Just trying to survive

Hi I guess just a 18 year old figuring out life and crap DONT FEED WHAT I REBLOG TO AI!!! BE RESPECTFUL TO THE PEOPLE WHO WROTE THE ORIGINAL POSTS!!

[weirdo-offical]

go ahead ig.

[abandoned-rodent-thing]

.. I don't really have followers, but go crazy

[me----irl]

Reblog if you think the person you reblogged this from deserves to be happy.

[abandoned-rodent-thing]

hope everyone finds there happiness in this and every life (*^.^*)

[thefernhands]

If you're fifteen or older an still sleep with a stuffed animal please reblog this.

My friend is embarrassed and thinks she’s the only one and I said id prove her wrong.

[llliissyyy]

Influencer!Reader always posting pictures of their military boyfriends with their backs to the camera.

Simon is the followers favorite because he is beefy and muscular.

Gaz and Soap are a shared second - they often hold the camera for your videos and their Voices are sometimes heard.

Price is a good third and the followers see him as the father - always calling him daddy.

[dandelionjack]

not nearly enough people are fuming about the cass review. do you understand the eventual implications? trans people in the uk will be considered children up until the age of 25, and denied HRT/surgery/even basic measures like legal name change and social transition. all owing to a biased and largely unscientific study. you know what “treatment” for gender dysphoria is recommended by the review instead? conversion therapy.

this will kill people and they know it, because they prefer us dead and out of sight. the government, the NHS and even the opposition have made this clear again and again. a twenty-five year old can have sex, get married have children, join the military, earn a living, be halfway up the corporate ladder or highly successful in their chosen career field by that age, but they can’t transition under NHS rules. this is a death sentence for trans teenagers and they are going ahead with it. it’s trans genocide, same as across the pond.

i’m so afraid for my trans siblings and our futures. i’m so scared for myself. what are we to do if not even the party that is supposed to be on the “left” gives a shit about our safety and mental health as long as they get voted in? labour have become tories with a red coat of paint. it all feels hopeless

[oak-the-professor]

Fuck, I didn't realise it was up till 25 (not that I didn't find it devastating anyway). This is so shit. I fucking hate how much the government here, especially the recent Labour government pretends to support LGBT rights and then just... lets this happen.

Well, shit, now I'm crying.

Anyway, gonna get this spread around more. @mimosa-sexypeople-contests-2026 @satan-offical @forgetthefall @explosions-are-funny @gracehasaspacesuitquestion @no-one-offical @unyieldingsilence @ghostofafruitmain

[mimosa-sex-tea-people-contrsf]

Fuck

[silverlullabies]

I feel like if you’re not going to update your fics or post, then you shouldn’t keep talking about them. I’ve been following you for a long time, and you’re still the same. At least try to change that.

-🐝

So let’s go ahead and talk about that Google document that’s been making its rounds on Reddit, tumblr, Twitter, discord, etc because it’s clear to me you fuckers just want ai generated content. “I don’t want ai slop I’ll take things written by human hands any day of the week- “ okay but that’s not what the numbers support.

Because while everyone else was up in arms about what author used ai, I couldn’t help but focus on how many hits and how many kudos those fics received meanwhile things written by people are getting bare minimum engagement and not providing incentive to write consistently

And it’s clear- based on that list- that a lot more people are using ai in fandom spaces than they’re admitting and you guys have grown so fucking used to that, that you’ve genuinely forgotten how much time it actually takes to write things. Back in my day it was considered a “frequently updated fic” if someone posted a new chapter once every couple of months. But now, thanks to ai, you get a new chapter every few days or every week- never stop to question that- and theb wonder why when someone actually writes something, it takes so long.

Instead of understanding that people have lives, that people write things and then delete the whole thing to rewrite it again which takes twice the amount of time, that people get writers block, etc it’s clear to me that people like you would suck off an ai user if it got you content much faster as long as you didn’t have to admit that you liked the ai generated content in question (so you can remain morally superior or some shit)

Fuck you and get off my blog.

[mirrormauve]

faultlines

simon 'ghost' riley x f!reader | soulmate!au | 18.8k (oops)

Ghost didn’t want a soulmate, and he was sure, if they existed, that they didn’t want him either.

cw; soulmate!au in which soulmates share scars, references to self-harm, lots of talk about scars, angst, fluff, references to domestic abuse and past violence, references to simon's past, descriptions of pain, military inaccuracies, miscommunication, touch aversion, reallllly slow slowburn, ghost being sort of really bad and weird at affection

Simon didn’t remember how he got every scar on his body. 

The big ones, the important ones, sure. He remembered them all too well, even through the haze of pain and fatigue that often hung thickly around their reception. 

But there were too many to account for. To remember the particulars of each slash and burn and gunshot wound was a losing battle. He’d long since given up on keeping track of them. Little lines on the sides of his fingers, stretchmarks on the backs of his biceps, winged fans of a burn on the side of his thigh, a pale line along the point of his elbow that he might as well have been born with.

There were ones from further back, too. Scars that time and pain had eroded the precision of the memory, but not the feeling. Cigarette burns on his forearms, a necklace of animal teeth on his side, a craggy line across his hip, accompanied by the shadowy memory of hand reaching for him, and not being quick enough to duck out of the way. 

They all meshed together into the hard patchwork of scar and muscle his body had wrought itself into.

Almost none of them could be helped, out of his control, out of his hands.

They were a catalogue of his life, a story traced on his skin.

Stamped, more like. Branded. 

Survived. 

And soulmates shared scars. 

Their hurt was his; his hurt was theirs. Literally or metaphorically, he wasn’t quite sure. Simon had so many, spent so much time in pain, it was impossible to know if any of them didn’t belong to him originally.  

He didn’t like the thought of someone sharing his scars, having felt what he did. Possessive of them and the pain in a strange way. 

It’s ironic, then, that he should be able to find his soulmate more easily than the average unmarred person, and wanted to do nothing of the sort. Simon dismissed the whole thing as drivel a long time ago, anyway. If they did exist, if they weren’t just incredibly rare instances of luck, Simon was sure that he hadn’t been afforded one. 

There was guilt, too, settled somewhere deep inside him, that someone had to endure it alongside him. It was easier to believe he’d been left out of the whole thing. 

Better he was alone. 

The likelihood of finding that person was slim. It almost never happened. Eight or so billion people swanning around the planet would do that. A one in eight billion chance. 

A grand, cosmic joke. The unfairness of it drove some people crazy, drove them to do insane things to increase a probability that couldn’t be altered—to know that person probably existed somewhere and yet know that they would probably never run across them.

A trend of self harm cropped up online every few years, healed over self inflected wounds posted in forums of people seeking their other, fated, half. The presumption being that they were being desperately searched for in turn.  

Idiotic. Determined. Fallibly human.

And taboo. Most saw it as circumventing fate. 

Violently frantic for the thing Ghost had been unwillingly given. A way to find them, or, at least, easily identify them. And he never would. 

But, sometimes, he wondered. 

He tried to picture the imprint of a person somewhere out in the world wearing his wounds, suffering his losses. The thought would circle his brainstem in an unrelenting loop, a bright fish whispering around the perimeter of its bowl before it dissipated in lieu of something more pressing. 

It was always there, though, waiting to be grappled with again. 

He always came up blank. Nothing but a shadow in his mind where a person should be. Fitting, typical.  

It was a cruelty he couldn’t imagine, somehow. Someone being fatefully, inescapably afflicted with him. 

Simon didn’t want a soulmate anyway, and he was sure, if they existed, that they didn’t want him either. 

If there was someone out there, someone wandering around with his scars on their skin, he was certain they hated him already. 

He didn’t particularly believe in fate; life had taught him not to. He believed in himself, his capabilities, planning and contingencies. And Simon didn’t relish the thought of something he couldn’t control, someone holding the other end of his corded, deformed soul, like a leash they could tighten and use to yank him to his knees. Compromised, vulnerable. 

It wouldn’t happen; the margin for discovery was so small it was practically nonexistent. 

He blamed Soap, then, for tempting fate.

Ghost listened to Johnny yammer on, the sound of his voice louder than usual in the rattling dark belly of the transport plane home. The glow of green light, the roar of engines, the jangle of gear. 

It was an irritating, and sometimes endearing, quirk of Johnny’s that he couldn’t stop talking in the post-op cortisol and adrenaline drop, his words a smeared haze of jumbled thoughts spoken aloud for hours afterward.

The notion of a soulmate was at the front of Soap’s mind, not for the first time. He’d always seemed to enjoy the idea of it, and find some comfort in it, particularly after a close call. There was someone waiting for him, somewhere, after all, it couldn’t all come to nothing yet.   

Simon glanced out the window, watched the sea below morph into land. 

A yellow network of light winked below, a sea of reverse stars swimming in the black.

“Lucky that way, Lt,” Johnny declared with finality, finally winding down, sounding exhausted. “Findin’ ‘em will be easier.” 

Ghost glanced over, the first time in nearly an hour that he’d acknowledged the conversation beyond a hum and a nod. “What do you mean?” 

Soap gestured to his scarred chin, then his temple. “Know ‘em straight away, wouldn’t I?”  

Simon’s own thoughts spoken out loud; his hopes to never see his own scars reflected back at him turned on its head. 

Johnny made it sound like a good thing, instead of the nightmare it was. 

No, he thought for the nth time in his life, not that, not for him. 

But he’d always had an extraordinary knack for beating the odds. 

.

.

.

The base was a constant flurry of activity, a relentlessly buzzing hive of people. There were very few places that skirted away from the general chaos of life on a military base, but Simon had catalogued them all—the field behind the barracks when drills were not being run, the concrete service walkways beneath the base, crowded with spiderwebs and dust, the cool, sterile medical wing, and, the orderly administration offices. 

Each place had caveats. 

The service walkways were the most reliably quiet, but Simon hated being underground, hated the claustrophobia of it, like some part of him would always be clawing at black earth, and so usually avoided it. 

Soap had found him smoking behind the barracks once and now regularly joined Simon there. 

The medical wing could be crowded and frenzied, depending on the day. 

The administration offices were practically serene in comparison. Neat file folders, tidy desks, windows that let in the watery, gray English sun. Square offices with their doors propped open, conference rooms bathed in the light of glowing intel reports, data convergences, and map overlays, uniform gray walls and floors. 

The admin wing only occasionally spasmed into restless activity if an emergency op was underway or about to be, and if that happened, Ghost was usually already swept up in it himself, probably already long gone. 

A spare office stuffed away at the end of the hall with the name plate removed technically belonged to him. A mostly unused space he sometimes finished reports in but, more often than not, sat empty. 

He preferred to haunt the corridors, observe the more peaceful, inner workings of the military, breathing in the quiet air for five minutes at a time. It gave his perpetually over taxed nervous system, his forever-in-fight-or-flight-mode body, to relax, if even it was only an increment or two. The lightning was softer, the constant bark of orders and drills, the snap of gunfire, the general loudness of the rest of the place, was muted and far away.

Simon knew of all of the staff and their precuilarities—names, ages, birthdates, minor feuds among each other, immediate family members, previous posts, favorite foods, habits, complaints about the building’s irregular temperatures and the pervasive scent of diesel. It wasn’t information he necessarily collected on purpose. Gleaned over years of half heard conversations, glimpses of photos on desks. They, like the medical staff, didn’t often change, not like the revolving door of soldiers and operators. 

It was a regular, routine, quiet place. 

So it would be difficult for even the most oblivious person not to notice when the familiar order of the place was interrupted. 

Soft, dandelion light flooded the hall from a doorway that had always before been shut tight.

The scent of an unfamiliar perfume lingered in the hall in a feathery streak, oakmoss and lavender. It settled hard in his lungs, made his footsteps slow slightly, caution prickling at the back of his neck. 

The click of ceramic being sat on wood, the soft shuffle of files, tapping of computer keys emanated from within the now open office. The faintest notes of bubblegum pop floated by, at odds with the chill, still air. 

Inside, you were hidden behind two massive computer monitors, the very top of a pair of lilac headphones just visible over the rim. Plants in colorful painted terracotta pots lined the window to your left absorbing what they could of pale winter light, a thick blanket was thrown over the back of a chair in the corner, a jumble of bright, hand crocheted squares. A brass floor lamp with a circular shade sat behind your desk and drooped forward like the antenna of a giant radio, or a bug, casting a delicate halo of light around you like a protective ward. 

There was something. . .lambent that emanated around the room, that had nothing to do with the ridiculous lamp. 

Simon hovered in the doorway, in the shadow of the dim hall, just to get a glimpse of your face. Start a mental file on you, begin his careful catalog. Something to match the color and light to. 

It was a surprise to you both, then, when you glanced up and caught him at it. 

You stood hastily, headphones sliding down your neck when the cord jerked taut, the tinny sound of pop echoing loudly from them until you slammed your fingers down onto the keyboard and silence descended abruptly. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t see you there. Can I help you with something?” 

Simon could only stare at you, a curl of dread snaking its way between his ribs. 

Johnny was right, then, he would know his own scars anywhere. 

He would know his own face anywhere. 

He would, apparently, know you anywhere. 

Your face was a faded mapping of his own, the same scarring traced with a lighter hand. The same crack over your lips, a line drawn across your cheek, a faded check through your brow, the bridge of your nose bisected, the outline of webbed burn scars crosshatched at the edge of your jaw and shoulder. A jagged, thick line crossed your throat. 

Despite his legacy marring your face, you were pretty. Beautiful, even, with curious, cautious eyes, one side of your mouth pulled up into a half grin that tugged at the line across your cheek and somehow didn’t ruin the brightness of it. 

You were watching him watch you with a tentative gaze, brows drawing slowly together the longer he stood there staring at you, breathing around the newly minted cavern under his lungs. 

His eyes met yours again, and as soon as the realization settled in, something clicked violently into place inside his chest, like a missing rib bone had suddenly slotted into the cage around his heart. 

Pain bloomed hot and tight across his chest, so acute he covered his side, expecting to find a knife inexplicably lodged there. He grunted mutely. The discomfort receded as quickly as it had come, leaving behind a vast hollow just beneath his breast bone. Cavernous, lurching, undone. 

The hollow hardened into a solid brick of pain. 

Nausea swept into the back of his throat. 

“Are you okay?” 

He was frozen in the direct line of fire. Your eyes swept over him, fingers curling around a folder on the edge of your desk which you thumbed nervously. You began to lift your other hand, an aborted half movement toward your face that you dropped at the last second. But you didn’t avert your gaze. You looked past the mask, past him, and into his eyes. 

You saw him. 

Simon was not to be seen.

Ghost didn’t get caught, didn’t freeze. 

Didn’t feel like an animal trapped in a cage, pinned and weak and panicked. 

Not anymore. 

He was a ghost, a shadow, a silent—

The silence unspooled, thin and fragile as unraveling lace. 

Your smile widened, a slow, confident thing that stretched across your face crookedly, pulled at your scarred skin as you tilted your head. It was, maybe, the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. 

“Sir?”

Amusement threaded your voice; a laugh curled like a sleeping animal in your throat. 

Instead of answering, he faded back into the hall.

As he retreated an uncertain realization prodded at the back of his mind. One wonderful contingency. 

You had not felt the shift, the world turning horribly on its axis, the pain that radiated hot as a wildfire. 

You hadn’t recognized what he was. 

And he was going to keep it that way. 

.

.

.

It felt like there was a hook in his chest, slipped right between his ribs, a constant painful tearing that landed him again and again outside your office door. Like he was a fish on a line, and you held the reel in your fist, totally oblivious to it. 

He didn’t love you, that’s not how the soulmate bond worked. You were tied together, for some reason, though that reason remained to be seen. Resentment was all he felt, a burning desire to chew his leg out of this trap, to grip the line that bound you and run a knife through it. 

Better yet, through you. 

Sever the tie as cleanly as a blade through an artery. 

One sure way to free himself was your death. 

It was unusual, but it happened—headlines of a soulmate killing their pair because they couldn’t tolerate the connection. It was taboo, considering how rare the bond was. The link suffocated them, instead of comforting them. 

Simon understood the urge.

He thought of your office, the way your back was angled half toward the door, how easily he could slip in and slice your throat open. He had seen and done worse, but the thought of you lying in a pool of blood, let alone at his hands, was so abhorrent and wrong that he doubled over as an acute, sharp pain pinched between his ribs, like someone wriggling their fingers between the bars to claw at his insides. 

Which irritated him. Things like that didn’t bother him, not anymore. At the very least, he was better at handling discomfort than this. 

It did start him thinking about someone else doing it, though. Slipping quietly into your office and nudging a knife between your ribs, pressing a silenced pistol against your temple, Ghost left to find your cold corpse. 

It was wrong. 

He could feel your life wrapped around his fingers, tangled in little ribbons around his wrists. A pulsing, glowing, bright thing.  

The resentment doubled because he should not care. He didn’t know you, trust you; your death should mean nothing. You should mean nothing.  

Still, he found himself walking the administration wing again the following day, even though the sun was out and it’d be nice to sit behind the barracks and smoke and listen to Johnny rattle on about something or the other when he inevitably showed up. 

Your door was open again, gold light spilling into the corridor, the low flutter of too loud music in your headphones accompanying it. 

Simon would never admit it to himself, but he also needed to know that he could remain hidden from you. The shock of your eyes finding his still hadn’t left him. It had never happened before—not on an op, not about the base, not out among civilians. He blended in, he remained invisible, but you saw him, sensed him, and he needed to know if that was something he had to adjust to. Planning was survival, and you were an unknown factor he needed a method for handling.  

Simon stepped close to your door, out of the beam of light. 

Your office was bathed in soft, cream light but not from your antenna bug lamp. 

Your back was fully turned toward the door, face tilted into the scarce winter sun streaming in the window as you leaned back in your chair. Your eyes were closed, headphones over your ears as he suspected they were. 

Fuuucking hell. 

Couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, back toward the entry point of the room. 

Your life hung there, trusting, fragile as spun crystal. 

He waited, but you didn’t turn, didn’t seem to know he was there. Something in his shoulders uncoiled, tension slowly replaced with an odd sense of calm. The pain in his chest eased for the first time in twenty-four hours, fading to a tender ache. 

Your lunch, half eaten, laid abandoned on your desk. The blanket that had been on the chair in the corner was swaddled around your shoulders. 

You yawned, eyes still closed. 

He waited for you to sense him, glance up, but you seemed unaware of him. He wouldn’t admit it then, but he half hoped you would. 

Ghost backed away, left you to your peace. 

The weight in his chest intensified again.

He hated you for it. 

He went back the next day. 

And the day after that.

.

.

.

Anchor might be a better descriptor. 

Hook was too violent.

Simon knew what it felt like to have a hook between his ribs, and this feeling was not that. 

He was satisfied, after weeks of observation as late winter turned to a wet spring, that you did not have a preternatural sense of his presence. In the process, he learned other things. 

You hated the cold, and your office always seemed to be chillier than you would prefer, blanket perpetually tucked around your shoulders. He watched you fiddle with the radiator one morning, bottom lip caught between your teeth, sigh, and resign yourself to it. He waited for you to complain to your coworkers like everyone else did, to call maintenance to fix it, but you didn’t. 

You liked to sit in the sun, however you could, squinting against the glare of it against your computer screens just to have it on your skin. 

You hunched over your desk, and clearly had pain in your neck and back because of it. 

You often stayed later on base than many of the staff and walked out of the building alone late at night. 

You didn’t drink tea, but politely accepted the tea several different coworkers made for you with the very good intention of showing you a proper cup. You drank every drop as you chatted with them, even though you clearly detested it. It didn’t show, but Simon could tell. He didn’t like that he could, that it was instinctual and nothing else. 

They were also plying you with shit tea, of course you weren’t going to like it. He watched as one bloke let it steep for a full fifteen minutes and then presented you with what must have been the bitterest lukewarm tea to ever pass through the base. An older secretary took the opposite approach and handed you a cup of barely brewed tea with approximately four tablespoons of sugar in. 

Absolutely bloody foul. 

Horrific crimes committed in your name, and you swallowed them with a smile. 

And you smiled a lot. From the tiniest twitch of your lips when you were alone, to a grin so big he could see all your teeth, that your eyes squinched closed. 

You nearly always had headphones on—wired earbuds dangling from the collar of your shirt as you walked down the hall, or over ear headphones looped around your neck at your desk, usually pop, occasionally 70s rock or alternative spitting from the speakers. 

You talked a lot, and your voice carried. One of those truisms about Americans, you could be heard long before you were seen even if you weren’t being particularly loud. He didn’t need to be close to hear you, and he found himself thinking one afternoon good. It would be easier to keep track of you. 

He liked your voice, anyway, liked your laugh, liked to hear you say English phrases in that accent of yours that made them sound ridiculous. 

You could likely give Soap a run for a world record of useless chatter. Anyone who walked into your office was subject to your stream of consciousness if they lingered long enough. 

Lonely, he might have called it. But you were new, to the base, and to the country. Your only connections were those you were attempting to craft with stuffy intelligence officers who sometimes seemed to regard you as below them. 

He found his thoughts drifting to the sound of your voice once he’d left you for the day, replaying things he’d heard you say in the period of observation he allowed himself, like the tune of a lullaby. It calmed him. 

The resentment in his chest festered like a badly healed wound. You were nothing but a distraction, a thorn stabbed into his side, stealing his focus from nearly everything that was more important. 

That used to be more important. 

Now his every thought was asterisked by you. 

Distracted. 

He didn’t do well with it. 

He didn’t like that he could feel the newly rended hole in his chest corroding and throbbing when he wasn’t near you, suffocating him. He’d felt worse in his life, so he could mostly ignore it. 

Simon decided that the nature of the bond was at least neutral. You were not a threat.  

He was tired, anyway, of constantly thinking about your back to the door, your headphones playing too loudly. 

After you left one evening in mid spring, he moved your desk. 

Simon sat in your dark office for longer than he should have, letting the pain ease out of his chest. 

It was enough to be where you had once been. 

That was as close as he cared to be. 

He fixed the radiator before he closed the door again. 

.

.

. 

He went by Ghost, you learned eventually. 

His was a redacted, blacked out name in the files on your computer, so Ghost seemed less a name than a description. You briefly scanned the ops he had been on. It was a horrifyingly long list, most of them totally classified or excised beyond comprehensibility. And those were only the missions you could see, likely his involvement in many ops had been scrubbed entirely. 

