#gently beeping.......

[aeroblossom]

narcissus without water; sou hiyori

i wasn't gonna post this here because i really reaaally hate it but ehhh fuck it we ball. 3-1 unused intro spoilers. does that even count. kanna route implied.

In the aftermath is cold. Icy, chilling cold. The immense rush of the impact lasted but a moment. Time is a fleeting thing for all who live, whether the hearts beating in their chests are made of muscle, or of metal; whether the circuits powering them and every moment of madness, every second of passion, every victory and every mistake, are made of grey matter, or of a network of microscopic transistors.

The merciless weapon, which had moments ago pierced through his torso, now meets him eye to eye. As if a deeply loyal animal that was too loved to know when to retract its claws, destroying everything in its path to be close to the one it owes its devotion to. Through flickering sparks in one eye, and slowly blurring vision in the other, he stares. He smells blood. The sight of it would not bother him in the slightest had it been someone else it was coming out of. But when you've lived as he has, blood seeping from a wound feels unnatural. And he'd started to believe he was finally rid of the last vestiges of his humanity. Red drips down the side of his face, from the grey matter in his skull that still held proof of something human. The emotion centers of his brain were dysfunctional since he came into the world. So really, it matters little to him. He can barely even feel the pain.

The thing that upsets him more is the red on his chest. It doesn't trickle down from his crown, but spurts from the gaping wound in his center. Sparks fire in all directions, somewhere in his ears he hears a low ringing of both his organic bodily systems as well as mechanical ones. The gears cry emergency, the cells cry of death. A realization supplied by his mechanical logic center creeps slowly into the back of his head, surrounding him fully until he submerges in acceptance. He has little time left.

Eyes the color of sea glass stare at nothing in particular, yet keep darting about, aimless, anxious perhaps, but with unmistakable defeat in them. Little light penetrates the coffin, brought in only by the gaping hole created by the drill. It illuminates a straight stripe across his now ruined body, one bright seafoam gaze and tousled mess of green last in the light's path. Dust particles shimmer like gold specks, his contemplative eyes fixating on their fluttering dance.

He hears distant voices, he thinks, if his audio faculties are even functioning by now. Crying - pained voices, happy voices. Meister's scrawny tone, and determined words from the young girl with copper hair. They must be huddling together right now. Allies. Cooperates. A team spirit reignited.

Petty emotion lurches inside him, wanting to shatter that nonsensical resolve with his own hands. He knows how to. Even now, it would not take much -

No.

It's over.

Defeat weighs heavier than how it first felt to have your flesh replaced by porcelain. It's heavier than the volume of crimson flowing from the wound in his chest. Not that he has needed to breathe in a long time, but here, now, he suddenly feels breathless.

Silence is the mind's curtain call. Contemplation weaves its way through his thoughts, thoughts that will soon fade. Thoughts that are firing wildly due to the vast amount of information being processed in these final moments, alongside a slow system shutdown.

It's a bit like he's dreaming with his eyes open, if you think about it like that.

Ah. He's wasted so much energy in meaningless thoughts. Not that it truly mattered at this point. Right... where had he gone wrong?

Hiyori, Sou. Assumed age, twenty. An easily recognizable mop of green hair, tied down at the ends into a neat rattail that didn't match how the rest of his hair looked. The nickname they gave him was his namesake hair. Tall, fairly lithe. Eyes a deeper colour than the hair, like pure, vibrant jade. Plainly, more than half of him was doll, and the vestiges human. What were once the tender hands of a real human are now porcelain and alabaster. Gears tick inside the system, rhythmic, he was a mechanical harmony. Occasionally interrupted by remnant humanity.

Living, breathing red pumped from his heart, no matter how much he'd separated himself from flesh and blood. The proximity of that living heart to electrical equipment gave him a quicker heartbeat than most. The proof of this regnant humanness now bled and ripped itself apart. He thinks he feels a bit of pain. This is probably the only physical pain he's felt since the last time he had real hands.

But it's not what he'd thought it'd be like. It does hurt, it hurts so much. Yet something else hurts a little more, something that rises from a faulty limbic system and creeps down in physical form to become surging pain in his core.

He observes, silently, the ache surge in intensity as the voices continue to speak. Words, thoughts, emotion, memory rapid fires in his mind. He tries to recall the path he'd taken so far, wanting to make out what error he had made to make him up end like this. This would not do, after all.

But no matter how he tries to focus on this endeavor, a recurring feeling scratches inside him. A sharp pain, tearing him into two. He feels he recognizes it as something from impossibly long ago. Suddenly, he realizes, in that silent grave of his, that he was entirely alone in this death. His heartbeat begins to ring into his ears alongside the periodic beeping of his system going into overdrive.

System warnings, words ringing in his head, and the wildly pounding heart, all converge like oil and paint into a wretched musica humana.

It's really stupid. Hilarious, in fact.

He wasn't human. He hadn't been so for a considerably long time, as far as himself was concerned. Death... to him, wasn't it trivial? An infinite amount of copies of himself can be made. It's meaningless, however many times he dies.

...And yet, here he was.

Does Hiyori Sou feel? Does he regret? Does he hurt?

Does this largely doll, barely human, ever find himself lonely?

In the moments that follow, the emotion that grips him next is sheer horror. At not just these intrusive questions, but his body's physical reaction to it.

Something clouds his vision much more heavily than before. What little he could see before him twists into an oil painting, unrecognizable, an intense pain radiates inside his neck, like strangulation. And then he heaves a sigh as a singular, pearlescent tear streams down his face.

He can hear Meister's scratchy voice from a while ago, before any of this. Before all of this.

So you can cry too.

He had said, as Hiyori leaned against his screen and shed tears at the sight before him. Him, of all people, mourning - it was, of course, an unbelievable sight. At the time, he had found it jestly insulting that Meister would imply he couldn't cry or feel such emotion. So what makes this different? Why does it feel so different?

Ah, it really does feel like the entire world is making a mockery out of him. But perhaps this is a fitting end for himself. Villain he was born, villain he will die.

Death holds little meaning to someone like him.

It's almost time. His thoughts begin to slow down to a grinding halt.

He faintly registers some shifting sounds. The coffin he resided in is being laid flat on the ground. Will it be opened next? Will they see him like this?

