Hi! I’m Tori! 🍅 • she/her • 20s • Requests: OPEN
Writes for Multi-Fandoms
That Town We Bled For
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"When reality feels small, I write where the characters I love offer their hands and take me away."
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✦ Writer Status
Tori Inkwyn • 20s • Female •Writes to escape reality • 2000s rom-com lover 🍅🍅🍅My mind is stuck in 2008...Some days I post every day. Some days I disappear for months. But I always try to come back and reply.
✦ Content
Feel-good fanfics ✨ (occasional angst) Not explicit , safe for minors
✦ Base of Operations
Tumblr • Quotev
✦ Will NOT Write
incest • step-relations • smut • NSFW age gap • teacher/student dynamics
Su𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢: Kyle asked you to Do the Cup Song for them
𝙶e𝚗𝚛𝚎: Wholesome
𝚆o𝚛𝚍 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝: 2k
A/n: I did the cup song earlier for nostalgia purposes, after I saw a clip from Pitch Perfect. And thought hey! What if Kyle asked Reader....and I was so excited to write this down after so long I haven't written anything ..since a friend passed away. so... here's to you in dog heaven.
~THE CUP SONG~
The fire had burned down to a lazy glow, soft shades of orange and gold flickering through the camp, the kind that made everything feel warmer than it really was. The five of you sat there quietly, letting the silence settle over tired shoulders and aching bones.
It had been a long day. A successful one, surprisingly, compared to the kind of missions you’d expected this operation to become. The Peruvian military had allowed Task Force 141 to use the outer grounds of their camp for the night under one condition...you stayed the night, then leave by dawn.
Honestly, it was a fair deal.
Better to sleep behind fences than deep in the woods with one eye open and a hand near your weapon. Though by now, you were used to sleeping lightly. Used to waking at the smallest sound.
Dinner had been served earlier. Ghost ended up making stew after Kyle and Johnny somehow managed to win ingredients off a group of Peruvian soldiers during a ridiculous card game that turned unnecessarily competitive halfway through.
The low hum of the military base carried through the night, blending with the occasional clink of gear and the scrape of pebbles under Price’s boot whenever he shifted in his seat.
The five of you sat around the fire staring into it.
No one really spoke. Everyone was exhausted, worn thin, simply waiting for the hours to pass until Nik finally arrived for extraction. At this point, you couldn’t hope for anything more than hearing that helicopter sooner rather than later.
And yet, in that little pocket of quiet, it almost felt like the world had paused.
The kind of pause where something important happens, even if nobody says it out loud.
You sat cross-legged on the ground with your notebook resting against your lap, pen scratching softly across the pages while your flashlight balanced in your other hand. Half of it were thoughts and Half were doodles... Nothing important. Just something to fill the silence.
Beside you, Johnny MacTavish was finishing the last of his meal like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted, dragging his spoon lazily through the tin as if he had all the time in the world.
Which, on missions like this, he never did.
Gaz broke the silence first with a quiet sigh, leaning back on his hands as he stared up at the sky like he was chasing a memory. Then he smiled that sweet, easy charm of his that always made it look like the world had finally healed something inside him.
“Oi…” he murmured, glancing toward you. “Can you do that cup thing again, y/n?”
You blinked, glancing up from your notebook, a small smile already tugging at your lips.
“The cup thing?” you echoed, tilting your head wondering what he meant. First thought came in your mind was the drinking contest you had with Johnny awhile back.
“Yeah,” Gaz nodded, gesturing vaguely. “That—tap-tap spin thing you did at at Las Almas.”
Price chimed in with a small nod. “Aye, that one.”
Soap looked between all of you, completely lost, brows knitting together.
“Wot’s that?” he asked, thick Scottish accent cutting through the calm like a record scratch.
You stared at him.
“…You’ve never seen it? I really thought you did” you asked, half-offended, half-amused.
"He wasnt there lassy, he was busy cooing his favorite wire cutter." Kyle said with a grin earning a scowl from Johnny.
“The cup song? From Pitch Perfect?” you asked him Soap squinted at you like you’d just spoken in code.
“Pitch… what now?” he muttered. “That a film or somethin’?”
Gaz snorted. “Oh, this is tragic.”
Price shook his head, already smiling.
“Go on lassy, Educate him.”
You sighed softly as you reached for the metal cup Gaz slid over, tapping it lightly against your palm to test the weight, the sound. The firelight flickered across your face, catching in your eyes while you focused, trying to calm the excitement bubbling inside you.
For a moment, it felt like being back in school again. Back when 2015 was trendy, when life felt simpler somehow.
God, take me back.
Soap forgot about everything else around him.
The fact they were technically hiding out somewhere dangerous and not hosting some late-night campfire with marshmallows and stupid stories. None of it mattered the second his attention landed on you. And lately, it always seemed to.
Like his eyes just knew where to go.
You started slow, easing into the pace, fingers tapping carefully against the metal cup before the rhythm settled into something smoother, steadier. The sound mixed with the crackling fire and the quiet night around you, and Soap found himself leaning forward slightly without even realizing it.
Clap clap. Tap. Tap. Clap. up. down. Clap sweep top, table bottom, hand down
The rhythm cut through the quiet, clean and steady, like it belonged there.
🎵 I got my ticket for the long way ‘round
Two bottles of whiskey for the way… 🎵
Your voice was easy, soft, but confident enough to carry, at the back of your head you tried to remember the lyrics that you surely memorized by heart at some point in your life...
And yeah… Soap was staring at you in absolute awe. He’d never heard you sing before, not really. You always insisted you sounded terrible, brushed it off whenever he asked. But to him? It was perfect. Maybe because it was you. Maybe because every word felt like you were singing just for him.
Completely lost in you.
There was something about the way your hands moved, precise yet relaxed, like you’d done this a hundred times before without even thinking about it. The small smile tugging at your lips whenever you caught the rhythm just right.
And then your eyes flicked up for only a second, meeting his
Soap swore it felt like invisible lightning struck straight through him, leaving him grinning like an idiot right back at you.
🎵 And I sure would like some sweet company… 🎵
Soap swallowed, shifting slightly, like he needed to ground himself again. Gaz leaned forward, elbows on his knees, watching like it was some kind of magic trick.
“How the hell are you—” he muttered, completely baffled.
Price sat back, arms crossed, the ghost of a smile on his face equal parts impressed and entertained.
And Ghost was singing the echoes for you.
🎵 When I’m gone…
When I’m gone… 🎵
💀💀💀 “…Gone.”
Your voice carried easily through the quiet camp, soft but confident. For just a moment barely a heartbeat your eyes flicked up to Johnny.
Then back to the rhythm.
🎵 When I’m gone…
When I’m gone…
💀💀gOne
You’re gonna miss me when I’m gone
You’re gonna miss me by my hair
You’re gonna miss me everywhere, oh
You’re gonna miss me when I’m gone… 🎵
The cup tapped, flipped, caught perfect timing.
Soap smiled without realizing it, something warm and unguarded slipping through as he watched you. Like it was easy to forget everything else.
Gaz leaned forward slightly, eyes locked on your hands, trying to figure it out like it was some kind of tactical puzzle.
“How the hell d’you even—” he muttered under his breath, half-impressed, half-confused.
Price sat back with a quiet chuckle, shaking his head, the kind of look a proud father might wear watching something unexpectedly wholesome in the middle of chaos.
Johnny's elbow rested on his knee, fingers loosely curled, but his focus was entirely on you the way you moved, the way you sang, that brief glance you gave him earlier still stuck in his head. And when the verse dipped for just a second
He spoke, voice low, roughened slightly by something he didn’t quite name.
“Careful, lass…” he said, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
“Sing like that, you’ll have us you're secretly telling us you're leaving.”
But his eyes said something else entirely.
You smiled at him Clearly you're singing it to him now. tapping the cup back into rhythm, the metal clicking softly against the pavement.
🎵 I got my ticket for the long way ‘round
The one with the prettiest of views
It’s got mountains, it’s got rivers, it’s got sights to give you shivers… 🎵
Right on cue Gaz pointed off toward the dark outline of the mountains.
Soap followed, gesturing lazily toward the river beyond the trees, both of them half-serious, half-mocking as they bobbed along to the beat.
🎵 …But it sure would be prettier with you. 🎵
That earned a small huff of amusement from Price, while Ghost’s shoulders barely shifted though the faintest tilt of his head suggested he was listening closer than he let on.
🎵 When I’m gone…
💀💀💀When I’m gone…
You’re gonna miss me when I’m gone… 🎵
By now, they were all in it.
Gaz joined in first, a little off-beat but enthusiastic as Soap followed, his voice rough but steady, a quiet grin tugging at his lips as he glanced sideways at you.
Even Ghost murmured the echo again—low, dry—
“Gone.”
🎵 You’re gonna miss me by my walk
You’re gonna miss me by my talk, oh… 🎵
The rhythm built, the cup flipping, tapping, sliding flawlessly through your hands as the group soldiers, hardened and worn sang like they weren’t sitting in the middle of a mission.
🎵 You’re gonna miss me when I’m gone… 🎵
The last note faded into the night, leaving only the crackle of the fire and a lingering warmth in the air.
Price was the first to break it, clapping his hands together with a proud grin.
“Well I’ll be damned that was somethin’,” he said, clearly impressed.
Gaz laughed, shaking his head. “Still don’t get how you did that without messin’ it up once.”
Somewhere in the middle of it, without much thought. Soap had slung an arm around your shoulders..He looked down at you, grin softer now, a little less teasing, a little more… genuine.
“Think you can teach me that?” he asked, nodding toward the cup. “Reckon I’ve got the rhythm for it.”
You laughed " you sure do got rhythm for California girls Johnny" you said nudging him with her elbow.
Gaz leaned in, mimicking the motion with his hands. “what was it again? Palm… tap down? Spin? I’m lost already.”
Soap froze for half a second, then broke into a shy grin, caught red-handed.
“Aye… since you brought it up,” he said,
And then without hesitation, the Scotsman sang in his husky voice.
🧼🎵“You could travel the world
But nothing comes close to the golden coast—”🧼🎵
Gaz groaned immediately, dragging a hand down his face.
“Oh no… soap please dont-”
"You're my ears bleed son!" Price said
🧼🎵“—Once you party with us, you’ll be fallin’ in love—” 🧼🎵 Soap continued, louder now, fully committing.
Price pinched the bridge of his nose, already regretting everything.
Ghost just tilted his head slightly, like he was contemplating walking into enemy fire instead.