It was clear that he was good at his job, though it left you to wonder what he had been doing in the administration wing of the base, let alone peering into your office like a silent wraith. 

It should have been terrifying to find him looming in your doorway. His massive frame had blotted out the corridor behind him. Mostly in black, a skull mask covering his face. You hadn’t been able to see his eyes in the low lighting. But you had only felt curiosity, apprehension, a delicate wrenching in your gut. 

Something that a different person might liken to butterflies. Absolutely absurd, but nonetheless true. 

Fear, afterward, of course, that you’d missed some kind of order or request. 

It had also been a while since someone stared so openly at you, since you’d felt the urge to duck your head, obscure the scars littered across your skin. You never had before, and you wouldn’t have started then. You wore them proudly. Most bore their soulmate’s scars better than their own, and you were no exception. 

It had become a rarity, really, in recent years that anyone spared you more than a glance. Being surrounded by military personnel who had seen worse, might have had worse on their own skin, meant you didn’t stand out.

When you mentioned the incident to Laswell, worried that some kind of disciplinary report, during your first month at this post no less, was headed your way, she had only shook her head. “That’s just Ghost. He probably didn’t say anything. You get used to it.” 

The base, especially among the operators, was filled with odd personalities with even odder quirks, so you decided not to question it. You had only nodded, and said, “Okay.” 

Laswell had smiled. “You’ll do well here.” 

You suspected you were being watched in the weeks following the incident, though you couldn’t say why at first. The suspicion was confirmed when you arrived one blissfully sunny spring morning to find your office warm and your desk moved. Your other furniture was rearranged neatly around it. You rounded it, dropping your bag as you went, half expecting to find a note. 

There was nothing, and you started to rotate it back, a bit irritated, when you paused and sat. The new angle gave you a clear view of the door and window. The sun hit your face without causing a glare on your screens. The monitors had been lowered ever so slightly so you could easily see over them.

You left your desk in its new position. It was better that way. 

Ghost appeared in your office that afternoon as suddenly as he had left it. 

You sensed that he’d been there for a long time when you finally noticed him in the doorway, that you were only seeing him because he wanted you to.

You smiled and turned away from a report. A welcome reprieve for your strained eyes and hunched back. 

“Hi. Something I can help you with, Lieutenant?” 

This time, he stepped into your office, grasped your offer with both hands. 

The room seemed to shrink and adjust to his size. He was more massive than you remembered, in height and breadth. His eyes didn’t leave yours, a deep blackened honey brown half hidden by skull. Neither of you looked away.

“Have I passed?” 

His head tilted ever so slightly. When he spoke his voice was like an iron rod shoved down your spine. Deep and jagged and rough, it settled between your ribs, in the pit of your stomach. “Passed?” 

“Your test?” 

“Think I’m testin’ you?” 

“You moved my desk.” 

He didn’t answer for a long moment, still not dropping your gaze. The silence lasted so long you began to think he wouldn’t answer at all. “Practically had your back to the door,” he said eventually, as though that explained it. 

It conjured the image of Ghost creeping around the base in the dead of night to adjust offices into more tactical configurations and you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep the giggle in your throat from bubbling out.   

You nodded and then shrugged instead. “I guess I don’t think about things like that.” 

“Should.”

“Maybe.” 

“Especially in the field.” 

“I don’t do field work.” 

He nodded slowly and finally took his eyes off yours, glancing around the room again. When his lashes caught the light, you saw that they were a light blond. 

“Welcome to sit,” you offered, taking up a pen and a pad of yellow paper. “Ghost.”  

He didn’t sit, but he didn't leave either. When he remained mute and motionless, you looked back at your report and continued working, resigned to the new addition to your office. 

Minutes passed in silence, with only the scratch of your pencil over paper, the tapping of computer keys, for company. 

All at once, the room sighed, and when you looked up, he was gone. 

Ghost was strange, slightly off putting. 

You liked him.

Maybe, you thought, he’d come back. 

.

.

.

Ghost visited regularly after that. 

Sometimes he simply stood at the door and watched you work. 

His boots were so silent that you often didn’t know he was there until he was leaving again. It felt as though he often melted into nothing but shadow, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable feeling. 

You didn’t feel watched, so much as observed, minded.

But the lengthy silences began to wear thin, so you started talking to him.  

Talked at him, more like, about anything that came to mind. 

The shit weather and how cold you always were. Recounted phone calls with your sister and noted things you’d seen on your commute. You told him of your slightly creepy neighbor who would follow you occasionally down high street when you did your weekly shopping trip, but that was probably harmless.

You were sure he wasn’t actually listening, his eyes focused somewhere in the middle distance as he stood statuesque in the middle of your office.  

The visits were occasionally broken up by operations that could last days or weeks, once up to a month. Time passed either way, but you found it passed more easily when you could reliably count on a visit from Ghost. Hearing his voice in staticky communications wasn’t the same. A blinking green dot on a map that you tracked just a little more closely than the others. 

Ghost sat down for the first time toward the middle of a particularly miserable and cold spring afternoon. He sighed as he did, the only sign of any feeling. Almost a resignation in the soft cut of it. 

You didn’t comment on it, just chatted as you usually did, buoyed in a way that you could not explain. 

He started to bring you coffee, done up to your preference, always when you were hitting the midday lag. 

In exchange, you left offerings at the edge of your desk. Baked goods, protein bars, chips, sweets— which disappeared when you looked away from him. You noted what went first so you could invest in it. Chocolate went more frequently. 

But Ghost, whether he was listening or not, made you feel less alone. The ache of loneliness in your heart eased, and maybe that said more about you than him. 

If he was around, he usually slipped in while you ate lunch. He didn’t eat with you, the mask never moved, but you began cooking extra in the evenings, leaving tupperware containers at the edge of your desk in addition to brownies wrapped in waxpaper, chocolate chip cookies sprinkled with sea salt. “Don’t have to,” he always said. 

“Want to,” you answered, and then received the empty, clean container from the day before as though it were an offering.

Your office always smelled like tobacco and tea for hours after he left, a comforting combination that you began to wish you could bottle. 

He didn’t appear one day at his usual allotted, precise time. You figured something came up or he finally got tired of you, but he turned up instead late in the afternoon.  

“Sorry,” he said as he sat, without explanation, a paper cup of coffee steaming at the edge of your desk like it appeared there by his will alone.  

“Oh,” you answered. “You didn’t have to—“

“Did,” he said simply. “‘ave you eaten?”

“Yep. Got something for you, too.” 

He settled back. “Neighbor still botherin’ you?” 

You blinked in surprise, the slightly creepy neighbor had not spoken to you in a few days. “Oh. . .I—You were listening.”

He tilted his head. “‘Course I was, bird.” He leveled you with a look. “So?”

“Not recently. Not in a couple days.”

“Good. Let us know if he does, yeah?”

Then he sat back and waited, shoulders relaxed as though attending a sermon, but content with silence anyway. 

When you glanced up from a report a while later, for clarification on a mission detail that he happened to be on, his eyes were closed. 

It felt akin to having a wolf willingly curl up in your lap, blood wet maw dripping peacefully onto the floor.

.

.

.

When you turned from watering your plants one innocuous spring day, you found Ghost entering your office with a different mask on. A soft black balaclava. You could see his eyes and brows, the bridge of his nose and the thin, bruised skin beneath his eyes.

You froze and then smiled at him, tried hard not to stare. His eyes were always pretty but now you felt you could actually see him. Blond brows and lashes, his irises were lighter, amber honey in the yellow light of your bug lamp, as Ghost had called it one afternoon without a shred of humor. 

It was raining, and the dim light made the small space cozier than usual. The patchwork blanket was around your shoulders, a ward against the chill bleeding beneath the window. 

In his usual chair, you’d laid a gift. 

He pointed to the blanket you had carefully folded there earlier. 

“It’s for you. I knitted it.” 

He froze, hand half extended toward it. You swept past him around your desk again, inundated with the scent of black tea and cigarettes as you went. His was alternating black and dark blue squares to your brightly colored purple and teal. “Just in case you were cold. You’re always so buttoned up after all,” you joked. “And you fixed my radiator this winter. So it’s a thank you, too.”

Ghost only moved it to the back of the chair. You hadn’t expected him to take it, really, but his gloved fingers lingered on it for a moment, rubbing the fabric gently. “How d’you know it was me that fixed it?” 

“Who else would have?” 

He grunted. “You knit?” 

“When I can’t sleep,” you answered. “Keeps my hands and brain busy.”

His brows furrowed, and seeing even that small movement felt like seeing him naked, like seeing something he didn’t want you to. You averted your eyes, heat crawling up your neck. 

“Can’t sleep?” His fingers slid off the blanket and he sat.

You shrugged. “Must seem silly to you. You see it with your own eyes. But some of the reports. . . stick with me.” 

Ghost considered this for a long moment. “It’s not.” 

“What?” 

“Silly.” 

The way he grunted the word made you laugh. 

“Could I ask you something, Ghost?”

“Reckon you just did.” 

You rolled your eyes. “Am I allotted only one question?” 

“Just two.” 

It was. . . funny. You giggled and shrugged. “Guess I’m shit out of luck.” 

“And out of questions.”

You laughed again. 

He surprised you by laughing too. If a low, graveled grunt counted as a laugh. You certainly counted it, a cache of swollen pride bubbling in your stomach. “Go on, then.” 

“Where are you from?” 

The levity vanished. His brows lowered. “Why?” 

You shrugged. “Just curious. I’m not good with all the accents yet. Just can’t place you.” 

He relaxed back into the chair again, but didn't answer. 

The pinch of his brows, the tense line of his jaw, remained, his expression considering as he tilted his head back. 

“Why do you come here?” You asked instead. 

This question he answered readily. “It’s quiet.” 

“That’s one way to tell me to shut up.” 

He blinked and lowered his chin to meet your eyes. “Not the kind of noise I mean.” 

You decided not to take offense at being called noise. 

You snorted and reached beneath your desk, taking some pride in the fact that Ghost did not tense anymore than usual when you did, withdrawing your lunch. 

“Hungry?” You asked.  

“Tryin’ to see my face?” 

You smiled. “Never,” you answered, “Not sure I want to see what you’re hiding under there.” 

The rain tapped against the window as you popped the thermal lid off.  

“Why are you here?” He asked as you folded your legs beneath you on the chair and tucked the blanket around them. Ghost rose without asking and twisted the knob of the radiator beneath the window a bit higher.

You waved your fork, indicating the office. “Fairly positive I work here. But perhaps base security is more lax than I thought.” 

He sighed, a long suffering sound. “England, smartarse.” 

You smile and dig your fork into last night’s spaghetti bolognese. The steam caressed your face in a warm puff as you lifted a bite. “I’m on loan to Laswell.” 

“On loan?” He asked as he settled back into the chair, broad shoulders pressed to the wall behind him, against the blanket. It slid over his elbow a little, curled over his forearm. He didn’t move it. 

When you lifted your gaze to his, his stare was piercing, brows lowered, furrowed. You imagined he must be frowning.  

“Temporary replacement for whoever used to be in this office,” you explained. “She needed someone quickly, who she could trust.” 

Ghost folded his arms across his chest, something more tense than usual in the movement. “How long are you on loan for, then?” 

You shrugged, twisted your fork into the noodles. “It’s unclear. So, for now, indefinitely.” You smiled, “Hopefully not through another winter, though, I don’t think I’m cut out for the rain and cold.”

His shoulders eased, but only marginally. If it weren’t for all the hours he’d passed in your office, you weren’t sure you would have caught it at all. 

“From somewhere warm?”

“Warmer than here. Especially in the winter.” 

“Must be nice, that.” 

“Has its perks. But the summer is its own kind of hell.” 

“One you enjoy.” 

“But of course. I like feeling like I’m baking alive.” 

He snorted again.

You ate in silence for a bit. The quiet had become comfortable between you somewhere along the way, silken and gentle. 

When you were scraping the last bit of sauce from the bottom of the container, Ghost said, “Manchester.” 

“Hm?”

“Where I’m from.”

His voice was low; he wasn’t looking at you, eyes trained on the door instead. 

“Manchester,” you repeated, trying to place it on the map of the UK in your mind. “And do you all sound sort of like—“

You were about to say like you have gravel in your mouth but he makes an affected noise, that stiff grunt again. “Are you laughing at me?”

“It’s your fucking accent.”

“My accent?” You asked incredulously. “Have you heard yourself?” 

“Got a thick one, bird.” He imitated your voice. “Manchester.” The sharp rhotic r sound was like a gunshot in his mouth, each letter enunciated to the point of being butchered. 

You scoffed, not bothering to fight your smile. “Takes one to know one, I guess.” 

“Suppose it does.” 

“Fucking Brits,” you said, without any venom. “I can’t do anything right according to you all.” 

He tilted his head, something predatory in it. It made your heart flutter a little. “Who’s tellin’ you you can’t do something?” 

You sighed, long suffering. “My coworkers. Can’t make tea, apparently. I don’t care for it and everyone keeps insisting I just make it wrong.”

“They make it wrong too.” 

You groaned. “Not you too.” 

Ghost rose to take his leave as you snapped the lid back onto the now empty container. 

“I’ll show you how to make a proper cup sometime.” 

You paused, a warm surprise sweeping into your chest, and decided not to linger on this solitary acknowledgement that Ghost would return to your office. “Big fan?” 

“I love tea.” 

It made you laugh. “Of course, English afterall.” 

He nodded, just once, and started toward the door. “Ghost?” You called. 

Ghost turned and you slid another tupperware container across your desk. “For you.” 

He stared at it, for a moment too long, as he always did, like he was telling himself to leave it. “Didn’t have to.” 

“I know.” You nodded at it again and then then ducked behind your computer screens. “I always want to.” 

Ghost moved so silently that you didn’t hear or see him take it, but when you looked up again he and the container at the edge of your desk were gone. 

.

.

.

It should be a good thing. 

You would be gone soon enough, none the wiser of who Ghost was. Of what you were to each other. 

But it didn’t sit well. It was a new thing to nag at the back of his mind, finding your office empty, you becoming a ghost in your own right. He hated the ache in his chest, the thought of you so far away. He could only assume you’d be stationed back in the US.

The thought festered, burrowed. 

“Laswell.”

She jumped, hand going beneath her desk before she spotted Ghost in the corner of  her office. She sighed and closed her eyes, fingertips rubbing her eyes instead. 

“Ghost,” she sighed, “Don’t do that.” 

Simon said your name, and Laswell lowered her hands to look at him. “How long has she got?” 

“What do you mean?”

“Said she’s on loan. I want to know how long.”

Laswell considered him; Ghost waited. He wouldn’t explain himself, and Laswell knew that. 

“Maybe as long as a year.” She tilted back in her chair and asked anyway. “Why?” 

Ghost didn’t answer, slipping back out of her office and down the hall. 

You were still in your office, hunched over the desk, lavender headphones pulled down around your neck. He watched you for a long moment, eyes tracing over scars that belonged to him. It was jarring each time to see pain he experienced threaded over your skin. It made him feel exposed by proxy.

As he watched, you lifted a hand and rubbed your neck with a wince, fingers lingering on the long scar slashed at the base of your throat. The grimace faded from your face and your expression receded into the impassive, blank, focused slate it always settled into as you continued working. 

When he sat down in your office, you just shot him a tired smile and continued working. 

He walked you to your car around midnight. 

“Tell us if you’re here this late again,” he said, not looking at you. 

“Ghost,” you said. “It’s almost enough to make me think you like me.” 

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he answered. 

You just laughed. 

.

.

.

“Tea?” 

You jumped, just as Laswell had, only your hand didn’t go beneath the desk. Nothing there to reach for, he knew, your vulnerability like a beacon, or a stain. 

It would need remedied. 

But first, this. 

It was the sixth time in two weeks that you were at your desk well past when everyone else had gone home.  

“Jesus Christ.” 

“Unfortunately not.” 

You laughed; his shoulders eased. “Ghost,” you said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” You tilted your head. “I’m starting to think you’re spying on me.” 

“What’re you still doing ‘ere?” 

“What are you doing wandering around our wing after hours?” 

Not a line of questioning he was keen on following. That just being near a place you had been earlier in the day was enough to loosen that fucking tether in his chest. That he was worried incessantly about you being alone at night.

“Offerin’ to make you a tea,” he answered. “Obviously.”  

“Obviously,” you echoed. “Of course.” 

“You’re supposed to tell me when you’re stayin’ late.” 

“Ghost,” you said seriously, lifting your brows, “I’m here late again today.” 

“Hilarious, you are.” 

You giggled again. “Are you really offering to make me tea?” 

He nodded. “C’mon then.”

You smiled and shrugged the blanket off your shoulders. He waited while you locked your computer and stood.

Simon allowed you to lead toward the breakroom where he’d observed the many cups of tea you’d politely swallowed from well meaning coworkers, who left it to steep for too long or too short, added too much sugar and milk, or left it totally plain. 

The overhead lights were too bright, a blue-white glare that made you frown and squint. Your nose scrunched up in distaste. There were circles beneath your eyes, exhausted loops that matched his own.  

“So,” you prompted, leaning against the counter, “How does one make a proper cuppa?”

“Not bad,” he said of your accent, lifting the electric kettle from the hook to fill with water. “Little posh.” 

“I’ve been practicing.”

He grunted, and put the kettle on, before rooting through the cabinet above the sink for tea bags. A grim selection awaited him, but he’d make due with what was available.

“Ah, so you boil the water. I was under the impression you could just stick it all in the microwave.” 

He involuntarily made a pained sound. “Fucking hell,” he muttered, “That your usual method?” 

You bit the inside of your cheek, poorly concealing a laugh. “I scandalized a data analyst with that joke.” You cup your chin in your hand, peer up at him from beneath a thick fringe of lashes. “I do know how to boil water, I’ll have you know.”

“Got a head start then.” 

You laughed again, shoulders shaking. Simon watched the corner of your mouth curl, and it eased something in his chest. You were painfully close, the woodsy, floral scent of your perfume curled in the air. Your elbow brushed his. He didn’t know how you could be unaware of the bond at that moment, when being that close to you felt like being lit on fire. He wanted to reach for you so badly that he had to clench his fist closed to avoid it. 

If someone were to ask him to move away from you right then, it would end badly. Bloody. 

The thin, needle sharp connection ached, begged. 

Simon ignored it.  

When you glanced up, he looked away. He could feel your eyes on his face, and didn’t mind the scrutiny in it. He didn’t mind you watching him, and wondered what you saw. 

“I like being able to see your eyes,” you said, just as the kettle clicked off. 

He met your gaze, disarmed by the declaration. Your features had softened, melted into a dangerous fondness. “Why?” 

“You have pretty eyes,” you shrugged. “And it’s hard to see you with the other mask.” You shifted, watching him lift the kettle, pour the hot water into a mug and over the teabag he’d dropped into it. 

“You can tell me to fuck off, if you want,” you began carefully, fingertips drumming nervously against the counter. “Why do you wear it?” 

Simon watched the teabag bob on the surface of the water, thin amber trails unfurling, coloring the water slowly brown. “Five minutes,” he nodded at the tea. “Don’t touch it. None of that dunking shite.” 

“Yes, sir,” you agreed. “Five minutes, no touching.” 

He huffed, and your smile widened. You bumped your shoulder against his. The contact only lasted a second or two, but the relief it provided was so intense that he nearly choked on it. 

The pain, softened by your proximity, returned immediately, crept down into the soft ligaments between his bones. He felt the loss in the roots of his teeth, the middle of his chest; it was like losing his breath in a different way, being suckerpunched in the solar plexus, knocked on his ass.

“To hide my face.” 

“Your identity, you mean.” 

“My identity,” he agreed.

“Why?” 

He released a long, slow breath, and thought about telling you to piss off, maybe even just to see how you’d take it. Were you as good as your word? Would you let the subject drop? 

Instead, he said, “There are a lot of bad people in the world, bird.” 

You pursed your lips, fingers toying with the teabag string, flicking the tab at the end with your nail. There was another question swimming in your eyes, but you let it go unasked, dropping your eyes from his instead. 

“You’ve seen more of them than most,” you said. “I would guess.” 

“Part of the job.” 

Your mouth curled a little, lashes fluttering against your cheek. “Hm. But y’know something? I think I’d know you anywhere,” you said, without a hint of shame or irony. “It’s all in your eyes.” 

Before Simon could respond, you hid a yawn in your sleeve and rubbed your hand over your face, exhaustion layered in thick rings beneath your eyes. “Even if this is gross,” you indicate the tea, “At least it will keep me awake.” 

“I take offense to that.” 

You laughed again. “Hm. Sorry, Lieutenant.” You leaned in, “It smells so nice, so why does it taste like shit?” 

He rolled his eyes. “I’ll make you a coffee if it’s shit.” 

“You’re kind.” This time when you leaned your shoulder against his, you left it there. The empty soreness like a bruise inside his ribs loosened again. For the first time in a while, he was left with the absence of pain.  

When the tea was done steeping, he did yours with a bit of honey. There was no way you’d take it plain and like it, but he drew the line at milk. Especially the blasphemy that was the military issued powdered milk in a canister that sat on the counter. Abso-fucking-lutely not. 

“There you are,” he said, “Cup of tea.” 

“A proper cuppa,” you tried again. It was a little less posh this time. 

He huffed. “Better all the time.” 

“And I have you to thank.” 

Your face creased as you took the cup between your palms, an unreadable expression flitting across your features. Then your mouth twisted to the side, a sure sign you were attempting to keep some emotion or thought in check. 

Your shoulder was still pressed heavily against his. 

“Thanks, Ghost.” 

“”S just tea.” 

You shook your head and lifted the cup, blowing gently on the surface before you took a tiny sip. He watched your face, watched your throat move as you swallowed, the flickering web of your lashes. A step up, at least, from all the shit tea from your coworkers that make your brows tense in an effort to conceal a grimace. “One good thing has come of this,” you said after a moment of contemplation. 

“What’s tha’?” 

“I know how to make tea for you now.” 

“Like it?” 

“I love it.” 

You briefly tilted your head onto his shoulder, then pulled away entirely. The flood of discomfort was worse than before. His muscles spasmed around it in a violent convulsion. “I mean that really.” 

He breathed out, through it. “I don’t take honey.” 

You studied the contents of the cup, tilting it one way and then the other, like something important laid at the bottom of the porcelain well. 

“Noted.” 

