alexandra

19 | 🇬🇷 | ☦️ I hope u enjoy!

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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!

[yasyart]

Doomed siblings in every universe

[eicssbs]

warnings: check the tags on each story before you read!

here are my all-time favourite fics and series; i hope you love them as much as i do!! (btw i've just realised that i read A LOT about jason damn)

♡ bruce wayne

𑣲⋆ batman can save gotham, but not his marriage by @agatha-grc

𑣲⋆ family by @bat1nsignia

♡ dick grayson

𑣲⋆ he calls you clingy by @amoebadue

𑣲⋆ chronologically incorrect by @iydiamartinx

♡ jason todd

𑣲⋆ bring your parents to school day by @magikcheese3

𑣲⋆ overheard by @fancy-possum

𑣲⋆ marriage of convenience by @after-avenging-hours

𑣲⋆ just a break by @fancy-possum

𑣲⋆ why do you smell like that? by @4dian-nip-slip

𑣲⋆ not what you think by @4dian-nip-slip

𑣲⋆ unexpected guests by @iydiamartinx

𑣲⋆ glitter pens and hot chocolate by @shisuni

♡ damian wayne

𑣲⋆ cinderella, better get you home by @kurogxrix

𑣲⋆ obsessive fixation by @damselneedssaving

𑣲⋆ beg you to stay by @fawnindawn

𑣲⋆ we're moving out by @arachnidseyes

[domainrodeo]

18+ "high octane" ⸺ r. sukuna

ongoing (6/22) ๑ multi-chapter smut | fluff | angst

summary: your early 20s gave you exactly three problems: grad school, keeping a certain trio from meddling, and the raging crush on your best friend's older brother.

pairing: mechanic!sukuna x shy!pervy!reader

tags: modern!au, smut, fluff, mild angst, happy ending, reader has a nickname, best friend's older brother, smut, fluff, minor age gap (23 and 29), secret relationship, mutual pining, drugs, physical medium-burn but emotional slow burn.

1 crush crush crush 2 two pumps 3 friends of friends 4 superswiped! 5 accept only necessary 6 kirin ichiban 7 santo sativa NEW!

↷ upcoming...

8 rush 9 ready set ignition 10 shut up and drive 11 in medias res 12 save a horse 13 hot, hotter 14 serpentine 15 mise en place 16 tamago 17 beat em' up! 18 find what you love... 19 ...and let it kill you 20 ménage 21 taro 22 in bloom

[toeeekneeee]

Burger Run

Jason Todd X Reader

“Just the usual for you two?”

The elderly couple – Margie and Paul – both smile at you before they nod. Paul holds out the unopened menus to you and once you grab them, you head your way towards the kitchen. Pushing the door to the kitchen open, you’re immediately greeted with the familiar sizzling of patties and rhythmic chopping of lettuce.

“Hey Johnny, the usual for Marge and Paul in booth six!”

A quick ‘yep yep’ is thrown back at you in acknowledgement before you’re grabbing the ketchup and mustard bottle for booth two, and heading out the kitchen again.

The lunch rush had extended into a dinner rush at the diner tonight, but with all the good staff on, things were going exceptionally well, and tips were looking fantastic. 

Approaching booth two, you set down the mustard and ketchup, the two teenage girls both quick to thank you before you’re headed towards the reception to put in Marge and Paul’s order – with a heavy discount – into the machine. The machine spits out a receipt and you stuff it into your apron pocket with the rest of the miscellaneous rubbish.

The bell at the top of the door rings signifying new customers, and you look up and – Holy fucking shit.

Your jaw practically unhinges as the one and only Red Hood stands in front of the counter you’re situated behind, head tilted up, casually scanning the menu. 

You might as well have a microphone taped to your neck with how loud that gulp was, but he doesn't say anything as he keeps scanning the menu. Before you can muster up the courage to ask him something – anything – he speaks.

“Could I just get two regular cheeseburgers – one without pickles – and a triple cheeseburger?”

His voice is deeper than expected. You barely process that he has a voicechanger on before your hand quickly runs across the screen punching in his order. 

“Any drinks with that?”

A deep hum comes from him before he adds, “just three cokes please.”

You nod before adding the drinks to his order. Looking up, he’s got a credit card in his hand – his fingers meticulously covering the name – and you barely stutter out, “o-oh, uh, on the house.”