Johnny had been running on fumes all day briefings, drills, paperwork he hated more than any battlefield. By the time he finally stepped into the common room, the smell of food hit him like a punch.
And there you were.
Sitting at the table with a little white takeout box, chopsticks in hand, happily eating your Chinese lunch.
Johnny slowed his steps, blue eyes locking onto the box like a starving man spotting treasure. His stomach growled loud enough that he cleared his throat and casually leaned his hip against the table beside you.
He dragged a hand through his mohawk and looked down at you with that crooked grin the one that usually meant trouble.
"Aye… that smells suspiciously good, bonnie.
His gaze flicked to the noodles dangling from your chopsticks, then back to your face.
"Tell me that’s not what I think it is… because if it’s sweet and sour chicken, I might actually pass out right here."
He pressed a hand dramatically to his stomach, leaning a little closer.
"Been workin’ all day, haven’t eaten a bloody thing…" he sighed, voice lowering into a teasing murmur.
Johnny nudged your knee lightly with his.
"Now… a kind, beautiful girlfriend of mine wouldn’t let her poor, starvin’ boyfriend suffer right in front of her, would she?"
His eyes sparkled with mischief as he tilted his head.
"Just one bite. Tiny one. I’m a humble man."
He leaned closer, grinning.
"Or do I need to start sweet-talkin’ properly to earn it?"
"Nope, sorry johnny I can't give you my-"
You said taking another scoop. Johnny licked his lips
Johnny raised a brow the moment you said no He straightened slowly, placing a hand over his chest like you’d just wounded him deeply.
“Ye cannae give me your—?” he echoed dramatically, eyes widening before he peeked down at the takeout box again.
He leaned closer, squinting at it like it personally betrayed him.
“Lass… that’s cold.”
Johnny sighed heavily and dragged a chair over, dropping into it beside you like a man accepting his fate.
“So this is how it is, aye?” he muttered. “All day runnin’ drills, savin’ the world, lookin’ handsome… and me own girlfriend leaves me to starve.”
His blue eyes slid back to you, a slow grin forming.
Then he suddenly leaned in, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret.
“Alright… new strategy.”
Johnny pointed at the box with his chin.
“How about a trade?” he said smoothly.
He flashed that shameless flirt smile.
“One bite for a kiss.”
He tapped the table.
“Fair deal, I’d say.”
"Just one bite? You asked making sure.
Johnny blinked when you asked “Just one bite?” He lifted both hands innocently, nodding like the most trustworthy man in the world.
“Aye, cross my heart, bonnie. Just one bite.”
But the moment you leaned in, Johnny’s grin softened. He kissed you back—warm, slow, like he’d missed you all day. One hand cupped your cheek while the other rested casually on the table beside the takeout box.
For a second it actually felt sweet.
Then—
SNATCH.
Johnny grabbed the entire box in one swift motion and bolted from the chair.
Johnny was already halfway down the hall, laughing loudly, noodles dangling from his chopsticks as he ate while running.
“THANKS FOR LUNCH, BONNIE!” he called over his shoulder.
A few soldiers in the room burst out laughing. Johnny jogged backwards for a second, still chewing.
“Worth the kiss!” he teased with a wink before turning and disappearing down the corridor your voice echoed through the corridor.
“JOHNNY!!!! YOU ARSE!!!!”
Johnny had just turned the corner down the hallway, still shoveling noodles into his mouth like a man who hadn’t seen food in days.
Johnny slowed for a second, glancing over his shoulder with a grin that said he absolutely deserved it. He walked backward a few steps, lifting the box like a trophy while chewing.
Then he cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled back down the hall—
“I LOVE YOU!!!”
[I'm sorry it's so short but I'll make it up to you guys soon when I get more free time, let me know if you guys wanna be added on the taglist]
𝙿𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐: Simon Riley 𝙭 Reader
Su𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢: he wonders what Fanfic is to you.
𝙶e𝚗𝚛𝚎: Fluff
𝚆o𝚛𝚍 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝: 1k
A/n: this is just a practice fic, im not so proud of... so I can get back to writing simon, sorry it's a bit rusty I guess... writing half asleep too
Worlds in Words
Simon quietly stepped into the bedroom, boots soft against the floor, the faint hum of the city outside the window barely reaching them. The dim light from the bedside lamp cast long shadows across the room. You were curled up under the covers, phone in hand, eyes glued to the screen, fingers flying over the keyboard.
Simon approached the bed, kneeling beside you. He gently rested a hand on your wrist, letting your phone slip from your grasp onto the blanket.
His other hand rested lightly on the bed near your shoulder as he leaned in just slightly, voice low and teasing, yet soft.
“What are you doing over there?” he asked, eyes scanning yours with quiet curiosity, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
"nothing" you said but simon laid his head on your pillow
Simon’s brow quirked as he leaned closer, letting his head rest lightly on her pillow. The scent of your shampoo mixed with the faint warmth of the blankets made him pause for a moment quiet, domestic, safe. He glanced at the screen, seeing only a blank notepad, fingers hovering like you'd been typing but hadn’t written anything yet.
“Nothing, huh?” he murmured, his tone teasing but soft, the edge of a smile playing at his lips. “You’ve got a very suspicious-looking ‘nothing’ over here.” He nudged the notepad gently with his nose, just enough to make you look up at him. “Come on… what are you really doing at this hour?”
His hand drifted to rest over hers, the warmth of his touch a gentle insistence. “You’re not trying to hide secrets from me, are you?”
You sighed. "I know you said I shouldn't write anymore....but I can't help it" you said referring to his deal about you would take a break from reading and writing about Fanfiction
Simon let out a low, almost reluctant sigh, running a hand through his hair. His eyes softened as he watched you fidget under the covers, caught between mischief and guilt. “It’s just… stories, right? People making up stuff?” he asked, tilting his head slightly. “Why does it matter so much to you?”
He shifted closer, resting his arm across her waist, careful not to crowd you, just enough to feel connected. “I get it… I just… don’t want you putting yourself in a weird spot over something,” he admitted quietly, his voice low in the dim light.
Then, after a pause, he smirked faintly, a teasing edge creeping in despite the softness. “But I gotta admit… I’m curious now. What’s got you so hooked that you can’t just put the phone down?”
"I have spent almost all my life in books, movies, and Fanfiction because I'm a lonely person with no friends because I don't know....maybe they just don't like me or maybe I'm hard to get...i dont know...and the only people who truly accept me are in the stories I read or write and unfortunately I can't jump in and be there. Because if I could I would...In different universes... it's still the same person with different costumes...and i still love him as I love you, My world is fucking terrible and i make up stuff because I want someone to understand me and be there...like you did... As tiring, and all the late nights I have been writing about it. In the end it's still worth it. I got Mutuals I never spoke to but...I felt like they have been my friends even we never spoke a bloody word."
Simon scoffs a laugh "why didnt you?"
You shrugged "I don't know what to say or if they even wanna talk..."
"Maybe try?" He asked
"I don't have the guts and i don't wanna sound needy...or too much but hey I got you."
Simon’s eyes softened immediately, the hard edges he usually carried melting in the dim glow of the bedside lamp. He stayed silent for a moment, just listening, letting your words sink in. The usual sarcasm and teasing he carried around faded completely; in its place was something rare for him raw, unguarded attention.
He shifted closer, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. “Hey…” he said gently, his voice low and steady. “I… I didn’t know it felt that heavy for you.” His thumb lightly traced small circles on your hand, grounding you. “You don’t have to jump into those worlds to be seen. I… I see you. I get you, even if it’s messy and complicated. That’s enough for me.”
He let out a quiet sigh, resting his forehead against yours. “Look… I don’t want to stop you from writing. I just… I worry about you, that’s all. But if it’s how you cope, how you make sense of things… then I’ll try to understand. I promise.”
His eyes searched yours, sincere, soft, and steady Simon Riley, stripped of armor, trying to meet you where you were...
You looked at him and smiled sadly. "You don't think it's foolish that I write characters aren't mine? Writing crazy stories?"
Simon shook his head slowly, a small, soft smile tugging at his lips. “No,” he said quietly, brushing a finger along your cheek. “Not foolish… not at all. You’re just… trying to make sense of the world, in your own way. Everyone has their thing some people draw, some play music, some… get lost in stories. You? You write. That’s not foolish. That’s…Art..thats life.”
He leaned back just slightly, resting on his elbows, his gaze unwavering. “And besides…” he added, a hint of teasing slipping in despite the seriousness, “if anyone ever calls it foolish, I’ll personally tell them they don’t get it.”
His hand found yours again, squeezing gently. “You create worlds because it helps you survive this one. That’s… strong, not stupid.”
"even I read sick and too fluff unrealistic ones?" You smiled looking at him as he leaned in
Simon chuckled softly, a low, rumbling sound that made the corners of the room feel warmer. “Especially the fluff ones,” he said, grinning. “Those make sense too… everyone needs a little escape, even if it’s ridiculous sometimes. Hell, I’d read one if you made me.”
He leaned in a little closer, his forehead brushing yours, eyes glinting with quiet amusement. “The sick ones… well, I don’t think I could handle all that drama,” he teased lightly, “but the fluff? Yeah… I get it. And I get you.”
He let out a small sigh, resting his hand over yours, thumb brushing gently in a steady rhythm. “You’re allowed to make these worlds. You’re allowed to love them, even if they’re… too much sometimes. That doesn’t make you foolish it makes you you.”
You smiled and pecked his lips "god I love you"
Simon’s chest tightened in that familiar, grounding way, the weight of your words sinking in. He stayed still for a heartbeat, letting the warmth of your kiss linger before slowly returning it, careful, soft, like he didn’t want to break the moment.
“I love you too,” he murmured against her lips, his voice low and earnest. His hand tightened gently around yours, fingers threading together. “More than I probably deserve.”
He rested his forehead against yours, letting the quiet settle between them. “You… you make this messy world worth it. You really do.”
You cupped his face gently before you accidentally kicked off your phone and bounced off the bed. "Shoot….." you muttered, scrambling to grab it.
When you stood back up and checked for cracks, the room suddenly felt quieter, emptier Simon wasn’t there. The blankets were warm, but something was missing.
You sank back onto the bed, hugging the pillow close, and for a moment, you imagined him scooting closer, wrapping her to his chest. That would make it sweeter… if only you were here.
You let out a small, wistful sigh and picked up your phone, opening the notepad and tumblr again. The words flowed easily now, as if he really were there beside you, the world outside forgotten. the warmth of his presence it had been all in words But somehow, that made it just as real to make you continue living.
