of you he so deeply cherishes. Pieces he doesnât deserve. Pieces he doesnât know if heâll ever have within his grasp again.Â
âShe loves you,â Charles continues, seeming to ignore his request.Â
Logan strides over to where Charles is sitting, unable to keep the ire from boiling over. He wants to sweep all the plants to the floor, destroy the one creative outlet Charles has, retaliate for the way he presses into the fresh bruises on his mind. âIâm begging you, justââ
Charles lifts the spray bottle beside him and directs the spray in Loganâs face, showering him in a fine mist of water. Logan freezes, water dripping from his face as his lips tighten in a thin line. He grits his teeth, an ache already blooming in his jaw.Â
âWhat the fuck was that for?â he growls.Â
âAre you a cat?â Charles asks, lowering the bottle. âNo? Then stop being such a pussy.â
Logan stares at Charles, the vulgarity of the of manâs words leaving him temporarily speechless. He scrubs a hand down his face, wiping the rest of the water off with the sleeve of his shirt, scowl deepening.Â
âYouâre pushinâ it,â Logan warns.Â
Charles simply smirks, finally setting the bottle down on the table. âSomeone should. God knows you wonât push yourself. Not when it comes to matters of the heart.â
Logan sucks in a sharp breath and steps back from Charles, sitting down on the bed across from him. The old metal springs groan beneath his weight. He wants a bottle of whiskey, to quiet the thoughts in his head, at least temporarily, and fall into a drunken stupor. Anything but flaying open his feelings, especially his feelings about you.Â
âWhat are you so afraid of?â Charles asks gently. âThat sheâll see all your broken pieces?â
âYou donât know what youâre talking about.â
Charles raises his eyebrow. âNo? Logan, sheâs already seen them. She knows what you are and sheâs still here.â
âThatâs not the point!â Logan roars, his voice echoing off the metal walls. His breathing comes out in short gasps and he knows he needs to rein himself in. Not only for himself but for Charles. It doesnât take much to trigger a seizure these days and he doesnât need the stress of this conversation to become a catalyst.Â
Charles remains quiet, expression calm and Logan hangs his head, his voice softening into something raw. âItâs not about what she knows. Itâs about who, about what, I am. I donât deserve her.â
Bracing his elbows on his legs, Charles leans forward, a sympathetic smile tugging at his lips. âShe knows all that, Logan. And she chooses you. Every night you come to her, she chooses you. How can you not see that?â
Logan doesnât respond, but the weight of Charlesâ words hang heavy against his shoulders. He looks down at his hands, seeing the callouses and crisscrossing scars. His body is a physical map of violence, each faded pink line a story of pain, regret and death.Â
But youâve never seen them that way. Youâve only ever looked at them with reverence, traced your fingertips along each one and wondered about their stories. Made him feel whole instead of broken and used.Â
âYou have a choice to make, Logan,â Charles says, interrupting the silence. âLet her inâŠor keep running. Donât make her choose for you.âÂ
For days, Loganâs mind is plagued by replays of his last moments with you and his conversation with Charles. His already sleepless nights are further tormented by dreams of you, the devastated expression on your face haunting him.
The memory of your face, the crack in your usually steadfast voice, the tremor in your hand after you struck him. They all play in a nauseating loop in his brain, punishing him in a way heâs never felt before.
His life reverts to autopilotâdrink, fight, drive, but nothing quells the gnawing ache in his chest. He couldnât stay in the smelting plant with both Caliban and Charles staring at him, watching his every move as if he were a ticking time bomb waiting to explode. Charles was running out of medications, a few days supply left at most, and Logan knew he was better off leaving Charles in Calibanâs care than his own.
Now, he sits on the edge of a dingy motel bed, the scent of cheap whiskey and cigar smoke clinging to his clothes. His eyes are dry and heavy with exhaustion and his skin is itching with that familiar want to be near you. It started as an annoying tug, but has now grown into a maddening want.
He knows he should ignore it. But he was never that strong.
Before he can talk himself out of it, convince himself that this is an astronomically stupid fucking idea, heâs on his feet, keys in hand and driving down those lonely roads towards you.
Itâs late when he reaches your house, like it usually is, and he half expects the porch light to remain dark, a cold, bleak reminder of how badly heâs fucked up. Instead, he finds that single porch light illuminated, shining like a beacon of hope. Logan walks up onto the porch, but you donât open the door like youâve done so many times before.Â
He contemplates leaving, turning around and getting back in the car and drinking himself into a semblance of sleep. But then he hears you, your heartbeat echoing beyond the wooden frame, as steady and as comforting as itâs always been. Logan pauses, wondering if he should try the knob and come insideâif youâll even let him.
If you even should.
With a sigh, he lowers himself to the ground, his joints aching in protest as he rests his back against the door. âIâm not good at this,â he finally says, hoping youâre listening. âIâve been alive for too long. Seen too much shit.â Logan pauses, his words burning in his throat. âIâve lost too many people.â
He hears you shift behind him, your head thudding softly against the door as you listen. His relief is almost palpable knowing youâre there, that youâre at least willing to listen to him. Leaning back, Logan closes his eyes and exhales a heavy breath. âThe only way I know how to keep people safe is to push âem away. And I need to keep you safe.â
The words feel foreign leaving his mouth, as if theyâre uncovering a truth heâs long kept secret. He feels exposed in a way heâs not used to, raw and honest, and the truth of his words burns. Logan can still hear you on the other side of the door, your breathing slow and steady, yet laced with somethingâhesitation, maybe, or hurt. It makes his chest ache in a new and unfamiliar way.Â
âIâm tired,â he continues, his voice softer. âIâm so fuckinâ tired, sweetheart. Tired of fightinâ when all I wantââ Logan swallows hard. âAll I want is you.â
The porch light hums above him, the night is alive with the chirping of crickets, but the silence that follows is almost deafening.Â
Logan doesnât deserve you, he knows that. You should turn him away, tell him to leave, to kick him back to the desert to lick his wounds alone. He doesnât know how to be someoneâs partner, their lover. Heâs not sure if he ever has, really, too hung up on all the ways he paints himself as a bad man. Someone unworthy.Â
Except with you, he finds himself wanting to fight. To prove heâs not as hard and unyielding as the metal bones inside him. That somewhere deep inside him there still lingers warmth and affection and the capacity to love.Â
Heâs bracing himself for the worst when he hears the faint sounds of the lock turning. The door creaks open and he shifts to look up at you. One of your well used blankets is wrapped around your shoulders, your hair tousled from sleep and your eyes are red and wet with unshed tears. Loganâs heart thuds heavily in his chest as you stand there and he turns to face you, pushing up onto his knees. Your expression is carefully masked, betraying little of your underlying emotions, and he carefully crawls forward, testing the waters of how close youâll let him get.
His knees ache as he kneels on the hard concrete, but heâd crawl through glass if you asked him to. Slowly, he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you to him as he nuzzles his face into the softness and warmth of your belly. Your comforting scent floods his senses as he waits for your anger, your rejection.
Instead, you sigh, a long pent up breath released in a steady exhale and your fingers sink into the disheveled hair at the nape of his neck, holding him close to you. âYouâre an asshole,â you finally say, though your tone lacks any venom or spite.
Logan feels it then, the tension slowly easing from your body as you allow him to sink further into your frame. His heart lurches his chest, the faintest flicker of hope fluttering against his ribs.
âYes,â he mumbles into your shirt.
âYou hurt me.â
He pulls back as you gently push at his shoulders and sink down to the ground in front of him. But you donât push him away any further and instead, lace your fingers through his. âI should tell you to fuck off,â you continue, your eyes focused on where youâre touching him. âBut I canât.â
His voice comes out in a whisper. âWhy?â
Your eyes meet his and your gaze pierces straight through his soul. âYou know why.â
And he does. In truth, he thinks heâs always known, long before you ever spoke those three little words out loud. Words so simple, yet so profound. Words he rarely speaks, while others casually toss them around. Words he has rarely felt, but with you feel as natural as breathing, as the sun rising in east.
Words heâs still afraid to say, despite everything, despite every cell in his body screaming at him.
You look at him like you know, because of course you do. Youâve always known him, in that uncanny way of yours since he first saw you standing in the rain. So instead of ire or disappointment at his lack of response, you simply squeeze his hand, grounding him to your reality.Â
âYou donât have to say it,â you whisper, your voice soft and steady. âNot yet.â
Logan looks at you, his brows furrowed. He canât fathom what heâs done in this life to deserve you, your patience, your unwavering belief in him. âYou make it hard not to,â he finally rasps, his voice rough and uneven. âLove you, I mean.â
The admission hangs heavy in the air, raw and jagged, much like him. Itâs close to what you want to hear, but not quite. And yet he sees something warm and bright blossom on your face.Â
You lean in, raising your free hand to lightly trace the curve of his jaw, scratching at the scruff there. âYouâre a man of action, Logan,â you say, pressing in closer, your breath mingling with his. âWanna show me instead?â
Thisâthis is a language heâs fluent in.Â
Using his lips, tongue, hands and cock to write on your body all the words he cannot say. Heâs mastered your shape, the way your hips curve beneath his palm, the softness of your belly and breasts, the heat between your thighs stoked hotter only by him. He knows exactly where to press, where to nip and suck and tease to elicit all those pretty little moans and gasps of pleasure.Â
Loganâs already drawn one orgasm out of you, his fingers still thrusting against you as you ride out your high, your thighs shuddering against his forearm. Youâre flushed and breathy as you reach for him, urging him up from between your thighs. Â
You pull him close, fingers sinking into his hair as you lick into his mouth, not caring that your slick still stains his beard and lingers against his tongue. He swallows your gasp as he knocks your knees apart and slots himself between your legs, his cock heavy against your belly.Â
He wants you. In all the ways he can think of and not just like this, naked and pliant beneath him. He wants your sleepily whispered hellos each morning and your softly murmured goodnights each evening. He wants the warm, weighty press of your body against his as you sit on the couch beside him sipping whiskey.Â
He wants, he wants, he wants.Â
As his kisses grow more fervent, you grow impatient and push at his chest, urging him back. âLie back,â you command softly, your breath damp against his lips, âLet me take care of you.â
He wants to protest, deny you this request. This is supposed to be about you, about using his body to show you all the things his words canât say. Heâd spend the whole night between your thighs, using his mouth, tongue and fingers to worship if youâd let him. But thereâs something in your gaze that forces him to comply and he gives in, rolling onto his back.Â
You straddle his thighs, your slick cunt sliding along the length of his cock. Logan groans and his hands reach for your hips, fingertips digging into your flesh as he encourages you to move. âThis is sâpose to be about you,â he husks as you slowly begin to rock your hips back and forth.Â
âOh, it is,â you answer, licking your lips as you brace your hands on his chest. âWho else can get you hard and needy beneath them?â
A low growl escapes from his throat. âNo one.â
A wicked smile curls at your lips as you drag your heat along him, the blunt head of his cock nudging your clit with every slow, deliberate rock of your hips. The sensation has his control unraveling and he slides his hands along your thighs to palm the curve of your ass.Â
You press into his touch, continuing to roll your hips as you lean forward to press an open mouthed kiss to the corner of his jaw. âYou see,â you murmur, âthis is for me.â
Reaching between your bodies, you grasp him in your hand and line him up. Slowly, almost tortuously slow, you sink down on his cock, taking him inch by inch until heâs fully sheathed inside of you. A sharp inhale escapes him as your warm, tight walls surround him and Logan knows this feels different.Â
This isnât merely fucking anymore, the melding of flesh for the pure sake of pleasure, of briefly escaping the nightmare of his life, of finding solace in sin. Youâve somehow managed to bleed yourself into him, to wrap yourself around his heart.Â
You feel as if youâre a part of him, lodged deep between his ribs and that if he were to try to remove you, heâd kill himself in the process. A part of him knows this feeling has always been there, back when you first entered his limo. The feeling threatens to choke him, to fill his love soaked lungs until all he can breathe is you.Â
He loves you.Â
Pure and unfiltered and it terrifies him.Â
âIâfuck, I,â he chokes out, the words caught in his throat. âI feelââ
Your hands run over his chest, up along his collarbones, your fingers blazing a trail over his skin. âI know, Logan,â you whisper, your hips rocking languidly against his.Â
He grips your thighs, almost tight enough to bruise, helping guide your movements, but also prove to himself youâre real. Loganâs chest heaves as he watches you ride him, your hips rocking harder, faster, dragging moans out of both of you. You lean back just enough to change the angle, driving him deeper and he bucks his hips, meeting your thrusts with a force that has you crying out his name.
And yet itâs not enough. He needs to wrap himself around you, twine his fingers through your hair and hold your mouth to his until heâs completely consumed you. His hands slide up your back towards your waist and he pulls you down against him, mouth hot and insistent against your neck as he continues to fuck up into you.Â
In one fluid motion, Logan grips your thighs and flips you onto your back, pinning you beneath him, cock still sheathed deep within your cunt. You arch beneath him as he sets a brutal, devastating pace, the raw intensity of his movements stealing short, gasps breaths from your lips with each thrust. A shiver ripples through you as he draws a nipple into his mouth, his name tumbling from you like a prayer.
âFuck, there it is,â he growls. âI love all those little sounds you make.â
His choice of word isnât lost on either of you and your eyes meet his as your nails dig into his shoulders, leaving faint red crescents as you cling to him. âLogan,â you gasp, your voice trembling as he hits that soft spot deep inside you. âMore.â
âYou want more?â he rasps, gripping your thighs and pulling them higher around his waist. The new angle has you crying out, the sound echoing in the room as he continues to slam into you with a force that has the bed creaking beneath you.
âAh, fuck, yes,â you moan, your head tipping back.Â
Logan takes advantage of your offering, his lips and teeth marking a path down your neck, his beard scraping against your skin in a way thatâs sure to leave a burn come the morning. Thereâs a possessiveness to his touch, a need to claim you, to prove to you that this is all he needsâyour embrace, your warmth, your love.
âYouâre so fuckinâ good to me,â he growls against your skin, his hand sliding down between your bodies and finding where youâre joined. He can feel himself pounding into you, your combined arousal coating his fingers as he finds your clit and begins to rub in tight circles. âSo goddamn perfect. You were made for me, sweetheart, you know that?â
Your cunt flutters around him and he knows youâre close, your thrusts against him growing erratic. He feels his own impending release, but he needs you to come first, needs to feel you shatter against him. His fingers press more firmly against your clit and with a breathy moan, your body tenses, back arching off the bed as your orgasm crashes into you.
âThatâs it,â Logan groans, his own thrusts faltering as he feels you tighten around him, pulling him in deeper. âLook at you, cominâ so pretty for me.â He slows just enough to prolong your release, his thrusts deliberate as he draws out every ounces of pleasure until youâre trembling beneath him.Â
Itâs overwhelmingâthe sensation of you beneath him, around him; the cling of your fingers to his shoulders; the warm, damp breath against his neck; the absolute perfection of this moment right now. In all his years on this earth, heâs never experienced anything like this. The desire to completely consume someone, body and soul, and be consumed return. He wants his dying breath to be your name.
Something inside of Logan snaps, and as you try and catch your breath as you come down from your high, he presses your legs higher, folding you beneath him in a way that has his cock pressing deeper than before. The change has you whimpering and he looks down to find your expression as wrecked as he feels. He pauses his thrusts just long enough to grasp both your wrists and pin them above your head before he picks up his pace again, fucking into you with an almost ruthless intensity.
âI love you,â he growls, his thrusts growing erratic, his control quickly unraveling with every whimper and cry of his name. âGod, I fucking love you.â
For a few moments, he doesnât even realized what heâs said. Then he looks down at you, your gaze trained on his face and that soft, knowing smile of yours on your lips. âLogan,â you gasp, âI know. Iâve always known.â
Logan lets out a rough, shuddering breath, his entire body trembling with the weight of his confession. Any response he has dies in his throat as he presses his forehead to yours, his entire body wound tight. Heâs so fucking close, can feel his orgasm coiling hot and tight in his gut, but itâs more than your warm heat drawing him inâitâs everything.Â
âTell me,â he grits out, his hips chasing, chasing, chasing that release.
You lean up as much as you can with your hands still pinned above you and lick an open mouthed kiss against his lips. âI love you, Logan.â
And thatâs all it takes. He groans into your mouth as he finally lets go, his body tensing as his release crashes into him. He spills himself deep inside you, shallowly thrusting into your cunt as his rhythm slows.
Logan releases your hands, and for a long moment, thereâs only the sound of heavy breathing, of heartbeats slowing, the two of you tangled in the aftermath.
Loganâs restless and unable to sleep despite your smaller frame tucked alongside him, the weight of your head resting against his chest. From his periphery, he can see his phone illuminating with unread texts, no doubt from Caliban urging his return. Charles has been deteriorating faster than Logan cares to admit, his mind gone more often than not, raving about new mutants. He needs drugs faster than Logan can procure them.
His mind churns, the reality of the outside world looming closer and he contemplates slipping from your grasp when you shift, curling yourself further into him. You donât speak, not yet, but he can tell youâre alert, floating somewhere in that space between sleep and full wakefulness. Your fingers start to move of their own accord, the gentle pressure of your fingertips tracing over an old scar along his ribs, mapping out an old battle he no longer remembers.Â
Beside him, his phone buzzes again and Logan sighs.
âSounds important,â you murmur, voice thick with sleep.
He wants to keep ignoring it, stay wrapped in the quiet cocoon youâve thrown around him, but Logan knows he canât. Itâs a cruel reminder of the chaos that plagues him beyond the sanctuary of your embrace.Â
âYou can go to him, Logan,â you continue, fingers never stopping their slow path along his skin. âI know youâll be back.â
âHow,â he starts, licking his dry lips, âhow do you always know?â
Loganâs asked versions of this question before. Youâve always brushed him off, given a coy answer and steered the conversation towards something else. For a moment, he thinks tonight will be the same.
But then you answer.
âI can feel you,â you answer softly, your breath warm and damp against his skin. âI justââ You pause and turn to look up at him and then disentangle yourself from his embrace. âStand up,â you urge, nudging at his side until he complies.
He blinks at you in confusion, but you just smile at him, soft and sleepy, and gently cup the side of his face. âNow, close your eyes.â
Logan does as heâs told, chasing after your touch as you step back from him, settling somewhere beyond him on the bed. âIâm going to move and you tell me where I am.â
The soft rustle of bedsheets follows and then, stillness. Youâre quiet, but he can sense you, just off to his right, but too far away to touch. âMy right, but farther back in the room.â
You move again, keeping your movements light. Again, he pinpoints you, this time towards his left, closer, but still too far away to grasp. âLeft.â
A final movement, this time even closer, your proximity flooding his senses, sending a rush of warmth down his spine. Logan reaches out, finding the curve of your hips, hands tucking underneath the shirt you had slipped on earlier in the night, splaying his palms against your back. He opens his eyes and meets your gaze, alive in the predawn glow.
âHow did you know?â you ask, looping your arms around his neck.
Understanding dawns on him, the answer so simple, yet so profound. Pinpointing where you were had nothing to do with his heightened senses and everything to do with just youâthe way youâve molded yourself to him like a second skin. âI could feel you,â he answers. âI couldâI just knew.â
You lean forward, pressing the lightest of kisses against the corner of his mouth. Logan sighs into your mouth, his eyes fluttering close as you press your forehead to his. âItâs like that,â you whisper. âThis undeniable pull, an invisible string that connects me to you and it tug, tug, tugs, untilâŠthere you are.â
His phone continues to buzz, growing more insistent as the soft blues and grays of the morning bleed into more golden hues. With a reluctance you both feel, Logan peels himself away, finally answering the phone with an irritation he doesnât bother hiding.Â
You watch him go, standing on the porch with the light casting a halo around your head. Your smile is gentle, but stained with worry and yet you remain stoic, the steady pillar holding up the fractured remains of his life.
As he drives away, he catches one last look at you in the rearview mirror and heâll spend the next few months wishing he told youâhe feels you too.Â
The last one hundred miles have dragged on for eons, the road before him stretching into an almost infinite distance. Logan finds himself darting his eyes towards the dashboard clock, growing increasingly frustrated when the numbers move only a few minutes at a time, the slow passage of time seeming to taunt him.Â
Itâs been months since he saw you last, though no fault of his own. His memories are hazyâa swirling fog of confusion, pain and burning fever. Heâs not even sure how he survived, whether it was modern medicine or sheer stubbornness. Or something more.Â
You believe in fate?
Your words echo in his mind, soft and sweet, and he feels a familiar pang of longing in his chest.Â
Fate or not, something kept a spark alive in him, pulsing through his veins with each sluggish beat as he slowly and painfully healed. His wounds are still pink and tender to the touch, more of his skin marred by death and destruction.Â
As he turns into your subdivision, the night quiet, a cold, creeping anxiety snakes along his spine. What if youâve given up on him? Figured this last absence was the real deal, all his idle promises of staying away finally coming to fruition.Â
But as Logan drives down your street, he sees itâthe single porch light illuminating in the night. Acting like the beacon itâs always been, leading him safely to land.Â
To you.Â
Logan pulls into the driveway and shifts the truck into park. Turning in his seat, he glances back towards the young girl curled up on the backseat. Lauraâs face is relaxed in sleep, her hands tucked protectively under her chin. She fell asleep several hours ago, the soft rhythm of the tires against pavement lulling her to sleep.Â
Loganâs been many things in his life. Son, brother, fighter, friend. Lover. He never thought heâd add father to that list. While he canât quite find it in him to call himself that just yetâeven though Laura readily and easily calls him dadâhe no longer denies the protectiveness he feels towards her.