“No, let me pay.”

You can feel your face flush pink but you shake your head no, and he mimics you by nodding yes. You groan before pushing through one burger.

“Fine. $12.50.”

He stops right above the card reader and you realise he’s caught onto you undercharging him.

“Triple that, and then I’ll pay.”

You look at the white where his eyes are, and you can imagine he has a matching unamused expression. Your eyes glance down to his gloved hand where his hand is still hovering above the waiting card machine before a comical lightbulb lights up beside your head.

Please don’t pull your gun on me for this.

Your hand darts out from behind the counter, landing on top of his and pressing it to the reader. His head darts down and a beep reverberates around the silent air around you both before he realises what you’ve done.

With your hand still on top of his, you look back up at his helmet and purse your lips to stifle your laughter. You take your hand off his and slowly back away.

“Thank you. Your food should be ready in 15 minutes.”

And you’re running off to the kitchen to tell Johnny.

Johnny couldn’t help when he peeked out the kitchen door to see the Red Hood, but the sight encouraged the man to have the food ready in 12 minutes instead of the 15. The cool breeze that snuck in from the front door had you taking your hoodie out your locker and shrugging it on.

You placed the takeaway food and coke cans in the plastic bag – adding some extra sauces – before you headed back out of the kitchen and to the front. The front counter was empty, and you headed towards the door, before spotting him leaning against the wall just outside.

Pushing the door open, a shiver crawls up your spine and his head snaps to you before he comes forward.

“Hey, here’s the food.”

You hand the bag over to him, and he takes it from your hands. He stares at you for a second, and you shift awkwardly in your spot. He reaches a hand out to your stomach, and before you can flinch, he’s shoved something in your hoodie pocket and is jogging away.

“Hey!”

You yell out after him instinctively, before your hand goes wandering in your pocket. You feel what seems to be… paper? Your hand pulls out a hundred dollar bill, and the last thing the cold air hears from you before you grumble your way inside is…

“Asshat.”

[fawnindawn]

in a hundred lifetimes.

summary: landing in an alternate dimension—you're certain this version of damian who finds you should hate you as much as your damian does. but when he pulls you in so tight as if he's experienced losing you before.. you realise he isn't so willing on letting you go.

pairing: damian wayne x fem! reader

content: alternate dimension damian who finds you which makes the yearning 1000x worse, 'ill choose you in every lifetime' trope, angst-comfort

It's been twenty minutes since you ended up in another dimension. A stupid argument. An accidental trigger. Of course, none of that comes close in comparison to the complete shock of Damian Wayne crushing you with his embrace.

No. Embrace is too soft a term for how tightly squeezed you are—the lack of space making it easy for you to detect how his body is physically shaking.

You're covered in soot, dust particles still emanating from where your form had materialised—from where your first instinct had been to press the emergency contact on your comms. Damian had found you not long after. You still remember how quickly your fury had been extinguished the moment you caught sight of his pale expression, the sheer disbelief in the open gape of his lips.

Damian hates you. That fact is precisely the reason you ended up here, in a whole other dimension. That instinctive reminder is what forces you to push yourself out of his embrace, and his own hands go slack as he stares at you wordlessly.

"Why'd you follow me in—you idiot!" You snap, trying to brush off how taken off-guard you are. "I can't believe we're both stuck here."

He blinks once. "Stuck?"

"You should've pieced this together faster than I did." Gesturing to your surroundings, your arms still ache from having crashed through a construction site. "We're stuck in another dimension all thanks to you."

He blinks again, slower this time. Processing. "Where exactly did you come from?"

"Did the fall injure your head?" Your impatience brims over your exhausted features. "Isn't it enough that you had to start something in the lab? We wouldn't have ended up here if you hadn't been so insistent on triggering the portal."

His features remain stoic, but there's a familiar calculation in his gaze. His lips part after a moment. "Portal."

It's infuriating how long he's taking to catch onto the reality of what's just happened. You give a short nod, your growing panic stuck between your teeth. If Damian's here with you, there's no telling if you'll be able to make a connection back to your dimension.

"I suppose you are right." His brows remain furrowed in consideration. "But there is one thing you're missing."

Leave it to him to counter every point of yours, needing to be right as always. A heavy sigh leaves your lips. "And what is that?"

"I'm not your Damian."