𝙿𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐: John Price 𝙭 Reader
𝚂𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢: After the Car Crash
𝙶𝚎𝚗𝚛𝚎: Fluff
𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝: 4k
A/n: This Fic is dedicated to those, who wished for Price to be Spared. From my Part one.
Shards of Seconds | Part Two
The emergency team moved quickly once John Price was finally pulled from the wreckage.
Every second counted.
His body was battered broken ribs, deep lacerations across his chest and face, and the head trauma from the rollover. And cuts his head causing heavy bleedingHis skin was pale under the rain-washed blood, and his breathing was shallow, each gasp sounding like a battle he was barely winning.
Paramedics worked fast, lifting him onto a stretcher and rushing him into the ER.
Nurses and doctors met them at the doors, the room immediately erupting into controlled chaos monitors, oxygen masks, and hurried voices all around.
“Trauma! Multiple injuries! Critical!” a nurse shouted, as others swarmed, placing IV lines, checking vitals, and assessing the worst bleeding.
A doctor leaned over him, examining rapidly.
“BP is dropping he’s in hypovolemic shock. We need to transfuse, intubate, and stabilize immediately,” one said.
They worked like a machine, adrenaline and experience moving their hands with precision, but even the best skills couldn’t instantly erase the damage. Monitors beeped frantically. His eyes fluttered, half-lidded, catching faint glimpses of the lights, the white coats, the chaos
..it wasn't the first time he seen this because for him he had been in more worse scenarios but none of those scenarios involved you he wanted to get up and order as a captain he was that to tend your injuries not his.
but he was still unconscious,
The doctor’s voice was calm but urgent.
“We’re giving him fluids… blood… prepping for surgery. He’s hanging on, but it’s close. Keep him awake talk to him if you can.”
John’s chest rose shakily, a weak hand twitching as if reaching for you, a final tether to the world you had both fought to stay in. Every second passed like an eternity as the team battled for him.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the shallow rises of his chest began to even out. The color started returning, a hint of warmth against the pale skin, and the beeping of the monitors steadied just enough to suggest… he might pull through.
The beeping of the monitors was steady Tubes ran into John, IVs dripping blood and fluids to replace what he had lost, and a ventilator gently assisted his breathing. Bandages covered the worst of the damage, and his body was still bruised and broken but he was alive...if one of the tf141 had seen him right now. Someone might had said. "You like shit captain" it could have been Ghost or Soap.
His eyes fluttered open slowly, blinking against the harsh fluorescent lights. The haze of pain and sedation clouded his mind at first, fragments of memory swirling in confusion
He slowly named them in whisper
rain...... ca.....
He tried to move, and pain shot through his chest and ribs, making him wince. His hand twitched weakly, searching instinctively, and he realized… he couldn’t feel yours.
“Y/N?.......” he croaked, voice raw and scratchy, almost nothing but a whisper. He lifted his head slightly, every movement sending jolts of agony through his body. “Where… are you?.........”
The room was empty except for the medical team, quietly monitoring him. Machines beeped softly, IV lines hissed, and the smell of antiseptic filled the air. He tried again, louder this time, panic creeping into his voice.
“Y/N.......! Where .....the hell..... are you?!”
He said because right nor he could palpate if he doesn't see you. Thinking the thought that have been bothering him sick he married you. You leaving him came true would kill him right now.
A nurse noticed the panic when the machine beeped alarm and approached gently, placing a hand on his arm.
“Mr. Price… you’re safe. You’ve been through a lot, but you’re alive. You’re stable now,” she said calmly. “Your… companion is being treated as well. You’ll see her soon, but you need to rest first.”
John's gaze dropped, fear and guilt clenching his chest. His hand twitched again, almost desperately.
“She… she needs me,” he whispered, voice breaking, almost to himself. “I—should’ve—”
He closed his eyes briefly, letting the pain and relief wash over him, a weak shudder running through his body.
Even alone in the sterile white room, the thought of you, your bloodied hand in his, your voice in the rainbkept him tethered, pushing him to hold on.
John's eyes stayed closed for a long moment, the quiet beeping of the monitors filling the empty space around him. Pain radiated through his chest and side with every breath, but it wasn’t just the physical agony that weighed on him it was the memory, the guilt, the image of you beside him in the rain, your hand in his, and the helplessness in your eyes.
He groaned softly, a rough, broken sound.
I should’ve held it together… I shouldn’t have argued… I shouldn’t have…
Every thought of that night twisted in his chest. The words he’d said, the frustration he’d let leak out, the sharp tone he’d used in front of your family—it all replayed over and over like a relentless loop.
I made it worse…
His throat tightened, dry and scratchy from the sedation and intubation. His fingers flexed weakly against the hospital bed, the phantom sensation of your hand missing beside his almost unbearable. As tear escaped despite himself, trailing down the side of his bloodied face under the bandages. He whispered softly, barely audible:
“I’m… sorry, … I should’ve… I should’ve been better… I should’ve—”
His voice caught, rough with emotion. For the first time since waking, he opened his eyes fully, staring at the sterile ceiling above. The regret clung to him heavier than any pain from his injuries. He thought maybe the nurse was just lying to him about you being alive. They do that too in the medic barracks to keep the team hopeful til the end of the mission. He did...he did that too.
I should’ve made it right… before… before it was too late…
John's chest rose slowly with another shaky breath, and he let himself sink back slightly, still alive, but the memory of that night and the weight of guilt pressing on him like a storm he couldn’t escape.
one of the few things that kept him tethered to life when he thought he might slip away was you.
you laughing on a warm, sunlit afternoon Your hair caught the light, your smile wide and unguarded, your eyes sparkling in that way that made him forget everything else. You were perched on the edge of a small dock, skipping stones into a calm lake, your laughter echoing across the water.
Another memory flashed—your hands on his chest after a minor scrape while hiking, gently scolding him as he winced, your thumb brushing his skin. The softness in your touch, the quiet confidence in your voice… it had always been a reminder that he mattered to someone, that he had a reason to fight.
And then another—late nights in the kitchen, a mess of flour and spilled coffee, both of you laughing so hard you couldn’t stand straight. The world had seemed lighter then, easier, and he could still hear your voice teasing him,
Each memory was like a small firefly in the darkness. They were fragile, fleeting, but they reminded him why he needed to stay.
The hospital room had grown painfully familiar over the past week. The steady hum of machines, the quiet footsteps in the hallway, the sterile smell that never quite left the air.
Your leg was immobilized in a heavy cast, propped up with pillows you’d barely adjusted all week. Every attempt to move reminded you just how badly it had been broken. The doctors had been clear you wouldn’t be walking for a while.
But none of that mattered as much as the one question that kept coming out of your mouth every single day.
Every time a nurse walked in.
You’d reach for their arm, your voice tight with hope and fear.
“How is my husband? How is john?”
The nurses had grown used to it. They’d exchange quick looks before answering gently.
“Your husband, John Price, is stable,” one nurse told you again that morning, adjusting the IV line beside your bed.
“He’s still in critical recovery, but he’s alive. The doctors are keeping him on strict bed rest for now.”
They hadn’t allowed you to see each other yet. His injuries were severe, and your own condition meant moving you between floors wasn’t safe either. The doctors wanted both of you completely stabilized before risking anything.
Later that afternoon, the door opened again and a different nurse stepped inside with a small smile.
“Good news,” she said softly. “Your husband woke up earlier today.”
Your heart jumped painfully in your chest.
“He’s asking about you.”
She moved closer to the bed.
“The doctors are discussing when it’ll be safe for the two of you to see each other. It might be soon… maybe even tomorrow if everything stays stable.”
For the first time in a week, the weight in the room felt just a little lighter.
Your voice came out hoarse from a week of worry and pain.
“Really?”
You looked up at the nurse, bruised and pale against the hospital pillows, but there was a fragile hope in your eyes that hadn’t been there before.
The nurse gave a gentle nod, smiling reassuringly.
“I spoke with the doctor,” she said softly. “We’re arranging to relocate John Price to this room instead. That way neither of you has to be moved too much.”
For a moment it felt like the air returned to your lungs after days of holding your breath.
“You’ll both still be on strict bed rest,” she continued, adjusting the blanket over your casted leg. “But you’ll be able to see each other.”
A few minutes later the quiet hallway outside your room filled with movement.
As a couple of nurses pushed the bed in the shared room
The door opened slowly as two nurses carefully pushed in another hospital bed surrounded by IV poles and monitors. The steady beep of another heart monitor joined the one already in your room.
John lay propped slightly upright, bandages wrapped around his chest and shoulder, bruises dark along his jaw and temple. His arm was immobilized and an oxygen line rested beneath his nose.
He looked thinner than you remembered from that night But he was breathing that's all it mattered if you could move, the second you saw him you would've leaped on him but since you were also care and tied you couldn't all you could was cry in relief.
When the bed was positioned beside yours, the nurses locked the wheels and stepped back. For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Johns gaze found you almost immediately. His eyes widened slightly, relief flooding across his tired face.
“…Y/N?” he rasped, his voice rough from the breathing tube that had been removed earlier.
His hand twitched weakly against the blanket as if he wanted to reach for you but didn’t yet have the strength.
“You’re… okay?” he murmured, searching your face with quiet disbelief.
You looked at him and nodded "don't worry about me...I..can manage" you said slowly
You were fine obviously but you can manage the pain.
John watched you carefully, his tired eyes moving over the bruises on your face, the IV in your arm… and then stopping on the cast around your leg.
When you said you could manage, his brow pulled together slightly.
John let out a slow breath through the oxygen line, the small movement clearly costing him effort.
“Yeah…?” he murmured hoarsely.
His gaze softened, but there was that familiar stubborn concern in it the same one that had always shown when you tried to brush off your own pain.
“Because that,” he said weakly, glancing at your leg, “doesn’t exactly scream managing.”
Despite everything, the faintest ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
For a moment he just looked at you, like he was reassuring himself you were real and not some pain-medication dream.
“I thought…” he started quietly, then stopped, his voice catching.
His eyes dropped briefly to the blankets before he forced himself to look back at you.
“I thought I lost you in that car,” he admitted softly.
His hand shifted slowly across the mattress between your beds, fingers weakly reaching toward yours across the small gap.
“You stayed with me…” he added, voice barely above a whisper.
The monitors beside his bed beeped steadily as he waited for your answer, his hand still trying to reach yours even if it could only move a few inches. The room was quiet except for the soft rhythm of the monitors.
You hummed faintly, your eyes staying on him.