Easing the door to the truck open, Logan steps out and gently shuts it behind him, loathe to disturb her just yet.Â
Here he is showing up at your door like he always hasâlate, quiet, and carrying a heavy weight he feels only he can shoulder. His hand is poised to knock, knuckles clenched, but he pauses, unsure if he even has the right to be here.Â
But then there you are, the front door opening to reveal your tired but relieved face, months of worry etched into your skin, your eyes already brimming with unshed tears.Â
âLogan,â you breathe, pulling him gently by the wrist and leading him inside. You donât ask why heâs there. He suspects you already know.Â
The air inside the house is just as he remembers. Warm and inviting and laced with the faint, comforting smell of you. Logan inhales deeply, letting the scent settle somewhere in the parts of him that still feel alive, that thrum with the memory of your touch.Â
Your fingers still linger against his wrist and he can feel the heat radiating from your body, but youâre not close enough. And yet, heâs afraid to reach out, pull you into his arms. Afraid of the pity or obligation youâll feel to comfort him, to allay all his fears.
As if reading his thoughts, you gently cup the side of his face, your nails scratching along his jaw. Logan flinches slightly, his body so used to pain these past months heâs almost forgotten the tenderness of your touch. But he doesnât pull away. Instead, he closes his eyes, a ragged breath falling from his lips and his head dips forward.Â
âCâmere,â you whisper, wrapping your arms around his waist.Â
For a moment, he doesnât move, but then he slides his arms along your back, pulling you against him. You feel real and solid and alive pressed this close. Never one for overt physical touch, Loganâs surprised by how much he missed thisâthe simple act of just holding you. Burying his face in the crook of your neck, he inhales deeply, his breath warm and damp against your skin.Â
He doesnât say anything, unsure where to even begin. The weight of his grief, his weariness, feels heavier than any burden heâs ever shouldered before and itâs almost desperate the way he clings to you. Like youâre the only thing tethering him to the earth. If you were to let go, heâd fall apart.Â
Logan doesnât even realize heâs crying until he feels the hot trail of tears against his cheeks. You run your fingers through his hair, murmuring soft reassurances as you hold him.Â
âI couldnât feel you, Logan,â you whisper into his neck. âSeveral days of justâŠnothing. I thought thatââ
The words lodge themselves in your throat, but he knows what they are just the same.Â
He pulls back just enough to look at you, your eyes glistening with tears that match the ones rolling down his weathered face. Your expression is marred with pain, raw and unfiltered, but also with a bright flicker of relief.Â
âIâm sorry,â he rasps, voice rough with emotion. âI got dragged into some bad fuckinâ shit. I almostâŠweââ
You quiet him with a soft brush of your fingers against his lips. âItâs okay, Logan,â you whisper. âTell me about it later. Iâm just happy youâre home.â
Home.Â
Logan gaze softens at your words, but guilt gnaws at him. He doesnât deserve thisâyour unwavering faith in him, the patience youâve shown him, the light youâve been in his dark, endless nights. But here you are, giving him everything heâs never asked for but so desperately craved.Â
âCâmon,â you murmur, dragging him from his thoughts, âLetâs get you settled.â
Itâs well past two in the morning by the time Logan finally carries Laura into the house, tucking her comfortably into the guest bedroom. Turning from the bed, he finds you there, leaning against the doorframe. You reach for him, in that soft, gentle way you always do, and lead him into your bedroom.Â
He doesnât protest when you sit him down at the edge of the bed and begin undressing him. Kneeling before him, you unlace his boots and peel off his socks, setting them aside. With a slight press to his knees, you force his legs wider, slotting yourself between them.Â
Despite the late hour, the weariness and fatigue tugging at his bones, Logan feels his cock twitch as your fingers brush underneath the hem of his shirt.Â
Itâs been so long since heâs felt you.Â
He dreamt of you, in those fevered moments where he didnât know where one part of his body began or ended. When his entire existence had been boiled down to raw nerves and sluggishly knitting flesh. Through the haze of pain, he wondered if heâd ever feel your kiss again, feel the frantic press of your fingers into his shoulders, feel the warm, wet heat of your cunt stretching around him.Â
You toss the shirt aside and he can feel your gaze lingering over the new scars, the pink, raised lines of flesh that are still healing. With a reverence heâs not worthy of, you trace your fingertips along the three jagged scars from where X-24 had ripped into him.Â
âWhat happened to you?â you ask, voice barely above a whisper as you move to trace more of his scars.Â
Logan tells you then about Pierce and the Reavers, about Laura and the other mutant children. His throat grows tight as he continues, relaying the loss of Caliban, Charles and the Munsons, and the final confrontation between himself and his clone.Â
He tells you how Laura saved him. How her and the other children brought him to safety over the Canadian border. How he spent the next months fighting with every fiber of his being to knit himself whole.Â
For you.Â
You lean into him as he looks away, jaw tightening as he tries to shove down the memories of everything heâs lost. Your touch is light against his face as you trace the angle of his jaw, and reach up to press the lightest of kisses against his lips.Â
Logan exhales into your mouth as you kiss him again, soft and tender and warm. You seem to breathe him in, imbue life into his weary flesh and reignite the spark heâs kept alive for you.Â
He wants to do moreâto pull you into his arms, to taste you, to fuck into you until he canât breathe. But exhaustion pulls heavily on his bones, threatening to sink him.Â
Logan knows you can feel his hesitancy because you keep kissing him softly, punctuating each press of your lips with whispered reassurance. Your fingers card through his hair as you lean back. âJust let me hold you?âÂ
Your voice cracks at your request and Logan can only nod, unable to deny you. You help him shuffle out of his pants before coaxing him further into the bed. He moves slowly and he knows you donât miss the creaking of his joints, the soft groan of discomfort.Â
Coming to rest on his side, you tuck into him, throwing a leg over his hips and pulling him close. He sighs into your touch, the weight of the last few months pressing just a little bit less as you press a kiss to the hollow of his throat.Â
âDonât leave me,â you whisper into his skin, soft and damp.Â
Logan feels his heart clench at your words. Heâs hurt you. He knows that. Not just inadvertently with his most recent disappearance, but all the other times, too. Those times when he ran, afraid of what your words and touch meant. Afraid to accept what youâve always so freely given.Â
His hand slips under the hem of your shirt, fingers splaying across your back. âYou kept the light on,â he husks, unable to keep the break out of his voice.â
Your lips quirk into a soft smile. âI always will, Logan.â
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Logan is terrified of flying so you fuck him to calm him down making him a Mile High Club member
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Deserves more notes letâs be real
Waves and Whiskey

Wordcount: 1.5k
Pairing: 70s Logan Howlett x F!Reader (no use of y/n)
Oneshot: Spending your afternoon with Logan in a beach
Tags: Fluffs, swearing, teasing, established relationship, suggestive content (MDNI)
There's nothing better than waking up to the warm sun peeking through the sheer curtains, casting that amber glow youâve been yearning for after the long, depressing cold season.
Youâll probably hate the sun in a week, but for now, this is the first morning in months where you wake up to sunlight. You blink a few times, shaking off the sleepiness. The best part? Itâs Sunday.
Exhaling, you stay on your stomach, hands clutching the soft fabric of your pillow. The thought of a warm morning already excites youâuntil you hear that familiar noise. You shift your head to the other side of the bed.
Logan, lying on his back, his pillow too high causing him to snore like a bear.
A sheepish smile tugs at your lips as your second wonder of the morning hits and you couldnât be more grateful. You always take your time staring at his rugged features, those ridiculous mutton chops, his eyelashes, his nose. The way his muscles relax, his chest rising and falling, bare under the soft morning light.
You shift closer, rolling onto his side, bringing a finger up to trace the thick veins along his bicep. The snoring that wouldâve pissed you off in the middle of the night somehow feels more tolerable in a morning like this.
You know exactly how to wake him up, starting with a kiss on his bare shoulder. Your lips trail up to the crook of his neck, sucking at his sensitive skinânot that it ever leaves a mark, no matter how hard you try.
Within minutes, you earn a low grumble from him, but he still refuses to open his eyes.
âFive more minutes,â his hoarse voice greets you as he shifts onto his side, facing you. Undeterred, you continue your kisses, now trailing along his bicep.
âLoâŠâ you murmur, sucking at his skin. He grumbles a lazy huh.
âGuess whatâŠâ You rest your arm on his waist, waiting for his half-hearted response.
He groans in acknowledgment.
âItâs sunny outside,â you whisper in his ear, your breath sending a shiver down his spine. Finally, his eyes crack open, finding your face just inches from his.
He glances at the window, then back at you.
âFuck the sun,â he mutters, voice deep and laced with sarcasm, his palm sliding to the back of your head, fingers massaging your scalp.
âAh-ah,â you tease, stroking his beard. âYou promised.â
âNoâŠâ He shakes his head muttering your name hoarsely, realizing exactly where this is going.
âYes, you did.â You grin triumphantly. Logan had technically agreed to go to the beach if the weather ever turned niceânot that he had much choice in the matter. A promise is a promise.
âFuck meâŠâ He groans, shutting his eyes before rolling onto his back, pulling you with him to settle on top of him.
You chuckle, pressing a few more kisses to his chest as an idea forms in your mind.
âIâll fuck you up this morning,â you whisper playfully, eyes gleaming with mischief, âbut then weâre going to the beach.â
Your words caught him by surprise but then he smirks, already knowing where this is going as your kisses trail lower. You can feel the bulge on his boxer starting to grow.
âI guess we have a deal,â he rumbles, keeping steady eye contact as his fingers gather your hair into a makeshift ponytail.
And the morning keeps getting better as your third wonder of the morning came naturally.
The waves crash against the shore beneath your feet, the breeze making your hair whip uncontrollably to the side, while your sundress flutters with every gust, driving Logan crazy as he chases after you.
With each step, your feet sink into the soft, warm sand, leaving a deep trail momentarily before the sea cleans them spotless. The beach isnât crowdedâjust a few distant figures scattered along the shoreline, couples walking hand in hand, some kids chasing seagulls, and an older man sitting on a foldable chair, watching the ocean with a book in his lap.
The scent of saltwater and sun-warmed sand fills the air, mixing with the distant sound of laughter and crashing waves.
You're running fast, arms pumping, laughter bubbling up and stealing the air from your lungs, making it harder to breathe.
Logan is only a few steps behind you. Oh, youâre in trouble.
Just minutes ago, he had been enjoying his walk, a full bottle of whiskey opened in hand, sunglasses perched on his faceâa clear sign of how much he despised the sun.
The sun was already dipping low, painting the sky in warm hues of orange and pink, so you couldnât understand why he was still wearing them.
When you asked, he simply muttered, "Sunset looks better with these on," tapping the brown-tinted aviatorsâthe same ones he always wore.
And you? You had been walking behind his broad shoulders when a mischievous idea formed in your mind. You crept closer, barely an inch away, and then, without thinking of the consequences, you tapped your knee against the back of his.
If only you had known how dangerous that was.
Logan stumbled almost comically, his balance sucking and betraying him. Worst of allâhis whiskey tumbled to the sand, spilling more than half of it.
Your laughter burst out uncontrollably as he muttered a string of curses. You moved in front of him, trying to get a good look at his face, but then⊠he did the thing.
He took off his sunglasses and tossed them to the ground.
That was your cue.
You bolted.
But you didnât even last two minutes. Logan was fast. Before you knew it, his hands were around your waist, lifting you off your feet as you kicked and squirmed in the air, gasping between soundless laughter.
"Where dâya think you're goinâ, huh?" he growled playfully in your ear.
"It was an accident! I swearâI didnât mean it!" you giggled, breathless, as his arms slid under your thighs, hoisting you into a bridal carry.
"Youâre lucky youâre wearinâ this sundress," he muttered, scanning you from head to toe, voice thick with something unreadable. "So fuckinâ distracting."
You looped your arms around his neck, momentarily fooled by how effortlessly he carried you, how light and gentle his touch felt. If only you knew what wicked plans were running through his mind.
He kept his eyes locked on you, pulling you into that hypnotic stare of hisâthose perfectly shaped hazel eyes holding you captive. You were so caught up in it, too busy teasing him about how much you knew he liked this sundress, that you didnât even notice where he was headed.
By the time realization hit, it was too late.
The second the cold water hits your skin, you let out a loud gasp, flailing in Loganâs arms.
"You bastard!" You shove at his chest, but heâs too busy laughing, the deep rumble of it making your frustration even worse.
"You had it cominâ, sweetheart," he drawls, holding you tight so you canât escape.
Your sundress clings to you, dripping wet, and the waves keep knocking you both around. Logan, of course, stands like a damn rock, completely unfazed while youâre barely keeping your balance.
"You think this is funny?" you huff, shoving wet hair out of your face.
He tilts his head, pretending to think. "Yeah, kinda."
You narrow your eyes. "Okay." And before he can react, you cup a handful of seawater and splash it right into his face.
Logan exhales sharply, shaking the water off with an annoyed grunt. "Oh, youâre askinâ for it now."
You donât even get a chance to run before he grabs you again, pulling you flush against him. His grip is strong, firm, and stupidly warm despite being soaked.
"You good?" he mutters, a little softer this time.
"Yeah," you grumble.
"Good."
Then he leans in and kisses youâquick at first, like heâs making sure you wonât slap him for it. But you kiss him back, gripping his shoulder to steady yourself. The ocean sways around you, but itâs nothing compared to the way your head spins when he deepens the kiss.
The taste of whiskey lingers on his lips, mixing with saltwater and something distinctly Logan. His hand slides up to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your wet hair, and for a moment, you almost forget the whole revenge planâUntil a wave slams into you both, knocking you off balance.
Logan grunts, catching you before you can go under, but the damage is doneâhe's coughing up seawater between your startled laughs.
"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up," Logan grumbles, wiping his face.
Youâre dying of laughter, clutching his arm for support. "Thatâs what you get, dumbass!"
He side-eyes you. "Oh, you think youâre funny."
"I am funny."
He huffs, but thereâs amusement in his eyes. "C'mere."
And just like that, he pulls you in again, kissing you hard, like heâs making sure you donât get any more bright ideas.
You do, of course. But for now, youâll let him win this round.
#just know heâd look glorious on the beach#also Iâm a sucker for a good chase scene itâs very fun#and also this gives such honeymoon vibes pls#this was very good and warming đ€đ©đ#logan fic#logan fluff#fic recs
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Me realizing they will get to fall in love HARD ALL OVER AGAIN
Over and Over Again || DOFP!Logan x Reader
Summary: Logan wakes up in 2023 in a brand new timeline. In this world you're still alive and you're married, but he doesn't remember a thing.
Warnings: Angst with a happy ending
wc: 3.5k
a/n: damn bro these song fics keep getting longer and longer lmao. Anyways here is my third instalment of a fic based on âWould You Fall In Love With Me Againâ from Epic the Musical. I hope you like this one too! If you wanna read the other two you can find them here and here
Yesterday everything made sense. Yesterday you woke up next to your husband Logan, made coffee, graded a few essays, trained with Logan in the danger room, and then went to dinner. You kissed him good night and turned out the light to go to bed. Today? Your whole fucking life is being flipped upside down.
You knew something was wrong the moment you saw Logan standing barefoot in Charles' office. He had this look on his face. A mix between confusion and grief. A longing in his eyes that just didn't make sense when you had kissed him good morning only a few hours ago.
"You're alive?" Logan says breathlessly, his eyes widening as the words leave his mouth.
Realizing his mistake immediately. But he couldn't help himself. Not when the last memory he had of you was holding you as you died.
"Charles, what's going on?" You asked in a panicked voice. Logan, this Logan, your? Logan, reached out for you but you stepped back. You don't know why but you just did it. Though it's hard to see the hurt in Logan's eyes when you do.
"My dear," Charles says softly, his eyes darting from you to Logan.
"I think you should sit down for this."
You aren't the only one to be called into Charles office. Standing around you was Ororo, Jean, Scott, and Hank. Before you stood Logan with his arms crossed as Charles weaves a wild and frankly impossible story.
This Logan is not the man you knew.
He's from an alternate timeline where the X-Men were being hunted and eradicated, the world being over run by these things called the Sentinels. How everyone in this room was dead in Logan's world. The last chance they had was sending his consciousness back in time to stop the chain of events and according to Charles he had done it. He had saved the world and everyone in this damn mansion. But at the cost of his own memories, his own life in a way.
"Jean, please stay. I want you to help in attempting to get his memories back. The rest of you thank you and please do not tell anyone else about this." Everyone starts to move but you.
You stay seated in your seat, unsure of what to do. Do you go up to him? He's still your husband after all, but is he? You feel his eyes staring into your head as you finally make your move and get up. Walking right up to him.
"Hi, Logan." You say softly.
"Hi." You bite your lip nervously as you try and think of something to say. There's this awkward tension between the two of you. Something you haven't felt since you first met. Though you guess this is technically a first meeting. It's really confusing.
"Logan, shall we begin?" Charles cuts through your thoughts. You don't want to leave, in fact you have a million questions that will pour out once you figure out how to talk to him. But it's going to have to wait.
"I uh...I'll find you after." He mumbles, his hand moves to cup your face but he stops before he can actually touch you.
"Yeah, I'll see you after." You smile awkwardly and gently grab his hand, giving it a small squeeze before leaving. Logan wants so badly to hold on, to tighten his grip and never let you leave his side. But he can't. So he just lets you go.
You waited. Hours passed and you heard nothing from Logan or Jean or Charles. Every hour you'd pass by the office, hearing muffled voices coming from the other side of the door. It was tearing you apart just waiting for them to be done. But that's all you can do.
By the time the sun goes down you give up on waiting for Logan. Slinking to a small corner of the mansion. What if something horrible happened? What if they can't get his memories fixed and he'll never remember what your life was like together. How you met, how you fell in love, how he proposed, your first dance. Did he truly forget it all? You rest your head in your hands as you listen to the grandfather clock tick and tick.
Or...does he remember it all. Does he remember it and regret it? You're dead in his timeline. So what if you two were never meant to be together, what if he remembers both timelines and...he doesn't want you anymore.
You trudge back to your room, wanting to just sleep. Maybe when you wake up tomorrow this will all be some insane dream. Unfortunately you forgot that you share a room with Logan. As you open the door you see him sitting on the bed. A cigar in his hands as he stares out the window. Though he quickly turns around when he hears you.
"Hi, again." He says, snuffing out the cigar.
"Hi." Fuck can you say any other word but hi to his man?
"How did it go with the professor?" You ask, wringing your hands together behind your back. Logan shrugs and the look on his face doesn't give you much hope.
"Not great." You just nod, unsure of what to say next.
"I um, Chuck set up another room for me so...I'm gonna sleep there tonight." Logan winces as he sees your face fall. He doesn't want to be apart from you but it's what's best. He needs to sort out his...well everything. Besides, he's practically a stranger to you now.
"Oh." You squeak out.
"If that's what you want." It's not.
Still Logan just nods his head and stands up, grabbing a few things and silently slipping past you.
"Room 246. I'm in room 246." He tells you, staring at you one last time before leaving you alone in your bedroom.
You sleep like utter shit. You're so used to having Logan by your side that being alone just fucking sucks. You miss him so much. You contemplated going to his room but you didn't think he wanted you there. Logan has another session with Charles in the morning. You only see a glimpse of him before he disappears into the office. You wonder if he feels just as miserable as you do.
The next week is filled with the same tension and unbearable awkwardness. It's like he's a ghost. Only there when you turn around, out of the corner of your eye. You hated it. God it was awful, you longed to be next to him. For him to hold you again, kiss you. You don't even know why he's avoiding you. Logan had always been difficult when it comes to opening up but Logan, your Logan was getting better at it.
It's well into the night and you're still sitting in an empty classroom. You don't really sleep in your bed anymore. It reminds you too much of him. There's a couch near your desk anyways. With Logan in memory recovery you have been covering his classes. You sit in silence as you grade the latest test when you hear heavy boots approaching you.
"It's late," You look up to see Logan leaning against the doorframe.
"I know, but I need to get this done." You gesture to the stack of tests next to you.
"You need to sleep, I've noticed you haven't been doing that much." Your heart skips a beat, has he really been keeping tabs on you like that.
"I'll be okay Logan, really." You say gently. But your answer isn't good enough for him. You watch as he walks over to your desk and grabs half of the tests and a red pen.
"Logan It's fine really," You argue but he doesn't listen.
"What if-" You stop yourself before you finish the question.
"What if my history is different? Don't worry sweetheart I went back to the 70's not the civil war." The nickname rolls of his tongue with ease, he doesn't even realize he said it until he sees you get shy.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable." Logan apologizes, silently kicking himself. He never should have come here. He just. He just really misses you.
"Don't apologize, It's just been a while since you called me that." You try to hide the soft smile by propping a paper up to block your face. Time passes, the only sounds being the scribbling of pens.