Sure enough, the next day, a hot cup was waiting for him, which he drank as you chatted from behind your computer, decidedly, pointedly, giving him the privacy to do so. 

.

.

.

Things settled into a pleasant rhythm. 

A regimented, regular existence that you had long ago learned to embrace. The base became home more than the tiny apartment you rented and spent only enough time to sleep, bathe, and cook in. 

You timed your days to the ebb and flow of the base, to visits to your office, debriefings and conference rooms, the restless energy of so many people in one place moving. You breathed around absences, the pockets of emptiness that sometimes cropped up. The loneliness that felt like an unfillable pit in your stomach. 

People often saw your scars and thought not to bother. Why would fate have marked you so heavily if you weren’t meant to find your pair? The scars meant nothing, really. They were no more significant than anyone else’s. Your chances of running into your soulmate was no higher than someone who had accrued no scars from their bond. 

You were a stopping off point, a bit of fun, but not someone to invest time and effort into, not when the reminder that someone else might come along and render it all moot was so visible, so literally in their face. To look at you was to be reminded of that bond waiting in the wings, for them and for you, and that you could only ever be temporary. 

It made friendships hard too. Some were jealous, others thought there couldn’t be room for anyone else in your life. You were important to no one.

It had been proven to you time and again, and you weren’t sure what kept you hopeful that someone would one day see past it. So when Sergeant Davies stuck his head in your office one Friday afternoon long after Ghost had departed your office for the day, and asked you out, you found yourself saying yes. 

“Would you like to go out sometime?” He asked, hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Just round the pub for drinks?” 

“Oh,” you said. “I—” 

It had been a long time since anyone took interest in you. You’d only talked to him a few times before, but Davies was handsome in a boyish way and sweet and you liked him well enough, you found yourself hesitating for half a second. To your horror, your mind flashed to Ghost, stomach lurching painfully, a knot of tension fisting itself in your chest. 

You looked at his usual chair, empty now, seeing his large frame sprawled there anyway, thighs spread wide, arms crossed over his chest, eyes steady and focused, locked onto you with an intensity and constancy you still weren’t used to.

Heat bloomed in your lungs, crept up your neck. You glanced away, back at Davies waiting at the door. 

“Yeah,” you answered firmly. “Sure.” 

“Brilliant,” he grinned. “How about tonight?” 

Your belly gave another sour squirm that you ignored; it had just been a long time, that was all. “I’m free.” 

“Brilliant,” he said again. “I’ll text you.” 

“Okay.” 

His grin was crooked and self satisfied as he exited your office. 

So you found yourself walking off the base with Davies later that evening. You found yourself laughing and hopeful in a local pub that you hadn’t gotten the chance to explore yet, busy as you were, the base a tide that tugged you back again and again. Like a magnet, you wanted to be there. 

And all of it came to nothing, the moment Davies saw the extent of the scarring when you took him home. It wasn’t just your face, it was your hands and arms and chest and belly. Your whole body was marked, dogeared for someone else. He looked down at you in your bed, his head framed by your ceiling fan and you saw the moment it clicked. The moment it wouldn’t work. 

“Someone out there is really looking for you,” he said. “You’re lucky.” 

“No more than anyone else,” you countered. “You know that’s not how it works.” 

“I know,” he said, pulling on his shirt. “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” you said before he kissed your cheek and retreated. 

Still, you didn’t sleep, just laid on your side, half undressed, staring out at a sky that slowly lightened, stars fading, wondering if perhaps your truest fate was to be lonely for your whole life. 

You didn’t hate your scars, or your soulmate. But sometimes you thought it would be easier if you didn’t have one at all. 

.

.

.

Monday. 

There was a knife in Simon’s pocket. 

Not unusual in and of itself, he carried several at all times, slipped into his sleeves and belt and boot. 

The one in his pocket, though, was for you.

A gift, a contingency, and an offer all wrapped in one. 

The knowledge that it was yours was an uncomfortable weight in his chest. It meant admitting he cared enough to procure it, test it, hand it over. 

It wasn’t quite your typical lunch hour, but Ghost was headed to your office anyway. It was sunny, for once, and he expected to find you taking an early break anyway, leaning back in your chair with your headphones on, absorbing the rare rays. 

And, he wanted to be done with it, to stop tapping his pocket repeatedly, checking the blade was still there, like it might have run away. 

Soap had noticed his fidgeting as they all sat through a briefing on intelligence reports with Laswell that morning. Ghost had forced his hand still, exuded a forced calm, but Johnny’s eyes hadn’t turned away. 

When he arrived at your office, deliberately rustling against the doorjamb so as not to startle you, you glanced up and smiled tightly and his plan vanished. 

Something was wrong. The blinds were closed, your office an unusual sea of gray air. Your shoulders were caved inward protectively, your expression wan and closed. Your smile didn’t reach your eyes, your voice was rough when you said, “Hey, Ghost.”  

Simon took his usual seat, watching you type something, decidedly not looking at him. He watched you, the set of your mouth and eyes. He waited for your chatter to begin but it didn't. 

“All right?” 

“Hm?”

“You’re quiet.” 

“Oh, only one of us is allowed to be quiet?” You joked, but it came out a bit brittle, and worn.

There were, he noticed as he looked at you, circles beneath your eyes. “What ‘appened?” 

You looked up again, and shook your head. “I’m just tired.” 

“Try again.” 

Frustration crept into your features. “Who said I want to tell you?” With that, you ducked behind your monitors.

Simon waited, but you did not reemerge. 

He stood, and rounded your desk. You glanced up then, leaning back when you found him so close. “Jesus, Ghost—” 

“Nice weather.” 

“I can see that.” 

“And you aren’t out there sunnin’ yourself? Something horrible must have happened.” 

Your mouth twisted to the side and you glanced away. “I. . .I’m just being dramatic.”

“C’mon, then.” 

You blinked up at him. “Where are we going?” 

He didn’t answer, but you rose anyway when he tilted his head toward the door. Simon snagged the blanket you’d knitted for him months ago from its place along the back of his chair, finally with a proper purpose, and carried it over his arm. 

“Lunch.” 

You grabbed it and followed him down the hall. Simon shouldered open an external door and held it open for you, the scent of your skin, the warm brush of your body so close to his as you ducked under his arm like a beacon, a light he wanted to follow. 

Carefully, you nudged your shoulder against his as you walked. The familiar sharp, sweet pang whenever you brushed too close together settled in his chest. He wondered if you felt it too, if you felt that sickly flutter in your chest, or if his suspicion that he was holding one end of an untethered bond in his hand was right. 

Just his luck. 

Didn’t matter though. 

He ticked his elbow out a little, and after a moment, you pushed your hand against the inside of his arm. His shoulders loosened; his jaw unclenched. The pain in his chest settled. 

The absence of the ache was intense; he was so used to being in near constant pain. 

“So, what are we doing?” 

“Walking.” 

“I can see that.” 

“Why’re you askin’, then, bird?” 

You huffed but didn’t ask anymore questions as he led you down one concrete pathway. 

The sky was a flawless robin’s egg blue, only a wispy, thin line of cloud on the very distant horizon. The distant shouts of drill instructors snapped in the warm summer air. Your shoulders drooped as you walked, eyes fluttering closed for a few seconds at a time as you tilted your face to the sun, inhaling deeply. 

He led you around the last building in a long line of barracks and brought you to a halt. The only thing beyond was a chainlink fence that marked the edge of the base. A faint breeze coated him in the smell of your skin, settled deep in the well of his lungs. He took a breath, watched your lashes flutter. 

Your thumb stroked a pattern against the inside of his arm, lazy and slow. “You’ve got a soft spot for me, Ghost.” 

He didn’t deny it. 

“What are we doing back here?” 

Ghost pulled away from you with some effort and spread the blanket over the grass. He sat on the concrete steps that led to the back door of the unused barracks.

You sat on the blanket, started to open your lunch and then flopped back in the sun instead. “A usual haunt?” 

“Sometimes.” 

“Secret’s safe with me.” 

“Mind if I smoke?” 

“No.” Then, “I won’t look.”  

He grunted in acknowledgement, rolled the bottom of his mask up, carton of cigarettes and lighter pulled from the depths of a trouser pocket. Simon watched the rise and fall of your chest, tracing the latticework of scars over your face. They looked better on you, he decided. Not as noticeable as his own, faded and light, pencil through wax paper instead of the thick groves of his own. 

They glinted a little in the sun, like the scales of an iridescent fish. 

Your eyes remained peacefully closed, soaking up the sun like a long deprived plant. Sweat beaded along your forehead, and when you pushed up your sleeves, Ghost was reminded that all of you matched all of him.

He recognized a burn mark on your forearm that belonged to him, a cut that wrapped halfway around your wrist. He was pretty sure the burn mark was from a mishandled flare, the wrist scar from a rope that had gotten tangled and burned him. 

Simon wanted to reach down and cup the side of your throat, feel the soft, sun warmed skin beneath his fingers. He wondered if your scars felt the same as his own, rough and grooved. 

Probably not, they were imitations, ungenerous sketchings of his own. 

He’d like to map them all against his own, find out if he bore any of yours. He wouldn’t have noticed something small that you might have collected yourself. A childhood fall, a careless burn while cooking. 

He watched the delicate flex of muscle in your forearms. Your shirt was a little askew, more faded marks left like a tracery of veins on your chest and collarbone and shoulder. It was fucking awful, a wrenching feeling in his chest, to know all that had been inflicted on him, had fallen on you too. 

He wondered about the pain again, imagined you writhing with terror and agony and confusion, every gunshot wound and burn and slash he received an echo inside you. Cigarette burns dotting your arms and wrists when you were just a child, months of pain without end when he was captured and tortured and his life was irrevocably changed. 

Simon wanted to ask, needed to know just how much damage he’d inflicted. But the words stuck in his throat. A fear of knowing, if he asked about the pain, maybe he’d hear other things too, how much you must hate him and didn’t know it was the man in front of you your hate should be directed at.

When he stubbed out his cigarette on the heel of his boot and rolled his mask back down, you blinked into the sun and exhaled, long and slow, and then sat up, leaning back on your palms. 

“What ‘appened?” He asked.

Your mouth twitched into your usual, if a bit more sheepish, smile. “You’re like a dog with a bone, you know that?” 

“Affirmative,” he said. 

You rolled your eyes and set up straight, brushing your palms together before reaching for your lunch. “I brought something for you.” 

“Stalling.” 

“Pushy,” you countered, giggling, rummaging around in your bag. Your smile faded as you pulled free one of the usual containers, what looked like lasagne within. He watched the edge of your mouth curl, the scar slitted along one side pulling at your expression. “I went on a date this weekend.” 

Ice slid down his spine, curled in a viscous circle in his gut. “Bad date?” 

“No,” you said, shaking your head adamantly, staring down at the container in your lap. “No, it went really well.” You glanced up at him and then dug in your bag again, passing another one to him along with a fork. “Until he saw my—” You fidgeted with your sleeve and then yanked it down. The other followed suit. “My marks. My scars.” 

“He’s a prick.” 

“No, he wasn’t,” you shook your head. “It’s happened before. They see the extent of it, and it’s like something biological clicks. I’m off limits.” You sat your food to the side and wrapped your arms around your knees. “Even though I’m no more likely to find mine than anyone else.” 

You looked very small, and alone at that moment. 

“I know it’s not my soulmate’s fault,” you said quietly. “I know that. I know that. And I don’t blame them for it. But sometimes I get so lonely I just—I wish—I wish I didn’t have one. Sometimes I wish I could hate them.”

The chill spreads outward.  

It was confirmation enough. If you knew, you would hate him. All that repressed, sentimentalized resentment would come bubbling up the moment you were actually faced with the person who so fundamentally changed the course of your life. 

He looked at his scars winking in the sun on your skin and felt a self hatred so intense it nearly made him flinch. He wished he could crawl out of that grave and kill them all over again, slower, just for this. 

You glanced up and smiled tightly. “But I’m a hopeless romantic, and dramatic. It was just disappointing. I always have hope someone will see past it.” You ran your hand over the blanket and unfolded yourself to finally begin eating. “This helped, though,” you said. “Thank you, Ghost.” You nodded at the food in his hands, averted your gaze again. 

And even though you could easily glance at him, Simon pushed up his mask and popped open the lid of the lasagne still warm between his hands. 

You ate together for the first time, in silence in the sun. You closed your eyes, kept your face pointed up and away, a cool breeze ruffling your shirt sleeves. 

“Have you found yours?” 

Simon looked at you, the edge of your jaw, the soft shadows your lashes cast over your ruined cheek. “Don’t think someone like me is meant for one.” 

You nodded. “Me either.”

.

.

.

He walked you back to your office. 

You felt better, settled, but he sort of just had that affect on you, you were coming to find. 

Ghost smelled like sun and freshly mowed grass and cigarette smoke. His shoulder kept touching yours, something in your chest lurching each time, like a rib bone had come loose and was knocking against your heart and lungs. 

Ghost carried the blanket back, folded it and set it carefully along the back of what had become his chair. 

You sat and turned, expecting to find him already silently gone as was his way. 

Instead, he was very close and depositing something on your desk. 

Matte black, compact, deadly, cold to the touch. 

A folded pocket knife sat at the edge of your desk. Ghost loomed over you, his shadow curling around your edges. 

He slid it toward you, watched you fold your fingers around it. For a long moment, each of you was holding it. “What’s this?” You asked when he released it, gloved fingers sliding across your desk, back to his side.  

“A knife.” 

“Oh, really? I've never seen one before.” 

He rolled his eyes. “It’s for you. I’ll teach you how to use it.” 

“Why?” 

“In case you need to.”

“Is this about me staying late?” 

“No.” He did not elaborate. 

“You know I received firearm training. I can shoot a gun. Isn’t a knife a little—” 

“But you don’t carry a gun.” 

“No,” you agreed. “I don’t.”  

He nodded as though that explained it. “Right.” 

You considered it, flipped it open. Deadly, shiny blade newly sharpened and oiled and well cared for. It was odd to be given a weapon, and yet unsurprising where Ghost was concerned. You glanced up, watched his dark, intense eyes flick over your face. You weren’t sure what he was looking for, but his brows knitted the longer you stared at each other. Concern, weariness.

“Okay.”

His shoulders loosened. “Tomorrow.” 

“Tomorrow,” you agreed. 

.

.

.

If you thought you would receive one lesson in knifework and be done with it, you didn’t know Ghost very well. 

You only ran drills first, as though Ghost were making sure the physical fitness exam you had to pass once a year was up to scratch. You proved again and again that you could run without getting too winded, disassemble, load, and fire a service weapon. When he was satisfied with that, the real training began. 

You practiced with a rubber blade that bruised when stuck into your ribs. He did not go easy on you. You left the gym battered and bruised, sweaty and just a little bit resentful. But you could break a wrist lock hold, grapple and use your body and size to your advantage. The goal he repeatedly told you, was not to turn you into a fighter or a soldier, but give you an opportunity to get away, to run away.  

What kind of danger he imagined you getting into between the base and your apartment you couldn’t begin to imagine. But you enjoyed spending time with him, enjoyed being in the gym. You found yourself laughing when you were repeatedly slammed into the mat, knife wrested from your fingers. It was fun. And, it was good for you, you decided, even if you thought his intense insistence was a tad dramatic. 

Ghost was a bit dramatic about certain things, you were coming to learn.

This was one of them. You were, you thought with warmth, one of the things he was a bit dramatic about. For whatever reason, you’ve been tucked under his wing, into his shadow. 

On the third week of relentlessly brutal training, you arrived at the base gym, empty as it always was, to find him holding a length of rope. 

You eyed it warily and shifted from foot to foot, amused despite the discomfort. “What do you imagine is going to happen to me?” 

Ghost didn’t answer as you set your bag down and pulled off your sweatshirt. The room was warm, close and humid, the scent of left over dregs of soldiers clogging the room for most of the day. The scent of plastic, lemon disinfectant, and sweat is thick on the air, but when you stepped toward Ghost, his familiar comforting smell of tea and cigarettes washed over you in a vacuous, orbital cloud. 

You looked up just as his eyes slid away from you, blond lashes catching the light, skin pink around his eyes. You’d swear it was a blush if you didn’t know better. “Ghost?” 

“Better to be prepared, yeah?” 

“For what?” All the same, you turned with a sigh. 

After a painfully long moment he stepped close and pressed the dark material around your wrists. His body was warm behind yours for that brief moment even without touching you, like the glow of a heat lamp that made the rest of the room feel cold by comparison. 

His gloved fingers were carefully delicate against your skin. It sent sparks skittering up your arms. What would his bare skin feel like against yours? 

Rough, warm. Safe.  

It’s a thought that had curled its roots into your mind the first time you fell to the mat together and you felt his weight against yours, brief and heavy, but comforting somehow. It wasn’t supposed to be, he was playing predator, it should have been panic inducing. 

Stupid, silly. 

If your most recently failed date had shown you anything, it was that feeling anything for anyone that had seen your scars was a failing venture. And Ghost had seen more of them now, than most. Maybe you should start wearing a mask. 

“What’s the goal today?” You asked, feeling a little like you couldn’t breathe. His warmth and scent and the weight of his presence was overwhelming in a way that made you want to curl into him, gladly suffocate. 

“Same as always,” he answered drolly. “To get away.”

“Hm. I keep thinking you’ll challenge me,” you teased.  

“Not a game, bird.” 

“But what am I meant to do? I can’t fight.” 

“Get out of the bindings. Get to the door.” 

“Is that it?” 

You would swear he’s smirking. “Simple enough, aye.” 

It wasn’t easy. 

For the third time in a row, you landed hard on your back. 

Ghost’s weight was heavy against you, before it lifted away. Your sweaty skin stuck to his hoodie.

Your breath comes in hard, deep pants. Your wrists ached and panic had begun to set in. 

“On your feet.” 

Clumsy as a newborn deer, you stumble to your feet. You had to be faster than him, incapacitate him. “You won’t be getting away from me,” he’d said once, “so you’d have a chance.” It was a compliment; one that said you were doing good. 

It didn’t feel like you were doing good now. 

By the sixth time, you felt raw and helpless, wrists caught at an odd angle beneath you. It wasn’t fun; it wasn’t sparring. You couldn’t manage to wriggle out of the bindings and you were useless at anything he’d taught you without your hands. 

“You’re hurting me,” you gasped. 

He released you immediately and the pressure in your wrists eased. It hadn’t been pain, not really, just panic, just exhaustion. 

But you knew instantly that you’d made a mistake, that he would not take it that way. 

“Shit.” 

.

.

.

The window was open and you were not in your office. 

Simon paused in the doorway, noted your bag on the chair in the corner, the patchwork quilt trailing over the arm of your desk chair and spilling onto the floor. His was gone from the chair. You’d been wandering off without him recently. 

He turned and marched back down the hall. An administrative assistant pointed toward the external door. “Getting sun, she said,” he said. “Sir.” 

Ghost nodded and shouldered the door open. He found you behind the barracks, lying on his blanket, staring up at a patchy sky, slices of blue peaking from between low hanging gray clouds. 

When his shadow fell over you, you opened your eyes and squinted up at him. “Ghost, you’re blocking my sun.” 

“Not much sun to speak of.” You grimace and frown at the sky. “You weren’t in your office.” 

“Sorry, should have left a note.” You patted the blanket next to you. “Sit.” 

Simon sat on the concrete steps. “Where’s your lunch?”

“Forgot it.” 

Worry sprouted, blossomed along his veins, ubiquitous as the pain that accompanies it. 

“Canteen,” he said. “Let’s go.” 

“It’s okay—“

“Wasn’t a suggestion.” 

“You’re bossy,” you said but didn’t move, chin tilted up, eyes flitting shut again. “I’ll have a big dinner.” 

He sighed and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, content enough to wait you out and smoke. The clouds continued to gather, putting your beloved sun to rest for the moment. The air grew steadily thicker with humidity. 

“Gonna rain,” he commented. 

You ignored him, eyes squinching closed harder, like you could will the sun to return. He watched you, made himself look at the bruises on your wrists and forearms, he knew there were matching ones on your ribs. They were harmless, just the usual consequence of sparring, but the ones around your wrists—that’s a mistake he won’t soon forget. 

When a fat raindrop landed on your arm, you sat up with a grumble. “Ready now?” He asked, pulling down his mask again. 

“I can see you won’t leave it alone.” 

“Affirmative,” he said. 

You rolled your eyes and started to get to your feet, pausing when he held out a hand to you. You stared for a beat too long before gripping his hand in yours. 

Even through his gloves, it was like being electrocuted. 

You released his hand as soon as you could, eyes skirting his. “Your lead,” you said. “I haven’t had the privilege.” 

He grunted, followed you closely back inside. 

As Simon’s misfortune would have it, Johnny was still in the canteen. 

He lasered in on the pair of you immediately, a grin growing across his face as he approached. “Ach so this is where you’ve been off to LT.”

Ghost herded you into line, a raucous group of new recruits halting their conversation to ogle you before their eyes flicked to his and away, conversation continued at a more subdued level. He shifted closer, between you and them, though you didn’t seem to notice.

“Haven’t been off anywhere,” he grumbled. 

“Who’s this then?” 

You smiled and offered your hand and name. “It’s nice to see that Ghost has bad manners with everyone.” 

“John MacTavish,” Soap said, all charm as he practically bowed. “Call me Soap.”

“Soap,” you giggled. “I’ve seen you in my reports.” 

Soap’s gaze flicked over your face, sharp eyes making the quick calculations that had made Simon hope he wouldn’t be in the canteen. “Are they yours?” 

“Sergeant—,” Ghost said sharply, a warning in his voice. 

But you only laughed and touched your cheek with obvious pride as the line moved up. “No. None of them belong to me. They’re nice though, right?” 

Simon went very still, swore his heart rate slowed. You held out your arm, showed off a sliver flash.

“Very becoming, lass.” 

You smiled again and gestured to your own chin, the side of your head. “Yours?” 

“Aye, all mine.”

“Ah, luck.” 

“Lucky indeed.”

Johnny’s eyes shifted to Simon’s, brows raised, with a look that said he knew. Simon glanced away, gritting his jaw so hard it ached.

 “Am I going to get food poisoning from this?” You asked as a tray was handed over, eying warily what was ostensibly mash, peas and carrots, mystery meat. 

“Probably not,” Johnny answered cheerfully. “Been mostly fine.” 