A light slam signals to him that the coffin has been taken down. The drill carefully withdraws, now leaving only his mauled body behind. The sound of dust and rocks crumbling, and then light filters into the depths. Though it gets brighter and brighter, he finds his world only becoming darker.

Meister is the one lifting the lid. He has it propped up with one hand, the other on his knee as he knelt down, chewing on a cigarette, inspecting what he was seeing with a careful, suspicious, and yet rather surprised expression. Tia Safalin stands beside him, one hand on her chest and the other seemingly reaching out to touch him in the coffin. He knows hearing is beyond him when he sees the anxious woman mouth his name, when he watches them talk amongst themselves, and can't make out any of it. It's probably too late to worry about what it could be.

The crying doll leans down, placing one hand to his face. As if the plaster skin wasn't stiff enough, he finds himself turning into what may as well be stone. She inspects his head wound. He can't move his eyes anymore to follow her actions, but he can still vaguely feel them. The small hand moves down slowly, tracing a line across his face and down his chest, analytic. She shakes her head with a sigh upon the damage to his torso.

It's really over for him, isn't it?

Her finger ghosts its way back up, this time lingering on his face. He notices the slight dumbfoundedness in her expression, pressing slightly to make sure she was seeing right - the tear stains on his cheek. He wants to smile, all of a sudden, but he no longer can.

As she concludes her inspection and stands up, hiding her expression with that stupendous hat, he faintly wonders if she's crying too. Is she crying for him? No... that would be ridiculous. There wasn't anyone left who could cry for him. In death as he was in life, alone.

Mere moments remain for him, and he wonders, for the final time - should he have led a different life, would there be comrades by his side? Does there exist a world in which Hiyori Sou, too, has allies?

Vibrant seafoam eyes darken like a wilting flower, unable to make out anything clearly, shedding one final tear.

[mothorcus]

theyre prolly having the fattest bestest sleep of their life

[mothcrumbs]

Hey look at this cool Rainbow Scarab specimen I found a while back

LITTLE BABY,,,,, LOOK AT ITS TINY BABY GRIPPYCLAWS,,

[ijustwantasideblogokay]

Crying sopping wet jesse is such a mood

[robotsafari]

“Darkness is inside everybody… nothing to be ashamed of.”

[ziipzeepzop-eez]

ZEEBIEEEE!!!! (≧∇≦)ﾉ (≧∇≦)ﾉ (≧∇≦)ﾉ

zib zib ziib zib zbibzizbibzibz.....

KIIIITTTYYYYYYYYYYYY!!! \⁠(⁠๑⁠╹⁠◡⁠╹⁠๑⁠)⁠ﾉ⁠♬♪⁠ ⁠\⁠(⁠^⁠ω⁠^⁠\⁠ ⁠)

kitty kitty tangeriney bo bitty banana fana funfetti, fee fi fo fitty, KITTY! ✨😸💫🧡 pspspspspsspsssspspss.....

[catilinas]

whatever i did to fuck up my thumb has either got way better OR isn’t affected by me doing embroidery 👍👍👍 hand quilting is still a terrible idea but i am finally sewing Leg onto my jeans

[polygonal-trees]

how Prowl is handled could make or break EarthSpark for me ngl

[linuxealcipher]

Rip to the woman who came to Wendy's, trying to order a single large chocolate frosty, only to be traumatized by me screaming very angrily

"You are full of lies"

As soon as she pulled up to order.

[cybergothvox]

I am on my knees begging people to stop using this post about not policing the way people talk about being otherkin as an excuse to police the way people talk about being otherkin. This was not meant to be a PSA to not say Kinnie or use Kin as a verb. You should be aware that some people may think thats a red flag for KFF and you may want to include somewhere that you are not KFF if you like these terms. But theres literally nothing wrong with the terms themselves. KFF are bad because of what they do, not how they talk.

You can have intra community debates on what language makes the most sense but ultimately it is a personal choice. You can give histories of terms and why you think some should or should not be used but you cannot be controlling how other people talk. KFF are bad because they are not otherkin and spread misinformation about what it is to be otherkin, claim to have a kin safe space but then turn around and say anyone who identifies *as* their kintype (which is the definition) is delusional, while also being ableist to people who are delusional by also spreading misinformation about what delusion is and invalidating alterhumans who are alterhuman because of delusion (which is a valid reason).

There is a long history of harm KFF have done but its not actually about using kin as a verb or saying kinnie. Plenty of real otherkin do that. and its fine. its fine if that makes you have a moment of 'wait, are you kff?' but like. you can spend a little bit talking to them or investigating how they talk about being kin or just not engage you do not need to be going after people telling them they cant say certain words or that they arent really kin.

We need to rebuild our community from the damadge KFF have done and if we come at people with this constant correcting them you have to speak perfectly like the in group to be accepted its going to quickly make our community just about discourse which is exactly what KFF caused and why our community fell apart. It makes us unwelcoming to newcomers and makes it feel like there is a bunch of rules in the space to be accepted when that is not the atmosphere we want to build a community. We need to encourage people to talk about all their unique experiences, to write essays and make memes or casual posts about what it is like to be their kintype, and people are NOT going to feel safe to do that if the second they misspeak they have a hundred folk jumping down their throat.

'I kin x' is less clunky linguistically and we need to stop assuming people are kff just because they use kin as a verb. Its a very natural way to say it and I struggle to phrase it in other ways. In general people need to stop assuming that red flags for kff (such as kin as a verb, and ranking how much they feel their kintypes, saying kinnie) and assuming they definitely are kff. Languages and practices started by kff have been picked up by genuine otherkin especially younger ones who come into the community and dont know how to tell otherkin from kff. They still identify as their kintypes even if they copy kff practices.

People dont come into the community with a community history degree.

[pink-spaceturtle5]

Local man suffering for his cool and rad bodily choices (I got my nostril pierced yesterday and I'm facing the natural consequences of baby's first facial piercing)

[mothcrumbs]

bug image for the dragon

ouh,,so spots,,., ,

[suksatoru]

"if you can hear me, chosen one, give me your strongest kick."

you lift your gaze from the book page pinched between your fingers and offer satoru an unimpressed glare. as scolding as you try to appear, there's a hint of a smile tugging your lips upward at his ridiculously adorable antics.