"Damn, Was I that bad of a teacher?" He asks as he crosses out a whole paper in red pen. You giggle and Logan looks up, a smile on his face as he hears that sweet sound.
"You're not a bad teacher, you're the favorite actually. Though sometimes you play favorites." You tease, remembering how easy Jubilee could get out of being late just by bringing Logan coffee in the morning.
"Favorites? I doubt that." He snorts, Logan isn't exactly the fresh faced happy go lucky teacher that you bring an apple to. In fact he never considered himself much of a teacher of anything.
"It's true, you're tough on them but they just love you." "That doesn't sound like me." Logan jokes, though he quickly regrets his word choice when he sees your eyes cloud with sadness.
"I..." He sighs, great he fucked this up already.
"It's okay, sorry I just, I'm still getting used to all this." You offer him a small smile but he can see right through it. You're still his wife after all and he knows you.
"How are you? This must be a lot for you." You ask, turning the conversation away from you.
You've been so focused in your own grief that you hadn't given what he must be feeling much thought. You start to feel guilty, I mean this can't be easy for him either. Logan sets the red pen down. Sighing as he runs his hands through his hair.
"I'll be alright sweetheart," He doesn't want you to worry about him.
"Please, talk to me." You reach your hand out.
Your left hand. The one with the wedding band still sitting on your finger. Logan's breath hitches as he recognizes that ring. It's a little worn from the years of wear but he knows it. He bought that ring for you a long time ago.
"I feel like a ghost. I remember my old timeline and Jean and Charles have been able to unlock bits and pieces of this one but it doesn't feel real." He admits.
"Do you regret it? Changing the timeline?" You ask and Logan shakes his head.
"No." Not at all. In fact even with all this confusion he would do it again in a heartbeat. Anything if it means you're alive. You start to ask another question but a yawn cuts through your words.
"Alright, it's bedtime now." Logan says with little room for argument. He gets up and heads to the door but you don't follow. He turns around to see you laying out a blanket on the couch.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" You jump at the harshness of his voice.
"I've been sleeping on the couch the last couple nights." You say casually.
Though to Logan it's like a knife to the heart. Not on his watch. You roll your eyes seeing the look on his face, that protective grumpy look.
"It's comfortable and my room is too far, I'm just going to take a short nap. You grumble. You always were stubborn and Logan knows there's no changing your mind.
"Fine." He shuts off the lights and walks over, sitting on the edge of the couch putting a pillow on his lap.
"Logan..."
"Come on, just a nap right?" You're too tired and if you're honest too selfish to pass this up.
To be this close to Logan again is a dream. You settle down with your head in his lap groaning as your head sinks to rest on his big thighs. Logan drapes a blanket over you, his hands coming to rub your back in a gentle soothing motion. It doesn't take long before you're out like a light. Drifting to sleep faster than you have all week.
When you wake up you're not in your classroom anymore. In fact you're in a bed with the covers tucked in and the sunlight streaming through the window.
"Just a nap right?" You mimic in a high pitched voice as you get out of bed. It becomes very clear the moment you spot the clothes in the corner of the room that this isn't your bedroom.
It doesn't take a genius to figure out who's it is. You take one of the pillows and hug it to your chest. The smell of Logan's cologne wraps around you. Fuck you missed waking up next to him. You gently set the pillow down and swipe one of the shirts sitting on the floor before darting back to your room.
"Good morning sweetheart, sleep well?" Logan asks as you walk into the kitchen.
"Yeah, I haven't slept that well in a couple days." You sigh as he hands you a cup of coffee.
You take a sip and to your surprise it's perfect, just how you like it. Before you can say another word Logan is already gone. The hope in your chest deflating just a little bit. But last night was the closest you've been since he came back. It's a step in the right direction.
It's another week of dancing around each other. You talk more, laugh more. He still sleeps in a separate room but you find yourself spending more time together. It's little things that you notice first. That he still hates pop music and he drinks black coffee. His favorite brand of beer is still Molson. In small ways it's like you have him back. But then you see that he picks the salt and vinegar chips over plain and it all comes crashing down again. How stupid is that? Heartbroken of his favorite chip flavor? But to you it's just a reminder that he is different. But does that even matter?
You find yourself drifting to sleep in your bed this time, holding onto Logan's shirt as a way to soothe you to sleep. But you're quickly pulled from dreamland by a loud knock on your door. It's frantic and quite startling. You throw the covers off and stumble to the door, throwing it open to see who's bothering you so late.
"Logan?" You ask half asleep, rubbing your eyes as you see him standing in front of you. You notice the fearful look in his eyes and it seems to snap you awake. You step aside and let him in.
"I didn't mean to wake you. I just needed to see you." He's tense and his eyes keep darting around the room, like he's waiting for an attack. Seeing you is slowly helping his brain but every time he closes his eyes his nightmare replays in his head. He looks down at his hand and swears he sees blood.
"Logan, come here." You take his hands, covering his palms with yours and guiding him to the bed.
"I don't want to bother you sweetheart," He mumbles, his resolve breaking pretty quickly as he lays his head next to yours.
"Tell me about it, your nightmare." He furrows his brows in confusion, how did you know?
"I know that look." You cup his face and smile. It feels so right to be next to him right now. Logan sighs, his hand covering yours as he just soaks in being next to you. That nightmare felt so real, probably because it was.
"It was the day I lost you. In my timeline."
"The sentinels?" You ask but he shakes his head.
"No you...you died before they were even created. Probably for the best. It was a mission. A simple one that went to shit so quickly." It was all Logan's fault. He woke up every day knowing that if he had been faster, been better. You would still be alive.
"They took advantage of my super senses, they overwhelmed me with noise and smells. I tried to fight through it I really did, but I was too weak." Logan feels you wipe his cheek, a tear he didn't even realize was falling.
"By the time it was over, you were fatally wounded. I held you in my arms. I begged you not to go. Not to leave me but it was too late." Your eyes cloud with tears as Logan tells his story.
The absolute grief in his voice, god how horrible. You don't know what you'd do if Logan died, how you'd even continue on. Yet this man kept fighting, kept saving peoples lives. Even when he wanted to give up and walk away.
That's the Logan you know. He'll always be the hero he never thinks he is. So what if there's a few differences. At his core Logan will always be the man you fell in love with.
"I'm so sorry," You whisper, you crawl onto his chest and hug him tightly.
Your face buried in his neck. He holds you tight. Breathing in the smell of your shampoo. He holds you for a long time before loosening his grip on you. The urge to stay like this forever is strong but there's a nagging in the back of his head. He's over stayed his welcome.
"I should get back to my room." He gently lays you back on the bed and moves to get up.
"What?" You ask in disbelief, scrambling to grab onto his arm.
"Please don't go Logan. Please the last two weeks have been horrible without you. I miss you, I miss my husband." You beg, tears falling down your cheeks.
"Sweetheart I'm not the man you married." He wipes away your tears.
"I miss you too. So fucking much. But it's best I keep my distance."
"Logan please! What do you mean you're not the man I married?!" You grab his shirt and pull him close to you. Logan grabs your wrists firmly but gently.
âYou were my guiding light, the only thing that kept me going in the right direction. When I lost you, It felt like I lost myself." He tries to pry your hands off of him but you stand firm.
"I stayed with the team, I fought and killed and maybe they called me a hero. But it was never the same. I lost my way."
"But you saved the world, you're still my hero." Logan just chuckles sadly.
"I didn't give a fuck about the world." He confesses. He did care. Sort of. He knew that he was the X-Men's only hope when he got sent back. But his real motivation, his true motivation was you.
"Sweetheart, I may have saved the world but I did it for you. Itâs always you.â He did it for the chance that he could save you, that somehow going back to 1973 would undo everything, that you'd be alive. He would sacrifice everything if it meant you got to live another day.
So when he woke up and saw that it had worked, he had never felt such relief. But the way you looked at him, you were scared. So uncertain. He couldn't just pick you up in his arms and kiss you like he had dreamed of. You were married in this world but he understood that he had essentially replaced the Logan that you knew.
So he kept his distance. The more he learned from Charles the more the other Logan sounded better. This Logan never had to stab Jean or watch his friends die one by one. How could he ever compare? He'd rather you be alive, even if it breaks his heart.
"I love you Logan, I love you so much." The words flood out of your mouth, unstoppable as you finally get the chance to see the truth about Logan.
"You're mine. Always. We belong together. Our love transcends timelines, universes, and all that bullshit."
"Don't you love me?"
"Of course I fucking love you don't you ever doubt that." He snaps.
He pushes you away because he loves you, he doesn't think he's worthy because he loves you so fucking much. He'd kiss the ground you fucking walk on if you asked.
"Then listen to me Logan." You grab his face and smash your lips on his, kissing him desperately.
Logan groans as he wraps his arms around your waist. You fall onto the bed, Logan propping himself up with his elbows. You tug on his hair, messing it up as you comb your fingers through it. You pull apart breathlessly, almost brought to tears from just getting to kiss your husband again.
"You're it for me Logan, forever." You mumble as he rests his forehead against yours.
"I love you too sweetheart, I missed you so much." He cradles your face in his hand, legs interlocked as the sheets become a tangled mess.
"How long has it been since you saw me?" You ask, Logans eyes filling with tears as he listens to your heart beat against his chest.
"Over 50 years." As the moon shines through the window the only thing on both of your minds is how lucky you truly are to have found a love like this.
To be destined to be together in every timeline, every world. It's you and Logan.
#I literally love DOFP Logan so much and you are so right OP#LIKE HE REALLY DID SACFRIFICE HIS MEMORIES OH MY GOD#also fuck when he came to see if the reader was still ALIVE?????#my mans PTSD is so deep and the way the reader comfortered him and he was so touched and surprised#OP WHEN HE WAS ABOUT TO LEAVE I WAS GONNA START YELLING#yeah this was peak thanks for sharing#logan fic#logan angst#fic recs
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OH IVE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS ONE đ©đđŒ
The actual Valentines sequence was so cute (even with Logan being a horndog, which I MEEEEEAN was very hot đ”âđ«)
Also so glad you mentioned that Stryker and Victor are just dead so nothing bad can ever happen again!!!!!
Love that you were able to turn this into a Valentineâs fic! Thank you for sharing with us!!
Crossfire (logan howlett x f!reader)
18+ account - minors do not interact
wolverine/logan howlett x f!reader Word Count: 6.8K Rating: E
Summary: You, a member of Team X, find yourself growing disillusioned with the team's ruthless methods and long for a life of peace and simplicity. Youâve fallen for Logan but fear asking him to leave with you, believing he would choose to stay with his brother.
Warning: origins!logan, mutant reader, friends with benefits / situationship, the fic literally starts with logan fucking you in a bar bathroom (oops), semi-public sex, dirty talk (filthy logan), light oral sex (f â receiving), unprotected p in v, language, flashback and descriptions of explicit smut, descriptions of violence, mutual pining (idiots in love), angst, terrible miscommunication, pet names, flirting, feelings, smutty discussions (and logan always whispering filth in your ear), one tree hill quote
A/N: This is my submission for my own Loveuary Challenge also hosted with @lubdubology. Iâm kinda scared to be posting this because I havenât posted a Logan fic in forever. I swear Iâm alive. Thank you to @pedroscurls who pushed me to finish this story (that I started in November) and provided words of encouragement.
Thank you so much for reading! If you like this, please consider leaving a comment or reblogging thots.
+ Logan Howlett / Wolverine Masterlist
Lagos, Nigeria
"Watch how good you look takinâ my cock," Logan ordered, his jaw tightening as he continued to fuck into you from behind and pushed your sensitive breasts into his hands.
The team had found a bar to grab some drinks at; it all happened in a flash. Suddenly, Logan had shoved you into a bathroom, hiking up the hem of your skirt to push your lacy panties down to your ankles. He fell to his knees on the dirty floor and buried his face between your thighs, moaning into your pussy as soon as he tasted you.
"Logan!" you whined with your eyes rolling into the back of your head. He ran over your clit with his nose before continuing to drag his tongue between your folds, licking and sucking at you furiously. It wasnât even a minute in, and you could feel your orgasm building.
"Iâ" you threw your head back as he hungrily continued to lap and suck at your hole. "I want you to be inside of me whenâIâ"
But it was too late; his talented tongue made you come in a matter of moments, as you thrashed around and screamed out his name.
"Good fuckinâ girl, you taste so sweet," he talked you through it with murmured words and continued praise. You shuddered. It had been two weeks since you had last felt him, and while you appreciated that he had made you feel good, you needed to feel the stretch of his cock more.
"Plâease, I need you inside of me now,"
He could sense your desperation as he gazed up at you, rising to his feet and turning you around so you would face the mirror. You heard the jingle of his belt and the sound of his jeans being unzipped, and your eyes locked with his in the mirror as he plunged inside your slick cunt, commanding you to watch in the mirror as he took you.
You looked completely insane, watching yourself as he had you completely impaled on his cock. Your mascara had begun to run, leaving dark smudges beneath your eyes, and the corners of your mouth curled into a satisfied smile, while a few strands of your hair were sticking to your forehead. His pace was unrelenting and hard, and he shoved your top up so he could watch your tits jiggle. His hand ran up your back as he grabbed your hair in his hand, pulling you up roughly until your back was flush against his.
He licked your mouth from the side, his hand finding its way to the back of your neck, pulling you in closer. You responded instinctively, tilting your head to meet his tongue, tangling messily in between your shared moans. You pulled away, foreheads resting against each other, eyes locked and then he pressed you forward until your hands landed on the bathroom sink. Logan pulled out halfway and then slammed back into you, filling you to the absolute brim, as you choked on your own gasps, your body jolting forward with every devastating thrust.
As you looked into the mirror, his hazel eyes were dark and filled with primal desire while his hands gripped your ass and hips, squeezing hard. His usually sharp, focused brows were slightly furrowed, and a sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead.
"Let me hear you, baby. I know you can take it hard," he let out a low groan, leaning in to press his mouth against your shoulder, and you could feel the soft flick of his tongue against your skin.
"Donât fucking stopâyou feel so good. Logan. Please. I needâ" your voice broke on the last word, and you could hear the lewd wetness of your pussy filling in the tiny bathroom.
You were so fucking close. Your breathing became erratic, and he could feel it; he always knew when your walls were about to clamp down on him.
"Come on, baby, give it to me," he gritted out through clenched teeth as you rocked your ass against him more. "This tight little pussy feels so fuckinâ perfect," You could tell he was struggling to keep it together.
"Oh fuck!" you cried out, and you gripped the sink with dear life as he continued to slam into you, your vision becoming spotty.
"Come for me right now," he gasped, clenching his eyes shut. You nodded frantically, and suddenly, white-hot stars exploded behind your eyelids as you came with a hoarse cry, barely able to see straight as he fucked you through it. He could feel you constricting tightly on him, which caused his end, and you felt his spend spill inside of you, while hearing a filthy groan escape his lips.
"Thatâs it, you did so well, so fuckinâ good," he cooed, continuing to pump the last of his release deep into your cunt. Your head fell back on his shoulder as he kissed your neck, taking your nipples between his thumbs and index fingers, and tugging at them as you came down from your high.
"Mmhm," you nodded dumbly as he slipped out of you.
"Damn baby, you made me make a mess," he drawled, grabbing a paper towel to clean up your combined releases from between your trembling legs. He shuffled back, tucking himself back into his jeans.
Logan murmured your name as he pulled you in for a quick, yet incredibly delicate kiss on your lips. "Iâll leave first, okay?"
"Okay," you paused, seeming to search for the proper words to say before continuing. "I need to make myself more presentable anyways," you said, ducking your head shyly.
He chuckled softly, then grinned at you, before pulling you in for a searing kiss and stepping out of the bathroom.
As you bent over to pull your panties up, you couldnât shake the feeling that something had to give. The more you and Logan shared intimate moments, the more you craved understanding what it all meant. Maybe Logan didnât think you were âgirlfriendâ material. You had just fucked him in some dingy bar bathroomâit wasnât exactly romantic.
Maybe he would never see you as anything more than just a friendâthat he sometimes fucked.
It happened almost a decade ago, when your powers were first discovered.
You were in university, and it was supposed to be just another day in the physics lab. In a moment of distraction, a surge of energy erupted from within you, you felt it before you saw itâa violent tug that pulled everything in the room toward you. Papers flew off desks, glass beakers shattered, and a blinding light engulfed the room. You tried to regain control, to rein in the force that was spiraling out of your grasp, but it was too lateâas the world around you erupted in an explosion of glass and metal.
The lab was swallowed by a whirlwind of debris and the high-pitched wail of the alarm piercing through the chaos. Your classmates screamed, ducking for cover as the room was engulfed in flames. The sheer intensity of your abilities was overwhelming, your hands trembling at the realization of what you had accidentally done. The lab was in shambles, the pieces of equipment scattered like fallen leaves.
The story of the 'explosive mutant' had reached the university administration, and they wasted no time in their response.
'Expulsion' they declared, the word hanging in the air like a death sentence. The finality of it was suffocating.
When your parents discovered this, they didnât let you come back to live with them. They had never been supportive of your powers since you discovered them at 10 years old. They disowned you and it was a decision that felt like a betrayal, a rejection of the child they had raised.
You ended up working at a casino for a couple of years, where you were barely scraping by, counting cards and trying to stay under the radar. One evening, as you were finishing up your shift, your future boss Remy LeBeau approached you with a proposition.
"Angel, you got skills, but this place ain't gonna pay you what you're worth," he said. "I run a club down in the Quarter. We could use someone like you behind the bar. Pays a lot better than this joint, and you won't have to keep looking over your shoulder." His offer was tempting, and the promise of better pay and a bit of stability was hard to resist.
So, you took a leap of faith and joined his strip clubânot as a dancer, but as a bartender, pouring drinks for slimy men. You felt protective of the girls and would use your powers to create an invisible barrier that kept the dancers safe from overly eager men. It was a subtle art, a flick of your wrist or a focused thought, and the effect was immediate and disorienting for them.
When Stryker recruited you about six months ago in New Orleans, you knew that he saw you as a piece of ass with a unique mutation. You were just a toolâanother weapon in his arsenal, and you were the only woman on the team, so you reluctantly took on the role of the 'seductress' whenever it came to missions. You learned how to distract, how to manipulate, and how to play into the desires of men. But with each interaction, you felt a piece of yourself slip away.
All the men on the team had hit on you except Logan. However, they knew not to mess with you because of your mutation. You had a gravity mutationâyou could control gravitational forces, allowing you to increase or decrease gravity in a localized area. You could make others feel crushingly heavy or light, disrupt their movements, or even create gravity wells to trap them.
The first and last time Agent Zero grabbed you inappropriately, you increased the gravity around him, making him feel as if a ton of bricks had suddenly fallen on him. He dropped to the ground, gasping for breath, unable to move. The other men watched in shock as you calmly walked away, leaving Agent Zero struggling under the immense weight.
After that, none of the men ever hit on you again.
Life on Team X was a whirlwind of missions, adrenaline, and constant movement. The nature of your work kept you on the road for weeks at a time, darting from one location to another with hardly a moment to catch your breath.
Sharing cramped quarters in various locations and makeshift camps didnât really allow time to develop personal relationships, let alone the cultivation of anything resembling intimacy. The men often sought solace in fleeting encounters with women they met along the wayâstrangers who could provide a momentary distraction. You watched as they engaged in one-night stands and listened as they traded stories.
Logan had always been different from the other men on the team. He carried an air of mystery about him, and while the other men on Team X wore their escapades like badges of honor, Logan remained tight-lipped. You wouldnât be surprised if he had been fucking other women, but he never spoke about them. It wasnât that he lacked interest; youâd catch him glancing at women from time to time, his gaze lingering longer than what would be deemed casual. But whenever the topic came up and the men asked him about it, heâd deftly change the subject or offer a sly grin, redirecting the conversation without revealing anything.
You found yourself drawn to him, not just because of his insanely good looks, but because he saw you for who you wereâbeyond your powers and the persona you were forced to adopt. The others often made crude jokes or pushed boundaries, but Logan never crossed that line with you. He treated you as an equal, a teammate rather than an object.
One day, everything changed between the two of you. It was a mission in Argentina gone awry, the kind that left everyone on edge. Later that night, after the mission had concluded and the adrenaline of the day began to fade, you found yourself back at the makeshift camp. The air was thick with the scent of gunpowder and sweat, and the distant sound of the city buzzed in the background. The team had dispersed, seeking their own forms of release from the stress, but you remained at the campsite trying to process the dayâs chaos.
Logan emerged from the shadows surprising you since you thought he had joined the men at the bar, and as he approached, you could see the sweat glistening on his brow. Your heart raced at the sight of him, and the intensity of his gaze as he locked eyes with you. It was as if you both realized you were alone together for the first time ever.
One thing led to another, and he cupped your face and pressed his lips against yours. You felt a cold drop of rain fall on your cheek as he deepened the kiss. You realized it had started drizzling, and feeling the coolness of the rain mixed with the warmth of his embrace created a sensory overload for you.
Suddenly, the sky burst open with a loud roar, drenching both of you and drowning out any other noises. You both pulled away from the kiss and started laughing. He smiled and took your hand, leading you back to his tent.