“Yes, but I think you military people might have tolerance to low levels of poison.” 

“That’s for sure, bonnie.” 

“Bonnie,” you said, giggling. “Are you calling me pretty?” 

Soap covered his heart, balancing his tray with one hand. “You wound me. Simon only keeps us good looking bastards around.”

“Simon,” you said softly, glancing up at him. “I didn’t think anyone knew your name.” 

Ghost didn’t answer for a moment, glaring daggers into the side of Johnny’s head, ignoring the way his heart was clenched so tight it felt like it was in a vise. Simon, his name on your tongue—  

“It’s need to know,” he snapped. 

Your expression folded and you glanced away. “Right, of course. Sorry.”

Simon clenched his jaw so hard it clicked as Johnny shot him a look. “This way, lass,” he said, leading you toward a spot in the corner of the mess. 

“Oh,” you said weakly, “That’s all right. You don’t have to—”

Ghost couldn’t help but notice the anxious look you threw him, the thin line your voice had transformed into. 

Soap wasn’t listening, already talking your ear off, pulling out a chair for you. You smiled and sat and Simon was left to silently watch it unfold. 

.

.

.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Soap muttered when they’d safely returned you to your office where a contingent of lesser analysts awaited you. The corridor leading away from the now closed door seemed impossibly long. “D’ya know how many people would kill to meet their soulmate? You’ve got yours right under your fuckin’ nose and haven’t even told her yer name!” 

“She doesn’t need to know.” 

“Yer name?” 

Ghost leveled Soap with a stare. 

Soap gaped at him. “Steamin’ Jesus. You aren’t plannin’ to tell the lass at all?” 

“Stay out of it, MacTavish.” 

Johnny followed him down the hall, outside into a bleak, gray drizzle. “You know it can kill you?” Simon kept walking. “Simon.” 

He stopped, glanced at Soap with a warning in his eyes. “Do ya?”

“It won’t.”

Johnny continues anyway, urgently. “There’s a pain, they say, under the ribs when—“

“Stay out of it, Sergeant,” Ghost growled, that very pain growing as it always did as he moved further and further away from you. “It’s nothing.” 

“It‘ll corrode,” Johnny said to his retreating back. “She’ll feel it eventually.”

Simon ignored him. 

But he wondered as he walked away, if he died, if you’d feel the corded snap of his life floating away from yours.  

Somehow, being that sort of ghost, didn’t sit well with him. 

.

.

.

Johnny, predictably, did not stay out of it. 

He regularly and reliably began to show up in your office. More than once, he looped Garrick into accompanying him. Ghost had watched as the same realization Soap had snapped into place on Gaz’s face, and knew it was only a matter of time before Price knew too. 

Luckily, they were the only three on the entire base that could make the connection, that had seen his face, so at least it was done with. None of them said anything to him about it, but there were a lot of worried glances being exchanged. 

Ghost felt the edge of his sanity begin to wear thin the longer it went on, not that there was much left of it in the first place.

The disruption, the infiltration, the distraction grated until his insides felt raw with irritation. He hadn’t wanted anyone else to know, not because he was ashamed, but because you were his, and you didn’t deserve to be burdened by that. He would shoulder that horrible belonging for both of you. 

But the way you’d tenderly touched your cheek remains burned into his memory. The soft look in your eye. The gentle way you and Soap always spoke of soulmates whenever they came up, reverent and tender. 

You enjoyed their company, Johnny and Kyle, and seemed all the better for it. It was clear immediately how much you liked both of them. How much you desperately needed friends. 

Ghost was loath to admit there was a seed of jealousy wriggling in his belly. The easy way you got on with them proof enough that a wire had gotten crossed somewhere, that you were more cursed by him than anchored by.

Then, the gifts left at the edge of your desk began to extend to the lads and not just himself, and it felt vaguely as though he were losing a vital piece of himself to it. 

Then, you stopped coming to the gym. You were gone, office dark, before he could walk you to your car. You went on another date. 

He didn’t know what to do with any of it.

One Tuesday at the end of July you were in your office, but Soap was there before him, tearing into a packet of crisps, lounging in Simon’s chair, patchwork quilt flattened beneath him in a heap. It was hot, and humid, a fan in the corner working overtime, window propped open.

You were happily listening to Johnny explain the ins and outs of football. A match was playing on your computer screen which you’d turned back so both of you could see. 

Your eyes found Simon’s when he paused in the doorway, and you waved him inside, an unsure smile twitching at the corners of your mouth. “Hi, Ghost. Do you keep up with soccer, too?” 

A groan from Soap. “Bloody Americans.” 

“Sorry, sorry. You keep up with footie too, mate?” 

“Horrendous,” Ghost said flatly.

Your smile faltered then brightened again. It didn’t quite reach your eyes. “You should hear my Scottish accent. Soap said I offended every one of his ancestors.” 

“Aye and you did lass,” he said solemnly. “Yeh—” 

“Sergeant,” Ghost interrupted loudly. “Aren’t you due for PT?”  

“Ach, right,” he muttered, getting to his feet, “Thanks for the reminder, LT.” 

“Oh, Soap,” you said, “Hold on.” You rummaged beneath your desk for a long moment, then passed him a brown paper bag full of cookies. “Your favorite, as requested.” 

“You sweet on me or something, bon?”

You rolled your eyes and said, “Out of my office.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

Ghost took Soap’s vacated seat, watched you avoid looking at him as you moved things needlessly around your desk, twisted your monitor back around and muted the match. 

The silence was suffocating. 

“All right?” 

You froze, then shuffled the papers together and slid them to a corner of your desk. “I wanted to apologize.” Your voice hitched a little. 

He blinked, taken aback. He didn’t like that you could surprise him. “For what?” 

You bit your lip, fidgeted again. “Your name, I guess. You didn’t want me to know.” Your mouth twisted to the side. “And your team bothering you here—” 

“You’re apologizing for Soap?” 

Your brow furrowed. “Well I encourage it—”

“No.” 

“No?” You shook your head, “and that day in the gym—” You opened and closed your hands anxiously. “I think I upset you.” 

He stared across the room, toward your big, sunny window, all those little potted plants that have flourished through the summer months. Your bug lamp seemed to droop in the heat, sad and watchful. He’d hurt you, and you’d taken the blame. Something horrible lurched in his belly, heavy and unforgiving. “Didn’t. I should have been more careful.” 

“Right,” you said carefully. “So if it’s not that, why are you—” 

He shrugged, watched one of the emerald leaves sway in the warm breeze. “I like you to myself,” he admitted. “Not the best at sharing.”  

“Oh,” you said, voice tender. “Oh.” 

“Mm.” 

“I’ll make space.” 

He didn’t quite understand what you meant by that, but he liked the way it sounded. Space for him. 

“You’ll come to the gym later, yeah?” 

“Yes.” 

“Good.” He stood, deposited your knife, which he’d snagged early in the morning to clean and sharpen, back onto your desk, along with the new box of tea because he noticed you were out the night before. “And don’t tell bloody Soap.” 

“Aye, LT.” 

He chuckled. “Take care of that.” 

“Teach me how?” 

He nodded. 

“Thanks for the tea. I used the last bag yesterday afternoon.” 

“I know.” 

Your smile was soft, your fingers touched his. He breathed a little easier. 

“‘Course you do.” 

.

.

.

Simon couldn’t stop thinking about pain. 

His body functioned at a constant low level of pain, had for years. Maybe it had his whole life, so he tended not to notice it. But the ache you caused had only seemed to grow over time, tendrils spreading to the furthest reaches of his body, the tips of his fingers, the backs of his knees, places he didn’t think could hold pain. 

The intensity increased too, until he could no longer ignore it. It was like a whine, like a child begging to be seen to. 

He kept thinking of your voice, too, dreaming of it. You’re hurting me. Panic ridden, laced with fear.

You said he didn’t, after,  but he didn’t relish the thought of the possibility. Accidentally hurting you, hurting you on purpose. He thought of his mother, doing her best with a brutal man. He was afraid of unknowingly stepping into a cycle, to find himself standing above you one day, drunk, mean, angry. 

You’re hurting me.  

It echoed like a heartbeat. Inevitable. 

You might collect his scars, but he would not add to them with his own hands. He’d rather die; he’d rather be burned alive; he’d rather crawl out of a grave a hundred times over. 

He was afraid of it. Afraid that every terrible aspect of this bond between you could only bring you pain. 

His father loomed in the recesses of his mind, all the violent men he’d ever known, every bloody fist. Simon’s scalp ached, the memories swam behind his eyes. Long nights, wild animals, dead girls. 

There was one person who had a preoccupation with soulmates who was likely to know, who badgered him regularly about eroding the bond, about bond tears and pain. Simon could know, once and for all, if he was the cause of the indirect pain, at least. His own imposed on you, pushed into your skin like a punishment. He could cross that off his long list of sins. 

Johnny, when Simon finally tracked him down, was sat in the armory cleaning a rifle. He watched over his Sergeant's shoulder for a long moment. The methodical movement soothed him, brought his heartrate down a little. 

“Johnny.” 

Soap jumped and glanced around. “Spooky fucker. Should put a bell on ye—” 

“Does she feel it?”

“What—”

He exhaled long and slow. “My pain. If I’m shot tomorrow, would she feel it?”

Soap glanced around, brows raised. “Ye don’t know?” 

“Say I don’t.” 

“No, the lass doesn’t feel it.” Soap turned his wrist, pointed to a scar that was lighter than some of the others, a pale tracery that slipped from the inside of his elbow to mid forearm. “Not mine. Watched it fade in one mornin’. Didn’t feel a thing.” 

Ghost looks at the scar, and Soap lets him. “Tha’ why you haven’t—”

“No.” 

“Why?” 

“Deserves better.” 

Johnny nodded, continued cleaning the rifle. “Thing is, LT. She doesn’t. That’s the point.” 

Well, at least he only had to worry about becoming his father. 

Fucking perfect. 

.

.

.

Two months deployment.  

The pain in Simon’s chest was agonizing, a constant fire. He couldn’t sleep, pain meds did nothing for it. 

He could only wait it out, wait until he was back on base and hope you were in your office, that the solace of your presence in that warm yellow light would be waiting for him. The pain would recede. He needed a plan, though. Clearly it wasn’t fucking viable to just let it go on. It was too distracting and only getting worse. It was no longer something he could ignore. 

Maybe, he didn’t really want to.

Maybe, Johnny was right. 

He half convinced himself that the lancing ache was so bad because you’d been posted somewhere else the last two months and you were further away than ever. Your office would be empty. This was just an agony he would have to learn to live with. 

Finally, though, they were going home. Intel secure. One last building to sweep. Empty. A loaded silence that made the back of his neck prickle. 

Not as empty as they thought. 

Soap steps quickly into the last room ahead of him, gaze sweeping from one side to another before he lowered his weapon and stepped forward. 

Ghost followed quickly, lowered his gun when he saw what Johnny had. Civilians. One curled around the other, sobbing so hard she made no noise. 

When she lifted her face, Simon sucked in a startled breath. She looked like you, only without his scars. There was a mark slowly bleeding into place on her temple, one that matched the gunshot wound of the woman beneath her. 

The wail that suddenly pierced the air was distraught, horrible, a lurch and a bang. 

Soap was there, kneeling, looking for wounds that Ghost knew didn’t exist. Horror froze him for the second time in his life, your face swimming behind his eyes. 

“I thought you said they couldn’t feel it,” he barked. 

“What?” 

“Soulmates.” 

Soap looked at the pair with fresh eyes. 

“They can’t, LT,” Soap said without glancing at him. “It’s no’ that. It’s just—” 

Grief. The unbearable snapping of a fated cord. The tether in his own chest pulsed, ached. He thought of it breaking cleanly in two, as though it never existed, your light snuffed out, leaving him in total darkness again. 

It wasn’t pain she was feeling, it was the absence. 

“Ghost,” Johnny said sharply and Simon finally snapped out of it, went to his side. 

It wasn't worth it, he thought. None of this could be fucking worth it. He was left with the sinking sense that all he could ever do was hurt you. 

All the same, he felt an urgency to go home. To return to your side. To feel your pulse under his fingers. 

Just to be sure. 

It took them a long time to get her to leave the body. 

.

.

.

Task Force 141 was deployed for nearly two months. 

September and October passed slowly, in starts and fits that seemed to drag. 

You developed a pain in your side, a stitch from taking it too hard in the gym you assumed. But nothing seemed to help it. The pang became a prick became a small misery that the base medical staff couldn’t pinpoint the origins of. 

You missed Ghost, and Kyle and Johnny, tolerated the terrible tea your coworkers made for you, went on another series of failed dates, and finally became friends with your cross-hall apartment neighbor. Months of baked goods and hellos finally coming to fruition. Pieces of a life were falling together. 

Finally, they were coming home. You left your offer that night with the assurance that they were uninjured, that Ghost, and likely Soap, would be in your office by noon the next day. 

But Simon still managed to reappear as he always did, silently and without warning. A shadow crossed your back as you were locking your office near midnight, a hand grazed your back. You followed the series of steps you’d been taught months ago. Foot back, elbow out, knife in hand, open, turn—

Your wrist was caught by the flat of his palm, fingers of the opposite hand yanking it from your grip.  

You blinked and breathed out heavily, relieved. The tight tenderness in your side leveled off for the first time in a month. “Ghost,” you murmured, lowering your now empty hand, “You aren’t supposed to be back until tomorrow morning.” 

“That disappointed to see me?” 

No. Never. But he was still in full tactical gear. The skin around his eyes was still layered with eyeblack, exhaustion and an acid tension rolling off him in a thick wave. His gaze was heavy, but steady, assessing you in turn. He smelled like diesel and cigarettes and gun powder. You lifted your chin. “Surprised to see you. Glad to see you.” 

He only flipped the knife around and held it out to you. “Nice work.” 

You smiled as you took the blade and stored it again. “You’re making me paranoid, I think.” 

“Good. Paranoid keeps you alive.” 

His eyes flicked over you, looking long and hard, though for what you couldn’t be sure. He stepped closer, until you were forced back against the door. He towered over you, corralled you back against the cool wood. Soft, dark eyes like wells of ink in the shadow of the hood pulled over his head, searched long enough that you began to worry something was wrong. 

You reached out and rested your hand on his forearm. His body was so taut you could feel the tremble of exhausted, overwrought muscle. “Ghost,” you said gently, carefully. “Are you okay?” 

He inhaled deeply, so hard and fast it sounded pained. 

He looked at you again, eyes sliding over you slowly, like he was orienting himself, finding steady ground on which to stand. 

“Why don’t you cover ‘em?”

Your belly clenched. “Cover what?” you queried, silently begging him not to ask that question. 

“Scars.” 

You went still, looking down at your skin. You had rolled up your sleeves earlier in the evening when furious typing had required it. They glinted silver in the low light of the hall. Pretty and delicate as dragon scales. 

It wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen before. 

Still, you fought the urge to cross your arms. You hated when he stared at them. 

“Why would I?” You rubbed your wrist. “I don’t want to. They belong to my soulmate.”

He glanced away from you, his jaw tight beneath the mask. “You actually believe in that shite?” His voice was harsh, aggressive in a way he had never spoken to you before. “It’s a bloody children’s tale.”  

You bristled, felt something hard and mean well behind your breastbone in a tight knot. The pain that had been kicking you in the ribs lately reared again, made you wince and cover your side. “Well,” you snapped, gesturing to yourself with your free hand, “these aren’t mine, so I guess I have to.”  

He scoffed and you felt your heart lurch, hurt settling in your gut, twisting an invisible knife that much deeper. You tried to side step him but he didn’t move, a terrible, solid wall of muscle and—anger? Irritation? You couldn’t tell. “What the fuck do you care? Maybe you’re ashamed of yours,” you said roughly, “But not all of us are.” 

His brows furrowed and he shook his head again. “Oh, come off it.” 

“What?” 

“You’re tellin’ me that if you came face to face with the bastard that did this to you, you wouldn’t hate him?” 

Indignation burned a righteous path up your throat. “You don’t get to do that,” you said lowly. 

“You didn’t deny it,” he said. “You would.” 

“No,” you interrupted vehemently, swallowing around the word like gravel in your throat. “No, of course I wouldn’t. It wasn’t done to me, it—” 

But Simon was determined, his mind set. 

“He hurt you, changed the course of your bloody life, whether you want to admit it or not. You’ll hate him for it, love.” 

“For something he went through?” You asked incredulously, defensively. “Do you know how scared I was?” 

Ghost’s eyes went blank, his stare suddenly flat and far away. His gaze drifted from yours, the weight of flinty amber lifted. “Of him,” he said viciously, like something terrible he’d always known had been confirmed. 

“No,” you snarled again, not sure why Ghost was fighting you, not sure why he cared about your scars suddenly. “You aren’t listening. For him.” Your ribs ached, your breath came in short bursts. He was too close, the clashing sensations of safety and agitation calcifying the tension between you into a solid, immutable wall. 

You inhaled shakily through the sudden distress. Your lungs hitched and spasmed before you could suck in a proper breath, feeling faint, glad for the wall behind you. 

He blinked, looked down at you again. “Hey—” 

“I was so scared I would lose him before I ever got to meet him. Ever since I was a kid I’ve had scars. Cigarette burns and scratches, bite marks. I used to hope he was older than me, so it wouldn’t have meant that he—so that he wouldn’t have been—” Agitation rises like a tide, all the nights you’d sat awake watching scars bleed into your skin. Your parents had been unable to look at you in the morning, wondering what the future held for you. What kind of person that child would grow up to be. 

The same fear Simon seemed to be holding onto so tightly. 

You stumbled over his concern, something prickling at the base of your neck. 

“Once,” you continued shakily, “they just kept showing up, day after day, for months. I didn’t know what was happening and there was nothing I could do. I thought he was going to die and I couldn’t help him. I was so worried and all I could do was watch.” 

You met his eyes, saw something so raw and wretched there that you flinched back, closed your eyes, breath caught. 

You aren’t sure when you transitioned to using he instead of they. 

It suddenly didn’t feel like you were talking about someone you hadn’t met yet. 

You thought of how strangely intense he was about you. How you had felt so strongly about him immediately. How the only bit of his skin you’ve ever seen has been around his eyes; the delicate veins at his wrists.

You thought of him making you tea and teaching you to defend yourself. You thought of him walking you to your car and pulling you into sunny days. You thought of all the cups of coffee and boxes of tea, the gentle way he handled the blanket you made him from cheap cotton like it was spun gold. 

You thought of Johnny asking after your scars the first time you met him. How not long after you’d been personally introduced to the rest of the 141 for no discernable reason. How they checked on you. How they were probably the only people that knew what Ghost’s face looked like. 

“No,” you whispered, pieces of a terrible puzzle sliding together in your mind. 

You opened your eyes.  

“Ghost?” you asked softly, tentatively lifting your hand. 

He jerked back. “Don’t do that,” he warned.  

You stepped closer, knowing you were playing with fire, that he might burn you, lash out like a dog with its leg in a trap. 

But if he was yours—

If he was yours, you would not be the one to inflict more hurt on him. 

He did not want this, he did not want you, that much was clear. 

You closed your hand and let it fall, pushed your fist against your heart instead. “I see you,” you said gently. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.” 

“You don’t understand,” he rasped.  

“You survived.” You backed away. “That’s enough. To know you’re okay.” 

The empty spot in your chest ached, seemed to grow tendrils that wrapped around your heart. A bond so close and not latched. Because you haven’t seen him. He has to let you in.

“When you’re ready. If you’re ever ready. I'm here.”

He finally returned his gaze to yours. 

“Did it hurt?” 

“Did what hurt?” You tilted your head but he didn’t answer, just stared at you with big, moon dark eyes, brows pinched inward, eyeblack creating a tiny white line there. “Oh, you wouldn’t know, I guess.” You shook your head, “No I was just scared. Just worried. It didn’t hurt. You’ve never hurt me.” 

He moved so quickly and silently that you jumped when his hand curled around your wrist. Light enough that you could pull away if you wanted.  

“You don’t have to. You never have to. I don’t want to take anything else from you.” 

Ghost hesitated, his chest rising and falling quickly. “Do I have any of yours?” The question was quiet, almost reverent.  

You nodded, “‘Course you do. I fell out of a tree when I was a kid. Gave me a nasty scar on the back of my elbow. I landed on a rock.” 

His eyes flicked away, like he was trying to imagine it. You twisted your arm, showed him the thick line of scar there, totally different than the lighter version of his on your skin. “See? You’ll have that one in the same spot but lighter. Maybe not even visible, since you’re so pale.” 

Your breath caught when he stepped closer, the pain in your chest was so intense it made breathing difficult.

“It’s not fair to you.” 

“What isn’t?” 

“To bloody leave it. Hurts, yeah?” 

You didn’t admit to the spasming in your chest; it wouldn’t help anything. “When have you ever cared about fair?” 

He made a pained sound. “Don’t.” 

“I’m okay. I don’t need anything from you. I don’t want anything from you.”

“You’re supposed to need things from me.”  

He peeled his gloves off, tucked them into his back pocket. The hall was still and silent aside from your combined ragged breathing. It sounded like you’d been running a marathon. “Ghost—” 

“Simon,” he said. “Please, call me Simon.” 

You closed your eyes, felt his hands graze your collarbone, your throat, before anchoring on your jaw, tilting your face up. “Look at me, sweet’eart.” 

“I can’t.” Your voice trembled, tears clogging your throat. 

“Can.” 

Very gently, he leaned down and pushed his forehead against yours. 

You shuddered and swallowed and stepped closer. Simon curled his arms around you, pulled you into his chest. He was so broad and tall, you felt swaddled against him, warm and secure. His scent wrapped around you like ribbons holding you together. “No point dragging it on, yeah? No point you being in pain.” 

“How long?” 

“The whole time,” he admitted after a moment. His voice rumbled against your cheek. It felt like home. “First time I saw you.” 

“You have had this pain for almost a whole year—” 

“Not your fault,” he interrupted, one massive hand sliding down your spine. “Not your fault.” 

You huffed, hooked your fingers beneath his tac vest. “I’m sorry anyway.” You pulled back, felt his arms tighten around you for a moment. He didn’t want to let you go. “Is there anything you need to take care of? Reports or debriefing or something?” 

“No.” 