Those words still ring hollow, a repeating drone of his voice as you watch the familiar city pass by the windowpane. It is Gotham, but not. Unfamiliar stores fill the streets, similar roads but not quite, small inconsistencies that are enough to remind you that this isn't your home.

That the person in the driver's seat beside you is a complete stranger.

"Who am I to you?" You question, casting your glance back to that stiff, perfect posture of his as he makes a turn towards his apartment.

That hug from earlier, if you could even call it that, still lingers like a shadow, casting goosebumps over your skin whenever the memory overstayed its welcome.

You spot the whitening of his knuckles, the pads of his fingers squeezing into the steering wheel before the colour returns, as if his composure never faltered.

"You were my assigned partner." He answers briskly.

Were. There's finally one consistency, at the very least. To your relief, the version of you here didn't seem to get along with him either.

Your small amusement is quickly diminished at the rise of another concern of yours. If there was another version of you running around this city, you can't even begin to fathom the potential fractures of reality if an encounter truly happened.

You're already playing a huge risk in letting this Damian assist you. Still, you had no one else.

Your comms had contacted him, not that it was to any surprise of your own once the initial panic died down. It wasn't likely that you still had a connection to your own world, much less an existing channel with your Damian. It was pure luck that you still had use for the device at all. Or at least, you hoped you could consider it luck.

Your gaze lingers over his features. The likeness between him and your Damian was uncanny. The same nose bridge, freckles, and even that faint scar running down his jawline. It was all so familiar that you had to snap yourself out of it when you found your body conditioning itself into safety, as if forgetting he's a stranger.

"Well, I hope you'll let bygones be bygones." You answer wryly. "There wasn't anyone else I could contact. If you can help me find a way back home, I'll be out of your dimension in no time."

The silence grows terse. A shift has occurred, even if you're unsure on the why. You had only stated the obvious. Perhaps his moods were in line with what you were familiar with after all, and that is no soothing relief if it meant having to face that same temperament that landed you here.

"I'm already offering my help." Damian answers after a moment, as if he's finally settled for a response he was satisfied with.

"I hope so." You mutter, eyelids falling shut in your exhaustion. The sight of the city was making you nauseous. "It's kind of your fault I ended up here. The other you, anyways."

He hums, finger tapping once against the steering wheel. "Typical."

This Damian has an apartment akin to a serial killer's. The barest necessities, minimal decorations—it's as if every surface has gone untouched. If you hadn't seen it with your own eyes when he unlocked the door with his thumbprint, you would've assumed no one had ever stepped foot within these walls.

"Ever heard of decoration?" It lands wrong, and you internally wince. It's difficult, to not fall back into that same push-and-pull when you see Damian's figure in your peripheral vision. To not be mistaken with familiar company.

He watches you for longer than he should. He keeps doing that, the staring. "There's no reason for me to do so." He answers eventually.

Your brows furrow. Something about his responses from the moment you met him unnerved you, as if he's leaving his words purposely vague. Clues buried within that mask of his, where an unanswered story that didn't belong to your reality lingers in his.

"Where am I currently in your dimension?" You decide to settle at the sofa, stretching out your limbs. "If she's still in Gotham, I need to be careful not to be seen."

Ever since you arrived, your body has been aching horribly. It hadn't been this obvious when you had arrived, but now, it's stinging down to your nerves. Maybe the adrenaline had finally worn off, and you're left to deal with a body unequipped to the frantic mess your mind is trying to sort out.

"It won't be a problem." He answers, lips pursing into a thin line. "She's gone."

Your head tilts questioningly to meet his gaze, but he avoids yours. Pulling open his kitchen drawer, there's a taut tension in his body as if he's been expecting your question and dreading it all the same.

Gone could mean anything. Out of the city borders or—

Your eyes flicker down to his disappearing hand, and find his reappearing fingers gripped around pain ointment. Your stretch pauses halfway, the strange alertness of being noticed without your permission sending a chill down your spine.

Forcing your hands down back to your sides, you eye him warily as he makes his way round the couch, stopping before you. His hand extends, lifting his offering silently.

It's unfamiliar, and even if you try your hardest to reason to yourself, that this isn't the Damian you know, it doesn't make it any easier to allow him to assist you. You half expect mocking, a glimpse of his smirk when your gaze flickers to the ointment held out in front of you.