You both jumped into the tent, your clothes soaked, and he pulled you effortlessly into his lap. You looked down at him and stroked the scruff on his jaw while you heard the pounding of the rain thudding against the tent. His tongue invaded your mouth, and his hands were rough against your hips. You grabbed fistfuls of his wet locks as his lips moved down your throat. You breathed him in, his skin damp and earthy. The scent of shampoo lingered in his hair, a clean and crisp aroma that mixed with the natural, musky scent that clung to him.
"I don't think I can put into words how badly I want you right now," he murmured. The sensation of the rain pelting against the tent amplified his comment. His hands were everywhere, and a long moan escaped you as he grabbed your ass and leaned forward to bite the bottom of your lip.
Despite the storm raging outside, the inside of the tent felt like a storm had formed as well. You pulled his hot, wet lips back onto yours; his lips parted, and he let out a breathy groan into your mouth as you felt him straining against his pants. Your hands roamed his chest and shoulders, urging him closer as your tongues moved together more intensely. You felt your body ache just from kissing Logan.
You both knew this would change everything. But Logan didnât hesitate to devour your cunt, taking you apart with his tongue and watching you collapse against his mouthâtwice. He didnât hesitate to bury himself deep inside you, and you didnât hesitate to tighten hard around him as his release pulsed inside youâthe catalyst for your next orgasmâas you whined his name, and he swallowed down your moans.
You went back to your tent before the other men came back and thought it would never happen again. It had clearly just been a release of all the pent-up emotions that had simmered under the surface.
But, whenever, you and Logan would find yourselves completely alone. It would lead to raw, passionate, and immaculate sex. Andâ you two simply never discussed it.
As the days turned into weeks, you both maintained a façade around the rest of the team. Whether it was sharing a meal in silence or exchanging knowing glances across a crowded room. But, in the quiet moments, when it was just the two of you, the barriers broke down. You would steal kisses and share whispered secrets under the stars, and it felt like a slice of normalcy in a life filled with chaos.
One evening, in a desolate part of Brazil, you and Logan found yourselves once again alone.
"Do you ever think about leaving?" you asked, as you sat cross-legged across from him. The fire crackled, and you could see the lines of worry etched on his face.
"What dâyou mean?" Logan replied, his brow furrowed, arms crossed over his chest. He was always so guarded; it was hard to read him. Â
"I mean⊠this life. Team X. Stryker," you said. "Itâs chaotic. Dangerous. And weâre just playing with fire."
Logan shifted, his gaze intense as he leaned closer. "Yâthink I donât know that? Iâve seen what this life does to people. Hell, Iâve lived it." He ran a hand through his hair, frustration seeping into his tone. âBut itâs all I know. Itâs all Iâve ever known."
You nodded, feeling the weight of his words settle in the space between you. "I get it," you replied. "But I canât keep pretending Iâm okay with it,"
He sighed, frustration flickering across his face. "Iâm not okay with it either,"
Your heart raced as you weighed your next words, the unasked question clawing at your throat like a caged animal, desperate to be free.
You wanted to ask him if he would ever leave with you, to find something normal, something that felt real. But the fear gripped you tightly, a cold fist around your heart. What if he didnât want that?
"Yeah," you murmured.
Logan's gaze softened, the firelight flickering shadows across his features. He leaned back slightly, the tension in his body easing just a fraction as he spoke. "If I did leave⊠Iâd probably head up to the middle of nowhere," he said, his voice low and reflective, as if he were painting a picture only he could see. "Somewhere fuckinâ remote, away from everythinââŠ"
Your breath caught in your throat, the idea taking shape in your mind like a vivid dream. You could almost feel the crisp mountain air and hear the gentle rustle of trees swaying in the wind. Logan continued. "Iâd find a cabin. Just be in the wilderness and shit. And just⊠enjoy the quiet."
You could sense the deep yearning in his voice, a longing for solace that mirrored your own. "That sounds⊠beautiful," You leaned forward, your chest pounding as you let the question slip out before you could second-guess yourself. "Whatâs stopping you?"
His gaze snapped back to you, sharp and searching. "Itâs not that simple. Iâve been fightinâ for so long, I donât think I know what peace looks like anymore."
He was quiet for a moment. "There are also things I canât just leave behind. PeopleâŠ" His voice trailed off.
"Victor?" you ventured cautiously, knowing the complicated relationship he shared with his brother.
Logan sighed, running a hand over his face. "Yeah,"
You wanted to tell him that you would join him, but you were scared. A wave of fear washed over you. The fear of being hurt or rejected, and the fear of losing yourself in the intensity of your own emotions.
Loganâs expression shifted, uncertainty battling with something that resembled desire. He reached out and took your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. "Youâre so beautiful,"
You wanted to roll your eyes, scoff, or say something sarcastic, but you decided to accept the compliment. Because in this moment, you did feel beautiful, all thanks to him.
So, instead, you leaned in and pressed your lips to his.
And what you didnât know at the time was that Logan meant you when he said he couldnât leave people behind.
Logan stood listening intently as the briefing unfolded. Strykerâs voice droned on, outlining their next mission at the Diamond Facility like it was just another day at the office. But Logan knew better. He was tired of this lifeâthe brutal missions, the high stakesâbut more than that, he was weary of the people around him⊠including his own brother.
Victor's reckless abandon, fueled by a twisted sense of fun, constantly put everyone at risk. He thrived in the chaos, feeding off the violence like a parasite. It was unsettling to watch, especially when Victor's antics often came at the expense of othersâinnocents caught in the crossfire. Logan had always had a code, a sense of right and wrong that kept him grounded, but Victor and half the team didnât seem to care.
This didnât feel like a teamâit just felt like a collection of broken pieces, each one more flawed than the last.
But then there was you.
You were different. You brought a lightness to his life that he hadn't realized he craved. You had a kindness that was refreshing in a world full of cruelty, and you understood the weight of your powers and the consequences they held.
As the conversation shifted to the mission, Logan felt a knot tightening in his gut. He could see the flickering holographic images of the Diamond Facility that was in an isolated valley.
"We go tomorrow," Stryker said, his tone flat. "There are villagers who are withholding information. If they donât cooperate, we kill them."
Logan watched you take a deep breath, steeling yourself before speaking up. "Wait a minute," you said, challenging Stryker. "Killing innocent villagers isnât what we signed up for. We canât just⊠execute them for information. Itâs wrong."
Agent Zero, leaning casually against the wall, scoffed. "Whatâs the matter, princess? This is the job. Besides, theyâre just collateral damage."
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" you shot back. "These are people, not fucking pawns on a chessboard. Weâre not just some mercenaries for hire."
Wade leaned forward, his trademark grin fading. "Look, I get it. But sometimes, youâve gotta make tough calls. Itâs about the mission, babe,"
"Itâs about the mission?" you echoed incredulously. "What about our conscience Wade?"
The back-and-forth continued, voices rising and falling as doubt crept into the conversation. Logan felt the weight of the moment pressing down on him. He watched as John, Fred, and Chris chimed in, each wrestling with their own moral compasses, caught between Strykerâs orders and your plea.
Strykerâs voice cut through the rising tension. "This isnât up for discussion. Youâll follow orders, or youâll face the consequences. You all know what I expect from you."
"But this isnât right," you insisted.
Victor rolled his eyes. "You need to get your head in the game. This isnât a fairy tale,"
Logan stepped forward, "Maybe itâs not a fairy tale, but it doesnât have to be a nightmare either," His jaw tightened as he recalled the latest mission. The way Victor had tortured their enemy for information, the screams echoing in the alleywayâit was a sound that haunted Logan even now. He had stepped in to stop it, to remind Victor that they weren't animals, but it felt like he was shouting into a void.
"Look, Stryker," Logan began, his voice low but firm, "we canât just steamroll over innocent lives because itâs convenient for us. There has to be another way. We can get the information we need without resortinâ to killinâ people."
Strykerâs expression hardened, his eyes narrowing as he regarded Logan with irritation. "Youâre a soldier, and you will follow orders."
"Maybe Iâm tired of beinâ a fuckinâ soldier," Logan shot back, feeling the weight of his own frustration boil to the surface. "You think just because we have these mutations, we can play God?"
Agent Zero smirked, crossing his arms. "Youâre sounding a lot like her, Logan. Whatâs next? You want to start a support group for these villagers? Maybe sing them a lullaby?"
Strykerâs jaw tightened. "Enough. Youâre all going to the Diamond Facility tomorrow and youâll do what needs to be done. Thatâs an order,"
The silence that followed was heavy, and he could feel the weight of his teammatesâ uncertainty.
The world you lived in was anything but normal. Team X had its own set of rules and expectations, and the deeper Logan fell for you, the more he realized how much he had to lose.
As Logan stepped inside your tent later that night, he was met with an unexpected sight.
You were packing your things.
His stomach sank as he took in sight of you hurriedly stuffing clothes into your duffel bag, the fabric crumpling under your hurried movements. The flickering light from the small lantern cast shadows on your face, accentuating the tightness around your eyes, the way your brow was furrowed in concentration. He could feel an unsettling sense of dread creeping into his chest.
"Hey," he said, his voice low and cautious, as if he were approaching a wild animal. "Whatâs goinâ on?"
You paused, glancing up at him, and for a brief moment, the world outside the tent faded away. In that instant, he saw the conflict swirling in your eyes, the vulnerability that lay beneath your bravado. But then, you turned back to your packing, and his heart raced, sensing that something was deeply wrong.
"Iâm leaving, Logan,"
"What d'you mean, leavinâ?" he asked, trying to process the gravity of what you were saying. "You canât justâ"
"I canât stay here anymore," you cut him off.
Logan felt a rush of emotions crash over him. The tent felt smaller, the air heavier, the shadows deeper. You were leaving?
"Wait. You canât just leave. Not like this."
You paused, turning to face him fully. "Come with me. Letâs just get the hell out of here."
He shook his head, the words catching in his throat. "I canât. I canât just leave." He watched as your expression shifted, frustration flaring in your eyes.
"Why not?" you pressed, crossing your arms defensively, your stance challenging. âWhatâs stopping you?â
Logan opened his mouth to respond, ready to spit out a dozen excuses, but the truth was, he didnât have a good enough reason. The excuses rose to the surface, but they felt flimsy against the backdrop of your conviction. He thought of Victor, of Stryker, of the missions that had become his life. But none of it mattered in this moment.
"CauseââŠ" he began, but the words fell flat. He could see the disappointment in your eyes, the way your shoulders tensed, and it only made it worse.
âBecause youâre a fucking coward,â you shot back, your voice sharp and cutting, slicing through the air between you.
"Coward?" he spat, incredulity mingling with anger. "You think Iâm the coward here? Youâre the one runninâ away, leavinâ your team hanginâ when weâve got a mission to fulfill! You canât just pack up and fuckinâ bail because itâs gettinâ too tough for you."
"Iâm not running away! Iâm saving myself. I donât want to be trapped in this cycle, Logan,"
Logan swallowed hard, his throat dry. "And you think leavinâ is going to change that? You think walkinâ away will make it all go away?"
You scoffed, your eyes blazing. "Staying here, fighting for a cause that doesnât give a shit about me? Killing innocent people? No fucking thanks. I want to live, Logan. I want more than this."
"And what? You think youâll find a better life out there? You think itâll just be fuckinâ sunshine and rainbows, princess?" His voice rose, anger flaring.
He had never called you that before. He knew you hated it when the other men call you that.
"I donât know! But I wonât find it here!" your voice breaking slightly.
His eyes bore into yours, searching for something. "And what boutâ us? You gonna throw everythin' away? All the shit weâve been through? Just walk away and pretend it never happened? I thought we were friends."
Logan had never been one to wear his heart on his sleeve, never allowed anyone to breach the walls he had so carefully constructed around himself. But standing there, watching you pack your life away, he felt those walls begin to crack. The truth was, he didnât want to admit that the person he was fighting for was you. You had become more than just a teammate.
"Us?" you echoed, the word heavy with unsaid implications. "Iâm just the girl you fuck sometimes to pass the time."
Logan felt the words hit him like a punch to the gut, a visceral reaction that stemmed from a deep-seated frustration.
You looked away. "Thatâs what this was right? It was just sex,"
Logan felt a surge of anger bubble up inside him, but it was laced with a deep sense of hurt that he couldnât quite shake off. He felt reduced to nothing more than a fleeting indulgence. He wanted to shout, to make you understand how much you meant to himâfor more than just physical comfort. But the words stuck in his throat.
"Yeah, thatâs just what this was," he replied bitterly, each word feeling like gravel in his throat. It was as if he were trying to convince himself more than you.
You flinched at his tone, the sharpness of it cutting deeper than he intended. He saw the way your shoulders slumped for a brief moment.
"Youâre choosing to stay, Logan. Youâre choosing this life. Iâm just choosing to not be a part of it anymore."
As you zipped up the last of your belongings, Logan felt an ache in his chest, a desperate longing to reach out and pull you back. But he feared that if he did, he would only prove your pointâthat he was just another part of the cycle you were trying to escape.
Loganâs jaw tightened, the muscles in his face coiling like springs. "Iâm not gonna chase after you,"
âI never thought you would,â you said as the words slipped from your lips, tears spilling over, tracing silent paths down your cheeks.
As you moved past him and left your tent, Logan felt a piece of himself slip away, knowing he was letting you go for the sake of your own freedomâeven if it meant shattering his own heart in the process.
3 Years Later â Canadian Rockies, Alberta
Colorful decorations adorned the wallsâpaper hearts and streamers crafted by your students added a festive touch to the otherwise ordinary space. As the day progressed, you noticed the usual chatter was punctuated by giggles and the rustling of paper bags filled with sweet treats. You were pleasantly surprised to find a small pile of candy grams waiting for you when you walked into class today. Each one was a colorful note adorned with stickers and heartfelt messages, reminding you of the appreciation your students had for you. You couldnât wait to read them.
'Whatever our souls are made out of, his and mine are the same' was written on your chalkboard. Towards the end of class, you turned to your students, who were a mix of eager and disinterested faces, and posed the question, "What do you think this means?"
Your class had just finished reading the most recent chapter assigned for Wuthering Heights. A hand shot up from the back of the room. "When Catherine says this, I think itâs about finding someone who understands you, right? Like, two people who just click on a deeper level?"
"Exactly," you replied, nodding. "It suggests a connection that goes beyond the surface. Itâs about shared experiences, emotions, and even struggles,"
Another student chimed in, "But what if those souls are different? Like, how can two people be the same if they have different backgrounds or personalities?"
"Thatâs a great point," you said, leaning against the desk. "It doesnât mean theyâre identical; it means they resonate with each other. Sometimes, two people can be completely different but still feel a profound connection,â
One girl in the front row raised her hand, "So, like, being connected on a spiritual level? Like, you just feel it?"
"Sure, something like that," you replied, feeling a warmth spread through you. "Itâs that unexplainable bond that can exist between peopleâfriends, family, or even romantic partners. Itâs a sense of familiarity and understanding that transcends words."
The lunch bell rang, signaling the end of class. "Happy Valentineâs Day, everyone!" you called out cheerfully, watching as they gathered their things and exchanged giggles and good wishes. Some were already discussing their plans for the day, while others eagerly showed off their homemade cards and treats.
Just as you were about to tidy up the classroom, one of your students, a shy boy named Liam, approached you. He hesitated for a moment, his cheeks flushed, before pulling a handmade card from his backpack.
"I, um, made this for you," he stammered, looking down at his feet. "I hope you have a nice day."
As Liam handed you the card, his cheeks turned a vibrant shade of crimson, and he quickly shuffled out of the classroom, mumbling a shy "Happy Valentineâs Day!" over his shoulder before darting through the door.
As you turned around to read Liam's card, you felt a light pressure against your back. Someone wrapped their arms around your waist, hooking their chin over your shoulder, and you could feel the warmth of their body against yours.
"Sounds like you got a secret admirer," a teasing voice chimed in, playful and slightly laced with jealousy.
"Just some sweet notes from my students for Valentineâs Day. Itâs nothing,"
"Nothinâ? Câmon, admit it. You love all that mushy stuff."
You chuckled, shaking your head. "Maybe a little. Itâs sweet. I never got stuff like this in high school from anyone,"
"Sweet, huh? You know what else is sweet?â you felt hands grip your ass to pull you as close as possible. "When that pretty little pussy was sittinâ on my face this mornin'..."
"Logan!" you shrieked at his vulgar words and turned around to playfully slap his chest.
It had taken Logan about thirty minutes after you had left the tent to realize that he was about to make the biggest mistake of his life if he didnât come after you. The night air was thick with the scent of pine and earth as Logan moved quickly through the shadows, his instincts guiding him like a compass. He followed the trail of your scent, an invisible thread that pulled him closer.
As he caught up with you, you had turned, surprise flickering across your features before it melted into something deeper.
Logan cupped your face in his hands, his thumb brushing away a tear that had escaped down your cheek. The intensity in his gaze spoke volumes, the unspoken words lingering in the air. He leaned in, capturing your lips with his, a kiss that held the weight of all the things left unsaid.
When you finally pulled apart, the look in his eyes was fierce and tender all at onceâa vow that transcended words. You felt the warmth of his palm slide into yours, fingers intertwining like roots growing together, and a new path unfolded before you. Together, you stepped forward into the unknown.
Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months as you travelled the world together. Each destination was a chapter in a story that felt like it had been waiting to be written. In the canyons of Petra, Logan whispered those three precious words in your ear for the first timeâand fed you his cock beneath the vast expanse of stars.
You both learned that over the years, Team X had slowly been killed off. Including Victor. And apparently, Stryker had died in some bad mutant facility experimentation gone wrong.
You finally felt safe. So, eventually, the allure of a quieter life called to you, and you found yourselves drawn to a quaint town in Alberta. The cabin you chose felt like a piece of the dream you had both imaginedâa sanctuary nestled among towering trees, where the air was fresh and the pace was gentle. The walls of your cabin bore witness to quiet mornings, shared meals, and the comfort of just being together. You had found a rhythm in teaching and Logan had found steady work at the lumberyard.
He chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Didnât hear you complaininâ much," his lips slotted over yours urgently. âIn fact, you were begginâ for it⊠and makinâ a mess all over my cock."
You carded your fingers through his hair and pulled your lips from his to sprinkle kisses down his jaw. You loved it when Logan stopped by randomly in the middle of the workday to say a quick helloâor do other things in the privacy of your classroom.
Logan cleared his throat. "So, I know originally we were gonna cook at home⊠but I actually booked a reservation someplace outside of town,"
Your eyes widened. "Youâre trying to celebrate Valentineâs Day?"
He scoffed, a low rumble in his chest. "No, Iâm just tryna eat some damn good food," his trademark scowl firmly in place. "and it happens to be on this commercialized fuckinâ day," he grumbled, fighting against the urge to admit how much he enjoyed having you as his Valentine year after year.
You gave him a fake pout. "Thatâs too bad. I was going to try and wear something special underneath the new dress I bought for tonight, but I guess, I wonât."
You always bought these sexy little numbers for this silly holiday. Last year it was some purple, lacy lingerie outfit that was basically see through. Your perfect breasts and your pretty pussy had been available for his eyes to devour. The outfit had lasted approximately three minutes before he ripped it off with his claws. So maybe he did like this holiday.
"Oh, youâre gonna play it like that, huh?" he grumbled, his voice a low growl, though it lacked the bite he usually intended.
You shrugged biting your bottom lip.
"You keep tauntinâ me, and I might just have to take you right here," he said through gritted teeth, grabbing your jaw. You whimpered when his mouth crashed down on yours, slipping his tongue past your teeth, and your fingers tightening around his neck.
"Missed you," you managed to whisper between kisses. You felt crazy saying thatâyou had seen him a few hours ago. It was only noon.
He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, and you could see the way his pupils dilated. "Missed you too," he murmured, brushing his thumb over your swollen lips.
"Logan, did you ever imagine that this would be your life?" you suddenly asked, almost sounding drunk. He had that effect on you. "Planning to go to a Valentines Day dinner?" you added with a shit-eating grin.
He paused, letting the question sink in, but not before rolling his eyes at you. "Honestly? No." He shook his head. âBut Iâm glad it is. You, me, our life hereâitâs everything I didnât know I needed. You've shown me what peace looks like, sweetheart,â
Things had changed so much in just a few years. It was all a far cry from the chaos that used to define him. But you were the one constant in this new life, and he wouldnât trade it for anything.
Tears began to cloud your vision, and he pulled you in for a tender kiss.
"Hey," he murmured against your lips, "I almost forgot."
You raised an eyebrow, curious.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small envelope, its edges slightly crumpled from being tucked away. "Here," he said, extending it towards you. "Somethinâ for you. You can add it to your little collection on your desk,"
"My collection?"
"Yeah, all those sappy notes from your students and whatnot,â he teased, a smirk playing on his lips. "Thought youâd appreciate another one."
"You wrote me a note?" you asked, as you carefully grabbed the envelope.
He grunted softly, his arms encircling you. "Yeah, well, donât go makinâ a big deal out of it,"
Just as you were about to open the envelope, a soft knock echoed through the classroom. You exchanged a glance with Logan, who raised an eyebrow, his expression shifting to one of playful annoyance at the interruption.
"Come in!" you called.