"i think our princess might be napping," he hums, pressing a flurry of kisses over the swell of your stomach as you squirm under his touch, wiggling your toes.

"you're going to be late, satoru! weren't you supposed to leave fifteen minutes ago?"

"hahh?"

he drops his face back onto your stomach gently, sighing happily as his hand glides over the soft bump. you decide to let him lie with you for a little while longer—the soft smile etched onto his face was far too precious to disturb.

"i'll text nanami and let him know you'll be a bit late to the mission, okay?" you say softly, carding a hand through his platinum locks as he hums softly, lashes fluttering close.

satoru talked to the baby in your belly quite often—even going as far as having full-on conversations with her. there had been countless nights where you stirred awake only to hear his silky sweet voice muffled against your stomach, all while he gazed starry eyed at the gentle curve of your stomach in front of him.

satoru's dearest dream had always been to have a family. it was a quiet truth he wouldn't ever dare to speak into existence because it didn't seem possible in any universe—but somehow, he stumbled upon a way. and now he gets to spend his evenings like this with you.

satoru's boundless affection during your pregnancy will forever be something you would be grateful for. the fondest thing you would look back on would have to be the endless amount of baby clothes he got—satoru had even purchased a matching set of onesies for all three of you to wear. typical satoru. he was adamant about making sure the three of you would have a bunch of pictures together as a family so he'd be able to send everyone he knew those corny holiday cards he always saw on tv—the only reason you remember that moment from so long ago right now is because of the phone call you received.

"hello?" you speak in a hushed tone, rocking the ivory haired baby in the crib next to you gently as you hold your phone between your cheek and shoulder.

"hello! is this mrs. gojo? i'm calling to confirm your family photoshoot scheduled for next week. it's the two hour session. it looks like you scheduled it a little over a year ago?" her voice comes to life through the phone, and your rocking slows to a stop.

"oh," is all you can manage at first.

you hear the sound of her typing come to a slow stop as she waits for your response. you resume rocking your daughter's crib before answering.

"i'm sorry, but it seems like my husband forgot to cancel the appointment."

she goes on a bit of a tangent, gently scolding you because the company was extremely busy with numerous photoshoots and you had canceled so last minute—but she promised to get it fixed and have the money refunded as soon as possible.

the line beeps quietly when you drop the call, and your hand feels perpetually numb as you drop your phone into your lap.

you rub at the sting that blinds your eyes a second later before rising on wobbly legs, not checking if your baby is asleep as you stumble towards your bedroom's balcony door and slide it open. you tuck your knees under you on the ground and rest your head against the railing, allowing the cool metal to be pressed against your cheek as you take a steadying breath.

you were nearing the one year anniversary of satoru's death and, quite stupidly at that, thought you'd be in a better condition by now. but his presence was irreplaceable—and it was moments like this where you were reminded how painful it was to lose your soulmate in the blink of an eye.

the night air kisses your cheek, whipping your hair around gently as it falls over your eyes—and the sensation is uncannily familiar to the way satoru's slender fingers would play with your hair and tickle your cheek whenever he was in a particularly playful mood.

the night traffic flowing beneath you fades to nothing as the wind whirls around you—but, it felt like if you closed your eyes hard enough, strained your ears as much as possible—then maybe you could make yourself believe that the whistling wind whizzing past your ear was satoru's voice lulling the ache in your chest away instead.

[invoncible]

BLUFF ✰ mark grayson & mohawk mark w/ childhood bsf! fem! reader cw. canon compliant themes (ex. distress)

SUMMARY. when mohawk mark doesn't find debbie at his childhood home, he goes after the next best thing: you. he thinks you're together in this world too, and when he realizes you're not... well, how could he possibly give up such a perfect opportunity? / wc. 6k oops

— i started this to train my writing skills but it got out of hand T-T anyways enjoy <3

You didn't even notice your phone ringing. It must've been the third time it buzzed on your kitchen counter but for the life of you, you could not look away from the news. Invincible was laying waste to all the major cities of the globe, seemingly unprovoked.

Your breath caught when the news broke to process new information, senses finally tuning into the whirring behind you. You swiped your phone, barely glancing at the caller ID before answering.

"Hel—"

"Y/N, thank goodness." Debbie gasped on the other end.

You stood rigid. You've known Debbie your whole life. You and Mark were inseparable growing up—it was a rare occurrence to hear her so unnerved. Her unease was contagious, zapping through the wireless connection and taking root in your conscience.

"Are—" You cleared your throat, clutching the phone tighter. You walked over to the window, dragging down the blinds with two fingers and peeking outside. "Are you okay? You sound—"

"Fine, I'm fine." A shaky exhale was what you were met with, along with the sounds of a car starting up. "Honey, have you seen the news? You need to stay safe." A pause followed, too long to be natural. "Do you have anywhere else to go?"

You scrunched your brows in confusion. "Um... no, I don't. But from what they're saying on the news, the Invincibles are only targeting big cities."

"Listen. If you stay there—" Debbie's line crackled as you assumed she was driving away, far away from the neighborhood and fast. “—‘ll come for you.”

“No, you don’t have to do that. I've got my car if something goes wrong.” You pulled away from your phone, glancing at the call screen when you got no response. "Hello?"

"In light of new footage, we have information that—"

The TV fizzled out next, the low drone of cable replacing rowdy chatter of the newsroom. A low-pixel message of NO SIGNAL floated around the screen, bouncing off the edges.

You stared at yourself in the black reflection, wishing it would flip on again so you weren't alone with your thoughts. The paranoia was setting in... you could hear your heartbeat in your ears.

“Mark is—”

beeeeeep.

"Hello?" You whispered over the phone, desperate for Debbie's familiar comfort. “...Debbie? Mark is what?”

A rhythmic beeeep beep met your ears instead. You glanced at your phone once again—CALL FAILED.

"Ohhhkay." You muttered under your breath. This is fine, you soothed yourself.

The electricity in your house died out, gently setting you into darkness. With the TV signal lost and your phone disconnected, the cell towers and power grid were probably down.

This is fine. As long as you stayed inside, you'd be fine.

You pulled down the blinds once more, letting a shred of the sunset glow into your home. Your gaze travelled to Mark's house; across the street, a couple houses down. So easily accessible yet so distant at the same time.

You and Mark were attached at the hip for seventeen years—your entire lives. Separation should have felt strange. But just two years since growing apart, his absence almost felt... normal.