A low breath escapes his lips, and you expect him to give in. To understand that you don't require more of him other than his specific assistance to send you home—only for him to lower himself.

Damian Wayne—even if he isn't the one you're used to—is kneeling down to meet your gaze. Your breath stops, your chest seized tight as you stare at him, unable to hide your surprise.

He doesn't falter, his fingers mindlessly dipping into the ointment before placing the jar by your side. His free hand goes to grip your wrist, tugging gently to expose the bruises trailing along your arm from your fall.

"If it is me you have come to for assistance." He mutters with a click of his tongue. "Then, I expect you not to be stubborn."

You swallow, your jaw ticking as you find your tongue heavy with a lack of an adequate response. His unwavering concern, this intensity can't be tied solely to you. There has to be a reason for why he is looking at you this way.

"What did you mean?" You ask quietly. "By gone?"

His fingers, still coated with the ointment, brush gently over your thudding pulse. His gaze finally lifts, but you can't read him. There's a pull to his gaze, and the answer reveals itself by the time you recognise what is held within his eyes isn't irritation or indifference. It was grief.

"She's dead."

It's a strange feeling to know you're stepping into a world where a version of you used to exist. A sick form of good luck, a technical elimination of complications.

Except that it's only made everything more complicated. You had no idea on how to deal with the Damian in front of you now that the truth's been revealed.

When he first admitted that he wasn't the Damian you knew, you had quickly assumed that whatever dynamic he shared with you from this dimension was a parallel to the one you shared with your Damian. Forced tolerance, a begrudging partnership. No, you had needed to assume it so. Anything different would have shattered this fragile alliance you had with the stranger sitting across you, because despite everything you felt about your Damian—you relied on him as a partner.

Now, you weren't sure if you could trust the Damian in front of you. You had assumed that if he answered your questions, you would have cleared the air—but it has only raised more.

You can feel his attention while you're thinking. You swear with the intensity of his gaze casted onto you which you pretend not to notice, it's as if your existence only materialised when his eyes are on you. There's a strange urgency in his unblinking stare, as if to remind himself that you're still in front of him.

It's too much. It was the same back when he first saw you as well. Damian hasn't mentioned his strange reaction since, and his lack of an explanation for why he had embraced you clues you on nothing still, on what you meant to him.

"I'm not her." You mutter after a moment. You don't know why, but you feel you have to say it.

There's some form of attachment he must've had with you, and you couldn't let yourself be tangled into the mess of what's been left behind. This isn't your world, and the last thing you needed was a blur of that line.

"I know." He answers quickly. Without pause, as if he's been repeating it to himself before you had even verbalised it.

Your hesitance must be palpable because he lets out a sigh not long after, heavy from his chest.

"I didn't offer you my help because I think you're—" He swallows, pain etched into the lines of his grimace. "I understand that you are alone in this world. That some mistake of mine from your end caused this. I am taking responsibility for it—to bring you back. There is nothing more to it."

You watch him as he did to you, noting a delicate fragility to him you've never seen before. You had been so wrapped up in your situation, that you failed to notice the frantic quality of his gaze or the exhaustion plaguing his features. As if being around you—drained him from the impossibility of seeing you alive and breathing.

"Okay." You answer eventually. "I believe you."

His shoulders, tense and taut, finally loosen slightly at your response.

"Do you—" Your voice is plagued with exhaustion, and you struggle to find the words, the composure to hide your desperation. "—have any idea on how I'll be able to get back?"

Relief flickers briefly in his gaze, replaced with a familiar efficiency that slots over the dark pool his eyes held mere seconds ago. This, you were used to. Whenever he was asked to perform a duty, that was when you both cooperated the easiest.

"If it were me, I'd predict that there will be a two-way mechanism." He suggests automatically. So, he had been considering his own theories this entire time.

Leaning in, his elbows pressing against his thighs, he continues. "An entry will not be possible without a tunnel. To find the connection and restart it as you had before in your dimension, it should trigger an opening."

"I also considered the possibility of a tunnel." You frown, your fingers drawing a thin, edged line across the sofa's fabric. "The only problem is that when I arrived, before contacting you—I looked around the premise. I really tried."

"There was no opening." You admit, dread digging slowly into your bones.

"Perhaps it will only be activated if it was triggered in the same process as before." He suggests.

"...Doesn't that rely on Damian—" You falter, meeting his gaze. "—my Damian restarting the trigger on his side?"