The door creaked open, revealing a student standing in the doorway, eyes wide with surprise. "Iâm sorry, Mrs. Howlett," the student stammered, their gaze darting between you and Logan. "I didnât realize you werenât alone. I just wanted to talk to you about PSAT prep quickly."
Logan shot you a knowing look, his lips curling into a sly grin. "Thatâs okay," he replied smoothly, his tone casual. "I was just boutâ to head back to work anyway." He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your wedding ring, before pulling away.
You kissed his cheek and quickly redirected your focus to the student. "No problem at all! We can talk about that right now. What do you need help with?"
As the student stepped further into the room, Logan shot you a wink before slipping out the door.
That night when your husband picked you up for your dateâyou two were late for dinner. You gave Logan a sneak peek of what was underneath your dress. His note had gotten you hot and botheredâŠ
A/N: I thought I would borrow a few words from Shakespeare. 'Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds.' Baby, Iâm terrible with words. But, I hope you know that my feelings for you are unwavering. You are my refuge, my strength, and my reason to keep fighting. No matter what changes may come our way, my love for you remains steadfast. -Logan
No pressure tagging folks that signed up for Loveuary / some moots / origins!logan girlies: @princessanglophile. @flowersforbucky. @slushycoookie. @buck-star. @rosenclaws. @themareverine. @mcrdvcks. Â @eupheme. @lostinlovingrevery. @hellfire10005. @logaenhowlett. @eloquentlytired. @cryptictongues. @logansbaby. @healmydesires. @pandapetals. @steviebbboi. @coocoocachewgotscrewed. @crownofdecitreadingrespectfully. @sidkneeeee @absxntmxnded. @cyberdva. @retrosabers. @dis-plus-fanfic-reblog-writes. @marvlstark. @mina2000alex. @coffeecigsandcommentary. @pastelpinkflowerlife. @tomhockstetter7-111. @my-mind-is-incognito. @silversprings-mp3. @mostly-marvel-musings. @unlikeable-female-character. @marshmallowmusing. @sleepycevans. @lostinlovingrevery. @lostfleurs. @shybluebirdninja. @undeadfly. @gallifreyansass. @moonpascaltoo. @starabellaa. @1800-fight-me. @thevoicefromanotherworld. @hauntingoldhouses. @frenchie-simone. @abschaffer2. @batson-thebrain.
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Manifesting a Valentine
pairing:Â Logan Howlett x Reader rating: PG-13 (mildly) word count: 2.6K summary: You wonder what Logan is to you. Whitney Houston manifests that answer for you. warnings: this is just straight up fluff, gender-neutral reader, kissing
This is my piece for the Loveuary Writing Challenge created by @lubdubology and @yxtkiwiyxt, which was a wonderful thing they both set up. I got assigned 2000s Logan with the song 'I Will Always Love You' by Whitney Houston. I had a lot of fun writing this, especially since I took a different approach to it. All I will say is my inspiration was this video right here.
Enjoy!
Please read my pinned post before following me! Minors and ageless blogs will be blocked as this blogâs content is NSFW.
[AO3 link]
There is dust dancing in the air, swirling in the fumes of disinfectant. They float and falter, only to seemingly disintegrate as they hit the wooden floor. There are piles of clothes, some in need of folding and some waiting to take a ride in the washing machine. Papers and books are pushed into a corner, waiting to return as you organize your writing utensils and silly trinkets.
You need to stop pushing off the task of cleaning your room, but it canât be helped. Juggling being a teacher to a multitude of students and going on missions for Charles as an X-Man, your free time is slim to none. By the time the day is over, all you want to do is flop onto your bed and sleep until morning breaks. The idea of being more productive than you already were was exhausting to think about.
Yet here you are on a Friday evening, Walkman blasting music into your headphones as you run the rag across your desk, the wood sparkling from cleaner that smelled of citrus.Â
A hodgepodge of tunes played one after the other as the CD spun, all being love songs for the season of February. Some were simply romantic and joyous, while others played the melancholiest of sounds. It didnât matter what kind of love song it was; you loved them all.
Valentine's Day was always a holiday you adored. Growing up, your family would always use it as an excuse to get together. While it has always been viewed as a time for romance, your family saw it as a time to celebrate the familial side of love. It created a cherished feeling for the season, especially with having a family that loved you no matter what. Even when all you saw was romance, your heart was happy.
At least, that was the case until a certain man came into the forefront of your existence.
Logan Howlett was something else. The first time you saw him, he was walking down the hall with the Professor getting the grand tour. You didnât think someone could look so attractive in a jacket with the school emblem on it, but damn. The skin that pulled against his exposed collar bones made you want to sink your teeth into him.Â
It started as a small crush for a while. Even as an adult, youâve always been fairly reserved around people unfamiliar to you. So, like a fly on the wall, you would look from afar, studying him closely. You would drink him in as he made himself more comfortable and it wasnât until you accidentally made eye contact with him that your lives started to tightly intertwine.
You could feel your face heat up as you thought about how close you two have gotten. You wouldnât say the two of you are inseparable, but itâs pretty damn close. Every time you come back from an errand, he is there waiting for you. Every morning, he is waiting for you in the kitchen to have breakfast together. Most evenings after the school day is done, he is meeting with you in your room to enjoy his cigar while you wind down with your secret stash of wine. It's become apparent to you that you are his go to, and it would be a lie to say he isnât yours as well. You enjoy his company, which has transformed your feelings into something far greater.
You wouldnât know what to call your relationship with him. You know itâs nothing super serious, but you feel the potential for it to be. You see how different he is with you; how his crass attitude seems to change into something much more sincere and open. You think he is much like you; the more he opens up, the more he shows he cares. Even so, you arenât sure he would allow himself to indulge in the idea of belonging to someone.Â
The thought alone dampers your mood slightly, causing your shoulders to sag slightly. As much as you love this time of the year, having Logan so close yet not quite in your grasp makes your heart crazed. You crave his companionship, and oh what you wouldnât give to have it.Â
You wonder if he has Valentine's Day plans but knowing him you highly doubt it. Youâd bet money that he doesn't even know the 14th is tomorrow, the days and months meshing together. Maybe youâll do something for him anyways, like buy him some quality cigars or good whiskey to hide with your stash of alcohol. Maybe you could run out tonight and grab something.Â
In the midst of your thoughts, you hear Whitney Houstonâs rich voice travel through your ears, causing you to perk up.
âOh yes!â You whisper with excitement. âI havenât heard this song in a while.âÂ
You twirl over to your door, cracking it to help air out the fumes of disinfectant and wood polish. You grab the broom and start to sweep, humming along to the song until itâs too hard to resist opening your mouth.
âAnd IIIIIII will always love youuuuu,â you sing out, enunciating Whitneyâs range as you brush away the remnants of dust and junk that found itself stranded on the floor.Â
There was something about this song that always drew you in. Itâs a love song, yet itâs bittersweet. Itâs a song that truly encapsulates loving someone so much that you must set them free. Maybe you love it because itâs a way for you to empathize, or itâs preparing you for the day you may have to let someone go with love. A small part of your mind wonders if you are already doing that with Logan, but it quickly vanishes; itâs just you and Whitney.
You canât help but sing into the broom, dancing in circles that slightly scatter your dust bunny piles, but you could care less. When the sax solo plays, you hold the broom up front with fingers moving sporadically along the wooden handle. You make noises trying to replicate the sound of the alto, dipping back and forth recreating movements youâve seen saxophone players make. Youâre in the zone now; immersed in a dream as you sing along without a care in the world. Little did you know, there was someone watching you from your door.
Soon enough, you find yourself on your bed, broom being held like a mic stand, dipping down into a low bow before the climax of the song hits. You take a deep breath, preparing to unleash the iconic phrase and pitch from past your lips.
âAND IIIIIIIIIIIII EEEEEEE IIIIIIII WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOOOUUUUU,â your back goes back in an arch, lungs working overtime as air rushes out. You canât hear yourself, and you know rather than the beautiful sound of Whitney Houston, you probably sound insane. You didnât care though.Â
Well, you didnât until your eyes landed on your now closed door, a body leaning against it with a smug grin on the face of the person who has infiltrated every part of your daily life.Â
Oh God⊠LoganâŠ
âSo, this is what youâve been up to all evening.âÂ
The broom drops from your hands, falling to the floor with a clank as your embarrassment permeates the room.Â
âUm⊠how long have you been standing there?â
He pushes off the door, hands behind his back as he continues towards you. âLong enough to see that stellar sax solo of yours.â
If your face could get redder, youâd be a maraschino cherry.
âSo stellar in fact, I think I need a listen.âÂ
âIâm not performing for you again,â you huff. âThis is so embarrassing.âÂ
âWhile Iâd love to see and hear you again, I was talking about what you were listening to, sweetheart.â
You pause, looking at him confused. âYouâve never heard of Whitney Houstonâs âI Will Always Love Youâ?â
âShould I?â
âUm yes!â You proclaim, arms shooting up into the air. âItâs one of the best love songs ever written and performed! Are you telling me you donât listen to music?âÂ
He is standing in front of you, and heâs tall enough to be leveled with your chest. His face tilts up, and you canât help but notice the way heâs looking at you: both light-hearted and full of adoration that shows through the crows feet. It makes your heart race.
âNot many love songs play in a dingy, underground fighting ring,â he grins, raspy tone pleasant to your ears. âCome on, sit down. Give me a listen.âÂ
You hear rustling behind him but quickly shift attention when he sits down, putting whateverâs in his hands out of your line of sight. You move to sit down beside him, removing your Walkman from the pouch on your hip. Your left leg is almost touching his right one, the heat begging to transfer with one touch. You remove your headphones, moving to put them over Loganâs ears, the band pressing down the points of his hair.
You giggle at this. âThere go your cat ears.â
You go to shift the track back, and as you get ready to hit play, you feel a cushioned headphone against your ear. You turn and Loganâs face is very close to yours.
âWhat are you doing, Logan?âÂ
âAbout to give this song you love so much a listen, but I want you to listen with me.â He smirks. âIs that okay, sweetheart?â
Heâs going to be the end of me. Whatâs with him tonight?
You canât speak so you nod, pressing play to let the song take its form. His eyes closed as he listened, allowing you to watch his facial movements as he reacted. You could see every crease and divot shift as he listened intently. You looked for key reactions during certain parts of the song, your lips quirking up when a smile appeared on his face.
A chuckle rumbles from his chest when the saxophone solo starts, your eyebrow raising in response. âWhatâs so funny?â
He doesnât answer, just shakes his head as the song enters the third verse. You see him lock in, smile fading slightly as the song rolls on. You wonder what heâs thinking; what is Whitney telling him? It isnât until she belts out the final chorus that his smile returns tenfold, making the butterflies fluttering in your belly go crazy.
The song fades out, and before the next track can play you press pause. There is a beat of silence before you pull away from the headphone, looking at Logan with a curiosity to know what his brain is churning.Â
âSoooo, what do you think?â
Logan looks to ponder, his fingers messing with the hem of your shirt. You feel the rough skin of his fingertips graze your tummy ever so slightly, causing a shiver to run down your spine. This moment is so intimate and for the first time you are seeing a vulnerability that Logan has never expressed before.Â
âI thinkâŠâ he draws out, eyes lifting to meet yours. âI think I understand why you danced like no oneâs watching, especially during the sax solo.â
You groan, face going into your hands with words muffled as he laughs. âYou are so unserious. Thatâs all you got from this?â
âOh, trust me. I got a lot more than you probably bargained for.âÂ
You peek from between your fingers, hands becoming hot from the blood rush in your cheeks. You feel his hands wrap around your wrists, pulling your hands into his. âDid you know there is a Wolverine Alto Saxophone?â
You gawk at him, pushing against his hands playfully. âYouâre so full of shit.â
âThey donât make them anymore. Fairly rare and a little hot headed butâŠâ Logan brings both your hands to your hips, his own flipping on top with a slight grip that causes you to squeeze your flesh. âIâm sure the right player could handle it just fine.â
âLogan, are you flirting with me?â Your heart is racing, your mind controlling its speed as it goes 100 miles per second.Â
âIs it working?â
âYouâre ridiculous.â
âBecause if it is, I think you should play me sometime.â
Your breath comes out shaky, nerves racking your body. This is the closest you have ever been to being with him. You are so close to having an answer as to what you two are; what you two could be. You wonder what has gotten into him. What pushed this on?Â
A laugh comes from under your breath. âYou are something else, you know that?â
âHmm,â he hums, moving closer to you so his face is mere inches from yours. âWhat can I say? I canât help myself.â
âIs that so? And why is that?â You challenge, hoping for him to say what you want to hear.
âIâve got someone in my life who likes to press my buttons without even trying, and I think I wanna start pressing theirs too.â
âWow,â you breathe out. âYouâre good.â
âYeah? Then show me.â His lips are almost on yours, a smirk plastered on his kissable lips. âShow me how good I am.â
You nod, leaning fully in to press your lips to his. He groans against your mouth; a sound so delightful it makes your skin raise. You remove your hands from under his, moving to his biceps to ground yourself. You can finally feel his grip on you, and itâs secure. He kisses you with a purpose, his movements precise, and it draws you in. It creates a gravitational pull between the two of you, your hands pulling on him and his own pulling your hips. Next thing you know, he is almost on top of you.Â
âMmm,â he purrs. âYou taste so sweet, baby.â
You pull away slightly, his lips chasing yours for a moment before you steady him. âYeah? Well, youâre fun to play.â
His shoulders shake as he chuckles, going in for another round before he pauses. âBefore I forgetâŠâ
He sits back up, reaching behind him as he grabs something that crinkles. You try to peek over his shoulder, curiosity getting the better of you, only for him to face you once more. Your eyes go wide as you see the bouquet of daisies in his hand, white tissue wrapping keeping them together.Â
You are in awe. You canât remember the last time someone got you flowers. âThese are for me?â
âThey sure are,â He smiles with crinkled eyes. âHad to get flowers for my Valentine.â
You look down bashfully, tongue drawing over your lower lip, tasting remnants that are so him. âI didnât think youâd care about Valentineâs Day.â
âYou said you love Valentineâs Day. Seems right to celebrate my babyâs favorite time of the year.â
My babyâŠ
He hands you the flowers, and you cradle them in your arms. They are lively and simply beautiful; a fresh, sweet scent floating up to your nose. Everything about this moment is sweet, and the flowers make it even sweeter.
âSoooo,â you draw out. âDoes this mean you want to make things official?â
âOfficial?â He takes the flowers from your hands gently, placing them on the floor before pulling you onto his lap. You yelp as he squeezes you to him, vibrating with the urgency to be close. âI sure like the sound of that.â
You lean your head against his shoulder, feeling yet another wave of shyness at how he holds and looks at you. Itâs something new, and it blossoms in your chest as he slowly rocks you with kisses against the side of your face. All you can think is that you love him, and you canât help but think he loves you too.
Thank God for love and Thank God for Whitney Houston.Â
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Manifesting a Valentine
pairing:Â Logan Howlett x Reader rating: PG-13 (mildly) word count: 2.6K summary: You wonder what Logan is to you. Whitney Houston manifests that answer for you. warnings: this is just straight up fluff, gender-neutral reader, kissing
This is my piece for the Loveuary Writing Challenge created by @lubdubology and @yxtkiwiyxt, which was a wonderful thing they both set up. I got assigned 2000s Logan with the song 'I Will Always Love You' by Whitney Houston. I had a lot of fun writing this, especially since I took a different approach to it. All I will say is my inspiration was this video right here.
Enjoy!
Please read my pinned post before following me! Minors and ageless blogs will be blocked as this blogâs content is NSFW.
[AO3 link]
There is dust dancing in the air, swirling in the fumes of disinfectant. They float and falter, only to seemingly disintegrate as they hit the wooden floor. There are piles of clothes, some in need of folding and some waiting to take a ride in the washing machine. Papers and books are pushed into a corner, waiting to return as you organize your writing utensils and silly trinkets.
You need to stop pushing off the task of cleaning your room, but it canât be helped. Juggling being a teacher to a multitude of students and going on missions for Charles as an X-Man, your free time is slim to none. By the time the day is over, all you want to do is flop onto your bed and sleep until morning breaks. The idea of being more productive than you already were was exhausting to think about.
Yet here you are on a Friday evening, Walkman blasting music into your headphones as you run the rag across your desk, the wood sparkling from cleaner that smelled of citrus.Â
A hodgepodge of tunes played one after the other as the CD spun, all being love songs for the season of February. Some were simply romantic and joyous, while others played the melancholiest of sounds. It didnât matter what kind of love song it was; you loved them all.
Valentine's Day was always a holiday you adored. Growing up, your family would always use it as an excuse to get together. While it has always been viewed as a time for romance, your family saw it as a time to celebrate the familial side of love. It created a cherished feeling for the season, especially with having a family that loved you no matter what. Even when all you saw was romance, your heart was happy.
At least, that was the case until a certain man came into the forefront of your existence.
Logan Howlett was something else. The first time you saw him, he was walking down the hall with the Professor getting the grand tour. You didnât think someone could look so attractive in a jacket with the school emblem on it, but damn. The skin that pulled against his exposed collar bones made you want to sink your teeth into him.Â
It started as a small crush for a while. Even as an adult, youâve always been fairly reserved around people unfamiliar to you. So, like a fly on the wall, you would look from afar, studying him closely. You would drink him in as he made himself more comfortable and it wasnât until you accidentally made eye contact with him that your lives started to tightly intertwine.
You could feel your face heat up as you thought about how close you two have gotten. You wouldnât say the two of you are inseparable, but itâs pretty damn close. Every time you come back from an errand, he is there waiting for you. Every morning, he is waiting for you in the kitchen to have breakfast together. Most evenings after the school day is done, he is meeting with you in your room to enjoy his cigar while you wind down with your secret stash of wine. It's become apparent to you that you are his go to, and it would be a lie to say he isnât yours as well. You enjoy his company, which has transformed your feelings into something far greater.
You wouldnât know what to call your relationship with him. You know itâs nothing super serious, but you feel the potential for it to be. You see how different he is with you; how his crass attitude seems to change into something much more sincere and open. You think he is much like you; the more he opens up, the more he shows he cares. Even so, you arenât sure he would allow himself to indulge in the idea of belonging to someone.Â
The thought alone dampers your mood slightly, causing your shoulders to sag. As much as you love this time of the year, having Logan so close yet not quite in your grasp makes your heart crazed. You crave his companionship, and oh what you wouldnât give to have it.Â
You wonder if he has Valentine's Day plans but knowing him you highly doubt it. Youâd bet money that he doesn't even know the 14th is tomorrow, the days and months meshing together. Maybe youâll do something for him anyways, like buy him some quality cigars or good whiskey to hide with your stash of alcohol. Maybe you could run out tonight and grab something.Â
In the midst of your thoughts, you hear Whitney Houstonâs rich voice travel through your ears, causing you to perk up.
âOh yes!â You whisper with excitement. âI havenât heard this song in a while.âÂ
You twirl over to your door, cracking it to help air out the fumes of disinfectant and wood polish. You grab the broom and start to sweep, humming along to the song until itâs too hard to resist opening your mouth.
âAnd IIIIIII will always love youuuuu,â you sing out, enunciating Whitneyâs range as you brush away the remnants of dust and junk that found itself stranded on the floor.Â
There was something about this song that always drew you in. Itâs a love song, yet itâs bittersweet. Itâs a song that truly encapsulates loving someone so much that you must set them free. Maybe you love it because itâs a way for you to empathize, or itâs preparing you for the day you may have to let someone go with love. A small part of your mind wonders if you are already doing that with Logan, but it quickly vanishes; itâs just you and Whitney.
You canât help but sing into the broom, dancing in circles that slightly scatter your dust bunny piles, but you could care less. When the sax solo plays, you hold the broom up front with fingers moving sporadically along the wooden handle. You make noises trying to replicate the sound of the alto, dipping back and forth recreating movements youâve seen saxophone players make. Youâre in the zone now; immersed in a dream as you sing along without a care in the world. Little did you know, there was someone watching you from your door.
Soon enough, you find yourself on your bed, broom being held like a mic stand, dipping down into a low bow before the climax of the song hits. You take a deep breath, preparing to unleash the iconic phrase and pitch from past your lips.
âAND IIIIIIIIIIIII EEEEEEE IIIIIIII WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOOOUUUUU,â your back goes back in an arch, lungs working overtime as air rushes out. You canât hear yourself, and you know rather than the beautiful sound of Whitney Houston, you probably sound insane. You didnât care though.Â
Well, you didnât until your eyes landed on your now closed door, a body leaning against it with a smug grin on the face of the person who has infiltrated every part of your daily life.Â
Oh God⊠LoganâŠ
âSo, this is what youâve been up to all evening.âÂ
The broom drops from your hands, falling to the floor with a clank as your embarrassment permeates the room.Â
âUm⊠how long have you been standing there?â
He pushes off the door, hands behind his back as he continues towards you. âLong enough to see that stellar sax solo of yours.â
If your face could get redder, youâd be a maraschino cherry.