Almost like he was never there to begin with.

You went off to university. You assumed he did, too, but got more reliable intel when you connected with William. He shared that they both got into Upstate, as well as his girlfriend, Amber.

Girlfriend?

You remember the pause you took to process that information—the moment you realized he was moving forward while you remained where he left you. Facing the reality that you were no longer a part of his life.

"Stop fidgeting," You whispered with a little chuckle. "It's high school, not the end of the world."

"High school is where things start to happen." Mark whined as he pulled down the hem of his sweater. "Grades matter, who you hang out with matters, girls matter."

"Uh-huh."

"You think I would make a good jock?"

"You've got the look for it."

"Dumb?"

"Yes."

Mark rolled his eyes, a smile playing on his lips as you both walked up the steps to the next phase of your life. "That's not very nice."

"You can be anything you want, Mark." You groaned, deciding to be encouraging. "Literally. You're good at everything. You'll fit in wherever you want to."

"Okay. Too nice." He huffed and bumped into your side. "But thanks. I just..."

Your brows furrowed in concern when his head dipped, distress sneaking its way through his cheerful disposition.

"Stuff's supposed to happen this year. Big stuff." He was mumbling, unfocused like he regretted taking the conversation this direction to begin with. "I don't want to mess this up."

You wanted to tell him high school wasn't that deep. There were complete losers that all turned out just fine. Something about his expression, though... it was heavy.

You weren't sure what he was talking about, but you knew what he needed. You always did. "Whatever stuff you're talking about... it's gonna work out. You'll take it one step at a time just like you always have, and you have your parents at your side.... William, me."

He offered you a little smile. "We'll do this together?" He held out his pinky finger.

You giggle and interlocked yours with his. "Together."

He broke that promise pretty quickly. Different classes were the first step apart. From there, it only got harder to see each other.

Family stuff was Mark's favorite excuse—vaguely explaining family stuff had become 90% of your conversations. You figured he didn't want to tell you whatever he was really going through, which was fine. It hurt, but it was fine.

Before you knew it, you stopped talking altogether. You didn't think much of it at first—you were approaching adulthood, obviously you were going to get busy. You just thought you'd get busy together. You didn't even know what he was up to these days.

You drew back from the blinds with a long sigh, hoping that Debbie and Mark were safe. Wherever they were.

You trudged down into the basement to turn the generator on. The wooden stairs of the unfinished space crrrrrreaked under your feet. You waved away the dust, pounding your chest to cough the particles that snuck their way into your airway.

It was cooler down here, much darker without the ambient lighting of the sunset above. With your trusty phone flashlight, you managed to maneuver your way through the storage buckets and old boxes to the backup generator.

You grunted trying to pull the lever down. "Shit..." you cursed in disgust, feeling the grime and dust underneath your palm. i want electricity i want electricity, you repeated over and over to block out the icky sensation.

"Need some help?"

"Ah—!" you shrieked, spinning around in a panic. Your flashlight illuminated the figure in front of you, shadowed by the soft light of open door upstairs. "What—" who—?!

"Damn. Relax."

Vaulting over your initial dread, you grabbed something—a wrench or a hammer, you didn’t know, you didn't care—and swung it with all your might.

They caught it in their fist. Your breath shriveled up in your throat at how stiff they were, intercepting your attack without even budging. Their fingers curled tight around the tool and yanked you close.

"tsk, tsk," Their low voice chuckled. "Thought you'd be happy to see me, pretty girl."

You shone your light into the intruder's face, the tension in your body dissipating when you recognized—

"...Mark?" You squinted in the darkness, the flashlight just barely illuminating his face in a ghastly glow. "Wha... what are you doing here?" You huffed.

Blood was pumping through your system, telling you to get ready to run. Your nerves wouldn't calm their tingle even though you realized it was just Mark. Cuz it was Mark, right?

"Checking on you."

"Where's your mom?"

"Smart enough to leave home."

"Oh, yeah. She called. I thought you'd be with her..." You trailed off, frowning when you heard him laughing. "What?"

"Nothing." He hummed. "You're just so..."

"What?"

"Nothing, nothing."

"Okay..." You gave him a weird look. Then your brain caught up to you: Pretty girl? "Aren't you dating Amber?"

He took a moment to think, tossing the wrench aside and grabbing your wrist in his hand instead. "Am I?"

You pursed your lips, eyes narrowing. "I'm... asking you?"

He shrugged. "I wouldn't know."

"What—" You exhaled, brows knitted in confusion. You tried to pull away but he held firm; for every step back, he followed. "Mark, wait—"

Your phone clattered to the ground, the ray of light spinning chaotically through the darkness before it fell on its back.

"I missed you." He murmured lowly, almost reverent in the way he boxed you against the cold generator. "Shhh..." He calmed your trembling frame with his strong arms (when'd he get so strong?) wrapped around your shoulders.

He burrowed his nose in your hair. "It's me, bunny. Why're you so scared?"

This isn't Mark. Your heart pounded at your chest, eyes frozen and piercing into the darkness over his shoulder—Wake up, dumbass. This isn't Mark.

When your tremors refused to quiet, he pulled back with what you hoped was concern. That's when you saw his hair...

"Is that..." You whispered. The soft light from the main floor was fading, but reflected off the shiny sides of Mark's head. "Are you bald?"

What was he doing in the two years since you saw each other?

"Aw..." He laughed heartily, leaning further towards you and flattening his palms over the top of the generator. "Not quite."

He leaned to your side, breath fanning over the shell of your ear as he continued to snicker to himself softly. He grabbed the lever of the generator and shoved it down.

Your body jostled into his firm chest as it sprung to life. It went clank-clank-clank-clank, pumping electricity back into your home. You heard the melodic trills from upstairs as devices booted up again.

The light in the basement flipped back on. It didn't reach you. Mark towered over you and kept you in shadow. But you could see him—rather, who he wasn't.

"What?" Mohawk Mark grinned down at you, sadistic and teasing. "Not who you were expecting?"

No, not who you were expecting. He looked like Mark, sounded like Mark, felt like Mark... But your Mark had a kind face.

"You're not..."

"Nope."

You felt the heat drain from your body as you simply stared up at him, wide-eyed. Run. Where? Why the fuck was he dressed like ... Invincible...