He nods, even as his lips purse slightly at the mention of the other him. "Your only chance depends on him coming to the same realisation we have."

You draw a short breath. "Shit."

Damian doesn't hesitate when you ask by the third hour of silence—to accompany you back to the construction site when the passing hours has done enough in driving you insane.

You hate waiting. Your Damian knows that. This Damian seems to know too.

He follows you like a silent shadow, tracing your steps and overlooking the same rubble caused by your fall as you try to find an anomaly. Anything that proves to your stubborn anxiety—that you are actually doing something to feel less trapped.

"There is nothing here." He states.

"You don't know that." You wish your voice sounded stronger. "I wasn't in my right mind when I landed. I might identify something I missed."

His jaw ticks once, but he doesn't stop you. He doesn't argue—and that unnerves you. The Damian you know doesn't hesitate when picking a fight, and frankly—you miss that. You needed something to distract you—and he was merely standing there like he was watching a phantom.

"I thought you said you would help." Your voice breaks.

Fuck. Swallowing back your revealed fright, you finally slump down onto the dust-covered concrete, pressing your palm against your eyes.

You hear a shuffle, the fabric of his coat landing heavy next to you. You uncover your eyes, catching him as he crouches beside you. His gaze meets yours head-on—and you nearly drown in the weight of it.

"There's no relief in digging through a dead-end." He mutters, peering over your features. "It'll only worsen the thoughts."

You grow quiet. You didn't need a verbal confirmation, not when just his gaze alone tells, that he wasn't only talking about your situation. Your chest heaves, the scent of concrete filling your nostrils.

The silence stretches, an uncomfortable sensation of helplessness filling the air.

"...Do you like pizza?" He asks after a moment.

Blinking once, you must've misheard it. You can't help the snort that escapes you, the sound broken and unsteady. "What?"

"I dislike it." He mutters. "The ones in Gotham. It's too much grease, and lacking of any true nutrients."

That... sounds very Damian of him.

You raise a brow, and his lips purse together. Letting out a regretful sigh, he gestures with a tilt of his head. "There's an adequate franchise down the street."

Lifting himself off the ground, he holds out his hand towards you. "Since this dreadful day has been awfully unproductive, I suppose a meal like that is befitting."

Your gaze flickers between his hand and that unfamiliar, warmth in his eyes. Of how you had been in a similar position mere hours ago when he had offered you pain ointment. Of how he has been consistently extending his hand towards you, accompanying your side—ever since you entered this dimension.

This time, you take his hand.

Strangely enough, the fluorescent lights of 'Gotham City Pizzeria' and the smell of floor disinfectant—combined with the peculiar sight of Damian lifting a soggy pizza slice with a grimace did lift your spirits. If this was your dimension, you would have bothered with taking a picture to capture the sight of him clashing with an environment so strongly, but you couldn't afford to let this rare moment of normalcy be dimmed by that reminder.

"Should I be concerned that the Damian Wayne in this dimension consumes Gotham pizzas?" You murmur, wiping a streak of tomato at the corner of your mouth.

His lips quirk up slightly. "Even I have my faults."

Clearing his throat, he murmurs. "Your turn."

You raise a brow, confused.

He leans back, dusting his hands against the napkin. "I haven't learned anything about you since you arrived."

Oh. You had assumed that he didn't want to. Outside of the boundaries of your circumstance, he hasn't really pushed much further other than details he needed to have, to piece a solution together.

"What do you want to know?" You shrug.

His lips tilt upwards again, more intently this time. "Do you like pizza?"

Your smile lifts instinctively. "I do, detective. How'd you guess?"

His smile strains a little, and you realise why.

"Ah." You murmur.

"No." He stops you before you can retreat. "Don't stop on my account. I want to know what you like."

You swallow, fingers running over the crust flakes coating your thumb. You suppose you could answer, there wasn't any harm done. "I do like pizza. It's the only thing that's comforting enough after a long night of patrol. I think when I enter a familiar place at an hour like this, when there's no one else around, it's like the world closes in to exist in just this spot, y'know? I get to forget about my worries for a little while."

He nods, listening to you speak as if he intended on memorising every word. Like he may miss the chance to do so ever again.

"So, why'd you pick this place?" You return the question.

"...As I told you before, I'm not fond of it."

"So, why are you here?" You push.