âSo stellar in fact, I think I need a listen.âÂ
âIâm not performing for you again,â you huff. âThis is so embarrassing.âÂ
âWhile Iâd love to see and hear you again, I was talking about what you were listening to, sweetheart.â
You pause, looking at him confused. âYouâve never heard of Whitney Houstonâs âI Will Always Love Youâ?â
âShould I?â
âUm yes!â You proclaim, arms shooting up into the air. âItâs one of the best love songs ever written and performed! Are you telling me you donât listen to music?âÂ
He is standing in front of you, and heâs tall enough to be leveled with your chest. His face tilts up, and you canât help but notice the way heâs looking at you: both light-hearted and full of adoration that shows through the crows feet. It makes your heart race.
âNot many love songs play in a dingy, underground fighting ring,â he grins, raspy tone pleasant to your ears. âCome on, sit down. Give me a listen.âÂ
You hear rustling behind him but quickly shift attention when he sits down, putting whateverâs in his hands out of your line of sight. You move to sit down beside him, removing your Walkman from the pouch on your hip. Your left leg is almost touching his right one, the heat begging to transfer with one touch. You remove your headphones, moving to put them over Loganâs ears, the band pressing down the points of his hair.
You giggle at this. âThere go your cat ears.â
You go to shift the track back, and as you get ready to hit play, you feel a cushioned headphone against your ear. You turn and Loganâs face is very close to yours.
âWhat are you doing, Logan?âÂ
âAbout to give this song you love so much a listen, but I want you to listen with me.â He smirks. âIs that okay, sweetheart?â
Heâs going to be the end of me. Whatâs with him tonight?
You canât speak so you nod, pressing play to let the song take its form. His eyes closed as he listened, allowing you to watch his facial movements as he reacted. You could see every crease and divot shift as he listened intently. You looked for key reactions during certain parts of the song, your lips quirking up when a smile appeared on his face.
A chuckle rumbles from his chest when the saxophone solo starts, your eyebrow raising in response. âWhatâs so funny?â
He doesnât answer, just shakes his head as the song enters the third verse. You see him lock in, smile fading slightly as the song rolls on. You wonder what heâs thinking; what is Whitney telling him? It isnât until she belts out the final chorus that his smile returns tenfold, making the butterflies fluttering in your belly go crazy.
The song fades out, and before the next track can play you press pause. There is a beat of silence before you pull away from the headphone, looking at Logan with a curiosity to know what his brain is churning.Â
âSoooo, what do you think?â
Logan looks to ponder, his fingers messing with the hem of your shirt. You feel the rough skin of his fingertips graze your tummy ever so slightly, causing a shiver to run down your spine. This moment is so intimate and for the first time you are seeing a vulnerability that Logan has never expressed before.Â
âI thinkâŠâ he draws out, eyes lifting to meet yours. âI think I understand why you danced like no oneâs watching, especially during the sax solo.â
You groan, face going into your hands with words muffled as he laughs. âYou are so unserious. Thatâs all you got from this?â
âOh, trust me. I got a lot more than you probably bargained for.âÂ
You peek from between your fingers, hands becoming hot from the blood rush in your cheeks. You feel his hands wrap around your wrists, pulling your hands into his. âDid you know there is a Wolverine Alto Saxophone?â
You gawk at him, pushing against his hands playfully. âYouâre so full of shit.â
âThey donât make them anymore. Fairly rare and a little hot headed butâŠâ Logan brings both your hands to your hips, his own flipping on top with a slight grip that causes you to squeeze your flesh. âIâm sure the right player could handle it just fine.â
âLogan, are you flirting with me?â Your heart is racing, your mind controlling its speed as it goes 100 miles per second.Â
âIs it working?â
âYouâre ridiculous.â
âBecause if it is, I think you should play me sometime.â
Your breath comes out shaky, nerves racking your body. This is the closest you have ever been to being with him. You are so close to having an answer as to what you two are; what you two could be. You wonder what has gotten into him. What pushed this on?Â
A laugh comes from under your breath. âYou are something else, you know that?â
âHmm,â he hums, moving closer to you so his face is mere inches from yours. âWhat can I say? I canât help myself.â
âIs that so? And why is that?â You challenge, hoping for him to say what you want to hear.
âIâve got someone in my life who likes to press my buttons without even trying, and I think I wanna start pressing theirs too.â
âWow,â you breathe out. âYouâre good.â
âYeah? Then show me.â His lips are almost on yours, a smirk plastered on his kissable lips. âShow me how good I am.â
You nod, leaning fully in to press your lips to his. He groans against your mouth; a sound so delightful it makes your skin raise. You remove your hands from under his, moving to his biceps to ground yourself. You can finally feel his grip on you, and itâs secure. He kisses you with a purpose, his movements precise, and it draws you in. It creates a gravitational pull between the two of you, your hands pulling on him and his own pulling your hips. Next thing you know, he is almost on top of you.Â
âMmm,â he purrs. âYou taste so sweet, baby.â
You pull away slightly, his lips chasing yours for a moment before you steady him. âYeah? Well, youâre fun to play.â
His shoulders shake as he chuckles, going in for another round before he pauses. âBefore I forgetâŠâ
He sits back up, reaching behind him as he grabs something that crinkles. You try to peek over his shoulder, curiosity getting the better of you, only for him to face you once more. Your eyes go wide as you see the bouquet of daisies in his hand, white tissue wrapping keeping them together.Â
You are in awe. You canât remember the last time someone got you flowers. âThese are for me?â
âThey sure are,â He smiles with crinkled eyes. âHad to get flowers for my Valentine.â
You look down bashfully, tongue drawing over your lower lip, tasting remnants that are so him. âI didnât think youâd care about Valentineâs Day.â
âYou said you love Valentineâs Day. Seems right to celebrate my babyâs favorite time of the year.â
My babyâŠ
He hands you the flowers, and you cradle them in your arms. They are lively and simply beautiful; a fresh, sweet scent floating up to your nose. Everything about this moment is sweet, and the flowers make it even sweeter.
âSoooo,â you draw out. âDoes this mean you want to make things official?â
âOfficial?â He takes the flowers from your hands gently, placing them on the floor before pulling you onto his lap. You yelp as he squeezes you to him, vibrating with the urgency to be close. âI sure like the sound of that.â
You lean your head against his shoulder, feeling yet another wave of shyness at how he holds and looks at you. Itâs something new, and it blossoms in your chest as he slowly rocks you with kisses against the side of your face. All you can think is that you love him, and you canât help but think he loves you too.
Thank God for love and Thank God for Whitney Houston.Â
#klloveuary2025#logan howlett x reader#logan howlett fluff#logan howlett#logan fluff#wolverine x reader#logan howlett fic#logan fic#xmen fic#my fics
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Jordy!!! happy valentine's day from me and iggy!! i hope today is especially sweet! đđ«đ


ANGEL <33333 happy (late) Valentine's day from me and noctis!! i hope you had a wonderful day yesterday :3
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BRO !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
GUILTY AS SIN | Logan Howlett


â„ summary: the entire time youâve known logan howlett, youâve tried to keep your distance, your longings locked. then, one night, all that effort goes to waste when youâre confronted by your feelings.
word count: 8.5k
pairings: logan howlett x fem!mutant reader
content warnings: 18+ CONTENT MDNI, masturbation, dirty thoughts, light choking, multiple orgasms, oral (f + m receiving), spitting, sixty-nine sex position, scent kink, like one spank, underwear stays on! tiny hint of arousal from crying? p in v sex, creampie
â„ a/n: this is a repost from my previous account! please enjoy anyway<3 also, going through this again made me realize once again, im a slut!!!!! this is absolutely filthy!!!! readers mutation is vague but her hair color changes to red with emotions and red light/energy she manifests in her hands! title and fic inspired by guilty as sin by taylor swift
â âËàšâĄà§âïœĄËâ
THE SHEETS are chilled, crisp to the touch enough that shivers tickle their way across exposed skin as a figure tosses and turns in the unmade bed. The window had been left open, and as a result, cold air had poured into the room.
Despite the fact that goosebumps adorn your body, it feels as though youâre on fire. Huffs escape parted lips, a charged hum zipping through your veins that only intensify each time you shift. Youâd been trying to sleep for the past couple hours, trying to ignore the need thrumming through you, but have only managed to fail.
You turn on your side for possibly the twentieth time, but the position only serves to worsen your state as the flesh of your thighs squeeze unintentionally, a wave of brief relief sent to your throbbing cunt. Tears brim your lashes and heat coils in your tummy and fuck, your body is humming with lust and everything was so, so sensitive.
This is all Loganâs fault.
The man has been gone less than a week and yet, your body is practically vibrating with need, trembling with desire.
The feelings you harbor make you feel shameful and guilty for a handful of reasons.
Logan is not your boyfriend, heâs not even a friend. While heâs cordial with the others in the mansion, heâs remained cold and indifferent towards you.
You pretend it never bothered you, when he pointedly ignored your greetings in passing or refused to partner up with you during a mission. You didnât understand what youâd done to upset him, to warrant his treatment of you as though you were the most annoying person on the planet.
So, logically, your heart should not race at the mere thought of him. Nor should your cunt throb and soak your panties whenever images of his sweaty form cloud your mind.
Though, youâre only human and Logan fucking Howlett is a man worth embarrassing yourself over, especially when he looks like he does.
A memory comes forward, one that has your cheeks hot with desire, your chest rising a little faster than before.
A couple weeks ago, it was late and with the way sleep evaded you, youâd been wandering the halls, in hopes of tiring yourself out. Except, when youâd walked down one of the hallways, you froze at the sight of Logan shirtless in his room, the door left ajar.
A towel covered his head as he scrubbed away the wetness in his hair, and you desperately hoped he hadnât noticed your presence. Water dribbled down his muscular body, and your eyes greedily watched each droplet descend down. What really had you drooling, however, was the thick, prominent vein on his stomach that crept down into the waistband of his gray sweatpants.
When you had barely caught yourself from releasing a moan, you dashed back to your room right away. You were wide awake still, but for a completely different reason. All you could think about was tracing your tongue along the vein. If youâd fucked yourself that night to the thought of him, no one had to know.
So, if you gave in to desire tonight, it wouldnât be the first time, but it certainly wouldnât make you feel any less guilty.
Waves of warmth dust your cheeks, lips bitten until theyâre swollen and spit slicked. Your breasts ache from inside the confines of the pink, lacy shirtâ each labored breath you inhale have perky nipples brushing the material, sending zips of pleasure down your spine. Your hole aches so badly to be filled, and it clenches around nothing as need slicks the gusset of your panties. Your clit, puffy and neglected, throbs with pure, sizzling lust.
Another wave of butterflies floundering in your belly from the memory of Loganâs hairy chest has you giving inâ a shaky hand slipping from its place on your stomach down, down, down until cold fingers meet the mess between your thighs. A gasp sounds, fluttering around the room as you brush over your clit. Even through the material of your underwear, the slight pressure of your fingers has you mewling.
Flashes of Logan dance behind closed lids, your imagination running wild while you messily swirled over your clit. You want him so, so bad, in every way possible.
Youâre plagued with thoughts of him; his pretty hazel eyes, the slope of his nose, the tufts of his brown hairâ the muscles that are constantly on display, his thick thighs that you want to ride until you come all over him, and the huge bulge that is ever present in those flattering jeans of his (and if it was a reoccurring fantasy of yours to ride that delicious bulge over his jeans until you both come from just dry humping, againâ no one had to know).
Him hovering over you, dog tags swinging in your face as he fucks you hard. Him picking you up and taking you against a wall, lips trapped in a messy, wet top lip kiss. Him prying your thighs open as he licks up your pussy, tongue dipping into your hole to lap up all the desire pooling, his lips wrapping around the swollen bud and sucking violently. Him holding your face lovingly as his hips thrust his cock deeper down your throat, groans spilling at the gag youâd let out.
Youâre split between wanting to sink down onto his cock and rut your swollen nub against the curls nestled the base of him and stuffing his dick down your throat, swallowing around him until he comes and coats your throat with his spend.
You donât even bother to remove the damp underwear, instead circling your clit over the materialâ and oh, fuck. The roughness of the lace mixed with the soft rubbing of your fingers has moans tumbling from parted, wet lips.
Your unoccupied hand slips under the tiny shirt covering your chest and only settles until a nipple is pinched between determined fingers, rolling the pert bud in tandem with the swirl of your other hand on your sex.
Ecstasy nearly envelopes you and if you were more coherent, youâd be embarrassed by how fast youâre about to reach your peak. But, as it is, your brain is completely preoccupied and the only thing on your mind is lessening the pressing desire that ebbs deep within you.
And fuck, youâre so fucking needy for Logan that you try to pretend itâs his fingers abusing your clit, his fingers tugging at the sensitive buds of your chest. You want his tongue between your thighs, licking up your desire and sucking your puffy clit into his pretty mouth. You crave the burn that would tickle your most sensitive area.
Youâre suddenly overwhelmed, the fantasies swirling behind your closed eyes far too muchâthe mix of your filthy thoughts and your fingers rubbing your nub has your legs shaking as more wetness dampens your slit.
âLogan, Logan, Loganââ the chant of his name falls from you, the feeling of your orgasm washing over you, threatening to pull you under the tall waves of pleasure.
With your eyes scrunched shut, ears ringing white noise, and hips humping your hand pathetically, youâre a writhing mess against the sheets.
Your hair scattered around your pillow shifts from its natural state to a dark, glimmering red. Even with your eyes shut, you can feel the vermillion light whirling at your fingertips, begging to be released. Even with years of practice, your mutation is not one of subtlety.
Searing bliss coils in your lower tummy, your button tingling with the after effects of the orgasm that had just slammed into you. You sigh, because even though you just came, you feel far from satisfied. Your body buzzes with sweltering hunger, all the way down to the tips of your toes. Even if you fuck yourself dizzy with another orgasm, you know it wonât satiate your body.
Before you can slip your fingers inside your wet hole, a loud knock echos through your room.
You still, hoping that if you ignore the noise, whoever it is knocking will simply go away. But when another rhythmic thump comes a few seconds later, you huff.
Itâs well past midnight at this point, so who in their right mind would be going about and slamming their fists on your door?
Apparently, you havenât moved fast enough when the person has the nerve to knock for a third time. A growl, tinged with annoyance, slips out as you fling yourself up and off the bed.
You stomp to the door, ready to tell the person on the other side to fuck off. But when you open the mahogany door, all the anger simmering beneath your heated skin disappears, along with your breath, as your eyes take in the sight before you.
Logan Howlett stands before you, seemingly angry as a frown etches deep on his face. He glares at you, hazel eyes swarming with something unknown.
No matter how many times the man has graced you with his glare, it makes you shiver each time as if it were the first.
And little do you know, all of your craziest, fatal fantasies are about to come true.
âïœĄïŸâïžïœĄâïœĄ.
The moment Logan steps into the Mansion, finally back from the shit show of a mission Charles had sent him on, he tenses immediately.
His fingers clench into fists, tight enough that the skin threatens to turn white. The adamantium claws nearly poke through his knuckles as he inhales.
That sweet, sweet scent swarms his heightened senses, the intoxicating smell swirling strong enough that his heart speeds up, his stomach flutters, and his cock twitches within the confines of his jeans.
Logan can fucking smell you, a heady aroma thatâs so completely you, teases him and threatens to break the barrier heâs put up since he met you.
He shakes himself loose from the metaphorical hold you have on him, and begins the journey to his room, trying to block out how delicious you smell.
Except, as he gets closer to the hallway he shares with you, he feels his control slipping, especially as your smell grows stronger, though now itâs tinged with something elseâ something sensual, sugary, and addictive.
Logan cursesâ youâre aroused, your scent giving you away completely. The idea of you panting as your pussy drips slick between your thighs has him clenching his jaw hard, fingers flexing and unflexing in an attempt to harness control back.
Though, that goes completely out the door as his body leads him right outside your door, unconsciously drawn to the very essence of you.
There was a reason Logan has kept the carefully crafted distance between you. The minute he was introduced to you, a new member of the x-men and teacher for the school, he knew he was fucked.
From the first look shared between you, he knew.
A pretty smile had graced your lips, eyes filled with joy as you greeted him, a hand outstretched as your hair swayed with your movements. In your pretty, little outfit (a pink, lacy dress that kissed the tops of your thighs matched with baby pink pumps) he thought you looked like a princess.
Heâd stayed frozen, however, because he was assaulted with the fucking smell of you. It was nothing like heâd encountered before, and heâd been around for over a century. Your scent was so fucking sweet, vanilla and honey permeating his nostrils and right then, heâd wondered if you tasted as sweet as you smelt.
He knew that he had to keep his distance, otherwise heâd become addicted to you in every sense. If he let himself, heâd worship the very ground you walked on. He couldnât risk having the walls heâd spent so long building to crumble.
And suddenly, he was angry that his body had reacted this way to someone heâd never even met. He was angry he wanted to press sweet kisses on your face while also wanting to fuck you against the nearest surface until you screamed.
So, with that, heâd made up his mind.
Heâd simply glared at you, refused to acknowledge your existence and stormed out of Charlesâ office. Since that day, heâs tried his hardest to pretend you donât existâ if only to ease the way you constantly haunt his thoughts.
He pretends it didnât kill him to see how your face crumbles at his rude behavior, but he canât help it. Because if he treated you how he wants, like the princess you are, heâd never let you go.
A sudden noise shakes him from the depths of his mind, the scent of you growing stronger by the second.
âLogan, Logan, Logan,â your honeyed voice whines, and right then, the telltale snikt! sounds immediately.
What the fuck? He thinks, his mind running a mile a minute at the revelation that not only are you seemingly fucking yourself, but youâre also moaning his name.
Logan growls lowly as his claws reveal themselves, cutting through the skin of his knuckles. His body feels unnaturally hot and his cock is now uncomfortably hard in his jeans, pre-cum bubbling at his tip and staining his boxers.
With the wafts of your pretty scent and sounds of your lithe whimpers, he knows he canât resist you any longer.
His hand rises, claws retracting as his heavy fist slams on your door. He grows impatient and knocks again when thereâs no movement, and just as heâs about to speak, the door swings open.
And the sight of you, face coated with a sheen of sweat and chest heaving, has him throbbing.
Tonight is the night his control finally snaps, despite months of work put into it.
Logan is going to fucking ruin you.
âïœĄïŸâïžïœĄâïœĄ.
You gulp, a hand resting on the door frame as you stand frozen because honestly, what the fuck?
You deduce that the universe hates you because why would the man youâd been thinking of while fucking yourself be right in front of you?
It only dawns on you when Loganâs gaze swipes over your figure that youâre clad only in your pink, lacy top and the matching underwear, the latter wet with both your arousal and release.
You shrink beneath his eyes, heat simmering hot on the apples of your cheeks, and your mouth opens and closes but no words followed.
âUhâ Logan, hey!â Your voice is shaky, and whether itâs from the power of your release or the nerves that bumble within your veins at the man before you, you canât tell. All you know is that you want the ground to swallow you up whole.
Logan doesnât respond, just continues to stare at you in a way that you donât understand. You assume heâs just gotten home from the very long mission, and you were confused as to why heâs at your door, especially considering how badly he despises you.
âI heard you.â His gruff tone is coated in something darker than youâve ever heard before. For a moment, youâre lost, brows furrowing before your eyes go comically wide.
Andâ oh, oh.
âCan smell you, too.â
Heat licks at your whole body, embarrassment threatening to envelope you. Tears of horror tickle your lash line, because this is probably the most painful moment of your life. Not only does the man hate you, but now heâs heard you moan his name as you came all over your fingers? How pathetic are you?
You open your mouth, an apology heavy on your tongue. Though, before you can even speak a single word, Logan slams his mouth onto yours.
He holds your head softly, a deep contrast to the rough way his lips melt over yours. A moan slips from your open mouth, the feel of his lips sucking at your bottom lip intense and so, so good.
Your arms wrap around his neck, fingertips tangling themselves in the hair at his nape like youâve wanted to do since the day you met him.
âLoganââ you whimper against his mouth, trying and failing to understand what the fuck was happening as he slips his tongue inside your wet, warm mouth. âLogan.â
He ignores you, grunting against your spit, slicked lips as his hands travel down your curves, until they find purchase of your ass, gripping hard. A choked gasp falls from you as he suddenly pulls at you and picks you up effortlessly in his strong arms.
The idea of him picking you up with no hesitation has your hips moving forward without your control. Vaguely, you feel him move past the threshold of your door, slamming it shut before pressing your body up against the wood.
Logan switches between licking your tongue and sucking meanly at your lips, until they feel full and swollen with his attention. Youâre pliantâ almost willing to let him do anything heâd like to you.
Almost.
As good as his tongue feels dancing with yours, confusion still settles over your mind. Maybe this is a dream and if so, you never wanted to wake up.
âWaitâwait.â You pull back, the questions swirling inside too pressing to be ignored any longer.
âHuh, baby?â Logan groans, teeth pulling at your bottom lip before sucking the swelled skin into his mouth.
Babybabybabybabybabyâ the pet name clouds your senses for a second, a rush of arousal pooling at your hole. You want to cry at how that simple word makes you feel.
âStop that.â You mumble, pulling your head back and lips out of his reach.
Logan stares at you, unresponsive but waiting until you speak whatever is on your mind. Honestly, he wants his tongue to be buried deep in your cunt right about now, but details.
âWhat the fuck? Whatâs happening?â Breathless, the question settles between you, causing Loganâs brow to raise.
âWell, my tongue was just in your mouthââ you slap his chest, face turning warm at his bluntness.