A connection snapped together in your head, synapses clicking together like legos. Oh. Invincible. Everything made sense now, and you felt a little stupid for not figuring it out sooner.

And now one of those murderous variants you saw on the news was in your home.

"You're really out of it, huh?" He frowned, waving a gloved hand in front of your face. He sighed and looked away, "I thought you'd—"

You had the itch to burst into a sprint. You snatched your phone off the floor and ducked under his arm, skipping stairs to the main floor. Car. Keys? Where the fuck did you put them?

A shuddered whimper tumbled off your lips. You felt helpless, mind racing with too many things at once to pick one task and get out of there. You snatched your purse from the sofa, rifling through it to make sure your keys were inside before going outside.

"Come on, come on," You whispered, out of breath.

"Don't run from me, Y/N," Mohawk Mark sang teasingly, drawing out the last syllable of your name. "Hey, I'm just playing with you."

You screamed anyway, the sound harsh and high-pitched. He pouted, hand firmly around your arm to prevent you from breaking away.

"C'mon, baby. You're hurting my feelings. We're just having fun, yeah? A little roleplay?"

First off, you wished he'd stop calling you things like that. It felt wrong, but... good. With every pet name, he let butterflies loose in your tummy. Your heart pulsed, sending heat to your cheeks. Your brain reminded you, this isn't Mark... this isn't Mark... this isn't the real Mark...

Second, what kinda freaky ass fuck did he turn into?

You rolled out of his grip, barely making it a step away before his arm circled around your stomach, pulling you back into his chest.

"Get the fuck off me—" You squirmed uselessly, your phone and bag tumbling onto the floor. You yelped when he threw you over his shoulder, patting the small of your back affectionately as if securing cargo. "Mark!"

He just laughed, taking off through the door at a abnormal speed. Your nose smushed into his back under the acceleration, stomach somersaulted twenty times over as you soared up into the clouds.

He stopped in the air. With a hoarse shriek you clung to him as if he was your lifeline. He was, in this moment, despite everything. Your legs immediately latched around his waist, and he supported you with hands under your thighs.

"Oh, come on, now." He chuckled with a shake of his head. He easily held you and brought a hand to wipe your cheeks. "I'm just playing around. If I'd known you were this sensitive, I would've taken it a little bit easier on you..."

You hadn't even realized you started crying.

He stared at you, eyes trailing over your face. He laughed softly to himself. "Who am I kidding. No, I wouldn't have. You know how cute you are when you cry?"

You glared at him but his grin only grew wider. "What? M'not gonna hurt you! Haven't I shown you that?"

You stared at him incredulously, finally finding your voice and blowing up at him. Your fists curled, pounding at his chest and jabbing a finger in his face. "You broke into my home and have me hanging 100ft in the air?!"

"So? I'm not dropping you, am I?" You felt his fingers tap against your thigh.

"That—" Your cheeks burned. but from being embarrassed or flustered, you couldn't quite place.

"This world's Mark is the biggest piece of shit for leaving girlfriend all alone."

You blinked, "Girlfriend?"

"Yeah, you're..." Mark's head tilted, sharp eyes acutely aware of your confusion. "Ohhh. Don't tell me that fucker didn't lock you down."

You didn't even know what to say. Things were being thrown at you left and right and you were still on the fact that Mark was Invincible. Your mind rifled through all the headlines that had his name... all that pain, death, and destruction... and how you weren't there for him.

He clicked his tongue in disappointment. "Well. I'm a better version, anyway."

[]

The sun finally set on day 2 the war with no hope in sight. Mark just admitted Eve into the hospital—she stubbornly decided to help him with two of his variants and paid the price. Her broken leg was under construction, and she was unconscious.

Mark sighed as he closed the door behind him, looking up to see Cecil waiting for him in the hallway.

"You can't be here, kid."

Mark scowled. "The other Invincibles know about this place. They could kill her to get at me. I... can't lose another friend. I won't."

After Amber, Mark wanted to be with Eve. It was the next logical step, right? Both superheroes, went through a lot together, understood each other... But he couldn't bring himself to do it. Not even under Future Eve's advice.

Not when he still held space for you in his heart.

He was an asshole for it, he knew that. He couldn't put a date to the last time you spoke and he selfishly held onto your memory. Were you pining for him like he was pining for you?

His time with Amber taught him a lot. He wasn't going to make you suffer like she did. He wasn't going to ruin the friendship he had with you just because he selfishly wanted your love.

"We're losing this, Mark." Cecil sighed, snapping Mark out of his thoughts. The bruise on his face throbbed with every word. "The world needs you."

"You got every superhero on the planet fighting for you right now." Mark shot back angrily, shutting his eyes only to see you behind his lids.

"Mark. Oliver's out there. Your mother's out there." Cecil pressed, pulling out his phone. "Which reminds me. She left a voicemail."

With his interest successfully piqued, Mark listened as his mother's panicked voice played over Cecil's device.

"I can't reach Mark—if you see him, tell him I'm at Paul's. Oliver insisted on going out there, and I let him on the condition he finds his big brother."

Mark's gaze dropped down to the floor guiltily, a war of emotions swirling inside him.

"I couldn't stop him if I tried. He was going to sneak out anyway, but..." A sharp inhale. "I'm worried. I know they're strong, I know that. But these other versions... they're nothing like Mark." Seconds of silence passed as she collected her thoughts. "Can you check on someone for me? If all these Marks grew up the same, there's a childhood friend on our street that he was never without. I tried to reach her but service went down. Please."

Cecil pulled back his phone. "I already sent agents to her home—"

Mark's head snapped up, gritting his teeth in annoyance. "What did I say about going near my family?"

"I wasn't aware she was family." Cecil raised an eyebrow, pocketing his device and pulling down his cuffs.

"They're my responsibility. She's my responsibility." Mark retorted, running a anxious hand through his hair.

"A thank you would be nice." Cecil mumbled, unperturbed by the boy's argument. "Seeing as you are currently shirking said responsibility."

"Don't—" Mark lurched forward, a threat on his tongue. Cecil flinched backwards, his hand firmly in his pocket finding his controller.

Mark pulled back, dropping his fist. "...Just shut the fuck up, Cecil." He blasted off through the halls.