“Would. . . would you want to come to mine—” 

He reached under your arm and plucked your keys out of the lock before you could finish, guiding you down the hall, his hand never leaving your skin. 

You had never seen Simon outside the base, you realized suddenly, and everything felt vastly more fragile. It also felt as though that hollow pulse in your chest would tear if you were asked to walk away at that moment, something real and physical would tear and drop out of you, an irreparable part of your soul. 

You weren’t sure how you drove home, Ghost huge in your passenger seat, your hands shaking each time he shifted his grip on you. 

In your apartment, you hesitated, not sure where you belonged in your own space anymore. Simon looked strange in your tiny living room, among soft blankets and years of collected books and knicknacks. An all consuming shadow. You wondered if this would end like all those dates, just another failure, another loss. 

When you started to step toward the lamp, Simon’s fingers curled around your wrist to keep you by his side. “No.” 

“Just turning on the lamp.” 

He released you.

As you stepped away, a hollow pulse in your chest retched with pain that made you gasp and clutch the edge of the sofa. It felt real, like something was breaking, jagged edges clawing at the inside of your skin. You wondered what Ghost’s self imposed distance might have done to the bond. There were stories, albeit few, of corrosion. The bond literally rusting out, slowly poisoning the soulmate and their pair. 

“Come ‘ere,” he muttered. “Sit down.”

When his palm cupped your elbow, the world became softer. Like purr instead of a shriek. He guided you onto the sofa. 

Your hands shook when he released you, making quick work of the lamp. The room flooded with soft yellow light. He glanced around. Art on the walls, forest green rug over hardwood floor, molding you had painted a delicate gold. You felt embarrassed of it all suddenly. 

“God,” you muttered. He didn’t seem to feel the pain at all, which made your chest ache in a different way and guilt pool heavily between your bones for it. You didn’t want him to be in pain, but you felt as though you were breathing water, choking on your own lungs. “How have you dealt with this?” 

“Worse now,” he said, though you felt it was his version of a kind untruth. 

He sat next to you, reached for you, then faltered, unsure. You closed the space, folded your fingers between his. The scars made a fucked up little mirror when you looked down at your hands. They matched exactly. “I’m sorry.” 

Simon didn’t answer, but stayed close to you, letting you hold his hand. Even the smallest amount of space between you seemed to burn, a brazier that flared hot and demanded attention. But it was better; just having his bare hand in yours helped. 

“Nothin’ t’be sorry for.” He said after a few minutes of uneven breathing, eyes trained on your hands, thumb running over the back of your fingers. 

“You don’t want me.” 

It wasn’t a question. 

He glanced up, something razor sharp in his eyes. You flinched a little, but his hand tightened on yours. 

“You don’t have to—We don’t have to bond,” you tripped over the last word. “It’s okay.” 

“Obviously it’s not, bird.” 

Your heart sunk and you glanced away. A one in eight billion chance was sitting under your nose for months, and he wanted nothing to do with you. He was being forced into it.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured again. “Ghost, I’m—”

“Simon,” he corrected.  

“Simon,” you echoed. 

He curled his hands around your wrists, lifted your palms to the bottom of his mask. He let your hands settle at the base of his throat, eyes never leaving yours. “I didn’t want you,” he said plainly. “I never wanted you to know.” 

You swallowed and nodded. “I’m s—” 

“No.”

You closed your mouth with a click of your jaw. You don’t expect a speech and he doesn’t give you one. “You deserve better,” he said. “But I’m all you get.” 

His knee touched yours. Your faces were tilted together, so close that the only thing you could see were the soft depths of his eyes reflecting the gold light.

It didn’t feel close enough. 

You wished it were all different. 

That he didn’t feel forced, that you were what he wanted. 

“I deserve you. Isn’t that the point?” 

He watched you for a long moment, an unreadable expression on his face, then nodded. 

“Go on, then.” 

Your throat felt tight as you tugged the mask upwards, heart lurching when you recognized the same scar on your throat on his. You pushed the fabric over his chin and mouth, up until you could pull it over his head. 

You looked at him, the same scar over his mouth, along his cheek, the bridge of his nose was nicked, the outline of burn scarring crossed the edge of his jaw and neck. When you looked past that, you saw him. Crooked nose, thick, furrowed brows, dark eyes you’d loved for a long time cast darker by the black around them, light eyelashes and hair, longer on top and curling. 

Something seemed to. . .snap then. A warmth broke between you, filled that awful, dark, pained well in your chest. It hurt, but the pain was brief, like stitches done by a seasoned medic. 

Breathing was easier. You could feel the pulse of him without the threat of imminent pain. It was a warm, comforting, safe thing in your lungs. You inhaled, attempted to stand, to give him a bit of space. “Should be able to separate now. Shall we test it—” 

You didn’t get a chance to move away, tugged suddenly from your seat and into his lap. You fell heavily against his chest, wrapped tightly in his arms, foreheads slanted together. 

“No,” he said, sounding, for the first time since you’ve known him, breathless. “No.” 

“I don’t want to.” 

“Good.” 

“Can I touch you?” 

“Can do anything you like to me, bird.” 

You stroked the side of his throat, felt him shiver. “Well, I won’t. Not anything.” 

He made a content noise of agreement. 

You touched his jaw, his cheek, the tail of his brow, the faded check through it that you’d never noticed matched your own. His arms tightened around you in increments until the pressure forced you to take shallow breaths. “You’re beautiful.” 

“Lookin’ in a mirror, are you?” 

“Sort of,” you answered. “A little.” 

His hands shifted, anchored on your hips, and pushed you back a little. 

Disappointment that it was over so soon pinched at your throat but you backed off, attempting to slide from his lap. His hand caught at your hip. “Stop trying to bloody move.” 

“What—” 

He was only taking off the vest, which probably should have been left at the base. It dropped heavily to the floor as he pulled you against his chest. It was warmer, softer like that, thick muscle coiled beneath your cheek when you rested it against his shoulder, heartbeat hard against yours.  

“No more pain?” 

“None.” 

“Good.” 

You pushed your face against his throat, felt him tense and then uncoil. One large hand cupped the back of your neck, holding you there. You brushed your lips against his pulse point, felt a scarred flutter against your mouth, a muted grunt.

“You’re all I want,” you admitted quietly. “I think I knew. I think everyone knew. I’m sorry,” you finally said, “that I’m not who you need.”  

His hand squeezes your neck and then he’s pushing you down against the cushions, pressing one massive thigh between your legs, hauling you closer like it could never be close enough. The space between your bodies would always be too large, because you couldn’t climb into his chest, nest among his veins. 

It would have to do then, his hand tilting your jaw up, his eyes searching yours as you part your lips. 

“You are, sweet’eart,” he said simply, mouth brushing yours before he kissed you properly. 

He tasted of black tea; his eyeblack rubs off on your temples. 

Already, he was leaving pieces of himself behind with you to mark safe.

“Simon,” you murmured against his mouth. Just to say it, just to be rewarded with a shudder.

The kiss slipped into something more desperate, your hands felt the skin of his back, your own scar on his elbow, and you thought, maybe, you could become what he needed.  

if you made it this far thank you for reading! I'd love to know what you thought!

[forget--thyself]

ᴹʸ ᴮᵒʸ, ᶜᵒᵛᵉʳᵉᵈ ⁱⁿ ᴿᵉᵈ. ᴬ ᴮᵒʸ ᶜᵒᵛᵉʳᵉᵈ ⁱⁿ ᴮˡᵘᵉ.

ᶜʰᵖ. ¹: ᴺᵒ ᴾˡᵃᶜᵉ ᴸⁱᵏᵉ ᴴᵒᵐᵉ

Inspired by Jailer - Kevin Atwater

You and Dennis were best friends. You were more than friends. No one knew; until everyone knew. When your family kicked you out, you thought maybe Dennis would help, he would explain it to them, but he shunned you liked the rest of them. Let you take the blame because Dennis Whitaker could never be gay.

Years later, you find yourself in Pittsburgh. In Pittsburgh, you find Dennis, and his... Boyfriend.

Baby's first time writing for the Pitt 🥲

Major trigger warnings: Sexual intercourse between two teenagers described at the beginning, internalized homophobia (strongly presented in Dennis, slightly more subtle with reader beginning, then vice versa later), use of slurs (fag, faggot, directed mostly at Reader by his family, Dennis' family, and by Dennis once), Reader gets kicked out by their family

content warnings/non-serious warnings: Conservative religion written by a non-conservative, non-religious person, my attempt at writing Nebraska and Pittsburgh

But please, proceed with caution, and do let me know if there's anything I should tag/warn more clearly!

---- indicates a time skip ------------ indicates a POV switch

Dennis's old family truck rocks back and forth lightly, like a warm summer’s breeze is passing through the empty field it’s parked in. But this cool, breezeless autumn night, the rocking is caused by the people inside. 

Your thrusts are inexperienced, uncertain, and so nervous that someone may walk by, and notice the blasphemy happening behind the fogged up windows. No one will; the wheat fields have grown tall enough that the truck is nearly completely hidden.  Your head falls against Dennis's shoulder, head tilted slightly as if to try and kiss him. You never do, though. 

Kissing is too real; a seal on the letter of sin you and Dennis have been writing for the past several months. You’d seal the letter a thousand times over, stick it with a stamp, and send it out to the world. Dennis refuses- for good reason, your families would hardly be accepting of… Whatever it is you and Dennis are. 

Dennis's breath flutters your hair, and his hands claw at your back, red lines surely being left behind. Red lines that will surely be there in the morning, ones you’ll treasure in the mirror, relish in the burn you feel when you hide them beneath a shirt. Red lines- red lights flash in the corner of your eyes, then blue, breaking through the window. 

“Denny, you in there?” John Whitaker’s (Dennis's second older brother) voice follows shortly after a knock on the window.

“S-shoot,” Dennis shoves you off him harshly, your head bouncing off the passenger seat. “Hide yourself!”

“Where?” You hiss back, ducking your head when John brings his flashlight up to the window. “Not exactly many places to shove myself under!”

“Just--” Dennis glares at you, a look of distress, and guilt. You can’t tell if it’s guilt from being caught, or him snapping at you. He grabs his jeans, tossing it over your head.

 “Dennis, I know it’s you, I can see Pa’s lucky rabbit’s foot hangin’ on the rearview! Who’ve you got in there?” John taunts, knocking on the window again. “Is it Elizabeth? I saw her making eyes at you durin’ church the other day!”

“Joooohnnn,” Dennis grows, clutching his shirt to his chest, scooting forward to crank the window down. “Why’re you out here?”

“Pretty sure that’s my question, Denny boy,” you don’t dare try to look up, holding your breath to keep from being noticed. “I was doing my rounds, saw Pa’s truck in the field, and was worried some thief got to it. I was being a good cop, and a great son! You are out past curfew with a girl.”

“Please don’t tell Mama, and Pa,” Dennis begs, his voice wavering slightly. The leather creaks as Dennis moves, presumably to keep John from trying to steal looks into the truck. “I’ll do your chores for the rest of the year, I promise.”

“Calm down, Dennis. I’m not gonna tell. I think it’s good yer breaking loose, you goody two shoes,” John snorts, his utility belt clacking with the shift of his weight, still trying to see who Dennis is rendezvousing with. “Well!... Get home. Now, and be a gentleman, and drop the lady off at home too, huh?”

There’s a shift in his tone that you can’t place, a flatness that wasn’t there before. The relief you feel when you hear him turn away, then a car door opening and shutting, overshadows anything that nags at the back of your mind. 

“Crazy, right?” You laugh awkwardly, crawling over the center console into the passenger seat. “Dennis?” At his lack of response, you turn around, finding him staring out the window where John’s car just was. “Dennis?” 

“What?” His head whips over to you, eyes owlishly wide. “S-sorry. We should go,” he mumbles, maneuvering into the driver’s seat, avoiding any physical contact with you. 

“Yeah… We should.” You nod, pulling your shirt on. Your breathing shudders as he pulls out of the field, heart beating in time with the old, sputtering air conditioning. 

Dennis stops driving around a half mile away from your house. The truck jerks, and Dennis isn’t looking at you when unbuckle. “Not gonna walk me to the front door, Denny?”

The looks he gives you suggests that you just ran over his prized calf instead of making a fun little joke. “Why would I walk you to the door? I’m not your boyfriend, this is a secret! We can’t- I’m not. I’m not gay!”

“I didn’t say you were, Dennis! I was jokin’!” You scoff, taken aback by Dennis's defensiveness. “I’ll--”

“You shouldn’t be joking about stuff like this! Do you know what would’ve happened if John had seen you!? W-we coulda been taken to jail, or he coulda told our parents, and who knows what they’d do to us!” Dennis's arms are flailing about, his voice growing higher, more desperate. “We are sinning! We’re going to go to hell b-because that’s where all the… All the fags go! And you’re here jokin’ that I should be walking you to your house?”

Your bottom lip wobbles as Dennis continues with his tirade, all words you’ve heard from your parents, his parents, the people in town. None of the vitriol was even directed at you, and it was already fear inducing. You don’t want to know what would happen if it was directed at you. 

“I’m sorry, Dennis… It was a bad joke,” you stammer, biting at the dry skin on your lip until you taste blood. “I’ll walk the rest of the way to my house.”

“Good! Get out,” Dennis cries, pursing his lips, and turning his head away from you. “Get out,” he whispers, softer this time.

You don’t say anything else, gathering the jeans you still haven’t put on, leaving the car. You barely have time to close the door before Dennis is peeling away; you watch the back of his truck get smaller, then disappear completely down the hill. The Whitaker farm isn’t far from yours, close enough you can hear the truck backfire when Dennis makes the sharp turn into their driveway. 

A cool breeze ruffles the foliage around you, goosebumps pricking your skin. Your entire body feels mechanical as you pull your jeans on, feet moving on their own to bring you to your house. The front door winces open, in time with your own. You’d go through your window, but the last time you did that, you popped the frame out, and had to make up an excuse about a dislocated shoulder you didn’t have the day before. 

It’s not like you have to worry about your parents waking up; Papa wouldn’t wake up if a tornado was at his head, and anything Mama would be able to hear gets drowned out by Papa’s snoring. It makes for an easy in and out. There’s still precautions you take, of course: avoiding the creaky boards, slowly shutting the door, no lights. The basics. 

“Where’ve you been?” Your papa’s voice comes from behind you, lights flooding the room. 

Your heart sinks like a lead weight in freshwater. There’s a tremor in your hands as you release the doorknob, and it turns full body as you turn around. “I-I was… I was out.”

“Past curfew?” Mama’s voice is tight, shriller than usual. “Were you with someone?”

“No, Ma’am. I just went for a walk, by myself,” you fib, forcing yourself to keep looking at them. The moment you look away, they’ll know you’re lying. They already do, you’re sure. “It was just a walk, I swear it.”

“He says he was just out for a walk, Teresa,” Papa shrugs, fingers curling around his arm, staring right into the depths of your soul. “A walk--”

“You’re lying!” Mama cries, slamming her hand down on the table. “John Whitaker came here and told us! You were with Dennis. You were sinning, and you dare lie to us? Have this devil no mercy on your soul?” Her voice has raised to a pitchy shriek, eyes as wild as her untamed hair. 

The world is spinning around you, too fast for you to handle. It’s all happening too fast. They weren’t supposed to find out, they weren’t supposed to know!

 “Do you have anything to say for yourself?” Mama is in front of you now, grabbing your arms tighter than necessary. “What did we do wrong? We raised you right, we raised you good and well. How has a demon managed to possess our sweet boy? How did the devil take hold of you?”

“I’m not a demon, Mama. T-there is no devil in me!” You try to pry her off, but she’s stuck on you. Papa finally moves, encroaching behind Mama. “Please, Mama!”

“That’s the devil speaking,” she hisses, blunt nails digging into your skin. “How long have you and Dennis been sinning?”

“Mama, we haven’t--”

“Don’t lie to me!” She yells, rattling you around like a ragdoll. “You are a demonic child! I should’ve known. I should’ve known our only son had something wrong with him. I don’t know how this happened, I don’t know how you became a faggot. We didn’t raise you this way.”

“You can’t stop the devil’s doings, Teresa,” Papa finally speaks again, setting a hand on Mama’s shoulder, pulling her away from you like you’re the one that’s going to hurt her. “But we cannot condone this. You need to leave. Now.”

“No,” you shake your head, “No, please. Papa, I swear. I’m good. I’m not the devil!” 

Mama is crying into Papa’s chest, wailing loudly with her hand curled around her cross. “Be gone.”

There’s an emptiness to his eyes, no hint of love, not an ounce of recognition. It’s like he’s looking at a stranger, and not his own son. His only son. They’re just throwing you out. Just like that. 

“I don’t get to go get my things?” You ask, voice wavering slightly. That’s the least they can do, give you something!

“We bought those things for our son, and no faggot is a son of ours.” His words are resolute, brooking not even a chance for argument, no place for pleading.

You can only find it in yourself to nod, backing up to the door without breaking eye contact with the man in front of you. You hear the lock slide into place when you close the door, and the doorknob doesn’t move when you twist it. This is really happening. You need to go tell Dennis.

Dennis. If John told your parents, then surely he told his own. You don’t feel the shake in your bones as you take off down the road, boots kicking up loose rocks in the road. The lights are on in the Whitaker house, which is more than enough to confirm it. You bang on the front door frantically, trying to peer into the windows. 

John is the one to answer the door, like he’d been expecting you. There’s a smug, almost victorious smile on his face, evil and malicious. John Whitaker (Dennis's father) grabs John by the scruff, shoving him away. Mr. Whitaker is an intimidating man, tall and burly, and judgemental. He’s never liked you, finding you to be a bad influence on Dennis, always distracting him from his chores.

“You’re not welcome here,” he gruffs, standing in front of the door to keep you from daring to enter. “You need to leave our property.” 

“Please, Mr. Whitaker, I need to talk to Dennis, please,” you beg, standing on your toes to try and steal a glance over his shoulder. “I can explain. I can explain everything. Let me explain.”

“Dennis has already explained everything,” Mr. Whitaker says, stepping to the side to reveal Mrs. Whitaker holding Dennis to her chest. He’s crying, you can tell. “He told us everything. Left nothing out.”

Dennis explained it, and his parents didn’t kick him out. This is good news. Maybe if you can just talk to Dennis, he can convince them to let you stay. “He told us how you manipulated him into sinning. You corrupted him with your faggot ways.”

“What?” You can barely hear your own voice over the ringing in your ears. The world spins under your feet, and you nearly stumble. “No, no. That’s not true.”

Dennis wouldn’t do that to you. He wouldn’t blame you for everything. He wouldn’t; he loves you- even if it’s just as a friend. He does. “No, Dennis, please. Please, Dennis, let me talk to you.” You’re crying now, pleading with him. “Dennis, at least look at me! Please! P-please.”

“Y-you tried to corrupt me,” Dennis insists, lifting his head to make eye contact with you. The guilt in his eyes hits you like a freightrain. He really is doing this. “You’ve got demons in your soul, and you’re tryna get me to join you. I-I’m not gay, I’m not like you.”

Like you. Is that what Dennis believes? Is it all that he sees when he looks at you? “No, Dennis. No, please. Don’t do this,” you beg, stepping forward with your eyes fixed on him, and only him. “Don’t let them--”

The last thing you see before the door is slammed in your face is Dennis burying his face into his mother’s chest. The first sob doesn’t tear from your throat until you’re miles down the road, your knees giving out beneath you. You don’t know what to do: no family, nothing to your name… No Dennis. Nothing, and nobody, and nowhere to go.

You look at your arms, the lines of your mother’s nails burning red hot on your skin. You clutch your arms against your chest, hands pushing down on your shoulders. Your skin stings as your fingers press against your back. You press harder, relishing in the sting Dennis left. 

------------ 

Dennis can’t look as his pa shuts the door in your face. He did this to you, he’s just like his parents, and your parents, casting you away like you mean nothing to him. All for the sake of not suffering the same fate that’s met you. 

“There’s some children even God can’t reach,” his mother whispers to him, rubbing his arms consolingly. “I’m just glad he didn’t drag you with him, my sweet boy.”

God? God!? He has nothing to do with this. It’s not God’s fault, it’s not the devil’s fault, it’s their fault. It’s your family’s fault. It’s his fault. He shouldn’t have thrown you under the bus, he should’ve admitted it, and gone with you. He’s a coward, just like the god that can’t accept someone who’s different. 

He wakes up the next morning, and he marches to your house. The trashcans on the corner are full… with your stuff. He recognizes your clothes, your knick-knacks, everything. Your parents didn’t even have the decency to bag it, just tossing it right into the bin. He drops to his knees, gravel digging into his skin.

Dennis grabs a flannel that’s on the ground, pulling it to his chest. He has a million like it, so do you. No one will notice if he takes it, no one will notice if he tucks it into his dresser. He will, though. This one smells like you, it’s the only thing he has left of you. 

Dennis sobs into the fabric, burying his face into it the same way he did in his mother’s chest last night. He doesn’t know how long he sits there, but his tears have long stopped falling when he gets up, dragging himself into town. Townsfolk stare at him, and he stares back, just long enough to look at their faces, hoping to find yours.

Maybe you didn’t leave town, someone might’ve been nice enough to let you stay in their house. With the looks Dennis is receiving, though, he doubts it. Word travels quickly in Broken Bow, as both of you learnt last night. 

Dennis searched everywhere, listened to every bit of gossip when he heard people whispering around him. They don’t know where you went; there’s rumors: ‘a bus to California’ ‘he checked himself into the nearest institution’ ‘eaten by coyotes after spending the night on the streets’. All more ridiculous, and devastating than the last. You’re really gone. 

Dennis feels empty, his heart ripped out, and gone with you. His best friend… Maybe there’s a little consolation. You got away, right? You always talked about it: leaving. Dennis always clammed up when you mentioned it; it’s just another thing that scares him. He’s never been out of Broken Bow, let alone Nebraska, like you dreamed about.

Maybe this is better for you. Or maybe it’s just how he’s trying to rationalize you being gone, Dennis isn’t sure. The fabric of your flannel warms him, tightening around him uncomfortably. He doesn’t take it off, though. He can’t. He won’t.

Dennis finds himself wandering back to your house, slinking up the front door. He knows your father is working in your family’s field, and your mother is likely in town, so he can enter freely. You don’t have any siblings to ruin your life.. And someone else’s. He slinks in through the front door, creeping up the stairs. 