A slow exhale escapes his mouth. "I suppose, it was like you said. Comforting—in a sense, to be surrounded by something familiar."

You can see him struggling, on what to say and what to keep buried. This provided company of his—it's like you're digging into a wound he's openly showing you.

"What else do you like?" He reiterates.

Your smile reappears, almost easing. "Need a full catalogue?"

"Yes." He answers almost immediately. It takes the breath out of you, the humour still stuck on your tongue with the way he looks at you, all-consuming. "I would."

"I suppose... I could tell you things I never told anyone." You whisper almost conspiratorially. "Something tells me you'll keep quite a good secret."

His lips lift, curving a small dimple by his cheek. "I swear."

"I guess..." Leaning your cheek against your palm, you take your time in truly looking at him. "I always did like your eyes."

He blinks, not expecting your answer. "My eyes?"

"Yeah." Your grin comes easier to you now, seeing him uncharacteristically flustered. "Made me unreasonably jealous at times. Green eyes like that, and you spend half the time glowering."

He scoffs lowly, but it holds no bite. "I wasn't aware there was a way to utilise them."

"No, you do it right when you're not thinking too hard." You murmur, lost in thought. "When you don't pretend to be strong, your eyes go soft. Just around the edges."

The moment those words leave you, you realise you're pushing too far, saying something so intimate, it should have never been verbalised.

He watches you, and to your dismay, he does it right then and there. The sharpened edges around his gaze softens, and so does Damian.

"You're direct." He mutters, almost fondly.

You swallow, averting your gaze. "So I've been told."

"I like that."

You shift your focus back to him immediately, a soft thudding in your chest. He has never averted his gaze. Rarely, you realise, does he pull his attention away from you. It's like he's treasuring it, the small impossibility of this conversation, of your presence in this pizzeria illuminated by the neon lights.

"Do you feel like you're dreaming?" You ask. "It feels like I know you even though I shouldn't."

His lips quirk. "It is a fair exchange for reality, if I get to meet you."

Your heart is thudding louder now, and you don't find it instinctive anymore to avert his gaze, no matter how much the depth feels like drowning.

"A once in a lifetime phenomenon." You declare. "Let's not waste it."

Gotham's cityscape takes a less intimidating turn in the weeks following your exploration with Damian, as the hidden beauty within begins to reveal itself. The confusing streets become interesting puzzles, a guessing game on what road could be an alternative to the ones you frequent in your dimension. When night falls? That's when this Gotham truly sings, coming alive.

Without the late nights being reserved for the sole purpose of patrol, Damian guides you within the ins-and-outs of alleyways, leading you through slot machines, bars that still had the hum of human company despite the late hour. Eventually, you both land on a rooftop that lets you oversee the entire city.

It's terrifyingly easy to enjoy his company when you're not busy pretending otherwise. There's a symphony to your shared steps, the trailing of his shadow that plays out like a familiar, comforting rhythm.

"It's different." You mutter almost excitedly. The faint buzz of exhaustion from the late hour leaves you increasingly lax, your hand tugging at his sleeve towards the Wayne Tower in the distance. "Ours is all red hues and sharp angles. I like yours more."

He hums, sounding amused. His gaze is still trained on you, not focused on your pointed finger towards the building at all. Letting out a huff, your hand, numbed by the freezing wind, lifts to cup his cheek.

He blinks, a rare vulnerable expression crossing his features at your touch.

"Stop looking at me." You gesture, trying to tune his head towards the cityscape. "You're missing out."

"No, I'm not." He answers honestly.

You blink, hand faltering over his cheek, but he raises his own to cover yours.

"Sorry." He murmurs, lashes lowering with his gaze as he closes his eyes momentarily. "Allow me to be a little selfish, just this once."

Your fingers shake in response, but you don't remove your hand.

"That's not very fair of you." You mutter.

"I suppose I have never practiced that trait well." Opening his eyes, you're faced with that tenderness, the one that leaves you breathless. "Does it make me hateful?"

"No." You answer honestly. "You've always been bad at that."

"At being fair?" He asks.

"Making me hate you." You admit quietly.

His gaze softens imperceptibly. "I suppose we're both not very good liars."

The touch of his cheek burns your skin. This is dangerous, your mind faintly warns you. You promised yourself to never hesitate in your decision, not even after meeting him. You were always meant to go home.