Cecil watched him leave with bated breath, exhaling slowly when he got the intel that Mark was off the grounds. At least he was out there.

[]

"I killed the Guardians, yeah."

"All of them?"

"Yeah. No big deal."

You raised your eyes in surprise but the notion wasn't as gruesome as you thought it would be. Blinded by love, maybe? Or were you just happy to be talking to Mark again, regardless of the version?

Hours ago, you couldn't imagine sitting in your bedroom with the man who invaded your home. But, genuinely, what were you supposed to do? Pick a fight and lose? Worse, die? You weren't so stupid to waste the goodwill he held for you.

"What happened to me in your world?" You asked, your voice quieter now.

Mark tilted his head, exhaling through his nose. His jaw flexed, like the memory alone was an irritation.

"The resistance killed you to get at me," he muttered, his voice dark, laced with something sharp and unhinged. The crazed gleam in his eye flickered under the dim lighting, like a fire burning just beneath the surface. Then, with an almost amused sigh, he shifted his weight, offering you a small, self-satisfied smile. "Don't worry. I made them pay for it."

You didn’t bother asking how.

Mark’s arm stretched behind you, draping lazily across the back of the pillows, his fingers idly toying with the fabric of your sleeve. Every casual brush of his fingertips sent a ripple of goosebumps across your skin.

"We were a good thing, you know," he mused, voice lower now, softer. gentle. "You didn’t fight me. You didn’t run. You loved me." There was a teasing lilt in his voice that you recognized.

That’s not so different here, you swallowed the thought, masking it with a roll of your eyes. "Did you love me?"

That made him pause. His gaze flicked to yours, brows furrowing slightly, like the question had caught him off guard. Then a slow smirk tugged at his lips, amusement flashing in his expression before he let out a low chuckle.

He leaned in so close you could feel his breath ghost over your lips. "Let me show you," he murmured, voice dark and filled with intent.

The air between you tightened as his hand trailed from your sleeve, fingers dragging along the bare skin of your arm, slow and deliberate. His touch was light, teasing, like he was waiting for you to react—to pull away or lean in.

You offered him nothing but a careful stare and the slow rise and fall of your chest.

His eyes narrowed, delighting in the challenge. His nose brushed against yours, his lips lingering just shy of touching.

Pull away, your brain screamed at you, ringing every warning bell it had in the book. This isn't right.

But his other hand came up, grazing along your jaw... and his fingers slid beneath your chin, tilting your head up, forcing you to meet his eyes... all of it felt so familiar, like something out of a dream. And it'd been so long since you saw his brown wells, you couldn't tear your gaze away.

Your daze was broken when you heard him laugh again. He adored the way you frowned in confusion, the moonlight twinkling in the reflection of your eyes.

“Aww,” he cooed, lips curving into a knowing smirk. “look at you. So easy. This world’s Mark has left you all alone, hasn’t he?”

Your chest rose and fell with uneven breaths as he tilted his head, watching you squirm.

“S'like you’ve been waiting for this," he hummed. His hand gripped your chin, tilting your face up, forcing you to look at him. His eyes darkened at whatever he saw.

“I’ll take care of you,” he murmured, brushing his lips over yours—you could feel him smiling. “Since he won’t.”

Stop, stop, stop. You wanted Mark, wanted him desperately, but not like this. Not with him.

You released the breath you were holding when he paused his fixation on your lips, head turning minutely to the side as if he was hearing something.

"For fuck's sake..." Mark scoffed, a low chuckle passing through his lips. "Speak of the devil."

What?

Mohawk Mark heard the whistle of air before you did, only clueing in when it grew louder. It reached a peak when a projectile CRASHED through your window—

You scrambled backwards on your mattress as splinters flew everywhere. Mark caught you before you tumbled off the bed, shielding you from the broken glass and wood.

"What's—" You began to ask, but over Mark's shoulder you saw him—the real Mark.

You just stared at each other for a moment, though you couldn't see much past his tinted goggles. But the slow scowl growing on his lips communicated all you needed to know.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Mark—the real one—growled. "Get off her."

Mohawk Mark laughed into your shoulder, turning to face him. "Why? She's not yours, is she?"

Mark's eyes twitched behind his goggles, abandoning his inhibitions and diving at him, grabbing his variant's hair and yanking him off of you—

"Mark..." you warned, fear bubbling in your gut.

—your caution fell on deaf ears; Mark threw him up and drove him through the floor.

"Mark!" you yelled behind him, feeling the air whip past your face, following him as he crashed into the living room below. "Shit—"

Squeaking as you fought against the slope of the cavity, your feet, only clad in socks, provided the worst possible grip and you began slipping down the gap. Your breath caught in your chest as you felt yourself plummeting—

"Hey." His voice was urgent yet comforting, his arms tightening around your body in seconds, pulling you back from the edge. "I got you."

Your hand instinctively gripped his shoulder, grounding yourself as you realized you were suspended in his embrace. As he gently descended to the floor, your eyes moved quickly, scanning the outline of his goggles.

"You... I guess you know now, then." His voice was low, heavier than usual, like a weight he’d been carrying finally released.

The moment your feet met the ground, you stepped back, your heart pounding. Across the room, Mohawk Mark was sprawled on the floor, blood leaking from his nose, unconscious for now. Your gaze flicked back to your Mark, heart still racing.

"Yeah, I know." You snapped, the anger rushing through you, the frustration and confusion bubbling up.

His expression faltered, something unreadable flashing across his face before he sighed, almost too quietly, as if he were disappointed in himself.

"You’re angry," he observed, his voice tinged with regret.

"No shit, I’m angry!" Your hand shot out, slapping against his chest before it balled into a fist at your side. Every inch of you was yelling at him, every question, every unspoken feeling, everything that had been left unsaid for the past two years. "The first time I've seen you in two years and it's—it's not even you?"

"I know, I know," Mark’s hands moved to his mask, tearing it off with an impatience that only grew when it caught on his nose. He grimaced as he yanked it free, tossing it to the side. The dim light of the room revealed the exhaustion etched into his face, but even through that, you could see him—the real him, just... different. Worn down, tired.

"I can explain."

"You better fuckin start."

"Be mad at me all you want, but look at this." His arms gestured wildly around your place. "I was right to not tell you! It could've been way worse, way sooner if you knew anything about what I was really up to. Why didn't you leave when Mom called you?!"