âNot that. Iâmâ why are you here? Why are you kissing me? Especially like that when you canât stand me?â Your voice is quiet, insecurity tinged between the words. Nimble fingers grasp the dog tags that rest on his chest, and youâre grateful for the distraction.
At that, Loganâs face scrunches up, confusion floating about his irises.
âWhat are you talking about?â If it wasnât for the genuine way he asked, you wouldâve smacked his chest again at how clueless he was.
âWhat do you mean? Youâve made it very clear how you feel about me; youâve despised my entire existence the moment we met!â
Frustration settles over you heavily, enough to snap you out of the lustful spell Logan has inflicted upon you. You slide down his body, ignoring the quiver of your cunt when you make contact with his jean clad bulge. You push at his chest, needing distance to ensure you actually get your words out and donât end up back with his tongue down your throat.
âI donât hate you.â Logan grunts, staring at you as you pace the wooden floors of the room. Vaguely, heâs listening, but he canât be blamed for the way his eyes focus on the way your ass shifts with each step, the plush skin so inviting as the lace cups each cheek. âWhatâre you on about?â
You huff. Loganâs beginning to piss you off. The vague answers are getting on your nerves enough that you feel yourself snap.
Your hair suddenly turns bright red, a scarlet blossoming over the strands until they coat them completely. Your emotions could never be concealed, not with the way your hair turns different variations of red when youâre angry, furious, determined, aroused.
âYouâve been a dick to me, treating me like shit for no reason and now you think you can waltz in here and kiss me like that? You think you can pretend to want me when we both know thatâs not true?â
Balls of fiery, red energy bloom upon your fingertips, and though you stand in your pretty pink assortment, you look the part of threatening.
Too bad the abrupt display of your mutation, mixed with fiery words, has Loganâs cock rock hard with want. He wants to have you ass up over his lap so he can watch the jiggle of each cheek as he spanks you.
âSometimes, I question whether or not youâre actually a genius.â
And, oh. You feel the words like a punch to the gut. Youâre so mad, so blinded by the intense emotions you feel for Logan, that those pesky flames of energy begin to tickle up your wrist and forearm, a telltale sign of your anger.
âFuck you, Logan.â You hiss, your fingers warm with the heat coursing through them.
What pisses you off more, your hair and eyes darkening to a maroon, is the fact that Logan sports a faint smirk, watching you with humor as if you werenât showcasing how riled up you were.
âAre you done yet?â Logan takes a step closer, uncaring of the way your mutation is flaring up furiously at his presence.
âLogan, leave me alone. I donât need you to sit here and pretend to want me. I donât need you to make fun of me, either.â Huffing, you glare up at the man before you, who stares back just as pointedly.
You turn around, back facing him as you go to enter the attached bathroom when suddenly youâre spun back around by a hand on your nape, your neck in a delicious tight grip as Logan pulls you into his body, smashing his mouth on yours for the second time tonight.
Your body betrays you as a desperate whimper tumbles from you when you register the passion Logan pours into your embrace.
His teeth bite down on your top lip, before suckling sweetly to combat the pain flourishing there. You moan, mouth falling open as he messily kisses you. The intoxicating taste of him settles over your tastebuds, his tongue swirling with yours in a way that left you dizzy with need.
A string of spit connects between your mouths as Logan pulls away, chuckling meanly when you promptly follow the warm, wetness of his lips. A rough hand grips your throat again, tight enough to leave you feeling breathless but delicious enough to make your cunt squeeze around nothing.
âSo thatâs what you think, princess? That I donât want you?â Loganâs fingers flex around your throat, gripping at your jaw to capture all of your attention. As if you were anything less than enamored with him. âYou think thatâs what Iâve been doing, huh?â
You can only stare up at him as your heartbeat rings loudly through your eardrums. A hand goes to tug at his shirt, an attempt to steady yourself, but Logan is faster as he grips your wrist.
âAnswer me.â He whispers, sensual as the hand holding yours captive begins to intertwine your fingers together.
The touch of him, the hold on your throat and roughness of his fingers in your own, renders you frozen. Youâre so overcome with your emotions that you only manage to nod. Without your permission, you go limp in his hold, silently begging him to do something to satiate the hunger burning every inch of your skin.
âWords, baby. Got nothing to say now, huh?â He taunts, his grip leaving your neck in favor of thumbing at your lips.
âYesâ IâŠitâs what itâs seemed like, what youâve made me feel. Thought you hated me.â
Loganâs nose twitches, no doubt smelling your arousal as more begins to drip between your thighs when his thumb plays with your bottom lip pathetically.
âCouldnât be more wrong,â He grunts, pushing his thumb past the soft of your lips. His knees nearly buckle at the feel of your mouth closing and sucking his thumb, tongue rolling up against the skin as though it was his cock instead. âShit, baby.â
You only whine around his finger, eyes fluttering up at him in a way that has his dick twitching with want.
âFuck, been dreaming about you since the day we met. Been dreaming of you in every way possible.â He admits, a smile tugging at his lips at the way you freeze, lips leaving his thumb with a âpopâ.
âWhat?â Itâs a whisper, barely audible but he hears it all the same. The butterflies in your stomach are having a full on party now, bolts of anxiousness kissing your skin.
âOf course.â Logan leans down, pressing a kiss to your wet lips. âKnew the second I saw you youâd ruin me, so I just⊠stayed away. I never meant to make you think the worst. Mâsorry, honey.â
This was not the way youâd expected tonight to go.
Itâs as though all the confusion, anger, and sadness drain from you and its replaced with the tremulous feeling Logan causes in your body.
And despite the fact that youâve fucked yourself thinking about him, and heâd heard, you felt incredibly shy. You drop your head to his hard chest, your hands squeezing his own where he holds them.
âI donât know what to say.â You utter, brain all muddled and no other thoughts exist as Logan plagues every inch of your mind. Youâd felt like an idiot, even though Logan has acted like a dick for the better part youâd known him.
Logan simply lifts your head, invading your senses as his nose bumps yours.
âCan I kiss you now?â
And when you nod, his lips are back on yours instantly, their rightful place.
The kiss was messyâhot, wet, and dirty. Logan moans when you jump up, strong arms catching your thighs in a tight grip. Wrapping your arms around his neck again, you lose yourself in the thrilling taste of his mouth. You unconsciously begin dragging your drenched panties across his hard dick.
You suck on his tongue before capturing his lip between your teeth, nails dragging down his shoulder blades as you do so. A loud, feral growl escapes Logan, and without another thought, he throws your pliant body on the bed.
And, at the sight of you, Logan thinks he might come right then and there. In your little outfit, so much plush, soft skin is on display. The hair tumbling from your shoulders has shifted to a dark cherry color during your kiss, and your hands are tickling with red energy, twirling up your arms, not unlike the way vines do to an old home.
This time, though, he knows you arenât upset, but instead, aroused.
He can fucking smell the way your slick drips from your sobbing hole, how it coats your thighs.
And fuck, he wants to sink his face right in front of your pussy and inhale until heâs woozy with the smell of you.
So, thatâs exactly what he does.
Your eyes widen as Logan drops onto the floor in front of the bed, yanking your body to the edge. Your lower half is completely in his grip, and he stares at you for a moment before pulling your pussy up to his nose. The feel of him so close to your puffy lips has you aching, even more so when he lowers his head and fucking sniffs you.
âFuck, baby. Been dreaming of this since the minute I saw you. Smells so fuckinâ sweet.â Logan inhales deeply again, smattering messy, open mouthed kisses to the skin of your upper thigh. âYou donât know how many times Iâve wanted to throw you over my shoulder, get you alone and eat your pussy.â
âLogan!â You whimper out. The sound was completely feeble, bordering on desperate, but you couldnât care less, not with the way heâs sucking bruises into your skin. âPlease, please.â
Spurred on by your whines, he sinks his teeth into the skin, where your thigh meets your core.
Pain simmers into pleasure as the sting is soothed by his tongue. Dark splotches decorate your upper thighs, the preview of the bruises that will decorate the skin tomorrow. Logan does this until heâs satisfied with the color blooming across the skin before him. Itâs his way of solidifying that youâre his, like heâs staking his claim with his bruises smattering your thighs.
At some point your hand finds purchase in his hair, pawing at the tufts and tugging his face closer to where you need him most. He hums, the pain at his scalp sending jolts of desire throughout his body.
He sneaks a look at you, and shit, itâs the prettiest thing heâs ever seen. Your head is thrown back, sending those rebellious, red strands fluttering around you. Your hips keep canting up, and the smell of you, mixed with the previous orgasm youâd worked out before he interrupted, sends his senses in overdrive.
He decides heâs tortured you both enough and without hesitation, Logan licks a long, wet stripe up your clothed pussy, suctioning around your enlarged clit.
The taste of you, heady, sweet, and so distinctly you, floods over his tongue. He knew youâd taste good, but this? Oh, he wants to drink you up all hours of the day.
With a growl, Logan tugs the lace aside and then sucks, licks, and mouths at your cunt like a man starved. His tongue dips into your hole before licking up and down your slit.
Moans of his name echo through the walls of your room, along with the filthy sound of the sucking of your swollen clit.
Youâve never felt like this before, the way heâs eating you out has your entire body on fire, and if you could see yourself, youâd see how ruby colored lines swirl brighter around your hands, how your hair practically glows vermillion.
Heâs been attracted to you the minute he saw youâ but the way you look when your mutation is at work? The way your hair shifts shades of intoxicating reds? The way the fiery energy glows from the tips of your fingers and up your elbows? Oh, how it fucking wrecks him. He just wants to keep you captive in this bedroom for all of eternity, if only to see you like this all the time.
âFeels so fucking good, fuck.â Youâre a blubbering mess, hands tugging Loganâs hair hard, resulting in a moan that vibrates your pussy.
âMine.â He grunts, and you gasp at the sensation of saliva as he spits directly onto your clit. âMy fuckinâ pussy.â
Then, he latches his soft lips around your puffy bud and sucks hard. His dirty words and lucious mouth have your thighs shivering and hips bucking with want.
Like youâd done when you were alone and thinking about him, whimpers of âLoganâ sound as you hump his face.
âThatâs it, baby, say my name. Taste so fuckinâ good.â He hums against your puffy, wet pussy.
A stream of âfuckfuckfuckâ spills from open lips, forming an âoâ as the rush of delicious, hot pleasure pours over you completely.
Your vision blursâ body nearly succumbing to the intense bliss prickling across your being. You barely even register how youâve locked your legs around Loganâs head, captive in a tight grip as you rub your clit along his nose. With the way heâs grunting along your slit, you donât think he minds.
As you come down, the pleasure fizzles out and overwhelming tingles steal its place as Logan continues to lap at your wetness, groaning at your taste.
âSâtoo much, Logan.â Shaky hands grip the brown locks and you try and fail to bring the man away from your throbbing hole. His tongue swirls along your clit and hole, dipping in as deep as he can to savor every last drop. âOh, fuck.â
âTaste too fuckinâ sweet, baby. Canât help it.â
Logan grips tightly at your thighs, pinching meanly at the flesh as he licks and sucks at your pretty, puffy clit. He canât get enough, and seemingly, neither can you, with the way you buck into his warm, slick mouth despite your weak protests. The material of your underwear snaps back against you as Loganâs grip loosens, but he still eats you out as though thereâs no barrier, only soaking the lace more.
His soft lips and dangerous tongue make it difficult to do anything but take the mind-numbing pleasure.
Heâs content to stay here; between your gorgeous thighs and devour your cunt all night, pull orgasms from you until you forget everything except the syllables that make up his name.
Except, the words that come from you have him freezing against you, his cock aching and responding immediately to the addictive tilt of your voice.
âLoganâ Logan, wanna suck your cock. Please.â
Itâs as though youâre made for himâ every inch of you riles him up like no one else has before and he has to take a deep, deep breath to refrain from coming in his jeans like a damn virgin.
With one last lick up your lace covered sex, his face is suddenly above yours and the sight is lethal. The entirety of his lower face is coated in wetness, glistening and gleaming that he wears with pride. His eyes look animalistic, the hazel taken over by the black of dilated pupils.
Logan looks at you like he wants to fucking destroy you. You know without a doubt youâd let him.
A sweet, gentle kiss is placed upon your mouth, a warm caress of his tongue on yours, the musky taste of your cunt dancing along your tastebuds. You whine once more, because you crave the heady taste of his cock that you desperately want. Your mouth salivates at the thought of his tip heavy on your tongue.
âEasy, honey. Can smell how bad you want it.â
If you werenât in such a hazed state, youâd be mortified at the knowledge Logan can smell your arousal.
âLogan.â Pathetic whimpers and moans against his mouth have him pulling back, gritting his teeth to have a sense of control. It doesnât work, not with the way youâre splayed out below him, face pretty with lust.âPlease.â
How was he meant to last when you sounded like that? All fucked out and dizzy from just his tongue alone?
He lays down beside you, heart thumping at the way your watery eyes watch him move.
âCâmereâ.â Logan mutters, yanking your body over him and all the way up his chest, maneuvering you until your pussy is hovering above his mouth, your lips hovering over his cock.
Dizzy on Logan, saliva pools in your mouth at the sight of his bulge, massive even in the confines of jeans.
Youâre confused as to why Logan put you on his chest, but it makes sense when he yanks your thighs down, mouth finding your wet, sopping sex immediately.
You cry out, hips jolting at the way his tongue pushes the pink fabric away from your puffiness, lips wrapping around your clit. When he notices how youâre shaking on his face, unmoving beside the subtle thrusts of hips, he stops.
âLoââ
âGo on then, baby. Suck my cock, just like you wanted.â
And oh, you both feel the wetness that follows after those rasped words tinge the air.
Only once you undo that damn belt buckle and pull both his jeans and boxers down, just enough to see the way his cock bounces out, bubbling precome at the red, swollen tip, does Logan resume eating your pussy.
Fueled by the return of those talented lips, you lean forward without another thought.
Licking from base to tip, a moan vibrates against his cock as you hum, a taste thatâs so Logan flooding your senses. You lick up and down him messy, spitting on the tip of him as you slick his dick up, before finally wrapping your lips around him.
âFuck, baby.â His growl is borderning on feral; his teeth finding purchase on your asscheek and biting, in an attempt to ground himself. It only serves to have his hips jump at the feel of you whining on him, sucking him down so fucking good. âFuck, knew youâd be good with that pretty fuckinâ mouth.â
Heâs so focused on the way youâve started bobbing up and down the length of him, dazed with the warmth and wetness as you suck and swirl your tongue, that heâs stopped his attention to you, something heâs only reminded of as you wiggle over him.
âSorry, princess, youâre driving me fuckinâ crazy.â He grits out, fingers gripping the flesh of your thighs at the little âhmph!â released as you pull off his cock.
Though he canât see you, he knows thereâs a string of spit that spans your swollen lips to his pulsating cock. He shutters, overwhelmed by you entirely, before burying his face into your weepy cunt.
âOh! Logan, feels so good!â With a pathetic little whimper, his cock fills your mouth again as you sink down, satisfied with the way his tongue is licking at you once more.
A blend of both your moans float about the walls, as he wraps his lips around your puffed clit, as you ease his cock down your throat.
Loganâs eating you out messily, crazed by the tang of you soaking his mouth, chin, and nose. Despite the warmth bubbling in his stomach, heâs determined to make you come on his tongue again first.
When thick fingers nudge into your hole unexpectedly, you mewl at the blissful feeling.
Loganâs fingers work steadily inside you, in tandem with the way his mouth suckles meanly at your button. Youâre an absolute messâ grinding down on his face, riding his fingers earnestly, gagging as Loganâs hips match the pace of his fingers, grunts vibrating against you as he fucks your throat.
Logan curls his fingers in a way that has you seeing every fucking color of the rainbow. You come, moaning around the base of his cock and rocking back and forth on his fingers and mouth, muffled sobs spilling from your stuffed mouth.
When he feels you shivering on his tongue, overstimulated and sensitive, he pulls away from your center, the soaked fabric of your panties falling back into place once more.
Your mouth is still full of him, lips lazily sucking him down as your body tries to get ahold of the white, sizzling pleasure still coursing through you.
âCâmere, baby.â
Itâs a soft whisper against your thigh, but it settles over you, his soothing voice swirling around your shaky body like a warm blanket. Letting his cock fall from your lips, you scramble as fast as your body will allow before you find yourself straddling Logan, staring down at the man with cloudy, wet eyes.
And maybe Logan is sickâ because the sight of tears spilling over your cheeks has his cock unbelievably hard, a growl threatening to tumble out at the way your pretty, crimson hair spills over your shoulders.
Still, he needs to make sure youâre okay.
âWhatâs wrong, princess?â Logan watches at the way a small smile graces your features, even as tears continue to glisten your lash line. âYou okay?â
âNothing's wrong, just feel so good.â Your voice is a little hoarse, no doubt from the way his dick was fucking your whiny mouth. Still, your voice is still the sweetest thing heâs ever heard, those few words going straight to his dick.
Logan feels his own lips tug upwards as you speak. Even though heâs fucked you silly and stolen two orgasms, he tenses with desire as he notes the want dancing in your eyes.
âGood.â
âMhmm.â
Thereâs a beat of silence, a moment where hungry eyes lock in on one another, sensual energy and tension threatening to break.
Then, in a flash, lips are locked and tongues whirl together familiarly. Itâs a hot, sensual kiss filled to the brim with desireâ the passion almost too much with how it lights up every inch of your bodies, a fire threatening to spread.
Neither of you are sure who moved firstâ but it doesnât matter because the way Loganâs hand wraps around your hair, creating a makeshift ponytail in a tight grip, steals your attention.
If someone were to see the two of you, they would see how desperate and needy you both were.
Youâre sucking on Loganâs top lip, biting before soothing the sting with a sweet, soft suck. Your thighs are spread over his own entirely and your position has your cunt settled over his cock nicely. Loganâs free hand grips the skin of your ass tight, guiding as you grind against him, the soaked panties catching on the tip of him with each thrust. The fingers tangled in your hair are unforgiving, tugging harshly as Logan grunts into your open mouth.
Youâre both a mess of passion and lustâ and youâre body thrums with the idea of his cock inside you.
âSuch a good girl, thatâs it. Fuckââ Logan nearly whines, the feel of you humping him has him trapping your lips in another allconsumimg kiss.
Your hands, lit up with energy, find purchase in his pretty hair, tugging as he kisses you messy because everything is somehow too much and not enough.
âLoganâ need you. Need you so bad, baby.â
Logan wants to eat you up entirelyâ somehow youâre still not satiated, rubbing your slick all over his lap and begging him for more. If he was a better man, he wouldâve fucked you already. As it is, he likes it a little too much hearing you beg for him.
âShhh, you got me, honey. Iâm right here.â
âFuck me, please. Need you inside, Logan.â
Thereâs tears in your eyes again, ready to spill over if the ache between your thighs isnât soothed in the next five minutes. Youâre clinging to him, hips stuttering because itâs just not enough and you both know it.
âMy poor baby.â He hums, the words somehow a mix of condescending and genuine and it makes you cry out. âSo needy, huh?â
âJust for you.â The way you say it, itâs a message you both understandâ you need him in every way possible, not just sexually.
He wonders if you know just how badly he needs you, especially now that heâs got a taste of you.
âIâm yoursââ you start, but itâs cut off by the squeak you emit when youâre suddenly flipped over, Loganâs muscular form hovering over you, his dog tags swinging between you.
âYouâre mine.â Itâs not a question, but a statement and it sends a thrill through you.
âYours.â Youâre nodding, eyes wide and so fucking pretty that it makes Logan squeeze his hands, the metal of his claws threatening to break through the skin.
He pulls his shirt off then, pride filling his chest at the way your eyes glaze over, a lip taken between your teeth as you stare at the vein that leads to his cock, which is painfully hard and cherry red at the tip.
He doesnât comment on your lustful eyes, instead tracing his fingers down your body, until he reaches the hem of your baby pink, lacy top. It doesnât leave much to the imagination but Logan might break something if he doesnât see your tits in all their glory.
You get the message, leaning up and slowly pulling the fabric from your chest, your breasts and midsection on full display. If he hadnât already eaten you out twice, you wouldâve moved to cover your taut nipples. Instead, you grip the chain of his necklace and pull him back down with you, sighing when youâre chest to chest.
âDo you know how long Iâve wanted this?â He says, pecking your lips once, licking a stripe down your throat. Wetness coats both nipples as his tongue swirls over them. âDo you know how badly Iâve wanted to have you under me?â
You moan, nails digging into his shoulder blades at the fluttery feeling his lips bring, deep enough to elicit blood from his skin. Logan groans, head tipping back as his hips thrust down suddenly, the tip of his cock ramming into your clit.
âFuck, Logan.â Your hands span the expanse of his back, scratching each time he bumps your button just right. His jeans are still on, resting just below his thighs and the way he couldnât even get up to properly take them off makes you shudder.
Heâs rutting against you now, dick rubbing sensually over your panties and it dawns on you then that he hasnât even come yet, too preoccupied with taking care of you.
Determined, you slide one hand onto his asscheek, pushing him further into you, while your other grips his chin, pulling his mouth to yours in a slick, open-mouth kiss.