He stands in the middle of your empty room, his mind unable to make sense of the room he once knew so well being completely stripped. It keeps trying to fill in the blanks: an unmade bed with mismatched sheets, clothes strewn across the floor, and haphazardly tossed in a basket, picture frames and wood carvings on the top of your dresser. He remembers everything, all of it, but it’s not there. 

Come this Friday, it won’t exist at all, and with your belongings, you. The town will pretend you never existed, not unless they need to gossip in hushed tones about the devil boy who tried to corrupt the Whitaker’s youngest son. The worst part is, they’ll never know it was Dennis's fault: he started it, he initiated it, and he was the one who couldn’t give you up. 

Dennis carries the weight with him everyday. Every time you don’t interrupt his daily chores, when you aren’t sitting a hair too close to him in church, everything. There’s times he wakes up and expects you to be there. The guilt eats at him until there’s nothing left, wearing him down to the bone, and when he builds himself back up, there’s still something lacking. 

----

Dennis finds himself pressed between Trinity and Javadi at some club, the glass tabletop he’s leaning against slightly sticky- it might also just be his sweat-slicked skin. Even as scantily clad as he is in the fishnet top Trinity insisted he had to wear, he’s still overheating. From dancing on the packed floor, obviously, and not the fact that Dr. Robby is sitting across from him in a t-shirt that’s just a size too small. 

“Stare harder, he hasn’t noticed yet,” Trinity snorts under her breath, jabbing her elbow into Dennis's arm in what she likes to call a loving, and playful manner. “Seriously, you’re going to burn holes into him.”

“Stop, I haven’t been staring at him,” Dennis mumbles, forcing his eyes away from Robby to glare at Trinity. “He’s just in front of me, hard not to look at him when I’m looking straight.”

Trinity pauses, drink half to her lips, and looks Dennis up, then down, then up again. “Huckleberry, nothing about you is looking straight right now.”

“That is not what I meant, and you know it,” Dennis huffs, smacking Trinity’s shoulder. “I just.. I.. I’m not staring at him!”

“Riiiight, and I’m ‘not’ about to go flirt with the bartender over there.” The finger quotes she does when she says ‘not’ makes Dennis roll his eyes. “Craaaash, let’s go get you refill!”

“But I don’t need a--” Trinity gives her a pointed look, waving an incredibly discreet hand between Dennis and Robby. “Ooooh, I do need a refill. Yes, let’s go!”

“I need a refill too!” Dennis raises his voice over the blasting music, holding his empty glass in the air.

“Huh? Can’t hear you!” Trinity spins around, shrugging with a smirk before disappearing into the crowd.

Dennis shakes his head, sighing deeply as he sets his glass back down. He does need a refill if he’s going to be dealing with Trinity’s antics all night, and if he wants enough confidence to broach talking to Robby. 

“You need a drink, Whitaker?” Robby’s voice drags Dennis out of his own thoughts, and Robby holds out the whiskey he’s been nursing for the past ten minutes. “I don’t mind sharing.”

“I.. uhm.. A-are you sure?” Dennis can feel his cheeks heat up, gingerly reaching for the crystal tumbler. “Thank you,” he mumbles sheepishly, taking a sip of the whiskey, face screwing up at the slight burn.

“Not a fan of whiskey there, kid?” Robby snorts, leaning back in the tall, leather-lined chair he’s in, tongue absentmindedly running over his bottom lip. 

“Reminds me of home,” Dennis coughs, passing the glass back over to Robby. “S-since whiskey is commonly made with corn, and corn is.. Y’know.”

“Nebraska, right?” Robby nods, watching Dennis intently. “Doesn’t answer the question, though. Not a fan?”

“Yeah, Nebraska,” he confirms, scooting ever-so-slightly closer to Robby’s side of the table. “... It’s not my favorite, I guess. It’s good! Just not my favorite.”

“It can be an acquired taste, you kinda get used to it after a while,” Robby leans forward again, tilting his head slightly. “What’s Nebraska like, aside from.. Corny?”

Dennis can’t help the snort that leaves him, “That’s horrible,” he laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, it is pretty corny… But it’s home. I’m not sure how to describe it other than that.”

“Do you miss it?”

Yeaaah, Dennis really needs that refill now. The last thing he expected was for Robby to start asking about home. Figures, the one time they're alone together and Robby has Dennis talking about stupid Broken Bow, Nebraska. 

“Some things, yeah. People mostly,” he answers vaguely, looking over the railing, down at the dancefloor on the first level of the club. “My parents, my brothers.” There’s a name that lingers in the back of his mind, the same of that always does when he thinks about home; he can’t bring himself to say it aloud, though. Hasn’t for years. 

“Family’s pretty important,” Robby agrees, standing up with a deep groan. “No friends though?.. No girlfriends?”

“No, no girlfriends,” Dennis laughs nervously, watching Robby come closer. 

“No boyfriends?” Robby pries, stopping when his shoulder presses against Dennis's. 

“... N-no. No boyfriends.” It’s true, he never had a boyfriend. “Broken Bow’s not exactly the most accepting place.”

“Pittsburgh must be quite a relief then.” Robby looks Dennis over, sucking air sharply through his teeth. “... It’s nice seeing you loosen up.”

“Dr. Robby, are you flirting with me?” Dennis asks, head tilting slightly. Please say yes, please say yes.

“What if I am?” Robby asks back, head tilting the same way Dennis has his. “Is that a problem, Dr. Whitaker?” 

Dennis giggles--like giggles--his head spinning slightly. Maybe he didn’t need another drink; attention is doing plenty to intoxicate him. “Not at all.” Dennis sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, feeling a surge of confidence as he strokes Robby’s arms. 

Robby grins, leaning closer to whisper in Dennis's ear when Trinity’s voice breaks through the crowd, “Huckleberry! You’re never going to believe this!” 

Dennis squints, trying to see why exactly Trinity is barreling through the crowds like a crazy person, “Someone just me and Javadi drinks, right? Yeah, I know, obviously they would, we’re cute as fuck- anyway, get this! He’s from Nebraska, maybe you guys know each other!” 

The grin on her face suggests that she knows exactly what Dennis is about to say: “Not everybody from Nebraska knows each other,” he sighs. Trinity does this constantly: any midwestern state is ‘you guys must know each other!’.

“Well, Vicky is bringing him over anyway. He’s cute.. For a guy,” she snickers, curling a lip up. “You can see!”

“I’m kind of…” Dennis trails off, looking between Trinity and Robby, widening his eyes at her to try and get the point across. 

“Vicky-dicky-doo-dah, bring the corn husker!” Trinity, who Dennis realizes is going to be hogging the bathroom tonight, and probably tomorrow morning, cheers. 

Dennis groans, head dipping down in embarrassment. Poor Robby, and poor random stranger that happens to be from Nebraska- and poor HIM! He was just getting into a vibe with Robby. It was finally happening!

“Meeeet your fellow Nebraskan!” Javadi giggles, fluttering her fingers at the man who Dennis refuses to look up and meets the eyes of out of pure shame. 

“I am soooo sorry, I don’t know these people at all, actually.” Dennis says, lifting his head to glower at Trinity, and to finally look at the poor soul they’ve kidnapped. “I’m Den--”

------------ 

You weave through the crowd, trying to surf your way to the bar. It’s your first night out since you’ve gotten to Pittsburgh, and it’s… Different. People here are loud, and expressive- unabashedly themselves, and proud about it. It reminds you of if New Jersey and San Francisco had a baby (both cities you’ve traveled through in the past decade).

Somebody shoulder checks you without apology, knocking you into someone who squeals. “Ope, I am so sorry,” you gasp, setting your fingers over your lips. “Are you alright?”

“Yes I’m fine--”

“Dude! Major party foul!” A much more offended lady grabs the one you bumped into, pulling her into her side. “Seriously!”

“I’m sorry, again. I’ll buy you a round,” you promise, wincing at her raised tone. “I’m--”

“You shoulda lead with that guy! Free drinks,” the black haired lady wiggles her shoulder, bumping the other one. “I’m Trinity, this is Crash, aka Javadi, aka Vicky!”

“Just Javadi is fine,” Javadi giggles, shrugging away Trinity. “It’s okay, you really don’t have to buy us drinks,” she says, waving her hands through the air. 

You laugh as Trinity elbows her, introducing yourself. “No, I insist, I’ve got y’all covered,” you laugh, waving down a bartender. He’s handsome, and based on the way he looks you over, you figure he feels the same way about you; his eyes on you makes your skin crawl a little. “Another round for these two.. Please?”

“Anything for you,” he nods, quickly sliding two bright, umbrellaed drinks in front of them. “What about you? You want anything, babe?”

“No. No, thank you,” you deny, sitting down on one of the glittery, leather chairs. 

“You don’t drink?” Trinity asks, slinging an arm over your shoulders. “Lameeee-o, but respectable.”

“Not in unfamiliar places, no, I don’t,” you tell her, shoulders easing under the weight of her arm. 

“You’re not from the big PA?” Trinity questions, turning slightly to look at you.

“No, haha. I’m from the small NE- Nebraska,” you clarify, regaining Javadi’s attention, and making Trinity’s eyes go wide as dishplates. 

“NO WAY! We have a friend from Nebraska, maybe you know him!” You snort at her, grunting as her hands come down heavily on your shoulders. “He’s super cute, and a doctorrrr. We are too- not yet technically, we’ve still got a few years of residency. Which is booooo.”

“Very ‘boooo’,” Javadi chimes in with a heavy nod, leaning over to join the conversation. “What do you do? Are you a farmer?” 

“No, no, not a farmer. Left my corn husking days behind forever ago. I just… Drift, I guess? I’ve travelled a lot, nowhere’s stuck.”

“No place like home?” Jadavi asks, her lips slightly pursed, downturned in thought, almost.

“No place like home,” you acquiesce quietly, staring at the sparkling blue glass top. “Anywayyy! I do like it here, in Pittsburgh, it’s nice. Been here a few weeks, think I’ll be staying a while.”

“Well, you have two new friends, sooooo I hope you do stick around,” Javadi comes around to your other side, squeezing you tightly between them. “And you might have more, we should go introduce you to the others! Our other coworkers are somewhere around here, Joy, and Emma- she’s a sweetie.”

“Yesss, let’s go introduce you to our huckleberry! We’ll see if you know him!” Trinity claps, disappearing into the crowd. 

You and Javadi laugh, watching her leave; you don’t have long before she’s pulling you out of your stool, dragging you along with her at the sound of Trinity’s voice. “You’ll like him! He’s super sweet.”

You bump into her again when she stops, “Meeeet your fellow Nebraskan!” Javadi giggles, fluttering her fingers all around you. 

“I am soooo sorry, I don’t know these people at all, actually.” The man groans, face hidden by his hands. “I’m Den--”

“Dennis.”

You can’t breathe as you meet blue eyes that are all too familiar. Except they're not familiar, not really. There’s a sparkle in his eyes that you’d never once seen, a warmth in his smile that was always so dim.

“... Hi.”

“Hi.”

Your lips part to say something, but you don’t. What can you? ‘I missed you’? ‘How have you been?’ ‘I hate you for what you did’? ‘Why are you here in Pittsburgh?’ 

“I--”

“You do know each other! See? I knew it, everybody knows everybody in Nebraska,” Trinity shrugs, jerking your attention away from Dennis. “How do you guys know each other?”

“We were best--”

“We grew up down the street from each other, Broken Bow’s a small town,” Dennis interjects, looking at you, then Trinity, then the man next to him, and back to you. He frowns slightly, biting the inside of his cheek. “Our families were close.”

“Yeah… Our families,” you mumble, now focused on the man who has his arm around Dennis. Is he why Dennis just lied? Is he ashamed of you- or himself? 

“Well, a friend of Whitaker’s is a friend of mine. Michael Robinavitch,” the man Dennis is tucked into finally speaks, leaning forward with his hand outreached. “You can call me ‘Robby’, though. Everyone does.”

“Nice to meet you, Robby. Do you work with Trinity and Javadi?” You ask, forcing a smile on your face as you shake his hand.

“I do, yes. I’m one of the senior attendings at PTMC. So, I’m like their boss,” Robby laughs lightly, pulling his hand away from yours to settle it back onto Dennis's shoulder, squeezing it firmly. “Dennis is my favorite. Don’t tell everyone else.”

“What?” A.) You have no clue what ‘PTMC’ is. B.) Why would Dennis be Robby’s favorite? That implies Dennis works with Trinity and Javadi, which would mean he’s.. A doctor. 

“I’m a doctor, at the ER- or an ER. Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.” Dennis answers, avoiding your eyes. “I’m a year one resident this year.”

“Oh. T-that’s great, Dennis,” you breathe out, heart skipping a beat. He’s a doctor. He got out of Broken Bow, he got out. “Really great. Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” he whispers, meeting your eyes. They’re dimmer, like you’ve dimmed him by being around.

“So! You and Dennis clearly need to do some catching up, why don’t you sit?” Robby offers, gesturing at the empty side of their table. “You can tell me all about Dennis when he was a kid. I’m sure you’ve got loads of embarrassing stories.” 

The way Robby grins at Dennis makes your heart clench. The way Dennis lights up, laughing and elbowing him, makes you a little sick. “I think I should go, actually. I don’t want to impose, this is obviously some sort of coworkers night out!” Just coworkers. Only coworkers.

“It’s no worries, at all,” Robby promises, waving a hand at the chairs again. “Please.”

“No, I really--”

“Stay.. Please?” Dennis catches your wrist, stopping you in your tracks. “Please?” He pleads again, tugging on your sleeve.

Your hands tremble slightly, but you nod, “I can stay.” You shouldn’t, but you’re going to. All because Dennis asked. Just like before. 

“Fantastic!” Trinity chirps, cozying into the chair next to you. “Tell us about little Huckleberry, what was he like? Was he an evil twerp?”

Dennis groans in embarrassment, scrunching his nose up at you like you’re sharing an inside joke. “I wasn’t, thank you very much!”

“No, he was a goody two-shoes,” you snort, shifting uncomfortably in the chair. “He really was.”

“Pssh, lame. I’m gonna go catch up with the others if there’s nothing funny to hear about Huck Finn,” Trinity sighs, standing right back up with a groan. “Have fun!”

That slight moment of reprieve dissipates the moment Trinity is gone, leaving you, Dennis, and Robby in an awkward silence. Or you in awkward silence while Dennis and Robby whisper to each other in a way that suggests a little more than ‘coworkers’. 

“Dennis really has no stories?” Robby asks, turning to you once more. “No broken vases, late night hang outs, nothing?”

“No, nothing. Dennis was as good as they come. Not a sin to his name.” The pause Dennis has makes you immediately regret the wording. It’s true, though. You were always the sinner. 

“Not like you,” Dennis snorts, rolling his eyes, “Breaking your leg tryna climb up our barn.”

“Hey! You were on the roof too!” You gasp in mock offense, narrowing your eyes at him. 

“I had a ladder!” Dennis reminds you, throwing his hands up, crossing them over his chest.

“I knew that… eventually!” You laugh, sticking your chin up at him. You wanted to hang out with Dennis while he tried to fix the barn’s roof, and instead of asking Dennis for help, you decided to try and scale the Whitaker barn. It ended with you on your ass, and your leg bent unnaturally. “Took six-fucking-weeks to heal.”

“You two sound awfully close,” Robby pipes in, an amused smile on his face. No jealousy, no accusations, just an observation, but Dennis clams up anyway.

“I guess,” he shrugs, cuddling closer to Robby. They’re incredibly close, closer than Dennis would ever sit next to you, ever. 

“So do you guys,” you comment, quite the opposite tone from Robby. You’re jealous of Robby, of how Dennis just leans into him, in public, like there’s nothing he wants to hide. “How long has Dennis been at the P.. PMTC?”

“PTMC.” Robby corrects, twisting his finger into one of Dennis's curls. “Two years. He came to the Pitt as a year-4, and has stayed with us for his first year of residency.” 

“That’s great. How long do you plan on staying at ‘The Pitt’, Dennis?” You ask, genuinely curious. Does Dennis plan on going back to Nebraska? Is he going to go somewhere else?

“How long do you?” Dennis retorts, face blank as he stares at you. “How long have you been in Pittsburgh to begin with?”

“I’m not sure, Dennis. Do you have a problem with me living here?” You question, brows furrowing slightly. “A few weeks, almost a month. Came down from Maine.”

------------ 

Maine. Why were you in Maine? Dennis wants to ask, he wants to ask a lot of things, he has so many questions for you, but no idea how to ask them without words he doesn’t mean spilling out. 

“No, I don’t have a problem with you living here. I just don’t know why you do. You never mentioned wanting to live in Pittsburgh,” Dennis explains, clearly getting defensive. He doesn’t mean to, but here he is.

 “That’s nice, are you settling in well?” Robby asks, drawing Dennis back in. He’s so sweet. If only he knew.

“Fantastically,” you grit out, still staring at Dennis. He swears you’re trying to burn holes into his already damned soul. 

“Do you have a job?- If you ever need one, we could always use more nurses,” Robby jokes, jostling Dennis slightly.

“I’ve got a job,” you laugh awkwardly, smiling at Robby the same way you used to smile at your guy's pastor. Dennis recognizes it all too well. “Even if I didn’t, I don’t think I could handle being a nurse.”

“Considering you passed out the first time my pa had you around to help with calving, probably not,” Dennis mutters, sipping on his--or Robby’s, technically--whiskey. 

“A fainter, huh? Don’t worry, we’ve got one of our own,” Robby hums, jutting his head in the direction Javadi last was. 

Dennis watches the gears in your head turn, before it finally clicks. “... Crash.”

“Yeah, that’s what Trin’ likes to call her,” Dennis confirms, staring at the golden liquid.

 “Speaking of Trinity, it’s getting late, so I’m gonna go find her, so I can get everyone another round,” Robby says, dragging a finger over Dennis's neck, bringing his head up with a sly smirk. “I’ll get you something a little lighter than the whiskey,” Robby whispers to Dennis, leaning down, so his breath fans over Dennis's lips. “Don’t move.”

------------ 

Watching Robby kiss Dennis is torture, but seeing the pure happiness on Dennis’s face afterwards is worse. You’re happy for him. You are… You are. “You guys are together?”

“We’re just.. I don’t know what we are,” Dennis admits, chewing on his bottom lip. “I’m sorry, he shouldn’t have.. I shouldn’t- kissing in front of you was inappropriate.”

“It’s fine, Dennis. Really,” you tell him, crossing your arms over your chest. Neither of you say anything else, just looking at each other the same. exact. way you did that night. When you were begging Dennis to explain to them. “Do you love him?”

“I like him,” Dennis answers quietly. “A lot.”

“Enough to kiss him, obviously. Must’ve not liked me at all then,” you laugh softly, tearily. “I’m gonna go now. Tell Robby it was nice meeting him. Trinity and Javadi too.”

“I will,” Dennis nods, and he doesn’t try to stop you from leaving this time. You can feel his eyes on you; you don't look back to meet them.

------------ 

“Where’d your friend go?” Trinity asks, returning with a tray of drinks, alongside all their friends. 

“He had to go,” Dennis tells her, eyes fixated on the seat you were just in. He just let you walk away… Again. 

“Dang, we didn’t get his number,” Javadi pouts, plopping in the seat he’s looking at. “You don’t have his number, do you?”

“You could always try and catch him in the parking lot,” Joy points out, casually sipping a very bright and obnoxious drink that does not at all match her.  

“Ooh! Yeah, I’ll go--”

“I’ll go,” Dennis stands up a little too quickly, nearly knocking the chair backwards. “I’ll see if I can stop him.”

You’re standing at the curb when Dennis leaves the club, staring out at the streets that are too busy for this time of night.

“... I loved you,” Dennis calls out, stopping a few feet away from you. 

You don’t look at him, and for a second he wonders if you didn’t hear him. “Ain’t gotta lie to me, Dennis. I’m an adult, I can take it,” you respond after a beat, tucking your hands in your pockets.”

You don’t believe him, of course you don’t. He can’t blame you. No one does what he did to the people they love. Except your own parents, and his parents… Maybe he doesn’t have the best idea of what love really is. 

“I did. I loved you. You were my best friend.” Dennis says, swallowing thickly.

“Your ‘best friend’,” you look at him, and the bright lights from the club reflect on your glassy eyes, and allow him to see the wavering of your smile. “Is that all I was?”

“I was scared, is that what you want me to say? I was a coward, and what I did to you was wrong. I regretted it every day.” Dennis tilts his head up, exhaling slowly. “Every day.”

------------ 

‘Every day’ he says. He regretted it. How sweet. Just like you remembered it, every day you didn’t wake up in your bed, in Broken Bow with everyone you’d ever known. 

“You don’t anymore?” You inquire, head tipping to the side slightly. 

“I do.”

“But?”

“But I wouldn’t be here--where I am today--if I went with you.”

There it is. Dennis was never going to take the fall with you, no matter how much you begged, or pleaded with him. Dennis got to be with his family every day because he wasn’t gay. Now he gets to be a doctor with his friends, and his boyfriend. 

“I’m glad you’re happy, Dennis. Truly, I am.”

“I hope you find yours.”

You won’t. It drowned in a sea of blue and red a long time ago. 

“Me too.”

[abandoned-rodent-thing]

this is the type of angst I feel in my soul that truly reminds me of my own issues and gives me a sense of healing even with no happy end its still amazing

[rawme-price]

Sorry guys im still thinking about hunter!price showing deer hybrid!reader how to field dress a deer.

It's not fear that grips you when you follow price down into the bank, a deer lying in the grass with an arrow through the head. Trepidation, maybe. Theres a sort of familiarity to watching the deer be hauled up to an empty patch of rocks. Prices hands digging into fur when he positions it how he wants.

Its eyes look up at you while price starts to work. He cuts down to the pelvis, frees up the organs where needed, then looks up at you. "Alright kid, come here. Take this, here I'll guide you."

The knife is razor sharp, always is. You make sure of it every morning before a hunt. The flesh parts easily. Calloused hands wrap around your own over the knife, and he guides the blade to slip under hide with the sharp end facing the sky. "Best to do it like this," Price grunts, leads in short strokes as you move down the sternum "stops the hair from getting cut and makin' a mess."

It's still warm. He takes over to cut the abdomen, doesn't trust you not to puncture it yet. Still, price makes you hold the hide up with your fingers bent into a 'V' shape. The blade is notched between your fingers and pulled up until it reaches the pelvis. You pretend not to see the way he looks at you when cool metal slots between fingers. You pretend that your ears don't twitch.