"The phone cut off, asshole, I didn't hear everything she said, and I certainly wasn't aware that you were the one behind Invincible—"

He shook his head, dismissing the topic. He stepped into your space and held onto your arms. "Did he touch you?"

"Get off me."

"Did he touch you?" He pressed, shaking you slightly as his grip tightened around your biceps.

You blinked at him, caught off guard by the urgent crack in his voice. "Yes, but I let him."

He pulled away from you as if burnt. A heavy silence hung in the air, nothing but the clattering of broken floorboards crashing down from above.

"...He's a murderer, Y/N." He whispered, eyes narrowed.

You knew that. You knew he was right. "I was... vulnerable."

"He killed people—"

"Shut up," You snapped, cutting him off. "Don't lecture me; this is a nonissue. What was I supposed to do? Hm? Want me to pick up my fists and come out swinging like you did—"

"I thought he was hurting you!"

"My hero." You rolled your eyes, the words dripping with bitter sarcasm. You knew you were being unfair, maybe a little cruel, but you couldn’t stop yourself. You were exhausted from the many near death experiences you've somehow survived in the last few hours. Strung so tight you felt like you might snap.

Every inch of you was begging to cry and let him hug you like you both so clearly wanted... but the fact that it took something this bad to get him to show up? That hurt more than anything.

Mark stared at you, his face an amalgamation of emotions, like he couldn’t decide on one.

Should he be angry at you for being difficult, for making him work for this moment when all he wanted was to explain? Should he feel pain, the sharp ache in his chest that another Mark got to hold you before he did? Or was it jealousy, searing heat into his face, that another version of himself had been the one to touch you, to be close to you before he had the chance? Maybe... maybe it was the bittersweet happiness, the relief that he was finally standing here in front of you.

He didn’t even care that you were glaring daggers at him—he missed staring into your eyes, albeit hardened and displeased, making his heart race; the way you’d furrow your brow when you were frustrated, the way your voice would call out to him.

Mark’s hand twitched at his side, wanting to reach out, but he held himself back. Would you even allow it? The distance between you was far more than physical. He had a thousand things to say but in that moment, words felt hollow.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he finally muttered, his voice quieter, more vulnerable than he intended.

Childish.

You scoffed lightly, rolling your eyes again. "All that time and that's all you have to—"

Before you could finish, your world spun. The floor tilted beneath you as Mohawk Mark launched himself into you, sweeping you off your feet and through the door.

[]

"Y/N!" Mark yelled after you, breathing heavy in a panic. "No, no, no, no—" He launched himself from your home, bursting through the roof after you.

You barely heard him over the rushing wind. You clawed at Mohawk Mark's back, the height siphoning the air from your lungs. "Stop..." You ordered weakly.

"Changed your mind already?" He laughed, cradling you in his arms. Your head lolled against his chest. "Don't tell me you buy his bullshit."

"Mm..." The sharp ascent from ground level to the clouds made your head spin, vision darkening as you grew dizzier.

"You're fucking dead!" Your Mark came out of nowhere, shooting up beside Mohawk Mark and bashing his nose in. With a pained groan, he dropped you. "Shit—"

"Look what you made me do, dipshit!" Mohawk Mark snarled, shoving Invincible away and bolting after you.

"Don't—" Mark growled in frustration, racing against time. He watched as your limp body dropped helplessly against gravity.

It never changed. Whether he told you or not, you would end up in these perilous situations regardless. He cursed under his breath, catching Mohawk Mark's ankle and catapulting him into the night sky before pushing forward.

He collected you in his arms before it was too late, wasting no time as he shifted his direction and carried you off to GDA's hospital.

[]

The steady beep... beep... beep of your heart monitor was the first thing you tuned into upon waking up.

"Oh, good."

Your eyes fluttered open, slowly drifting towards Mark. He was bent over your cot, his hand on your forehead while staring down at you with stars in his eyes.

"You just passed out. Nothing serious, but I wanted to make sure." He mumbled, pulling back.

Your eyes drifted back to the ceiling, unfocused and hollow. There was too much—too much to process, too much to feel, too much weighing down on your chest all at once. It pressed against your ribs, thick and suffocating, a tidal wave crashing over you before you could even take a breath. Every nerve in your body screamed with something—fear, exhaustion, embarrassment, confusion—but it all blended together into one overwhelming, crushing force. Your mind was shutting down for its own sake.

The sounds around you dulled into distant echoes, the weight of your own limbs barely registering. Your chest rose and fell, but it felt mechanical.

"Y/N?" Mark whispered, brows furrowing in concern. "Hey." he poked your shoulder.

You shook your head, turning away from him as tears pooled in your eyes. God, you felt so embarrassed.

Mark frowned when you shifted away from him, any comfort he planned to offer dying in his throat. "I'm... sorry." was all he could say.

Nothing.

His leg bounced nervously, chewing at his lip as he fought with his own emotions. "I want to kill him for putting hands on you."

Your brows tightened. Not what you wanted to hear either.

He sighed heavily, running his hands through his hair. "M'sorry for blowing up at you. It's not your fault—"

"It is." You sniffled. "I missed you... so much, that I pretended that he was you..." you choked on the words, turning your back to him and burying your face into the pillow. "How pathetic is that?"

Mark's heart squeezed, kicking off his shoes and climbing onto the bed next to you. "Stop. Not your fault." He reiterated.

You scoffed and shook your head, laughing wryly. He frowned, and pulled you to face him. He saw your tears and felt his own pile up behind his eyes.

"I'm sorry." He whispered. "I told my.... uh, last relationship that I was Invincible. It didn't end well for her, and I didn't want to put you in that same position. Always unsure, always in danger, always waiting..."

"I'm not her, Mark." You muttered.

"I know." He pursed his lips. "I was gone for months at a time—"

"I waited two years for you, didn't I?" You pushed away from him and sunk back into the cot. "You didn't even give me a chance."

Childish. That’s how you sounded. Because in the end, that’s all you two were—two kids who once grew up side by side finding each other once more, with all the petulant hurt coming through the surface.

A beat of silence passed between you, with nothing but your heart monitor to keep the time.

"You said he touched you." He started.

You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. "...don't bring that up."

"No, I want to know." He shifted his weight, hovering over you. His face was painted with something foreign, green-eyed and greedy. "Show me."