“I’m sorry,” you said.
You didn’t have to explain what you meant. The words hung between you heavy with the memory of the fight.
Across the small space between the beds, john looked at you for a long moment.
Then he slowly shook his head.
“No…” he rasped gently.
The movement clearly hurt, but he didn’t look away from you.
“I should be the one saying it.”
His gaze drifted briefly to the ceiling, like he was gathering strength before speaking again.
“I shouldn’t have driven like that,” he admitted quietly. “Shouldn’t have let the argument get that far.”
“And I definitely shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”
His eyes returned to yours, softer now.
“None of that was worth… this.”
The monitors kept their steady rhythm as he shifted his hand slightly on the mattress again, still trying to reach closer even if the distance remained.
“You were right about your uncle,” he added weakly. “I shouldn’t have gone after him like that.”
A faint, tired smile touched his face.
“Guess it took flipping a car on the highway for me to learn some manners.”
"you're right...about my family....I shouldn't have fought you over it." You muttered. "You're right ..
John watched you as you spoke, hearing the quiet weight behind your words.
For a moment he just looked at you, the hospital lights reflecting faintly in his tired eyes.
“No…” he murmured hoarsely.
Even that small motion clearly took effort, but his expression softened.
“That wasn’t the point,” he said gently. “Families fight. We argue about them… defend them… that’s normal.”
His gaze dropped briefly to the blanket over him before returning to you.
“What wasn’t normal… was me driving like that. I was angry… and stupid.”
He exhaled slowly, wincing faintly from the pain in his chest.
“And you were trying to calm things down,” he added quietly. “I remember that now.”
The monitors beside his bed continued their steady rhythm.
After a moment, his eyes drifted again to the cast on your leg.
“I’m the reason you’re lying in that bed with a broken leg,” he said softly. “So no… you don’t get to take the blame for the fight too.”
His hand shifted again on the mattress between the beds, inching a little closer even if it still couldn’t quite reach you.
“But…” he added faintly, a small tired smile appearing, “when we’re both able to stand again… we’re never arguing in a car.”
A small pause passed before he looked back at you again.
“I meant what I said in the wreck,” he murmured. “You staying with me… that’s the reason I kept trying to breathe.”
His eyes softened warmly.
“You didn’t leave.”
“What kind of wife would I be if I did…” you said softly.
You looked at him and then you noticed the deep bruise blooming around his eye. The sight of the black eye, the swelling, the stubborn look on his face despite everything… it made a small laugh escape you before you could stop it.
Across the small space between the beds, John Price raised a faint brow at you.
“Hey…” he rasped weakly, the hint of a crooked smile tugging at his mouth. “What’s funny?”
His voice still carried that dry humor he always used when things were rough.
“You should see the other guy,” he muttered.
Then his expression softened when you kept looking at him.
“I don’t know what I would do without you… I really thought I lost you,” you admitted. “I didn’t want that to happen after we fought.”
The humor faded from johns face, replaced by something gentler and something more vulnerable.
For a moment he just studied you quietly, like he was still convincing himself you were actually there.
“Yeah…” he murmured.
His eyes drifted down briefly before returning to yours.
“I thought the same thing,” he admitted softly. “When the car stopped… and you weren’t answering right away.”
His fingers moved weakly against the mattress again, instinctively reaching toward you.
“I kept thinking… not like this,” he said hoarsely. “Not after a stupid argument.”
A small breath left him.
“After everything we’ve been through… that’s not how I wanted our story to end.”
Then he looked at you again, warmth returning to his eyes despite the exhaustion.
“Good thing you’re stubborn,” he added faintly.
A tiny smile tugged at his lips.
“You stayed alive just to prove me wrong, didn’t you?”
Your small chuckle filled the quiet room, soft but real. It wasn’t your full laugh yet, but it was enough to make the tension ease a little.
“You still make up jokes when we both nearly died,” you said.
Across from you, john gave a faint shrug that barely moved his shoulders.
“captains orders,” he murmured hoarsely. “Humor… good for recovery.”
But his eyes stayed on you as you continued.
“Actually… what kept me alive was to see you.”
The words landed quietly between the two beds. For a moment John didn’t answer. The hint of humor faded from his expression, He swallowed slowly, his gaze softening as he looked at you like you’d just said the most important thing in the world.
“Yeah?” he asked gently.
“Funny…” he whispered.
A tired breath left him as he leaned his head back slightly against the pillow.
“That’s exactly what I kept thinking too.”
His eyes returned to yours, warm despite the bruises and bandages.
“Every time I started fading out in that car… I kept hearing you,” he said quietly. “You telling me to stay.”
The monitor beside him beeped steadily.
“So I figured…” he added faintly, a small smile tugging at his lips again, “if you were stubborn enough to keep talking… I’d better be stubborn enough to keep breathing.”
He studied your face again, relief still lingering there.
“Looks like we both won that argument.”
You looked at him with a small pained smile.
"I want lansana" you said it of the blue
For a second john just stared at you, like his brain was still catching up through the pain meds and exhaustion.
“You… what?” he rasped, confusion mixing with a faint smile..
“Lasagna?” he repeated, a weak chuckle rumbling in his chest before he winced slightly from the movement.
“Y/N… we just survived a car crash,” he said hoarsely. “You’ve got a broken leg… I look like I picked a fight with a truck…”
His eyebrow lifted a little despite the bruising.
“And that’s the first thing you want?”
But there was warmth in his eyes as he looked at you, something almost relieved at the normalcy of the request.
After a moment he nodded faintly.
“Honestly… that sounds amazing,” he admitted quietly. “Hospital food’s been trying to kill me slower than the crash did.”
Another small breath left him.
“Soon as we’re allowed real food again,” he added softly, glancing back at you, “I’ll make it for you.”
The corner of his mouth lifted slightly.
“Though with one working arm and cracked ribs… it might be the worst lasagna you’ve ever had.”
You laughed loudly, the sound shaky but genuine, before a sharp groan escaped as your ribs rattled painfully from the movement.
“Yeah…” you muttered, trying to catch your breath, wincing as the pain pulsed through your chest.
John's eyes immediately softened, worry overtaking the tired humor in his gaze. john leaned slightly forward, though his movements were cautious, each one clearly painful for him as well.
“How bad is it? Your rib?” he asked gently, voice rough but full of concern, his hand instinctively reaching a little closer across the gap between the beds.
“I… don’t know…” you admitted, biting your lip. “Hurts like hell every time I move… cough… or even breathe wrong.”
John jaw tightened, his eyes scanning your face, taking in the bruises, the bandages, the pain you were clearly trying to hide.
“You shouldn’t be laughing like that then,” he murmured, his voice low, almost a growl of worry. “Don’t push yourself. I don’t care about the joke… I care about you.”
He shifted his gaze to the small monitor beside your bed, then back at you, his hand hovering over yours as if wanting to reassure you without risking movement.
“You’re lucky…” he added softly, “we’re both alive to survive the rest of this…”
A weak smile tugged at his lips despite the bruises, the exhaustion, and the lingering pain.
You smiled "I guess....you do have a angel."
John let out a faint, raspy chuckle, despite the tightness of his chest and the lingering bruises.
“Yeah,” he said, still teasing, “she’s right here… with a broken leg.”
You rolled your eyes weakly, a small smile still tugging at your lips, shaking your head.
“That’s not what I meant,” you murmured, your voice gentle.
“I… I want a baby,” he said, hoarse and raw, eyes still locked on yours.
For a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath. The nurse outside scolded again, her voice sharp, but you barely noticed johns words had shifted the world in that tiny space between the beds.
Your gaze softened, warmth spreading through your chest despite the pain. “john…” you whispered, voice trembling slightly.
He leaned back slightly against his pillows, wincing at the movement, but his eyes never left yours. “I know it’s… not the right time,” he admitted quietly, “and neither of us can move much right now, but… I want us… a family… eventually.”
A weak smile tugged at his lips, fragile but full of hope. “I don’t want to waste any more time… not after almost losing you.”
You could feel your heart swell, and despite everything the pain, you wanted to reach out, to reassure him that you were right there, ready for all the tomorrows he was dreaming of.
“I… I don’t wanna waste more time,” he admitted, voice hoarse. “Not after that…”
He paused, swallowing hard, chest rising with the shallow breaths he could barely manage.
“I know I said I didn’t want to before,” he continued, voice cracking slightly, “but… if that night was a sign… that I could die… anytime… then…”
His hand twitched faintly on the bed, reaching toward the empty space between you.
“I want to make your idea… true,” he whispered, voice almost breaking, his eyes finally flicking down to meet yours.
There was something unshakably sincere in his gaze now, a vulnerability that only came after near loss.
“I want a family with you, Y/N,” he said softly, every word weighted with the intensity of someone who had seen just how fragile life could be.
You could feel the sincerity, the fear, and the love in his words and despite the pain and the casts and the bruises, it wrapped around your heart like a promise.
"I'm in....but ...lasagna first"
John blinked at you, his hoarse laugh breaking through the tension in the room.
“Lasagna first?” he rasped, shaking his head weakly, a small smile tugging at his bruised lips. “Even after all that… that’s your first priority?”
You nodded, wincing slightly as you shifted in bed, a playful glint in your eyes despite the pain.
“Yeah… lasagna first,” you said firmly, voice soft but teasing. “Then… babies.”
John let out another low chuckle, the sound rough but genuine, and his hand twitched again, inching closer across the small gap between the beds.
“You’ve always been stubborn,” he murmured, shaking his head with a mixture of amusement and awe. “I love that about you… even when you’re trying to order me around from a hospital bed.”
His eyes softened, lingering on yours with that familiar warmth.
“Fine,” he said finally, voice hoarse but full of affection. “Lasagna first… then we plan the rest.”
First, since the crash, the tension in the room eased, replaced by a fragile but real sense of hope, laughter, and the unspoken promise of everything still to come.
[Should I make a COD Taglist? Maybe I should....should I? Or should I make a part three?]
𝙿𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐: Captain John Price 𝙭 Wife Y/n 𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧
𝚂𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢: you had a fight in the car just seconds before the Car Crash
𝙶𝚎𝚗𝚛𝚎: Angst
𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝: 4k
A/n: Okie Dokie, finally got this out of my memo it's been soooo long...this is inspired by Mark Monroe's (Daniel Gillies he dies again it's the Thrid time man!) death in Virgin River. Hope you like it.
Shards of Seconds
The rain hammered against the windshield, the wipers struggling to keep up as the car sped down the dark highway. Streetlights blurred past in streaks of gold against the wet asphalt.