Next comes the bonesaw. The gate is cut first, wide to help the body cool. Next, the sternum. Each stroke of the small bonesaw makes the deer's body jerk, it almost looks alive. Almost looks like it's fighting. The thought of what you would look like flashes through your mind. Would your body jerk too? Would your eyes be open and watching him? The deer is watching you.

"You with me kid? C'mere, give me your hands." Now its time to remove the organs. The heart goes first, set aside. The windpipe is cut, and price guides your hands inside. Fingers bloody and warm. Your hands inside the deer. His hands inside the deer. It makes your tail twitch, but you control it.

Transporting the deer back is easier, price doesn't talk much during a kill. He watches you on the way back. Your twitching ears, your short tail. The way you pause every so often, sensing a threat he doesn't see. The deer's eyes are open. Open like its stomach. Like its ribs.

Price watches you. If it werent the deer, then it would've been you. "Good shot out there, kid. What do you want to eat first?"

[codisfishher]

Did you guys see that Simpsons x The Pitt episode? Really funny and spot on, but I'm thinking about something Robby said towards the end...

Thinking about a puppy whose owner deems him impossible because no matter how hard he disciplines him, he keeps acting up.

Problem is that there's no real communication going on. The pup acts out because he wants his boyfriend to finally see him, and the owner punishes him because he sees it as just acting out.

So the owner meets a dom he deems worthy at a BDSM club, a man who calls himself Robby, to get him to help with the naughty boy.

Robby meets the pup at the beginning of the session and sees right through the act, notices the sadness and desperation behind those lust-blown eyes.

He uses gentle but firm commands, and watches the puppy bathe in his praise.

Before the session is even over Robby realises that this puppy's only struggle is patience, but that it's heavily overrun by his desire to please.

When they're done, Robby has the pup kneeling next to him whilst he debriefs with the other man.

And as he sees the puppy stare up at him with devoted and blissful eyes, he realises that the other has realised he's better off without his current lover.

Robby looks at the man in question and smiles.

"Your pup is going to be just fine."

[abandoned-rodent-thing]

God why can't this be me.....guys my daddy issues are killing me

I just wanna be a puppy for and old man that loves me... call me a good boy/girl/they idc

[thatguywrites]

Do you have any sad wet-rat fanfics in the making🤨 im rubbing my hand together like a fly whenever I saw your one Whitaker x male reader.👅👅👅

Dennis Whitaker with Gym Rat Reader

CW: suggestive

Dennis goes to the gym with you whenever he can

It's adorable seeing him with his 10 lbs dumb bells while you match his reps with 50 lbs

It's fully an excuse for him to watch you sweat

You both know it

He does also do it to be able to move patients easier, and Robby compliments him on his shape and form, which Santos and you endlessly tease him about

But he ends up being a top advocate for doctors being in shape in order to help patients because of how much it helps him

Even CPR becomes less strenuous

But honestly, that's a side benefit

You send him gym selfie at the same time every day, and Robby has learned that he needs to send him to triage around that time so that he isn't overwhelmed

Sometimes Dennis wears your compression shirts under his scrubs and it is his dirty little secret

It's not really a secret

When you undress him after work (he's a useless blob) and you compliment him on his shirt he'll melt into his embaressment

Every once in a while you get home around the same time Dennis does and you two shower together

He'll never admit it but it's one of his favorite things to do with you

Just casual intimacy and nudity is one of his favorite things about dating you

He's very shy so anything further than cuddling you have to initiate

On your anniversary he does initiate stuff and it's the hottest thing on Earth

Taglist: Comment or DM to be added

@koalapastries @op-81-lvr-reblogs @ghostking4m @bruceshubby @orisquirrelking

[jamesdeanbby]

now dallas’ sister with darry…

────۶ৎ the older sibilings club

or.. eldest brother that had to take on parenting at a young age meets eldest sister that had to take on parenting at an even younger age

warnings : none!

ᐟᐟ ⟢ a/n: i love this trope wtf. keep sending requests pls.

The living room smells like antiseptic and beef stew. The TV’s humming low with some old Western nobody’s really watching, and Dallas is stretched out on the worn couch like a cat in a sunbeam—shirt half-off, bandages all over, looking like he lost a bet with a lawn mower.

You’re kneeling by him, gently taping up a cut on his ribs, and you’re doing that thing again: scolding him with your eyes. He groans like he’s being tortured.

“Oh, don’t be such a baby,” you murmur, voice all honey and vinegar. “You’ve had worse. Remember what happened with the broken bottle at the bowling alley?”

“That bottle jumped me,” Dally mutters, wincing.

“Mm-hmm. Sure it did, tough guy.”

Then—three knocks. Sharp and sure. You glance up, brow lifted.

Dally squints. “What time is it?”

“Time for you to stop picking fights, apparently,” you mutter, standing up and wiping your hands on your apron.

You open the door, expecting maybe Johnny again, or the one on the other end of Dally’s fight. Instead—

Two figures.

A tall, broad, man built like a linebacke, who’s got that squared-jaw, overworked-hands look of someone who’s never had a vacation in his life. And next to him, softer but bright-eyed, a kid. No older than 14.

“Uh,” Pony says, glancing up at Darry. “Are we—at the right place?”

You blink. Then smile, warm and sweet as honey butter.

“Well, I reckon you are, long as you’re not here to sell magazines,” you say, stepping aside. “Y’all must be Dallas’ friends.”

Darry nods, polite but cautious. “We heard he got banged up. Just came by to check.”

“Get in here,” you say with a gentle command. “He’s on the couch, being dramatic.”

Pony walks in, taking in the house—the mismatched chairs, the shelf full of old records, the pictures on the wall of a younger you holding a squirmy Dallas in your lap like a gremlin baby.

Darry follows, tipping his head. “You must be his sister.”

“Unfortunately for me,” you grin, grabbing a pair of glasses for iced tea. “I’m the only adult in his life who didn’t give up on him.”

“Oh, come on,” Dallas groans from the couch. “Not in front of the guys!”

“You hush.”

And then your eyes land on Ponyboy, sweet and golden and just awkward enough to be charming.

“And that hair?” You lift a curl from his forehead. “Lord, child, you’ve got locks like a movie star. Like an angel off the reel.”

Pony glows. Just—glows. “Aw, thank you, ma’am.”

“Hey!” Dally barks from the couch, clearly offended.

“Oh, darlin’, don’t you ‘ma’am’ me. You’re makin’ me feel like I’m thirty,” you laugh, nudging his shoulder playfully. “What’s your name, sugar?”

“Ponyboy Curtis.”

You pause. “Now that’s a name,” you say, clearly a bit surprsied.

Behind you, Darry chuckles at your reaction. It’s low, rich. You glance at him, and something hangs there for a second. Just one.

Your eyes meet.

It’s like the room tilts—quiet and slow.

Darry tilts his head slightly, watching you, something fond simmering behind that strong, stoic face. “He does have good hair,” he admits.

You smirk. “Glad someone sees it. He oughta model shampoo or somethin’. Beats what Dally’s got goin’ on.”

Darry smiles and extends a hand, you take it, he gives a firm handshake. “Darry Curtis. Thanks for patching him up. He’s a pain, but he’s our pain.”

Dally groans again. “Don’t gang up on me!”

“I didn’t start the fight,” you remind him, hands on hips. “I just ended it with hydrogen peroxide and an ice pack.”

You turn back to Ponyboy, who’s now nose-deep in a photo frame of young Dallas in a cowboy costume, clearly delighted.

“Y’all stayin’ for dinner?” you ask. “I got more stew in the pot than two stomachs can hold.”

Darry blinks. “That’s real kind, but we didn’t mean to intrude.”

“Please,” you grin. “You think Dallas eats like a civilized human when I’m not here?”

“I eat just fine!” Dally protests, his voice cracking on the last syllable like a pre-pubescent kid.

You point an accusing finger at him. “You’re a stray dog, and I’m gonna have you neutered if you keep that up.”

Ponyboy snorts with laughter, eyes wide like he’s witnessing something sacred. He practically floats to the table, watching you with reverent eyes. Darry follows slower. More careful. He keeps sneaking glances at you. You feel it.

You set down a bowl of stew in front of Ponyboy, ruffle his hair, and he glows like he’s being blessed by an angel in an apron.

“You’re too thin,” you say gently. “Eat up, sweetheart.”

“Y-Yes, ma’am—I mean—not ma’am, uuuuh—yes.”

Dally snorts. “He’s glitchin’ out.”

You shoot him a glare. “So help me, Dally, I will put you back in that cowboy costume and show your friends the photo album.”

Dead silence.

Dallas goes pale. Ponyboy gasps in delight.

Darry? Darry just watches you move through the kitchen. Confident, efficient, soft in a way he hadn’t been around in years.

“You always take care of Dallas like that?” he asks, voice low.

You glance over your shoulder. “I raised him. Someone had to.”

There was no bitterness in your voice, only fact. Even affection, the deep kind. It struck Darry with an odd kind of clarity. He’d known responsibility like that. Still lived in it.

“He listens to you,” Darry says.

You smirk. “Sometimes. When it suits him.”

“I could use someone like you at my house.”

That came out more direct than he’d intended. Ponyboy choked on his glass of water and you had to give him a few pats on the back with one hand as you put a plate down for Dally on the table with the other one.

You look at Darry—measured, thoughtful.

“Well,” you start, slowly. “If you ever need someone to knock some sense into your boys..” you trail off with a soft smile. “You know where to find me.”

Your eyes lock again. This time, you don't look away.

Silence. Then, from the couch: “I’m literally right here.”

You toss a dish towel at his head without breaking stride.

[dreamersworldduh]

Omg hiii, firstly, I really like your two workss so far they're soooo good 😩. Hopefully, you continue writing, and secondly, I want to request for Dick grayson at one of those parties he has to attend with his friend that he liked for a while, and he sees reader getting hit on by a person he hates so he gets jealous, and he holds it for awhile till he couldn't anymore. If you can complete this, thank you for your time spent on my request. If not, it's completely fine. 🙏. Thank you for even reading my request. Keep up the good work, and have a good day/night!

JEALOUSLY, JEALOUSY

• Dick Grayson x Male!Reader

SUMMARY — Jealousy is an evil disease that most people deny having, but it can also be a great motivator if used properly.

WARNING! FLUFF. Suggestive Langauge.

WORDS! 3.6k

AUTHOR’S NOTE! Thank you so much for putting in your request! I appreciate you so so much—I hope you enjoy! 😚

The Titans' Tower was a beacon of light against the night sky, its glowing windows revealing the lively scene unfolding within. Inside, the air was charged with excitement, the kind of energy that came from heroes finally allowing themselves a moment of reprieve. The main hall was transformed into a party space, with colorful lights casting vibrant patterns across the walls, the music pulsing in time with the rhythm of the crowd.

You stood near the entrance for a moment, taking it all in. The sight was almost surreal—heroes you'd fought alongside, legends in their own right, were here in their most unguarded states. Starfire's radiant laughter rang out as she teased Beast Boy, who had just shapeshifted into a parrot to mimic her voice. Raven, ever the observer, sat in a corner nursing a drink, her normally stern expression softening as she watched the festivities. Even Cyborg, the tech genius of the team, was manning a makeshift DJ booth, nodding his head to the beat as he expertly transitioned between tracks.

You weren't used to seeing this side of them, but it was a welcome change. The Titans weren't just warriors—they were people, and tonight, they were letting themselves be exactly that.

When Dick Grayson—Nightwing himself—had invited you, you were a little surprised. Sure, the two of you had been close for a while, colleagues who had become genuine friends through countless missions. You'd spent hours fighting side by side, but more recently, you'd found yourselves sharing moments outside the chaos—grabbing coffee after a long night, cracking jokes about patrol mishaps, or just enjoying each other's company. Yet, an invitation to the Titans' private party felt personal, almost intimate.

As you stepped further into the room, the music grew louder, the bass vibrating through your chest. Dick wasn't hard to spot—he had that presence that naturally drew attention, even when he wasn't trying. Dressed in a simple black button-up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, he moved through the crowd with an ease that was almost magnetic. His sharp blue eyes scanned the room until they landed on you, and a grin spread across his face.

"There you are," he said as he approached, his voice warm and familiar despite the music. "I was starting to think you weren't going to show."

"Miss a party at Titans' Tower? No way," you replied with a smirk. "Besides, you're the one who said I needed a break."

"And I was right," he said, nudging your arm playfully. "You deserve a night to relax. Just... don't let Beast Boy drag you into one of his dance-offs. He's surprisingly competitive."

You chuckled, already feeling more at ease. Dick had that effect on people—his presence was grounding, even in a room full of larger-than-life personalities. Before he could say more, someone called his name, and he gave you an apologetic smile.

"Duty calls," he said. "But stick around, okay? I'll find you later."

With that, he disappeared into the crowd, leaving you to explore the party. You grabbed a drink from the refreshment table—something fruity but deceptively strong—and started making your way through the room. Everywhere you turned, there were little snapshots of joy: heroes laughing, friends reconnecting, moments of normalcy in lives that were anything but.

It was in the middle of this whirlwind of activity that you found yourself drawn into conversation with Brandon, one of the Titans' newer members. His easygoing demeanor made him instantly likable, and you found yourself relaxing even more as you chatted about everything from patrol stories to how strange it was to see the team like this.

What you didn't notice, however, was the way Dick's gaze followed you from across the room. Standing near the edge of the crowd, he watched as you laughed at something Brandon said, the two of you leaning in closer to hear each other over the music. His smile from earlier had faded, replaced by a subtle but unmistakable tension in his expression.

For the first time in a long while, Dick Grayson felt something unfamiliar twist in his chest—jealousy.

Brandon was mid-story, his hands flying through the air as he described a mission that had apparently gone off the rails in the most chaotic way possible. His voice was animated, carrying over the music and noise of the party as he recounted the moment he had to leap from a collapsing rooftop to grab a fleeing criminal.

"And just as I'm mid-air," he said, his grin wide, "I'm thinking, 'If I miss, this is how they're going to write me off the team.' But somehow, I managed to grab the guy's ankle, and the two of us went tumbling into a dumpster. Starfire still hasn't let me live it down."

You couldn't help but laugh, the image of Brandon sprawled out in a dumpster vivid in your mind. His enthusiasm was contagious, and his self-deprecating humor made the story all the more enjoyable.

"What about you?" Brandon asked, leaning casually against the counter. He took a sip of his drink, his eyes sparkling with curiosity. "What's the craziest thing you've seen out there?"

You paused, your mind flipping through the mental catalogue of wild missions you'd been on. Finally, a grin tugged at your lips as you landed on one that stood out. "Okay, so there was this time I ended up dodging missiles while trying to stop a rogue drone. It was absolute chaos—explosions everywhere, smoke, the whole nine yards. And, of course, Dick was there, just doing his thing, making it all look effortless."

Brandon let out a low whistle, his eyebrows raising in mock disbelief. "Missiles and a rogue drone? That's next level. I swear, with him involved, it always sounds like a movie."

You chuckled, nodding. "It felt like one. But yeah, Dick's like that—calm under pressure, always two steps ahead. It's kind of ridiculous how good he is at this stuff."

Brandon grinned, leaning in slightly. "Must be cool, working so closely with someone like him. I bet you've picked up a thing or two."

You shrugged, a warm smile spreading across your face. "Yeah, it is. He's a good guy—one of the best. I've learned more from him than I ever thought possible."

As you spoke, you glanced over at Brandon, but your words brought Dick to the forefront of your mind. It wasn't just his skill you admired—it was his unwavering dedication, his ability to lead, and the way he always seemed to have your back no matter how dangerous things got. It was easy to talk about him, easy to share the respect and appreciation you'd built for him over the years.

Brandon nodded, clearly impressed. "I get that vibe. You two must make a hell of a team."

You smiled, raising your glass slightly. "We do."

Across the room, Dick leaned against the wall, his silhouette partially obscured by the shifting colored lights of the party. His sharp brown eyes, usually calm and calculating, were locked onto the two of you, his gaze unwavering. In one hand, he held a drink—something dark and untouched, the condensation dripping down the glass as it warmed against his grip. His free hand clenched at his side, the slight twitch of his fingers betraying the tension he was working hard to suppress.

You were laughing at something Brandon had said, your face lit up in a way that seemed to magnify the ease between the two of you. Brandon leaned closer, his posture open and relaxed, his confident smile suggesting he was thoroughly enjoying your attention. You leaned in as well, your head tilting slightly to catch his words over the pounding music, your body language unconsciously mirroring his. It was a small detail, but it didn't escape Dick's notice.

A knot twisted in his chest, sharp and unwelcome. He couldn't pinpoint the moment it had started—this feeling that clawed at him every time Brandon was near you—but tonight, it was undeniable. His jaw tightened as he forced himself to look away, but his eyes betrayed him, darting back to you within seconds. He told himself it was nothing, that he was overreacting, but the rational part of his brain was no match for the jealousy simmering just beneath the surface.

Dick had never liked Brandon, though he'd never said it aloud, not even to himself. He'd brushed it off as a clash of personalities, an instinctive distrust of the newcomer. But as he watched Brandon lean closer, his laugh carrying easily over the music, it became clear: it wasn't just Brandon. It was Brandon with you.

His usual composed demeanor was faltering, the effortless confidence he carried on and off the field slipping away as his emotions bubbled to the surface. His chest felt tight, his thoughts an uncharacteristic jumble. Was it jealousy? Frustration? The fear of something unspoken slipping out of his grasp?

The answer didn't matter, not in that moment. All that mattered was the impulse driving him forward. Before he realized it, his body was already in motion, his steps purposeful and direct. Each stride carried the weight of his emotions, the tension in his shoulders palpable. He weaved through the crowd without so much as a glance at anyone else, his focus entirely on you.

Dick didn't have a plan, no rehearsed words or carefully crafted excuses. All he knew was that he couldn't stand there any longer, watching you laugh with someone else, seeing the effortless connection that wasn't with him. He wasn't even sure what he was going to say when he reached you—all he knew was that he had to do something. Anything.

The music and laughter of the party hummed around you, a lively backdrop to your conversation with Brandon. You were mid-sentence, describing one of your wilder missions, when a familiar voice cut through the noise like a blade.

"Hey," Dick said, his tone even, but carrying an unmistakable edge.

You turned, surprised to see him standing there. He was close—closer than usual—his sharp brown eyes flicking briefly to Brandon before settling on you. His presence seemed to suck the air out of the space, a silent tension rolling off him in waves.

"Mind if I borrow him for a second?" Dick continued, though it wasn't really a question.

Brandon blinked, clearly caught off guard. His usual easy grin faltered for a moment as he looked between you and Dick, before offering a hesitant nod. "Uh, yeah. Sure. Go ahead."

"Dick, what—?" you began, but before you could finish, Dick placed a firm hand on your shoulder and started steering you away. His grip wasn't rough, but it was unyielding, his fingers curling just enough to make it clear this wasn't up for discussion.

You glanced back at Brandon, who shrugged and turned to mingle with someone else, his confusion evident. Meanwhile, Dick's hand remained on your shoulder, guiding you through the crowd and toward the staircase.

"What's going on?" you asked, your voice tinged with confusion and growing irritation.

Dick didn't answer. He stayed silent, his jaw tight, his pace quick. His grip on your shoulder tightened slightly as you reached the stairs, and he led you upward, away from the noise and light of the party. The music and chatter faded with each step, replaced by the steady hum of the tower's systems.

You could feel the tension radiating off him, his normally composed demeanor slipping with every second. It wasn't like him to act this way—so abrupt, so on edge.

When you reached a quiet hallway, you finally pulled free of his grip, stopping in your tracks. "Dick, what the hell?" you snapped, your confusion now mingled with frustration. "What's going on with you tonight?"

He turned to face you, his expression unreadable. His shoulders were rigid, his lips pressed into a thin line as if he were struggling to find the right words. For a moment, you thought he might brush it off, make some excuse and leave you wondering.

But then his expression softened—just slightly—and he stepped closer, his movements slow, deliberate. His piercing gaze searched yours, as though he were looking for something, some unspoken reassurance.

"I couldn't take it anymore," he muttered, his voice low and raw, almost like he was speaking to himself.

You frowned, still not understanding. "Take what? Dick, you're not making any sense."

For a second, he hesitated, his breath hitching as if he was caught between moving forward or retreating. Then, as though something inside him snapped, he closed the distance between you in one fluid motion.

His hands came up, gripping your face with a kind of desperate urgency. Before you could say another word, his lips were on yours. It wasn't tentative or uncertain—it was firm, almost overwhelming, the kind of kiss that left no room for doubt.

You froze, your mind racing to catch up with what was happening. The feel of his lips against yours, the heat of his hands holding you in place—it all hit you at once, a wave of intensity that left you breathless. There was a weight behind it, a frustration, a longing that spoke of something he'd been holding back for far too long.

The hallway seemed to shrink around you, the hum of the tower fading into nothing. All that remained was him, the kiss, and the unspoken emotions that seemed to pour out in that single moment.

When Dick finally pulled back, his forehead gently rested against yours, his breath ragged and uneven. The heat of his hands lingered on your face, his thumbs barely brushing your jawline as if he couldn't bring himself to let go entirely. His eyes were closed for a moment, and when he opened them, they burned with an intensity that made your chest tighten.

"I couldn't stand seeing you with him," he admitted, his voice low, raw, and unsteady in a way you'd never heard before. It wasn't anger or frustration—it was something deeper, something vulnerable. "I've been trying to ignore it for so long, but I can't anymore. I like you—more than a friend. I needed you to know."

His words hung in the air, heavy and charged, as if the world itself had paused for this one moment. Your heart was pounding, each beat louder in your ears than the faint hum of the tower around you. You felt like the ground had shifted beneath your feet, your balance precarious in the wake of his confession.

You stared at him, trying to process what had just happened—the kiss, the weight of his words, the raw emotion in his eyes. All the nights you'd spent together came flooding back to you. Fighting side by side in the field, your movements always in sync. Late nights eating takeout, his laughter echoing in your ears as you shared stories. Quiet moments after missions, when he'd patch you up with a care and focus that seemed almost too much for a friend. All of it suddenly took on a new meaning, the threads weaving together into something you hadn't allowed yourself to see before now.