Heat blossomed on your face as you lay in his shadow. "Mark..." You laughed nervously. "It was barely anything."

"You missed me so much you had to settle for that." Mark didn't look away from you for a second. "I want to give you the real thing."

You screwed your face up. Again, the thought passed through your mind: you wanted Mark, but not like this. "I don't want this to be a pity thing."

"No," Mark shook his head firmly. "not pity. Everything I feel for you has been there since... since I can remember. And it fucking boils my blood that a different version of me got to you before I had the balls to do it myself. Please," he whispered. "I need this."

"Need what?"

"You." He answered, like the answer was obvious. To him, it was. "I'm done waiting around."

You blinked at him before a soft smile spread across your face. "Me too."

Mark's lips brushed against yours with a gentleness that made your heart ache. He cupped your face in his hands, and you melted into him, your arms wrapping around his neck.

You let out a soft sigh when his lips parted slightly, allowing you both to breathe. You pressed forward, kissing him harder, feeling the intensity of everything that had been building between you over the years—years of longing, of waiting, of wanting something more.

Mark responded with equal hunger, his hands sliding down your back, pulling you closer. His chest rose and fell with each breath, his heart pounding against yours.

Where had he touched you? Mark didn't care anymore. By the time he was done with you, you'd know his touch and his alone, and he'd know every inch of you like the back of his hand. He wasn't leaving this room without it. He was allowing himself to be selfish for once; for you, it was worth it.

He sat back on his haunches, tugging his gloves off by his teeth before diving back into you, sliding his bare fingers underneath your shirt, sighing into your mouth as he squeezed your skin in his palm.

"You'll never need anyone ever again," He nosed your cheek, trailing kisses down your jaw to your neck. "Promise."

This time, you believed him.

— wayyy too self indulgent lmk if it was boring at places :)

© invoncible

[syrecjh]

‧₊⋅♡⋆The Emergency Contact

˚🎀༘⋆ || Pro Hero Dynamight x reader |

Your phone rang at 2:47 AM.

Unknown number. Hospital line. A voice on the other end—calm but urgent.

“Are you Katsuki Bakugo’s emergency contact?”

Your heart dropped.

You didn’t even remember throwing on shoes. Your jacket was half-zipped. The cab ride over was a blur, your hands cold no matter how hard you wrung them.

You knew the risks. Loving a hero meant knowing one day the call could come. But it’s different when it does.

The hospital light was too white, too sterile. A nurse led you down the hall. “He’s stable,” she said gently. “A few bad hits. Cracked rib, minor burns. Shaken, not broken.”

Still, your stomach didn’t settle until you saw him.

Room 412. Curtain half-pulled. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, shirtless, bandaged, bruised. Hair flattened on one side. Arms resting on his thighs, head bowed.

He looked up.

The relief hit his face so fast, so visibly, that it startled you. For someone who always had a sharp word loaded, he suddenly looked like he’d forgotten how to speak.

“…Didn’t mean to scare you,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “Knew you’d come.”

You stepped in. Closed the door behind you.

For a moment, there were no jokes. No ego. Just the soft beep of the heart monitor and the hitch in your breath when you sat beside him and took his hand.

“You listed me as your emergency contact?” you said, voice barely a whisper.

He didn’t meet your eyes.

“You’re the only one I trust with the aftermath,” he said, fingers curling around yours. “Figured you should know if I ever got my dumb ass blown up.”

You let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. Pressed your forehead to his shoulder — carefully, avoiding the bruises.

“I’m here,” you said. “You scared the shit out of me, but I’m here.”

He exhaled hard, like that truth let him breathe again.

You sat in silence after that. No pressure to talk. His thumb traced circles into your palm. You watched the slow rhythm of the monitor, the rise and fall of his chest. And when the nurse peeked in, he glared until she backed out with a whispered, “Sorry.”

“You staying?” he asked, too casual.

You tucked the blanket higher on his chest. “Always.”

And in the harsh light of that sterile room, nothing ever felt more real than the way his hand gripped yours — like even Dynamight needed someone to hold onto, too.

[abbotjack]

I Can’t Protect You From Everything

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

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

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

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

18+ ONLY

You hear the voice before you see him.

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

“Move.”

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

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

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

The patient—drunk, belligerent—just laughs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just you.

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

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

You try to smile.

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

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

“No you’re not.”

“He touched you.”

You blink. Everything spins.

“Jack—my head hurts.”

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

“You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

He always says that. And you always believe him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Later.

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

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

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

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

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

But then you feel it.

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

You’re not in the hospital anymore.

You’re home.

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

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

“You’re awake,” he says.

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

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

You smile faintly. “Don’t I always?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s not fair.”

“I don’t care.”

“Come here,” you whisper.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t. You never do.”

He slides into bed, quiet and heavy beside you.

“Why’d you marry me?” you ask.

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

“You’re not.”

He kisses you then.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Look at me, Y/N”.

You do.

And then he pushes in.

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

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yes,” you breathe. “More than okay.”

Then he starts to move.

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

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

“I’m right here.”

“You scared the shit out of me.”

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

Something in him breaks.

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

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

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

But even then, he doesn’t let go.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jack—”

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

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

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

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

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

Doesn’t move.

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

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

And more like the truth.

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

"I’m here, Jack.”

You wake up alone.

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

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

“Couldn’t sleep?” you ask softly.

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

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

He sinks into it. Finally exhales.

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

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

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

It's soft.

And finally—it's peace.

The peace doesn’t last.

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

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

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

Jack says nothing. Keeps walking.

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

Whispers follow.

"Did you hear he nearly decked that guy?"

"Dr. Robby had to physically restrain him."

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

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

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

"You holding up?"

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

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

"Let them talk."

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

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

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

Jack stiffens.

He knows who’s in Room 9.

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

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

Robby just nods. “Didn’t think so.”

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

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

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

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

You blink. “Excuse me?”

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

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

“That doesn’t mean you’re safe.”

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

Inside, it’s quiet. Fluorescent lights buzzing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you believe him.

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

Still holding his breath.

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

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

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

So you turn off the lights.

You crawl into bed.

And Jack follows.

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

“I can’t protect you from everything.”

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

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

“I know,” you whisper. “Me too.”

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

He holds you closer.

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

And so do you.