You just attended your family dinner, it could have been alright if your pain in the ass relatives didn't attend without prior noticed you had been begging John to come with you on that dinner so your reputation won't be tarnished for not attending.
John's hands tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles whitening. His jaw was clenched, breath heavy through his nose as the silence between you both crackled with the argument that had been building all night.
“Y/N, I’m not doing this again,” he muttered, voice tight but not raised yet. His eyes flicked briefly toward you before snapping back to the road.
“You think I wanted tonight to go like that?” he continued, frustration leaking into every word. “You think any of this is easy for me?”
Thunder rolled somewhere in the distance.
John shook his head, running a hand through his hair before gripping the wheel again.
“I’m trying here. God, I’m trying,” he said, voice softer now but raw with emotion. “But every time we talk about it, it turns into this like I’m the enemy.”
"We should pull over and talk" you said
"No...I got this" Price said.
He glanced at you again, hurt flashing across his face.
“Is that really what you think of me now?”
The car sped forward through the rain, tires humming over the slick road
"It's not that, you were actually acting like an arse whole in front of my family. I know you never liked my uncle. But you didn't have to insult him John" you said
Rain streaked across the windshield as john Price exhaled sharply through his nose. The tires hissed against the wet road, and his grip tightened on the steering wheel.
“Your uncle?” john scoffed under his breath, shaking his head as he glanced at you for a split second before looking back at the road.
“You mean the same uncle who spent half the night making little comments about our marriage?” he shot back, frustration rising in his voice. “About how I’m never around, how you ‘deserve someone who actually shows up.’”
His jaw flexed in anger, he maybe in the military but your uncle never acknowledged his effort.
“And you just sat there, Y/N. You didn’t say a word.” The car sped past another dim streetlight, the rain getting heavier.
“I didn’t insult him for fun,” john continued, voice rougher now. “I was defending myself. Because apparently no one else in that room was going to.”
His eyes flicked to you again, hurt sitting behind the anger.
“You think I enjoy being the bad guy in front of your family?” he asked. “You think I wanted tonight to end like this?”
Then more quietly, almost bitterly, he muttered,
“God, sometimes it feels like you’d rather believe them than me.”
"I never said that, I never said that at all!" You said "don't you do that self pity trick ... You're not bad it's just...
The words hit him mid-breath.
Johns hands stayed tight on the wheel, rain hammering the roof as the car cut through the dark highway. For a moment, John didn’t speak just stared ahead, jaw working as if he was trying to swallow the frustration down.
“Then what is it?” he asked, voice lower now but strained. “Because from where I’m sitting it sure as hell feels like I’m the only one getting called out tonight.”
He shook his head slightly, blinking hard at the road as the headlights reflected off the slick pavement.
“You say I’m pulling some self-pity trick,” he went on, glancing at you briefly, hurt flashing across his face. “But you didn’t hear the way he was talking to me. Like I’m some screw-up who doesn’t deserve you.”
Another car passed in the opposite lane, its lights briefly flooding the inside of the vehicle.
John swallowed, his voice softening for a second.
“I know I’m not perfect, Y/N,” he said quietly. “God knows I’ve made mistakes. But I’m trying to be on your side here.”
His fingers tapped the steering wheel, restless, emotions still simmering.
“So tell me,” he said, turning his head slightly toward you again, “what were you about to say just now? ‘You’re not bad, it’s just…’ what?”
You looked at him glaring at him getting tired at the conversation. Because it was like ok loop when you turned your head to look at him and snap you saw the incoming car. "JOHN!!" You screamed but too late the car rolled over The world went upside down. The roar of tires, the scream, the crack of glass everything blurred into chaos as the car tumbled over the slick highway. Rain mixed with the smell of burning rubber and gasoline, sharp and choking.
When the car finally stopped, silence fell a heavy, suffocating silence broken only by distant sirens and the soft patter of rain on shattered glass.
You crawled over, blood slicking your hands, heart hammering in your chest. John lay twisted against the wreckage, his body crumpled unnaturally, half-crushed beneath the metal. His breathing was shallow, uneven every rise of his chest a struggle, every sound a thin rasp of pain.
“john..john…” you whispered, your voice breaking as you pressed your hand against his shoulder, which barely responded. His eyes were open just slightly, glazed, unfocused like he could still see you but couldn’t reach you.
A cut on his forehead bled down over his face, mixing with rain, and his lips twitched faintly as if he wanted to say something. But nothing came out. He wasn’t gone… not completely yet, but the injuries were severe, each shallow breath a battle he was losing.
The cold night wrapped around you as you pressed closer to him, praying, begging silently for him to hold on, for just a little longer.
You fell on the roof of the car as you unclipped your seatbelt to crawl closer to him to get him out only to discover you had a broken leg.
Rain soaked hair clung to your face as you struggled to crawl over the jagged, slippery roof of the wrecked car, each movement sending sharp jolts of pain up your leg. Blood trickled down your arm from a deep gash, mixing with the rain, but you didn’t care. Your focus was only on him.
“john… look at me…” you whispered again, voice trembling but fierce with determination. “You’ll be okay… you’re going to be okay.”
His head lolled slightly to the side, eyelids heavy, eyes half-lidded and glassy. Each shallow breath sounded like it took every ounce of his strength. The blood running from his forehead and the gashes along his chest and arms made it obvious he was barely holding on.
You reached out, cupping his bloodied face, pressing your forehead against his. Pain lanced through your broken leg with every movement, but you gritted your teeth, refusing to let it stop you.
“I’m right here, john… I’m not leaving you,” you whispered fiercely, tears mingling with the rain, smearing the blood across both of you. “We’re going to get through this. You hear me? We’re not done… not like this…”
The car moaned under its own twisted weight, the rain hissing as it ran over shattered glass. John's chest rose and fell shallowly, each breath a battle, but faintly he squeezed your hand, a tiny tremor of life left in him.
Even injured and bleeding, your presence kept him tethered to the world for now.
You held his hand bringing it to your lips "I'm sorry it's gonna be okay..." You said tearing up the rain dripped steadily through the crackes windshield, tapping against twisted metal and broken glass. The night smelled of gasoline and wet asphalt.
His fingers twitched weakly in yours, barely there, but enough to show he was still fighting. A strained breath pushed past his lips, rough and uneven. His eyelids fluttered like they weighed a hundred pounds before finally cracking open just enough to see you.
“Y… Y/N…” he rasped, the sound thin and broken.
His gaze struggled to focus on your face through the rain and the blur of pain. When he realized you were there, something in his expression softened despite the agony.
“You’re… hurt…” he murmured faintly, his voice barely louder than the rain. His hand tried to move toward you, but it only managed the smallest shift in your grasp.
A painful breath shuddered through his chest.
“Hey… hey…” he whispered, trying to steady you even though he was the one fading. “Don’t… cry… okay?”
His eyes closed for a second, his brow tightening as another wave of pain hit him. When they opened again, they searched your face desperately.
“I’m… sorry…” he managed, voice cracking. “Didn’t… mean… to—”
"Shhh...it's not your fault." You cut him off knowing john Price would blame anything to himself.
His breath faltered, cutting the sentence short as his chest struggled to rise again.
But his fingers were still wrapped around yours, weakly squeezing as if holding on to the only thing keeping him here.
You held his hand as you laid on the glass on thr roof of the car, you couldn't get out...if you die then aleat you're with him...
The flashing lights painted the wreck in pulses of red and blue, reflecting off the rain and the shattered glass around you. Sirens grew louder somewhere down the highway, but inside the crumpled car it still felt like the world had narrowed to just the two of you.
You lay beside him on the broken roof, barely able to move, your broken leg screaming with every breath you took. Still, you didn’t let go of him.
“Don’t go…” you whispered.
The words trembled in the cold night air.
John felt your hand tighten around his, and with what little strength he had left, he squeezed back slow, weak, but deliberate.
His breathing was shallow now, each inhale uneven, his chest barely rising under the wreckage. Rain slid down his face, mixing with blood, but his eyes found you again.
“Hey…” he breathed, voice hoarse and fragile. “I’m… right here…”
His thumb moved faintly against your hand, a small, reassuring motion even as his strength faded.
His gaze lingered on your face, like he was trying to memorize every detail. The sirens were close now, tires screeching somewhere nearby, voices shouting in the distance but john barely seemed to hear them.
Instead, his attention stayed on you.
“You’re… gonna be okay,” he whispered weakly, though the words cost him. “They’re… here…”
His eyes flickered toward the flashing lights, then back to you.
“Promise me… you’ll let them help you…” he said softly.
His hand tightened faintly in yours again, a final protective instinct surfacing even now.
“Stay… with me… just a little longer…” he breathed.
You nodded lying with him looking into his eyes as you furrowed your brows at his words
Rain continued to fall over the wreckage, dripping from bent metal and shattered glass as the red and blue lights flashed faster now.
Voices shouted in the distance
paramedics, cops, peope...who refuse to help because they want to take a picture first. but inside the crushed car it still felt quiet, like time had slowed.
John watched you carefully, his eyes struggling to stay open. Even through the pain clouding his face, there was a faint softness there when he saw you nod.
“Hey…” he breathed weakly, the corners of his mouth twitching like he was trying to smile.
“Don’t… make that face,” he murmured, voice barely more than a rasp. “You always do that… when you’re worried.”
Another shallow breath rattled in his chest, and his eyes squeezed shut for a moment before opening again, forcing himself to stay present with you.
“You remember… that camping trip?” he asked faintly, his voice drifting in and out. “You swore… you’d never forgive me… for burning the food…”
A weak breathy huff left him, almost a laugh but not quite.
“And then you… ate it anyway…”
His gaze softened again, locking on yours like it was the only anchor he had left.
“You stayed then too,” he whispered. “You always… stay…”
The sound of boots crunching on glass grew close now.
“Hey! We’ve got two in here!” someone shouted from outside.
John breathing faltered slightly, but his eyes stayed on you, clinging to the moment.
“See…” he murmured weakly. “Help’s… here…”
You managed a weak smile, whispering his name.
"John…” you breathed his name too tired yourself to move.
For a moment John was still looking at you. His eyes were heavy, but they held yours like he didn’t want to let go of that last connection.
Your hand was wrapped tightly around his.
Then slowly… his grip loosened.
His thumb stopped moving against your knuckles. The faint tension in his fingers eased as the strength drained out of them. His chest rose once shallow, fragile.
And then again… softer.
His eyes stayed half-open on you, calm now, the pain that had been there moments ago fading into something quieter. Almost...peaceful.