âCâmon Logan, fuck me, please.â
Logan turns into something animalistic thenâ flipping you over onto your stomach without warning, caging you between his arms. Your gasp is audible as he yanks your soaked panties to the side, before thrusting forward, and fucks his cock into you with one thrust.
âOh my god, fuck me, fuck me, fuck meââ the feel of Logan finally inside you has you absolutely fucking drunk on the feel of him.
âTryinâ to, baby.â He grits, arms flexing beside your head, fingers intertwined with yours as he sinks into you, inch by inch, until you were filled to the brim.
Loganâs body covers yours, lips pressing all over your shoulder blades to soothe the little whines you let out at how fucking full you feel. Itâs everything you wanted and moreâ you want to memorize the feel of him, every ridge and vein as he stuffs you.
âBaby,â he grunts, fingers flexing with yours as he stays still, for your sake. âSo fuckinâ tight, so fuckinâ wet.â
And itâs trueâ despite the fact that heâs huge, he slipped in easily because of the mess you created, a slick mix of your come and desire costing your slit.
âLogan, fuck me, please.â You speak, so sweetly, as if youâre not impaled by his cock right now.
With that, he slips out of you slowly, before fucking into you hard, deep. Then, he fucking ravishes youâ creating a steady, fast paced rhythm and fucking you dumb with his cock.
Your hair grows darker, hands glittering between his grip each time he slams into you, each time your cunt squeezes and pulses around him.
Completely cock drunk, your back arches, ass up and hips slamming back against his with your cheek pressed into the mattress as you sob.
Youâre so fucking needy that his own thighs become sticky and wet with your desire and Logan growls at the sight, fucking you even faster.
âYouâre mine.â Logan grunts, releasing your fingers in favor of gripping your hair and pulling you up until your back is pressing into his chest. âMy fuckinâ girl.â
âYours!â You whimper, tears rolling down your face. Your entire body is filled with pleasure, and you feel like you canât breathe with how overwhelmed you are, with how much euphoria you feel. âMâso close!â
âI know, honey, I know. Can feel you fuckinâ squeezinâ around me.â Logan moans out, pushing you back down into the mattress and finding purchase on your hips, pulling you back hard and quick. âGonna come all over me?â
You donât answer, instead crying out as you feel a sharp flash of pain on your asscheek, Loganâs hand swift and quick. The pain mixes into pleasure when he rubs at the red skin, pressing sweet kisses on your back.
He wishes you could see yourself right now; maybe then you would understand why heâs so intoxicated by you.
Your pretty body bent over, ass up and face in the sheets as whimpers tumble out. The lace that drove him crazy is yanked to the side, grazing his cock each time he drives deeper inside you. Youâre so fucking beautiful like this, he wants to keep you forever.
Sweet, whiny âuh,uhâsâ fill Loganâs ears as he speeds up, pulling you back up once more against his chest. He wants to be as close as fucking possible, the feel of your skin on his almost searing.
You turn your head back, lips seeking out his own. He kisses you, sucking at your lips as he continues to fuck you vigorously.
The fluttery feeling of your cunt squeezing around him suddenly sends him over the edgeâ low groans falling in your open mouth as hot, searing spurts of his come coat your walls.
Knowing that Logan finally gave into the temptation like youâd done all night, has you whining as your own orgasm surrounds your entire being.
âBabyââ Logan thrusted shallowly, riding your orgasms out as long as he can. If he could, heâd never leave this feeling behind. Seemingly, you agree as your nails dug into his forearms that hold you up, eyes squeezing shut at the overpowering bliss tingling everywhere. âI got you, itâs okay.â
âLogan, fuck!â It came out as a whine, your lips sucking lightly on his neck, body completely limp in his hold.
Youâve never been so incredibly sex-dazed in your life; from this point on, Logan has ruined you for anyone else.
Though, you hope there wonât be anyone else.
Logan kisses your head before untangling from you; a smirk dancing across his usually gruff features at the little whine you let out as he pulls out. He gently rolle you onto your back, laying your head gently on the pillows. Itâs such a stark difference to the rough way he fucked you minutes prior, but butterflies flutter around all the same.
You watch his eyes trail lower, landing on the mess between your thighs.
Logan is mesmerized by the sight; your pussy is all puffy and so fuckinâ wet with his come seeping out of your hole. Mindlessly, he lowers himself until heâs eye level with your sex. Without any warning, his fingers are back inside.
He ignores your hiss in favor of trying to push his come back inside, to keep you full of him. His eyes meet yours, watching as your chest rises as you observe him. Thereâs a glint in your eye that has his heart stuttering.
âI want to kiss you.â You whisper, soft and a little bashful, as if he didnât have his fingers inside you. You look too perfect, hair returning to its original color, eyes cloudy with unspoken words, a smile spread over your face.
How could he deny you when you look like that?
Logan kisses your clit once, twice, three times, enjoying the way you jolt, before removing his fingers.
With those same digits, he sticks them in his mouth, sucking the flavor of you both and humming. He can hear the way your heart picks up at his actions. He releases them with a loud âpopâ, before finally coming back to you.
He hovers over you, and like youâd done earlier, soft hands pull at the chain until his lips meet yours in a soft kiss. Logan pulls back, resting his head on yours as he matches your stare.
âHi.â You hum then, nose bumping his in the proximity.
âHi, baby.â Logan kisses your lips once more, before rolling beside you. You wouldâve whined at him if it werenât for the way he immediately pulls you onto his chest.
With your limbs tangled, a kiss pressed to your forehead, you think this could be heaven and if so, you never want to leave.
Itâs quiet for a momentâ the two of you content to listen to one anotherâs heartbeat, the breaths that fall from lips. Then, you break the silence, because of course you do.
âLogan?â
âHmm?â
âJust so you know, Iâm expecting you to take me out before you get me like this again.â Its muttered against his slick chest, where your head rests as you wrap yourself around the man like a koala.
A deep laugh fills the room, chest rumbling because what the fuck?
Heâs fucked you, with his mouth and cock, and youâre laying on him as his come seeps out of you and youâre demanding him to take you out?
He was going to in the first place, but he thinks itâs cute you decide for him.
Logan may be a man thatâs been alive for almost two centuries, practically immortal, but itâs completely possible youâll be the death of him.
#panties uh gone#I believe this was one#of the first Logan fics I read#truly one of the fithiest things Iâve read good lord#LOGAN IS SUCH A SLUT GAAAAAAA#pussy eating KING#fuck so possessive too Iâm đ©đ©đ©#godsending#logan fic#logan smut#fic recs
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On another plane of existence rn
-cravings.
cw: feral!logan, breeding kink, pervy!logan, marking, TA/ co-workers relationship, belly bulge, oral (fem receiving), gross!logan, squirting, male masturbation, spitting, slight praise kink, slight hair tugging, pet names, slightly grinding on abs? pantie play?
summary: logan's in a rut and only his sweet girl can help him.
a/n: so i pictured dofp!logan but x trilogy!logan also works! hope you enjoy <3 also also not proof read so sorry for any errors
"scott, have you seen logan?" your delicate voice fills the study as you pass by, looking for your mentor.
logan has been missing all day, which isn't the most unusual thing but it is odd that he said he would train with you today and yet, he's nowhere to be found.
"charles said he wasn't feeling well." scott replied, barely gazing up at you. "he's probably still in bed."
you nod, turning around to head upstairs and check on logan like any good friend would.
the floorboards creek under your light foot steps down the hall. charles, hank, and storm took the kids to a lab overnight to work on their final projects. the rest of the adult were either training or lesson planning. the wooden door glowed with golden light illuminating the rim, so warm and welcoming.
one knock turned into three and four. all of them unanswered, leaving you slightly alarmed. this wasn't like logan to ignore you.
âàŒâ§âË
meanwhile, beyond the wooden door, logan sat on his bed trying to get a grip on this feeling. it's happened before, the familiar warmth that spreads all over. a primal craving attempting to claw its way out of him.
normally, he can hide out until the rut is over but now it is different. now logan has his eyes on someone. not just someone though.
it's the girl he's been warned not to fall for. charles, jean, hank and scott have all told logan that he's not to make a move on you. the girl who's too pure for a big bad wolf like him. for once, he listened and steered clear of you, no matter how pretty you were.
until you signed up to be his teachers assistant.
now with the close proximity, logan is tortured by your scent. the sweet cherry he's become familiar with haunts his deepest thoughts. he could perfectly trace every outline on your body without even trying. honestly, he found it quite sickening how you've carved your spot in his mind.
next to him on the mattress are a pair of your panties from yesterday. he remembered seeing the slight flash of light blue from under your skirt when you dropped your pen in the hallway. there's a damp patch on them, calling his name in mocking tones.
"logan..?" your meek voice was barely audible behind the door. "can i please come in?"
a low growl hums in his chest at the sound of your voice. he wants nothing more than to let you inside and ravish you in the way he desires; but he doesn't want to scare you off.
"not now, sweetheart." he grunts almost as if he's in pain.
"a-are you okay?"
logan couldn't see you but he could picture your concerned face. scrunched eyebrows and wide bambi eyes, lips in a pout. god, he could just eat you up.
" 'm fine." his voice sounds rough, like a bark. he would never yell at you but he needed you to walk away because the feeling of his cock being suffocated in his jeans was killing him.
"alright." you whine. "see ya later then, lo."
soon enough he heard your footsteps down the hall, logan quickly strips himself of his black shirt, dark blue jeans and his boxers. without hesitation he reaches over to grab that panties he had taken from your hamper.
"fuck, smells so sweet." he groans, nose pressed against the soft soaked cotton as he tugs his throbbing cock. spreading the pearly beads of pre-cum.
with his senses clouded and a fire ignited in him, he kitten licks the patch, letting your slick dance on his tongue. picturing your legs wrapped around his head, how your tight hole would take his tongue or his fingers and the little noises that would escape you.
"that's my sweet pussy. all mine." logan mumbles possessively under his breath before spitting into the material and bringing it to his cock, using it to jerk off.
as his orgasm approaches, the fire intensifies; sweat dripping down his temples the faster his hand moves. abs also dripping in sweat as his chest rapidly moves up and down. mind swarmed with all the positions logan wants to put you in.
"s-shit." logan curses, clenching his teeth as his vision blurs and euphoria washes over him. ropes of cum spill all over his abs and happy trail, creating a sticky messy.
left alone and panting, covered in his release, logan's still unsatisfied. he knew there was only one thing that could fix this.
âàŒâ§âË
it's near midnight when you finally hear logan leave his room. heavy boots heading towards the stairs, right by your room.
"where are you going, lo?" you ask, peaking out of your bedroom to catch him. he stops but doesn't acknowledge you. "gonna leave me here all alone?"
logan could've sworn that you would be asleep at this hour and he could leave to find some woman at the bar to help with his... situation.
"scott's around here somewhere." he dryly replies, trying to avoid your gaze.
"he left a few hours ago." you mumble, nervously messing with the bottom of your nightgown.
something was off about logan; you just couldn't figure out what it was. he wouldn't even look at you. had you done something wrong? was he upset with you? why was he avoiding you?
"i-is everything alright?" you ask, worried for the answer.
logan take a minute to respond, scratching the scruff on his face while he thinks. just because he looks strong doesn't mean he is internally. logan found his weakness in you. a woman he's known for a little over a year and yet you could bring him to his knees if you so pleased.
suddenly, logan turns and looks at you. he sucks in his breath sharply when he saw you dressed in a cute tiny white nightgown. logan was positive that you were the closest he will ever get to meeting an angel.
the material ends high up on your thighs and he swears that in this light he can see the outline of your nipples, watching how they pebble from the cool air in the hallway.
"it's just cravings." he finally answers, tearing his eyes off of your pretty shape.
the moment logan makes eye contact with you, you notice how the color changed from a light hazel to bordering black. he looked hungry. you've heard of this before, a feral state that mutants like him enter every six months or so and if you knew better, you would run.
"anything i can help you with?" you ask, batting your long lashes up at him.
"it's real dirty work, princess." logan warns, restraining himself from jumping at the opportunity.
"i don't mind." you tell him. in that moment, a familiar aroma hits him. "i wanna help you, logan."
normally, logan wouldn't let things get this far. sure, the two of you have made sly flirty comments in the past but it's never gone past just words.
he watches you walk back into your room, keeping the door open for him.
âàŒâ§âË
your bedroom was damn near exactly how logan pictured it. soft earth toned colors, pretty sheets, messy desk with all the paperwork you two do together. most importantly, it smelled like you. not your perfume or whatever candle you lit earlier. this was different.
"logan..." your voice pulls him back to reality. "tell me what you want me to do."
so considerate. logan thinks to himself as he watches you sit with your knees against the mattress and look up at him like a dog looking at its owner, waiting for an order.
without a warning, logan crashes his lips against yours. it hot and messy how he almost swallows you whole. both of you have waited forever for this moment.
logan lays you flat on the mattress, not breaking the kiss. your teeth bite down on his bottom lip at the small thud. you go to whisper an apology but it's covered by logan's loud groaning.
he take this opportunity to grind against you, only covered in a pair of matching white panties. if he was in a clearer head space, he would've thought this was planned.
"u-uh, please." you whimper against his lips, lifting your hips a little to meet his.
it's quite cute how pathetic you look right now. struggling for more. logan latches his lips to your neck, leaving dark maroon bites behind as he moves further south.
at the waistband of your panties, logan nips at the skin on your hipbone, leaving behind a pretty mark to match the others. he craved to be closer to you. pressing his nose into the wet patch and inhaling sharply, grunting at your essence.
a loud squeal falls from your lips as you lazily try to push him away. too embarrassed by the lewd action. nonetheless, logan refuses to move until he's had enough. licking over the cotton and making out with your covered cunt.
"l-logan!" you gasp as he flips you over on your belly with your ass in the air.
the sound of the material ripping fills the room. this was better than logan could've imagined. the sight of your throbbing cunt as it cries for his attention, and only his.
"prettiest fuckin' pussy i've ever seen." he marvels under his breath. "gonna let me use it how i please, princess?"
"mhm." you nod, trying to look back at him. "it's yours, lo."
your words send him on a spiral, he sinks you down on his tongue so he can fuck you at his pace. exploring your walls and reveling in your taste. no dessert in the world could compare to you.
logan grinds against your mattress, desperately seeking relief. not that he's complaining. he's more than happy with his position; and so are you.
there will be bruises on your hips tomorrow, without a doubt because of how tightly logan's gripping your hips. keeping you right where he wants you to be.
"n-need more, please." you moan, fists balling up the sheets.
"what a greedy fuckin' baby." logan says, pulling off of a second to replace his tongue with two thick fingers, stretching you out for him.
pretty little 'uh, uh, uh's' spill from your lips every time you bounce back on logan's fingers. he's hypnotized by the way you manage to coat his finger with your slick. dripping down his palm and onto your sheets.
"look 'atcha, sweetheart." he mutters, doubtful that you can hear him over the obscene sounds coming from your pussy. "struggling to take my fingers. gotta stretch ya' for my cock. think you can take it?"
"mhm!" you answer, feeling a trail of kisses on the back of your thighs as logan speeds up his thrusts, locating your sweet spot with ease.
there's a warmth of pleasure that washes over you. it's different than anything else you've experienced. before you could even figure it out, you to gush all over logan's hand and the sheets.
"she's squeezing me so damn tight." he growls, watching as your pussy spasms from overstimulation, practically knocking the wind out of you. logan has to fight off cumming in his jeans as he licks up your release.
once logan allows you to catch your breath, you turn and say, "i've never um, never done that before."
"fuck." logan curses, smacking his palm down on your ass. "it won't be the last time tonight."
the sound of logan undoing his belt echos in the room. lining the head up to your entrance and slowly sinking into you. your eyes roll back into your head at the stretch. similar to a cat, you arch your back and purr at the feeling.
"f-feel so full." you moan as he picks up his pace.
"that's it, princess." he grunts, moving his hand down your back and wrapping it into your hair. "tell me how good it feels."
and you don't waste a single second to do so.
"you're s-so big, can feel you e-everywhere." you reply in between heavy breaths.
the hand wrapped in your hair tugs you forward so your back is against his chest. with his lips pressed against your ear, he mutters, "everywhere, huh?"
you nod, digging your nails into his thighs with each thrust. his other hand travels from your breast to your lower torso underneath the nightgown. your eyes shoot open as soon as he lightly pushes down.
"can you feel me right here?" he asks, slowing down his strokes for you to focus.
when you don't respond right away, the hand in your hair moves to your jaw, gripping it and angling your gaze down to the large bulge in your belly. you always knew logan was larger than the average man but you didn't even think this was possible.
"y-yes!" you whimper loudly, needing him to go faster.
logan's not religious by any means but in that moment, he wishes he could personally thank god for everyone being gone tonight. he can't imagine having to muffle your little moans right now while he starts pounding back into you.
"gimme kiss, please?" you whisper in between the lewd wet smacks of his heavy balls against your ass.
how could logan turn down his sweet girl? even while being ruined, you still managed to use your manners.
the two of you sloppily make out, exploring each other. he swallows all the whimpers you let out against his lips. except the one from when logan pulls back.
"what are youâ?"
"open your mouth and stick out your tongue for me." logan demanded, staring down at you like a feral animal.
you obey, opening up for him like he asks. logan spits on top your tongue, feeling your tight cunt flutter around him. clenching at the taste of him.
"swallow." he says, watching you do so. "what a good girl."
"i'm so f-fucking close, lo." your head falls back against his shoulder as your vision turns white, stars behind your eye lids.
"me too." logan warns. " 'ya gonna let me fill you up, sweetheart? bet you wanna be full of me, to carry my seed? isn't that right?"
he knows you're too far gone, babbling incoherent sentences and soft pleas. the tiny, "mhm" and head nod give him the okay to cum inside you.
"s-shit!" he curses. "you're so tight, practically suffocating me, baby."
his orgasm triggers another for you, milking him until both of you are struggling for air. the room felt like the inside of a sauna and reeks of sex.
"got another one in you, pretty girl?" logan asks, slowly pulling out of you.
"y-yeah." you answer, letting him move you how he wanted.
logan slips your nightgown off of you and lays you down on your back again. this time fully taking in your form. every curve, dimple and scar. he makes sure to pay your breasts some attention, taking one in his mouth and massages the other, pinching and rolling your nipple until your whining. desperately you attempt to rub your pussy against his abs, gaining very little friction from it.
if he wasn't in this rut, he would've taken more time to appreciate this. next time he will.
you open up for him again and he slips in with ease. logan brings your thighs to your chest, folding you in half.
"harder, please." you beg, staring up at him with those wide eyes that he's a sucker for.
"i don't want to hurt you, baby." he grunts, trying to restrain himself.
"i can take it, lo." you tell him, stroking his cheek with your much smaller thumb. "i know you need it right now."
instead of answering with words, logan bends down and kisses you in a more tender way than before. as soon as he picks up his thrusts, you tug softly at his locks, making his hips stir and lose rhythm for a second.
"you like it rough, don't 'ya, princess?" he grunts in your neck while his thumb moves to rub circles on your clit. "fuck, my cum is just spilling out of you."
a tear rolls down your cheek, only further encouraging logan. licking up the salty tear before it falls off your skin. never in your life have you felt so dirty.
"please, need to feel you logan." you whimper and he knows exactly what you mean.
"don't worry, baby. i'm close." he says, feeling you flutter around him.
logan's gaze stays locked on where the two of you are connected, watching him slide in and out of you. almost drooling at the image of his cock in your stomach.
within minutes, you're soaking his cock like you did his fingers. slick landing all over logan's sculpted torso. your fingers gather some before bringing them to his lips, letting him lick them clean.
a loud animalistic growl signals his release, painting your walls again for the second time tonight.
both of you lay stuck together. neither ready to let go of each other just yet. on the floor, you notice something light blue peaking out of the back pocket of his discarded jeans.
"so that's where my panties went?" you giggle, capturing logan's attention.
"yeah..." his voice raspy and deeper than usual. "sorry 'bout that, sweetheart."
"it's okay." you reply. "but next time that you get these 'cravings', come to me and i'll help yâ"
logan cuts you off on with the rock of his hips and the wet slosh of your ruined cunt. before you can even moan, he's grabbed your white panties next to you and shoves them in your mouth.
fuck, he should've come to you sooner.
â tags: @hazydespair @itsmemuffy @wolvndmouth @nightingale-slayer @melday0105 @collector-of-furby-furs @solistarrs @atomicmystery @milfsarefineashell @ohfourgotten @keerygal @shewolverinesworld @tezooks @spookysquids @llorentezete @actuallybridgetjones @planetxella @silversprings-mp3 @coocoocachewgotscrewed @lethallyprotected @laweona150 @sturnsvoid @emoevanafton @slowlikehoneyyy @ginnylupin @omnivirgo @shiv-r @buckyssugarchick @ayamenimthiriel @balariie @ssloveslogan @stabbedfawn @dxddyspup @leggomiegg0
#I HAVE A TERRIBLE SPIT FIXIATION#so anytime spit in this context is mentioned#IMMEDIATELY *****#also Iâm not super big into the ABO stuff so I like when ruts are strictly just like this#very much into THAT#also yeah corruption kink is always a PLUS EHEJDHDJXH#this was divine thank you#logan smut#logan fic#fic recs
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