"Dick..." you began, your voice soft, barely above a whisper, your chest tight with the weight of everything you wanted to say. But before you could get the words out, he shook his head, his forehead still pressed against yours.

"I get it if you don't feel the same," he said quickly, his voice filled with quiet resignation. His hands dropped slowly from your face, as if letting go was physically painful. "I just... I couldn't keep it in anymore. Not after tonight. Not after seeing—" He cut himself off, shaking his head again, as if the thought alone was too much. "You don't have to say anything. I just needed you to know."

You stared at him, the man who had been by your side through thick and thin, who had earned your trust in ways few ever had. And for the first time, you saw something behind the confidence and control he always carried—a vulnerability, raw and unguarded. The man who was always so composed, so unshakable, was standing in front of you now, his emotions laid bare.

He wasn't Nightwing in this moment, the hero who always had a plan and a backup plan. He was just Dick—a man who had taken a risk, who had laid his heart on the line for you. And in that moment, as you saw him so clearly for the first time, something inside you shifted.

You stood frozen, your thoughts spiraling as Dick's words echoed in your mind. Your longest, closest friend—someone who had been by your side through countless battles, sleepless nights, and quiet moments—had just confessed feelings you had never seen coming. It felt like the ground beneath you had shifted, leaving you unsure of how to regain your footing.

Your breathing was shallow, your chest tight as you replayed his confession in your mind. "I couldn't stand seeing you with him. I've been trying to ignore it for so long, but I can't anymore." The rawness in his voice, the vulnerability in his eyes—it was all so unlike the Dick Grayson you knew, the man who always seemed so steady, so composed.

You opened your mouth to say something, anything, but the words wouldn't come. How could they? This was Dick—your partner in the field, your confidant, your constant. The person who had always been there, who had stitched you up after injuries and made you laugh when things felt too heavy. And now he was looking at you, his heart laid bare, waiting for a response you weren't sure how to give.

Your mind raced through the years you'd known him. The late-night missions, the quiet moments after a battle, the inside jokes only the two of you understood. You'd always thought of him as your rock, the person you could count on no matter what. And now, he was telling you that he saw you as something more—had seen you as something more for a long time.

The weight of his confession pressed down on you. This wasn't just a casual admission—it was the culmination of something deep, something that had clearly been building within him for years. The thought hit you like a freight train: while you'd been leaning on him as a friend, he'd been feeling this all along. How had you missed it?

Dick's expression was impossible to read now. He was standing there, his forehead no longer resting against yours, his hands hovering by his sides like he wasn't sure whether to reach for you or step back. His eyes, normally so guarded, were wide and searching, as if trying to gauge what you were thinking.

But you didn't know what to think. You didn't know how to react. Part of you wanted to speak, to reassure him, to tell him that this didn't change anything—but that would be a lie, wouldn't it? Because everything had already changed.

Before you could fully register what you were doing, instinct took over. Your mind was still spinning from Dick's confession, from the raw vulnerability in his voice, from the way his hands had trembled ever so slightly when he let you go—as if he'd already braced himself for rejection.

But you couldn't let him walk away—not like this. Not when your heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might burst from your chest.

In one swift motion, you closed the space between you, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. The material was soft but sturdy beneath your grip, grounding you in the moment as you tugged him toward you with a sudden urgency that surprised even yourself.

Dick's eyes widened, his breath hitching, but he barely had a second to react before your lips met his. The kiss was fierce, intense—a collision of bottled-up emotions finally set free. Your fingers clenched tighter in his shirt, pulling him closer as if you were afraid he might vanish if you let go.

For a moment, the world seemed to fall away—the distant hum of the tower's systems, the muffled bass of the music still thumping from the party below—it all dissolved into nothingness. There was only him, only the warmth of his mouth against yours, only the heat of his hands finding your waist and holding on like he'd been waiting for this as long as you had.

Dick let out a sharp breath against your lips, a sound caught somewhere between relief and longing. His arms wrapped around you fully now, one hand sliding up your back, the other cupping the side of your face like he couldn't bear the thought of letting you go again.

The kiss deepened, fueled by everything unspoken between you—years of trust, shared danger, late-night talks, and quiet moments when words had never been enough. Every suppressed feeling, every glance that had lingered too long, every touch that had meant more than it should—everything finally broke free.

When you finally pulled back, breathless, your foreheads rested together, your fingers still clutching the front of his shirt like a lifeline. Dick's eyes were half-lidded, dark with emotion, his chest rising and falling in rhythm with yours.

"...Quite the confession, Grayson," you voiced, your voice low and shaky.

A slow, disbelieving smile spread across Dick's face, softening the sharp intensity of his expression. His thumb brushed your cheek gently, almost reverently. "You have no idea how long I've been waiting to do that."

His words sent warmth flooding through your chest, and before you could respond, his lips found yours again—not desperate this time, but sure and steady, like he was memorizing the way you felt in his arms. This time, there was no hesitation, no fear—only certainty.

[dreamersworldduh]

Omg hiii, firstly, I really like your two workss so far they're soooo good 😩. Hopefully, you continue writing, and secondly, I want to request for Dick grayson at one of those parties he has to attend with his friend that he liked for a while, and he sees reader getting hit on by a person he hates so he gets jealous, and he holds it for awhile till he couldn't anymore. If you can complete this, thank you for your time spent on my request. If not, it's completely fine. 🙏. Thank you for even reading my request. Keep up the good work, and have a good day/night!

JEALOUSLY, JEALOUSY

• Dick Grayson x Male!Reader

SUMMARY — Jealousy is an evil disease that most people deny having, but it can also be a great motivator if used properly.

WARNING! FLUFF. Suggestive Langauge.

WORDS! 3.6k

AUTHOR’S NOTE! Thank you so much for putting in your request! I appreciate you so so much—I hope you enjoy! 😚

The Titans' Tower was a beacon of light against the night sky, its glowing windows revealing the lively scene unfolding within. Inside, the air was charged with excitement, the kind of energy that came from heroes finally allowing themselves a moment of reprieve. The main hall was transformed into a party space, with colorful lights casting vibrant patterns across the walls, the music pulsing in time with the rhythm of the crowd.

You stood near the entrance for a moment, taking it all in. The sight was almost surreal—heroes you'd fought alongside, legends in their own right, were here in their most unguarded states. Starfire's radiant laughter rang out as she teased Beast Boy, who had just shapeshifted into a parrot to mimic her voice. Raven, ever the observer, sat in a corner nursing a drink, her normally stern expression softening as she watched the festivities. Even Cyborg, the tech genius of the team, was manning a makeshift DJ booth, nodding his head to the beat as he expertly transitioned between tracks.

You weren't used to seeing this side of them, but it was a welcome change. The Titans weren't just warriors—they were people, and tonight, they were letting themselves be exactly that.

When Dick Grayson—Nightwing himself—had invited you, you were a little surprised. Sure, the two of you had been close for a while, colleagues who had become genuine friends through countless missions. You'd spent hours fighting side by side, but more recently, you'd found yourselves sharing moments outside the chaos—grabbing coffee after a long night, cracking jokes about patrol mishaps, or just enjoying each other's company. Yet, an invitation to the Titans' private party felt personal, almost intimate.

As you stepped further into the room, the music grew louder, the bass vibrating through your chest. Dick wasn't hard to spot—he had that presence that naturally drew attention, even when he wasn't trying. Dressed in a simple black button-up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, he moved through the crowd with an ease that was almost magnetic. His sharp blue eyes scanned the room until they landed on you, and a grin spread across his face.

"There you are," he said as he approached, his voice warm and familiar despite the music. "I was starting to think you weren't going to show."

"Miss a party at Titans' Tower? No way," you replied with a smirk. "Besides, you're the one who said I needed a break."

"And I was right," he said, nudging your arm playfully. "You deserve a night to relax. Just... don't let Beast Boy drag you into one of his dance-offs. He's surprisingly competitive."

You chuckled, already feeling more at ease. Dick had that effect on people—his presence was grounding, even in a room full of larger-than-life personalities. Before he could say more, someone called his name, and he gave you an apologetic smile.

"Duty calls," he said. "But stick around, okay? I'll find you later."

With that, he disappeared into the crowd, leaving you to explore the party. You grabbed a drink from the refreshment table—something fruity but deceptively strong—and started making your way through the room. Everywhere you turned, there were little snapshots of joy: heroes laughing, friends reconnecting, moments of normalcy in lives that were anything but.

It was in the middle of this whirlwind of activity that you found yourself drawn into conversation with Brandon, one of the Titans' newer members. His easygoing demeanor made him instantly likable, and you found yourself relaxing even more as you chatted about everything from patrol stories to how strange it was to see the team like this.

What you didn't notice, however, was the way Dick's gaze followed you from across the room. Standing near the edge of the crowd, he watched as you laughed at something Brandon said, the two of you leaning in closer to hear each other over the music. His smile from earlier had faded, replaced by a subtle but unmistakable tension in his expression.

For the first time in a long while, Dick Grayson felt something unfamiliar twist in his chest—jealousy.

Brandon was mid-story, his hands flying through the air as he described a mission that had apparently gone off the rails in the most chaotic way possible. His voice was animated, carrying over the music and noise of the party as he recounted the moment he had to leap from a collapsing rooftop to grab a fleeing criminal.

"And just as I'm mid-air," he said, his grin wide, "I'm thinking, 'If I miss, this is how they're going to write me off the team.' But somehow, I managed to grab the guy's ankle, and the two of us went tumbling into a dumpster. Starfire still hasn't let me live it down."

You couldn't help but laugh, the image of Brandon sprawled out in a dumpster vivid in your mind. His enthusiasm was contagious, and his self-deprecating humor made the story all the more enjoyable.

"What about you?" Brandon asked, leaning casually against the counter. He took a sip of his drink, his eyes sparkling with curiosity. "What's the craziest thing you've seen out there?"

You paused, your mind flipping through the mental catalogue of wild missions you'd been on. Finally, a grin tugged at your lips as you landed on one that stood out. "Okay, so there was this time I ended up dodging missiles while trying to stop a rogue drone. It was absolute chaos—explosions everywhere, smoke, the whole nine yards. And, of course, Dick was there, just doing his thing, making it all look effortless."

Brandon let out a low whistle, his eyebrows raising in mock disbelief. "Missiles and a rogue drone? That's next level. I swear, with him involved, it always sounds like a movie."

You chuckled, nodding. "It felt like one. But yeah, Dick's like that—calm under pressure, always two steps ahead. It's kind of ridiculous how good he is at this stuff."

Brandon grinned, leaning in slightly. "Must be cool, working so closely with someone like him. I bet you've picked up a thing or two."

You shrugged, a warm smile spreading across your face. "Yeah, it is. He's a good guy—one of the best. I've learned more from him than I ever thought possible."

As you spoke, you glanced over at Brandon, but your words brought Dick to the forefront of your mind. It wasn't just his skill you admired—it was his unwavering dedication, his ability to lead, and the way he always seemed to have your back no matter how dangerous things got. It was easy to talk about him, easy to share the respect and appreciation you'd built for him over the years.

Brandon nodded, clearly impressed. "I get that vibe. You two must make a hell of a team."

You smiled, raising your glass slightly. "We do."

Across the room, Dick leaned against the wall, his silhouette partially obscured by the shifting colored lights of the party. His sharp brown eyes, usually calm and calculating, were locked onto the two of you, his gaze unwavering. In one hand, he held a drink—something dark and untouched, the condensation dripping down the glass as it warmed against his grip. His free hand clenched at his side, the slight twitch of his fingers betraying the tension he was working hard to suppress.

You were laughing at something Brandon had said, your face lit up in a way that seemed to magnify the ease between the two of you. Brandon leaned closer, his posture open and relaxed, his confident smile suggesting he was thoroughly enjoying your attention. You leaned in as well, your head tilting slightly to catch his words over the pounding music, your body language unconsciously mirroring his. It was a small detail, but it didn't escape Dick's notice.

A knot twisted in his chest, sharp and unwelcome. He couldn't pinpoint the moment it had started—this feeling that clawed at him every time Brandon was near you—but tonight, it was undeniable. His jaw tightened as he forced himself to look away, but his eyes betrayed him, darting back to you within seconds. He told himself it was nothing, that he was overreacting, but the rational part of his brain was no match for the jealousy simmering just beneath the surface.

Dick had never liked Brandon, though he'd never said it aloud, not even to himself. He'd brushed it off as a clash of personalities, an instinctive distrust of the newcomer. But as he watched Brandon lean closer, his laugh carrying easily over the music, it became clear: it wasn't just Brandon. It was Brandon with you.

His usual composed demeanor was faltering, the effortless confidence he carried on and off the field slipping away as his emotions bubbled to the surface. His chest felt tight, his thoughts an uncharacteristic jumble. Was it jealousy? Frustration? The fear of something unspoken slipping out of his grasp?

The answer didn't matter, not in that moment. All that mattered was the impulse driving him forward. Before he realized it, his body was already in motion, his steps purposeful and direct. Each stride carried the weight of his emotions, the tension in his shoulders palpable. He weaved through the crowd without so much as a glance at anyone else, his focus entirely on you.

Dick didn't have a plan, no rehearsed words or carefully crafted excuses. All he knew was that he couldn't stand there any longer, watching you laugh with someone else, seeing the effortless connection that wasn't with him. He wasn't even sure what he was going to say when he reached you—all he knew was that he had to do something. Anything.

The music and laughter of the party hummed around you, a lively backdrop to your conversation with Brandon. You were mid-sentence, describing one of your wilder missions, when a familiar voice cut through the noise like a blade.

"Hey," Dick said, his tone even, but carrying an unmistakable edge.

You turned, surprised to see him standing there. He was close—closer than usual—his sharp brown eyes flicking briefly to Brandon before settling on you. His presence seemed to suck the air out of the space, a silent tension rolling off him in waves.

"Mind if I borrow him for a second?" Dick continued, though it wasn't really a question.

Brandon blinked, clearly caught off guard. His usual easy grin faltered for a moment as he looked between you and Dick, before offering a hesitant nod. "Uh, yeah. Sure. Go ahead."

"Dick, what—?" you began, but before you could finish, Dick placed a firm hand on your shoulder and started steering you away. His grip wasn't rough, but it was unyielding, his fingers curling just enough to make it clear this wasn't up for discussion.

You glanced back at Brandon, who shrugged and turned to mingle with someone else, his confusion evident. Meanwhile, Dick's hand remained on your shoulder, guiding you through the crowd and toward the staircase.

"What's going on?" you asked, your voice tinged with confusion and growing irritation.

Dick didn't answer. He stayed silent, his jaw tight, his pace quick. His grip on your shoulder tightened slightly as you reached the stairs, and he led you upward, away from the noise and light of the party. The music and chatter faded with each step, replaced by the steady hum of the tower's systems.

You could feel the tension radiating off him, his normally composed demeanor slipping with every second. It wasn't like him to act this way—so abrupt, so on edge.

When you reached a quiet hallway, you finally pulled free of his grip, stopping in your tracks. "Dick, what the hell?" you snapped, your confusion now mingled with frustration. "What's going on with you tonight?"

He turned to face you, his expression unreadable. His shoulders were rigid, his lips pressed into a thin line as if he were struggling to find the right words. For a moment, you thought he might brush it off, make some excuse and leave you wondering.

But then his expression softened—just slightly—and he stepped closer, his movements slow, deliberate. His piercing gaze searched yours, as though he were looking for something, some unspoken reassurance.

"I couldn't take it anymore," he muttered, his voice low and raw, almost like he was speaking to himself.

You frowned, still not understanding. "Take what? Dick, you're not making any sense."

For a second, he hesitated, his breath hitching as if he was caught between moving forward or retreating. Then, as though something inside him snapped, he closed the distance between you in one fluid motion.

His hands came up, gripping your face with a kind of desperate urgency. Before you could say another word, his lips were on yours. It wasn't tentative or uncertain—it was firm, almost overwhelming, the kind of kiss that left no room for doubt.

You froze, your mind racing to catch up with what was happening. The feel of his lips against yours, the heat of his hands holding you in place—it all hit you at once, a wave of intensity that left you breathless. There was a weight behind it, a frustration, a longing that spoke of something he'd been holding back for far too long.

The hallway seemed to shrink around you, the hum of the tower fading into nothing. All that remained was him, the kiss, and the unspoken emotions that seemed to pour out in that single moment.

When Dick finally pulled back, his forehead gently rested against yours, his breath ragged and uneven. The heat of his hands lingered on your face, his thumbs barely brushing your jawline as if he couldn't bring himself to let go entirely. His eyes were closed for a moment, and when he opened them, they burned with an intensity that made your chest tighten.

"I couldn't stand seeing you with him," he admitted, his voice low, raw, and unsteady in a way you'd never heard before. It wasn't anger or frustration—it was something deeper, something vulnerable. "I've been trying to ignore it for so long, but I can't anymore. I like you—more than a friend. I needed you to know."

His words hung in the air, heavy and charged, as if the world itself had paused for this one moment. Your heart was pounding, each beat louder in your ears than the faint hum of the tower around you. You felt like the ground had shifted beneath your feet, your balance precarious in the wake of his confession.

You stared at him, trying to process what had just happened—the kiss, the weight of his words, the raw emotion in his eyes. All the nights you'd spent together came flooding back to you. Fighting side by side in the field, your movements always in sync. Late nights eating takeout, his laughter echoing in your ears as you shared stories. Quiet moments after missions, when he'd patch you up with a care and focus that seemed almost too much for a friend. All of it suddenly took on a new meaning, the threads weaving together into something you hadn't allowed yourself to see before now.

"Dick..." you began, your voice soft, barely above a whisper, your chest tight with the weight of everything you wanted to say. But before you could get the words out, he shook his head, his forehead still pressed against yours.

"I get it if you don't feel the same," he said quickly, his voice filled with quiet resignation. His hands dropped slowly from your face, as if letting go was physically painful. "I just... I couldn't keep it in anymore. Not after tonight. Not after seeing—" He cut himself off, shaking his head again, as if the thought alone was too much. "You don't have to say anything. I just needed you to know."

You stared at him, the man who had been by your side through thick and thin, who had earned your trust in ways few ever had. And for the first time, you saw something behind the confidence and control he always carried—a vulnerability, raw and unguarded. The man who was always so composed, so unshakable, was standing in front of you now, his emotions laid bare.

He wasn't Nightwing in this moment, the hero who always had a plan and a backup plan. He was just Dick—a man who had taken a risk, who had laid his heart on the line for you. And in that moment, as you saw him so clearly for the first time, something inside you shifted.

You stood frozen, your thoughts spiraling as Dick's words echoed in your mind. Your longest, closest friend—someone who had been by your side through countless battles, sleepless nights, and quiet moments—had just confessed feelings you had never seen coming. It felt like the ground beneath you had shifted, leaving you unsure of how to regain your footing.

Your breathing was shallow, your chest tight as you replayed his confession in your mind. "I couldn't stand seeing you with him. I've been trying to ignore it for so long, but I can't anymore." The rawness in his voice, the vulnerability in his eyes—it was all so unlike the Dick Grayson you knew, the man who always seemed so steady, so composed.

You opened your mouth to say something, anything, but the words wouldn't come. How could they? This was Dick—your partner in the field, your confidant, your constant. The person who had always been there, who had stitched you up after injuries and made you laugh when things felt too heavy. And now he was looking at you, his heart laid bare, waiting for a response you weren't sure how to give.

Your mind raced through the years you'd known him. The late-night missions, the quiet moments after a battle, the inside jokes only the two of you understood. You'd always thought of him as your rock, the person you could count on no matter what. And now, he was telling you that he saw you as something more—had seen you as something more for a long time.

The weight of his confession pressed down on you. This wasn't just a casual admission—it was the culmination of something deep, something that had clearly been building within him for years. The thought hit you like a freight train: while you'd been leaning on him as a friend, he'd been feeling this all along. How had you missed it?

Dick's expression was impossible to read now. He was standing there, his forehead no longer resting against yours, his hands hovering by his sides like he wasn't sure whether to reach for you or step back. His eyes, normally so guarded, were wide and searching, as if trying to gauge what you were thinking.

But you didn't know what to think. You didn't know how to react. Part of you wanted to speak, to reassure him, to tell him that this didn't change anything—but that would be a lie, wouldn't it? Because everything had already changed.

Before you could fully register what you were doing, instinct took over. Your mind was still spinning from Dick's confession, from the raw vulnerability in his voice, from the way his hands had trembled ever so slightly when he let you go—as if he'd already braced himself for rejection.

But you couldn't let him walk away—not like this. Not when your heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might burst from your chest.

In one swift motion, you closed the space between you, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. The material was soft but sturdy beneath your grip, grounding you in the moment as you tugged him toward you with a sudden urgency that surprised even yourself.

Dick's eyes widened, his breath hitching, but he barely had a second to react before your lips met his. The kiss was fierce, intense—a collision of bottled-up emotions finally set free. Your fingers clenched tighter in his shirt, pulling him closer as if you were afraid he might vanish if you let go.

For a moment, the world seemed to fall away—the distant hum of the tower's systems, the muffled bass of the music still thumping from the party below—it all dissolved into nothingness. There was only him, only the warmth of his mouth against yours, only the heat of his hands finding your waist and holding on like he'd been waiting for this as long as you had.

Dick let out a sharp breath against your lips, a sound caught somewhere between relief and longing. His arms wrapped around you fully now, one hand sliding up your back, the other cupping the side of your face like he couldn't bear the thought of letting you go again.

The kiss deepened, fueled by everything unspoken between you—years of trust, shared danger, late-night talks, and quiet moments when words had never been enough. Every suppressed feeling, every glance that had lingered too long, every touch that had meant more than it should—everything finally broke free.

When you finally pulled back, breathless, your foreheads rested together, your fingers still clutching the front of his shirt like a lifeline. Dick's eyes were half-lidded, dark with emotion, his chest rising and falling in rhythm with yours.

"...Quite the confession, Grayson," you voiced, your voice low and shaky.

A slow, disbelieving smile spread across Dick's face, softening the sharp intensity of his expression. His thumb brushed your cheek gently, almost reverently. "You have no idea how long I've been waiting to do that."

His words sent warmth flooding through your chest, and before you could respond, his lips found yours again—not desperate this time, but sure and steady, like he was memorizing the way you felt in his arms. This time, there was no hesitation, no fear—only certainty.