The last breath left him in a quiet exhale.
Outside the car, boots crunched on glass.
“Careful! The vehicle’s unstable!” a paramedic called.
A flashlight beam cut through the rain, landing on the two of you tangled in the wreckage.
“Oh God… we’ve got one critical and one”
The voice faltered when they saw john.
Another paramedic climbed closer.
“Ma’am, can you hear me?” they said urgently, trying to reach you through the crushed frame. “Stay with us, okay? We’re getting you out.”
But you were still lying there on the shattered glass beside him, your hand wrapped around his even though his fingers no longer squeezed back.
Rain ran down both of your faces.
The sirens wailed around you, the world moving again but for a moment longer you stayed there with him, refusing to let go.
"John...don't leave me" you whispered but he never responded
But he didn’t answer.
His hand remained in yours, limp now, the warmth slowly fading despite the rain running over both of you. His eyes were still partly open, but they no longer focused on you the way they had moments before.
The silence from him was louder than the sirens.
“Ma’am! Stay with us!” a paramedic shouted from outside the crushed car. “We need you to keep your eyes open, okay?”
Hands began working around the wreckage, metal tools grinding and screeching as they tried to pry the car open.
Another voice, quieter this time:
“…Driver’s unresponsive.”.
“…We’ll check again once we get him out.”
The words blurred through the ringing in your ears. All you could see was john lying there beside you, rain washing the blood from his face in thin streams.
Your fingers tightened around his, even though his didn’t move anymore.
“Please…” you whispered weakly, tears mixing with the rain.
Outside, the rescuers worked faster now, the hydraulic cutters biting into the crushed frame.
“We’ve got to get her out first—she’s bleeding!”
But even as they reached toward you, your hand refused to let go of his hand as
The metal finally groaned apart as the rescuers forced the door open. Rain rushed inside the ruined car as paramedics climbed carefully through the wreckage.
“Easy, easy… we’ve got you,” one of them said gently as they reached for you.
You barely seemed to hear them.
They carefully lifted you onto the stretcher, trying not to move your broken leg. The pain flared sharply through you, but you hardly reacted.
Your gaze never left him.
“Please… help him…” you whispered weakly, your voice shaking.
One of the paramedics glanced toward john, then back to you. Their expression softened in a way that told more than their words did.
“We’re going to take care of him,” they said gently.
Another paramedic squeezed your shoulder reassuringly as they began wheeling the stretcher away from the wreck.
“Right now we need to take care of you, okay?”
But as they moved you toward the ambulance, the flashing lights blurring through the rain, you could still see him through the open car door.
Still lying there.
No motion...
"Oh god no...not my John... please" you cried out. The distance grew slowly with every step the paramedics took, yet your eyes stayed fixed on him until the ambulance doors finally closed between you and the wrecked highway.
If he would die, he didn't die in the field but he could die in the highway, anyone could. Because of different reasons. Bad weather, drunk driving, bad eye sight, wrong turn, misplaced focus. Who knows.
But right now as you stared at the white light of the ambulance all you could think of was his lips on your forehead saying....
"you know I love you right?"
And with that, you want him to be here with you. Not later, not tomorrow, not the next day, now.
[ What should happen next? Should I kill him? Or....let me know what you guys want next to happen.]
On lazy days, he’s basically a blanket burrito in his hoodie, which you called the GHOSTY BURRITO... headphones blasting, scrolling memes, or listening to whatever playlist he’s obsessed with. If he’s feeling artsy, you might catch him doodling in a notebook, but mostly? He’s on “mandatory nap day” mode. Phone on silent, zero interruptions he just wants to stay home and do… nothing.
Johnny “Soap” MacTavish
That guy on the couch with the controller, yelling at the TV like it personally offended him. He insists you join in, no matter what the game is Call of Duty, Mario Kart, even Just Dance. Doesn’t matter if you’re terrible, he’ll hype you up anyway. And when hunger strikes? Don’t worry pizza delivery is already en route.
John Price
Surprisingly chill for a lazy day. You’ll probably find him on the balcony with a coffee, reading something random, or just enjoying the quiet. Low-key he loves watching everyone else goof off while he sips his tea. Occasionally he drops sarcastic comments like, “You call that a move? Lemme show you, son,” before actually joining the chaos with a grin.
Kyle “Gaz” Garrick
Pajamas all day, Netflix marathon in full swing. Loves debating over every tiny plot point and can get hilariously competitive if a game or trivia pops up: “Oh no no no…he didn’t do that! That was Episode 10 when he killed him. I’m sure of it, he’s the criminal!”
Alejandro Vargas
The human sunbeam. Lounging in a chair, soaking up the sunlight, just vibing. He’s the type to suggest doing absolutely nothing productive together… and then somehow end up napping on your shoulder half an hour later after rearranging the garden.
Rodolfo Parra
He’s everywhere at oncehelping his family, cooking, running errands, and probably losing track of everything. “Rodolfo, please hold this!” “Rodolfo! Rudy, where’s your chico?” “I lost my car keys… Rudy!! The barbecue!!” He’s exhausted but loving every chaotic second. Even if he’s technically on vacation.
Phillip Graves
He Could be missing for weeks and then suddenly discovered camping in the woods. Loves the quiet and being alone. If he wants to just bum out, he does it no one knows where he is, and that’s exactly how he likes it.
Summary: Logan learns to Write a Letter to a certain someone but you decided to help him out. But you never knew who this someone was.
Genre: Fluff
Word Count: 3k
A/n: it's been sooooo long since I wrote something this long. So I do hope you guys love it. The concept have been sitting getting all dusty in my Memo for awhile now I finally had the courage to dust it and write it. - tori
Writing the Strokes of the Heart.
Logan had recently taken up a new hobby or, well, “hobby” might be stretching it. It wasn’t every day you caught him tinkering with something other than axes or lumber. Sure, there were days when he tried braiding, leather staining, or other “manly artisan” things, but this week… this week was different.
He was into writing. Not just doodling notes or scribbling reminders real, deliberate writing. A letter to someone special.
He’d written letters before, but those were businesslike: updates on projects, reports on the “war,” news no one really read for fun. This one was… different.
Logan stepped into your classroom, his usual scowl softened, just a little, by the kind of uncertainty that made him look almost human. In his hand, he held a folded piece of paper, tapping it nervously with a finger. He spotted you at your desk and cleared his throat, the sound loud in the quiet room.
“Hey… uh, Y/n,” he added, scratching the back of his neck, a little too consciously. “I… I need your opinion on something. It’s… kinda important.”
Did I mention that you were his dictionary? Well, you were. Logan had been coming to you for advice on… everything. From how to talk to women, to what lines might work without sounding like a total oaf.
He held the letter out like it was a ticking bomb. “I was trying to… write this… thing,” he admitted, voice low. “For someone. And I… I got stuck. Thought maybe… you could help me figure out what the heck women actually want.”
He gave you a small, awkward smile half hopeful, half embarrassed clearly out of his comfort zone.
“Yeah, is it an article?” you asked, half-joking while piling your books.
Logan blinked, caught off guard, then shook his head quickly and shuffled closer, like a student late to pass in homework.
“No… no article,” he said, holding up the crumpled paper like it might explode if you got too close. “It’s… uh… a letter. A… love letter.”
He winced. “I know… it sounds stupid. Me, stern, the last guy anyone expects to...uh, you know..do romance. But I… I got stuck. I don’t know how to… say the right things. That’s why I… need my best wing woman.”
He gave you a sheepish grin, like he half-expected you to laugh, but secretly hoped you wouldn’t. And honestly, you had been helping him with all his little ridiculous, endearing questions how to phrase a sentence, what women like, what they want to hear, what makes them smile. You had probably saved him from embarrassing himself more times than you could count.
“So… uh… you think you can help me… make it not sound like a total idiot wrote it?” he asked, voice quiet but hopeful.
You paused, looking at him. You didn’t really believe he sucked at writing you knew he’d lived long enough before phones were even a thing.
“Well… what part are you stuck on?” you asked, leaning back slightly in your chair.
Logan shifted, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. “It’s… the part where I’m supposed to, you know… tell her how I feel without sounding like a complete moron,” he admitted, holding the paper out just enough for you to peek. “I’ve written some stuff, but it just… sounds weird when I read it out loud. I don’t know if it’s… honest, or cheesy, or… I don’t know!”
He let out a frustrated sigh, muttering under his breath, “Why is saying ‘I like you’ so damn hard?”
Then he looked up at you with those intense blue eyes, the ones that always seemed to catch you off guard. “Can you… help me fix it?”
You chuckled. “Start with honesty. Like… funny, honest. ‘I don’t know how to do this, but I’m saying it anyway… I’m a hundred-year-old grumpy pup.’” You grinned, shrugging like it was just another one of your classic examples.
Logan’s narrowed eyes softened just a fraction, though the corners of his mouth twitched as if he were fighting a smirk.
“Grumpy pup, huh?” he murmured, and you could swear there was a little sparkle in his eyes now. “Funny… that’s your big advice?” He shook his head, trying to hide the tiniest grin creeping onto his face. “Yeah, because nothing says ‘I like you’ like admitting you’re a hundred-year-old curmudgeon who doesn’t know what he’s doing.”
He leaned a little closer, the paper still in one hand, voice low and laced with his usual sarcasm. “Fine. I’ll try it your way… but if she laughs at me, I’m blaming you.”
Then, almost reluctantly, he muttered under his breath, “Not that she’d ever… but still. Can’t have it end up like a disaster.”
He glanced at you, waiting half expecting that familiar iconic Y/n smirk, the one that somehow made every situation feel a little less complicated.
“You don’t need to know who she is,” he said gruffly. “What’s the point of a surprise if you already know and start parading it around?”
You placed a hand dramatically against your chest, gasping. “You don’t trust me?”
“I certainly don’t,” he replied without missing a beat, the corner of his mouth twitching as he played along. Then he rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly less confident. “So… you’re really gonna help me sound… normal?”
You raised a brow. “Define normal.”
Logan huffed under his breath. “Just—y’know. Help me normalize my shaky arse.”
You tilted your head, fighting the grin threatening to form. “Logan, if your plan is to impress someone by admitting that… we may need to start from the very beginning. letters are personal Logan you know that I can't alter that" she said "like I told you be yourself. Be honest" she said smiling at him. "Why are you writing a letter? Are you leaving?"
Logan blinked at your question, caught off guard. His usual scowl wavered, replaced by something a little more…worried. He ran a hand through his hair, muttering under his breath.
“No, I’m not leaving,” he said quickly, as if the idea alone was ridiculous. “It’s… I just… she happens to be too close to be flirted with...she ain't like other woman im with...messy sometimes. Letters… letters let me say the things I can’t say without… tripping over my words.”
He looked down at the paper again, his grip tightening slightly. “Besides… it’s not like I’m good at… you know, the whole ‘heart-on-your-sleeve’ thing when she saw everything you are....Thought maybe if I wrote it… she’d get me..”
Then he glanced at you, eyes searching, a flicker of his usual sarcastic edge returning. “But don’t get any ideas, Y/n… you’re not getting drafted as my emotional translator for life… just… for this one letter.”
He smirked slightly, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes, still caught in that awkward honesty he was slowly learning to embrace.
You chuckled softly, raising your hands in surrender.
“Alright, alright,” you said in mock defense. “I’m not saying you have to pour your soul out or anything.”
You leaned back slightly, watching him fiddle with the pen between his fingers.
“But really… write something soft. Women like that,” you added with a small smile. “Seeing their grumpy man reveal he’s actually got a soft heart somewhere under all that attitude?”
Your eyes glinted with playful amusement.
“Trust me,” you teased gently, “that kind of thing melts them.”
Logan let out a low, reluctant chuckle, shaking his head. “Soft, huh?” He muttered, tapping the edge of the paper.
He glanced at you, a half-smirk playing on his lips, eyes narrowing slightly. “Fine, fine… soft. Honest if I can manage it without sounding like a total sap eh"
He paused, tapping the paper thoughtfully. “Maybe I should start with… ‘I’m a pain in the ass, but somehow I like you anyway.’ Or… nah… too blunt?”
"Hmmm, we should re word that...."
His gaze flicked to you, waiting for your guidance, that familiar mix of sarcasm and genuine trust in his best friend shining through. “See? I’m trying….” he smiled at you.
Later that day, when you stepped into the teachers’ lounge, you spotted Ororo Munroe by the counter, graceful as ever, stirring a cup of tea. Her silver hair caught the light from the window, and her sharp eyes lifted the moment she noticed you.
“Logan walked into your office earlier,” she said calmly, a knowing glint in her gaze. “Should I assume he has been… difficult again?”
“Yep,” you replied simply, moving to the coffee machine and filling a cup. “But let him be. He’s just being Wolspeare ”
Ororo paused, one brow arching in elegant curiosity.
“Wolverine + Shakespeare?” she repeated, the corner of her lips curving. “That is… a new one.”
You shrugged, taking a sip of your coffee. “You should’ve seen him. Sitting there trying to write a letter like some tragic poet.”
A quiet, warm laugh escaped her.
“Our Wolverine… writing poetry,” she mused. “There is a storm brewing somewhere if that is the case.”
You smirked. “He’s trying to be soft. Apparently there’s a mysterious woman.”
Ororo leaned lightly against the counter, clearly entertained.
“Well now,” she said, voice smooth with curiosity, “I do wonder who this mysterious woman might be.”
“I’m pretty sure it’s not someone we know or Jean,” you replied but there was little tingle of Jealousy in your words.
Ororo’s brow lifted again, amusement dancing in her eyes.
“Jean?” she said thoughtfully. “That would explain the sudden… introspection.”
You chuckled, shaking your head.
“He asked for help writing a letter.”
At that, Ororo laughed softly, the sound light and melodic.
“I would pay good money to see Logan attempt romance with a pen,” she admitted. “It is a rare thing indeed to witness an attempt to write a love letter.”
You grinned into your coffee.
“Honestly? It’s kind of adorable. Like watching a grizzly bear try to knit.”
Ororo shook her head, smiling.
“Well,” she said gently, “if anyone can guide that man through the delicate art of words… it would be you.”
You lifted your cup slightly in a half-toast.
“Someone has to keep the claws from writing the wrong thing.”
Ororo chuckled again, eyes bright with mischief.
“Then I shall leave the Wolspeare chronicles in your capable hands.”
You grinned. “No promises.”
Late that night, the halls were nearly empty, the soft hum of the lights the only sound as you made your way toward your dorm. You were already halfway past the stairwell when a hand closed gently but firmly around your arm.
You didn’t even have to turn to know who it was. You looked over your shoulder anyway, smiling when you saw him standing there, watching you like he’d been waiting.
“What?” you asked, amused.
Logan tilted his head slightly, his grip loosening but not letting go.
“You didn’t say goodnight.”
Your smile widened a little. “Is that a complaint?”
“Observation usually you come find me and say goodnight,” he muttered, though the corner of his mouth twitched.
He stepped a little closer, close enough that you could smell the faint mix of leather and something warmer
something that was just Logan His thumb brushed absentmindedly along your sleeve where he still held your arm, slow and casual… but lingering longer than necessary.
“Figured someone who’s been giving me romance advice all day would at least remember her manners,” he added, voice low and teasing.
You chuckled softly. “Well, your dictionary’s running on low batteries tonight. I’m allowed to power down.”
His eyes narrowed slightly in amusement. “Batteries, huh?”
You stepped closer before he could say anything else and leaned up, pressing a quick, soft kiss to his cheek.
“Goodnight, Logan.”
For a split second he went completely still.
He always did. His brows lifted a fraction, like his brain needed a moment to catch up with what just happened.
Then he let out a quiet huff of a laugh.
“Yeah,” he murmured, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess I’ll have to remember to recharge you.”
His hand finally dropped from your arm, but he didn’t move away right away. His eyes lingered on your face for a second longer than usual, something warm flickering behind the usual gruffness.
“Night, Y/n.”
He turned, shoving his hands into his pockets as he walked down the hallway. After a few steps, he glanced back over his shoulder, that crooked smirk back in place.
“Don’t stay up too late.”
His voice dropped just slightly.
“Might need my dictionary again tomorrow.”
You rolled your eyes, smiling as he disappeared around the corner.
When you finally stepped inside your room, the quiet settled around you. You kicked off your shoes and were about to turn toward your bed when something on the floor caught your attention.
A folded piece of paper like it was slipped through the door You frowned slightly, bending to pick it up. Your name was written across the front in messy, unmistakable handwriting.
Logan’s.
Curiosity tugged at you as you unfolded the letter, your brows knitting slightly.
The paper was rough, a little wrinkled like it had been folded and unfolded too many times. Like someone had fought with it before finally letting it go in a way that the post office would actually suggest to rewrite it but you.. you love it.
You recognized the handwriting immediately.
Messy, Heavy, Certain words scratched out and written again like he’d argued with himself before letting them stay. You sat on the edge of your bed and began to read.
Y/n,
I’ve been staring at this damn paper longer than I’m willing to admit.
You’d probably laugh if you saw how many versions of this I threw away. Every time I started writing something honest, I’d hear your voice in my head telling me to “stop being dramatic and just say the thing.”
Turns out that’s harder than it sounds.
Truth is… I’ve been lying to you for a while now.
Not the bad kind. Not the kind meant to hurt you. Just the kind a coward tells because he’s afraid of ruining the best thing in his life.
Every time I walked into your classroom asking about that “mysterious woman”… every time I asked what women like… every time I said I was writing this for someone else
I was lying.
I wasn’t asking about women.
I was asking about you. Guess that makes me a pretty terrible student.
I kept telling myself it was easier that way. Easier to pretend it wasn’t real. Easier to sit across from you, listen to you laugh at my terrible attempts at romance, and pretend my chest didn’t do something stupid every time you smiled at me. Even were in the battlefield on ops.
Even when the situation was too terrible to even smile. You made it look easy. Like helping a grumpy idiot write a love letter was just another Tuesday too.
But the truth is… this letter didn’t start today.
I wrote the first version of it years ago.
Back when I first realized something had gone wrong in my head. When I started noticing little things I shouldn’t have been noticing.
Like how quiet the mansion feels when you’re not around. Or how the only nights I actually sleep are the ones where you end up half-asleep on the couch next to me after one of my nightmares. Sometimes you don’t even remember it in the morning… but you curl up against my side like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
And somehow the bad dreams stop.
I never told you that part.
Never told you how many nights I sat awake after you fell asleep, just watching you breathe… thinking how someone like you ended up trusting someone like me.
You make it easy to forget what I am.
When you get hurt, it feels like someone reached into my chest and tore something out. When you laugh, the whole damn place feels lighter.
I’ve lived a long time, Y/n.
Long enough to meet heroes, monsters, legends… people who think they’re perfect.
But nobody in my life has ever been anything like you.
You’re stubborn. Too kind for your own good. You don't see what I see but you are perfect and more than what you think you are.
You argue with me like you’re not even a little scared of what I am capable of, like all you see is a man And somehow… you see me.
Not the weapon or the mess.
Just me.
That scares the hell out of me.
Because if I lose that… I don’t think I get it back. You’re my best friend.
And I’ve been terrified that wanting more would ruin that. So I kept the lie going. Kept asking for your advice. Kept pretending this letter was for someone else just so I could sit across from you a little longer in your office as you pile those books and you sitting on your table like a statue in a museum.
A relic that a treasure hunter would say One and only. Because you are.
I say things to just see you, pretty pathetic huh? But somewhere along the way I realized something else. You weren’t just helping me write this letter. You were the reason I wanted to write it at all.
So here it is. The truth I’ve been too stubborn to say out loud.
I fell for my best friend.
And I tried real hard not to. Didn’t work.
If you read this and decide it’s a bad idea… that’s alright. I mean it. I’d rather have you in my life as my best friend than lose you because I got greedy. We’ll pretend this never happened. I’ll go back to bothering you for dictionary services and bad romance advice.
But if there’s even a small chance you feel something like I do…
Come find me tomorrow.
I’ll be in the library pretending to read something Truth is, I’ll probably just be waiting for you like an idiot.
— Logan
P.S.
You were right.
Being honest is harder than fighting my brother. If you tell anyone I wrote something this soft, I will deny everything.
The room was quiet when you finished.
For a moment you just stared at the paper in your hands. Then slowly, your lips spread into the widest smile.
“You big lug…” you murmured softly
All this time.
All the questions.
All the awkward visits to your classroom. The hours he spent looking frustrated over a piece of paper. You had been so sure it was for Jean or any woman
it never occure to you that it was for you.
It made sense Jean was kind, strong, beautiful… someone Logan could easily fall for. But the letter in your hands said otherwise.
You read parts of it again, your smile growing wider with every line scratched in his rough handwriting. You could practically hear his voice in the words gruff, reluctant, a little embarrassed about every honest sentence.
The image of him earlier in the hallway flashed through your mind.
The way he looked when you kissed his cheek The way he look behind his shoulder making sure you got in your dorm, you remembered the look he gives you when you almost died in the field. The look he gives you when you walk in the room like you carried a spotlight for him instead of a bottle of beer.
The way he lets you sit on his lap when there no chairs or at an occasion. You buried your face into the pillow with a soft laugh.
“Waiting in the library like an idiot, huh…”
For someone who pretended to be fearless, Logan had clearly been terrified writing this. Your fingers traced the creases of the letter thoughtfully. Then your eyes softened.
Because suddenly you realized something else.
You love him, you truly did.
Logan had trusted you with every step of writing a love letter…for you. The thought made your heart flutter.
Across the school, somewhere down the hallways and staircases, Logan was probably in his room pretending he wasn’t replaying the entire day in his head.
Wondering if he’d just ruined everything.
Meanwhile you lay on your bed, clutching his letter like it was the most precious thing in the world.
Tomorrow suddenly couldn’t come fast enough.
Clearly, you didn't get any sleep thinking or you do feel the same which with every question you ask yourself...it turns out to be always yes.
The next day, you passed by the library to your suprise logan wasn't lying he was kn the library holding a book as some kids poked him asking what he was reading. You walked in "Leave the man alone kids I think he had enough Sugarfuel for the day" you said softly announcing her presence
The kids immediately scattered with guilty little laughs when they heard your voice.
“Sorry, Mr. Logan!” one of them called as they hurried out, clearly amused that they had caught the grumpy teacher reading.
Logan slowly lowered the book in his hands. He hadn’t even turned the page.
His eyes lifted to you.
For a moment he just stared.
Like he was trying to read your face before you even said anything.
Then he closed the book with a quiet thump, setting it on the table. His jaw tightened slightly, that familiar guarded look creeping in—but there was something else underneath it. Something nervous.
Logan stood up, hands sliding into the pockets of his jacket.
“Took you long enough,” he muttered, trying to sound casual. “Been here since early morning. Figured if I left, I might miss you.”
His eyes flicked toward you again, sharper now.
“So…” he said slowly, voice lower than usual.
“You read it.” It wasn’t a question.
Logan shifted his weight, clearly bracing himself for whatever you were about to say. For a man who had faced wars, monsters, and worse… he looked strangely tense waiting for your answer.
"I did, and you never cease to amaze me. I never expected you wrote it for me." You said taking a seat on the wooden bench beside him
Logan watched you sit down beside him, his shoulders stiff at first like he wasn’t sure what direction this moment was about to go.
Your words sank in slowly.
His brow furrowed a little. “Yeah… well,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Was kinda the point of the letter.”
But there was no bite in his sarcasm this time. Just nerves.
He leaned his hip against the table beside the bench, glancing down at the floor for a moment before looking back at you.
“I figured you’d think it was for someone else,” he admitted gruffly. “Most people do.” A small breath left him through his nose, almost like he was bracing for impact.
“You always help everyone else figure things out,” he continued quietly. “Didn’t think you’d notice when it was about you.”
His eyes searched your face carefully now, intense but unsure.
“So…” he said, voice low.
“You came to the library.”
The corner of his mouth twitched slightly.
“That mean I didn’t completely embarrass myself?”
You shifted on your seat and cupped his face gently pulling him into a kiss. As you pulled away "I'm not good with words also...does that answer your question?"
Logan froze for a heartbeat, his eyes widening in surprise as your lips met his. The kiss was soft, tentative at first then somehow it was enough to make all the frustration and awkwardness of the past days melt away.
When you pulled back, his hand went instinctively to the spot you had cupped, lingering there like he couldn’t quite let go. His chest was heavier than usual, heart hammering, claws metaphorically retracted—at least for this moment.
He let out a low, almost inaudible chuckle, voice rough but warm.
“Well… damn,” he muttered, leaning into your hand slightly. “That’s… that’s way better than any letter I could’ve written.”
A crooked, shy grin tugged at his lips, the one you’d seen only when he was letting his guard down.
“So… yeah,” he said, voice quieter now, almost vulnerable. “That… answers my question.”
Then he pulled you a little closer, forehead resting against yours. “Don’t tell me you’re this good at everything, Y/n. It’s unfair.”
And for the first time in a long while, Logan wasn’t grumpy, wasn’t sarcastic, wasn’t trying to hide anything. He was just… Logan, completely himself, and completely yours.
Hi....I noticed you just got back. You don't post much anymore. I missed your fics.
Hey buddy!
I'm Sorry, I’ve been kinda inactive lately, life’s just been piling up all at once. Things have been pretty busy on my end, but I’m trying to get back into a routine and be active again soon. I’ve actually got a bunch of WIPs sitting in my notepad right now, so my plan is to finish the requested ones and the shorter pieces first.
Here’s some of what I’m currently working on (from what I remember):
Fandoms:
Call of Duty
Now You See Me
Harry Potter
Tron
TWD (I’ll be writing the requested part twos soon)
I’m also planning to write for some Christian Bale movies too, like Equilibrium, Reign of Fire, and The Dark Knight.
For John “Soap” MacTavish:
Purple Hearts (almost done)
Assassin!Reader
Workaholic!Reader
I’ve also got around five Snape fics in progress, plus some unfinished Dean Winchester ones. There’s definitely more, I just can’t remember everything off the top of my head right now. Anyway, thanks for being patient with me. I’ll start posting again as I finish things!
I hope you're doing fine Anon, it's touching to know someone likes my writing. Thank you.
• The jacket is way too big on you, heavy leather settling over your shoulders like armor that smells faintly of cedarwood, cigar smoke, and something unmistakably him, and you pretend you didn’t absolutely bury your face in the collar before leaving your room.
• You definitely took it knowing full well he’d notice eventually, but you also knew he wouldn’t notice immediately because he owns approximately two identical jackets and rotates them like a man who refuses to admit he has a favorite.
• He doesn’t clock it at first when you walk into the halls of Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, because he’s mid-conversation and only half paying attention until he pauses, squints slightly, and goes, “Nice jacket.”
• And you smiled, A slow inhale. His brow furrows. “…Wait a minute.”
• The realization hits him in stages:
-the stitching on the sleeve,
-the scuff near the pocket from that bar fight in Alberta,
- the lining inside that only he would recognize.
• If it were anyone else? He’d be growling and threatning, demanding it back, already two seconds from intimidation mode.
• But it’s you... Wearing it like you own it. And suddenly the irritation melts into something warmer, quieter, territorial in a way that makes his jaw flex. He'd be lying. If he would say he didn't like seeing you wearing his jacket. A clear sign saying "I got a hot boyfriend with claws don't mess with me"
• He steps closer than necessary, fingers brushing the lapel. “You went in my room.”
• “Borrowed.”
• him letting out a low, gruff huff that’s supposed to sound annoyed but absolutely isn’t.
• You wore it to teach your class that day, sleeves rolled up slightly, students whispering because you look intimidating in a way you normally don’t, and the jacket practically screams don’t mess with her
• Rogue takes one look at you in the staff hallway, eyes widening just a little before she smirks and says, “Oh… someone’s gonna be in trouble.”
• But she’s grinning, because she knows exactly whose it is.
• Then comes Storm, regal as ever, eyebrow raised with that knowing smile. “It suits you,” she says smoothly. “Though I suspect its owner will not be pleased.”
• You shrug, pretending innocence. “It was cold.”
• Storm’s eyes flick toward Logan standing at the end of the hall watching you like a wolf who just realized someone is wearing his scent, and she adds softly, “On the contrary… I believe he is very pleased.”
• He absolutely hovers around your classroom that day under the pretense of “checking on security,” leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed, pretending he’s not staring at how his jacket suits you better than him
• Later, when you try to take it off and hand it back, he stops you by catching your wrist gently, thumb brushing your pulse. “Keep it.”
• You blinked. “I thought you were mad.”
• He leans in close, voice low enough only you can hear. “I was. If it was anyone else.”
• There’s something possessive but protective about it the way his scent is on you, the way everyone now knows who you’re with without you saying a word.
• And from then on? It’s unofficially yours. He’ll still pretend it’s his. He’ll still grumble when he can’t find it. But if he sees you wearing it?
• The look in his eyes says he likes it exactly where it is.
Sharing the couch with Jack Wilder after you two faked your deaths would include...
There were no rooms in the safehouse, and neither of you wanted the floor rats were casually strolling by like they owned the place.
“We should have taken the motel or the hotel. This is worse than the motel,” you muttered, arms crossed.
“Atlas said we stay here and wait,” he replied, half-smirk, half-annoyed, like he was trying not to laugh at how dramatic you were being.
Your eyes both landed on the couch. It had been a long day, and both of you wanted to collapse onto it… badly.
In perfect unison, you scrambled to lie down and promptly headbutted each other with a groan.
“Get off, Jack!”
“No, you get off!"
“I got it first!”
“Heck no!”
And then a rat wandered in like it had a VIP pass, making the two of you leap off the couch in unison.
Eventually, you end up squeezed together on the couch anyway because honestly, the floor looked like it had a personal vendetta against humans. He pulled you close, one arm draped lazily over the back, the other brushing hair from your face like it was nothing… but it was everything.
You complained about the smell, the creaky floorboards, and the obvious rat trails. He just chuckled, clearly loving this chaos you’d somehow ended up in together.
Every so often, he rested his chin on your shoulder and murmured jokes about how “dangerous survival” looked a lot like Netflix and chill. You rolled your eyes, but your heartbeat betrayed you.
He offered you a blanket, which was obviously the rat-and-dust-covered sheet he found in the corner. “Better than nothing,” he teased.
“URGH No! IM NOT TOUCHING THAT” you shoved it away, dramatically.
Him teasing you with his dirty hands as you both laid in the ruined couch
Somehow, your legs ended up tangled together without you realizing it. He teased you about hogging the couch, and you snapped back, but instead of arguing, Jack just scooted over to make room… leaving you to fall asleep first in his arms. He stayed awake, staring at you like it was the most absurdly perfect thing in the world.
You caught him when his phone rang. He picked it up, only to hear Atlas admit he’d sent the wrong address.
“SON OF A BITCH!” Jack muttered. “Do you know how hard it is to be here? We're getting eaten alive here!"
You both stared at each other, realizing maybe Atlas was just messing with you. And because you were feeling slightly vengeful and very, very tired you decided to steal Atlas’ wallet later, as payback.