He spots your hesitance, and his warmth falters. His lips set back into that familiar, distant line as he lets your hand go.

"I apologise if I over-stepped." He says before you even have time to clear the air.

"No, that isn't it." You wince, drawing your hand back to scratch at your cheek. "I was just thinking. Maybe—it isn't so bad if I could stay a little longer. There's no guarantee on when the portal will open again, so it's not a ruled out possibility."

Your suggestion is a toss into the wind. A complete silent, interpretation that maybe that's what he'd like as well.

You don't even have time to process the slight hope in his gaze, the consideration of your words before something—no everything seizes. Your body collapses to the ground, the pain of your atoms glitching, seizing to exist, and reforming again, is nearly indescribable.

A near howl escapes your bitten lips as you crumple towards the floor, only for Damian to catch you in his arms, down on his knees in front of you. Your fingers grip tight around his wrists, steading yourself as your vision blurs in and out. By the time you've strained your neck to look back up at him, you see the pain contorting his expression, wiping it loose of all composure.

"I—I'm okay." You breathe out, even as you can feel how cold and clammy your skin has become.

He doesn't answer. He merely stares, a rush of emotions flooding too fast through his mind for you to read, before it falters. His grip is your only anchor, but he's trembling too.

"This isn't a good sign." He states, dread falling over his features. "You must return, soon."

"So, you're saying—" You recall his words faintly. "The longer I stay in this dimension, my body will begin to disintegrate?"

Those technical words, theories that sound ridiculous on paper, thread thinly in a reality where your body was now a self-destructive timer. He gives you a short nod, his dark circles illuminated by the hologram of his research. Despite it being your life on the line, he looks wrecked.

What had started out as a happy night, ended with the reminder that you're not only endangering yourself but him. He's faced losing you once, and your existence in this dimension that should have never happened—he might go through it all over again if you don't find the portal in time.

"Damian." You call out, spotting the weak composure he's trying to display. "Look at me."

He refuses to listen, or maybe, he's completely blocked everything out with his gaze trained on the coordinates and running calculations. Standing up from the couch, you move slowly towards him to not startle him. Your hand briefly touches his arm, and he flinches.

"Damian, we've been over this." You speak as calmly as you can. "There's no opening unless it's opened from my side."

"Then, why hasn't he done it?" He snaps.

You blink, taken aback by his reaction.

"I can't—" He swallows, jaw clenched as he stares at you with a raw agony. One he's been hiding from you since you arrived, that you had caught a brief glimpse of when he first embraced you in his panic. "I won't fail you again. I refuse to."

"Damian." Your brows furrow, hands intertwining with his to force him to feel your touch. "I need you to breathe."

His chest heaves, and you recognise a panic attack before he's even verbalised it. Pulling him towards the sofa, you force him to sit, hands still connected with his.

"It isn't fair." Damian shakes his head. "Nothing ever is. Either way, it feels as if I'm losing you all over again."

Your breath trembles in his admission, and you can do nothing but sit here and listen.

"It was my fault." He confesses, grief-stricken. "A mission gone wrong—and my arrogance. I had overestimated the ambush, and we were cornered."

His body goes still as he drowns in his memory. "You hadn't hesitated stepping in the way. I could do nothing but watch."

"I am unworthy for many things." His voice lowers, with such an encompassing belief in his words. "But not being able to save you? That is a punishment I will never recover from."

"To lose you again." He mutters, broken. "I won't know what to do."

"Damian." You whisper. "I'm scared too."

He looks up at you then, and tears are welled in the corners of his lashes.

"But I'm glad." You emphasise, squeezing his hand. "That it's you, that you're the one here with me."

He blinks, barely able to process your words. "Why?"

"Because you have been by my side, from the moment I arrived." You answer genuinely. "Even if it hurts you, and I know it does. You stuck around, and you got to know me. You didn't have to do that, not when it costs you everything to do so."

He swallows, his expression shattered as he listens.

"I would have never known this side of you, if you hadn't found me." You push forward. "And no matter how terrifying it is to be in a whole other dimension without knowing if I'll make it home, it doesn't change that I'm glad I met you."

He breathes out, as if your words were a sucker-punch to his gut. His eyes trace over your features, a hidden longing unravelling the longer he carried out his intent focus, wanting to capture everything.

"Can I be selfish one more time?" His voice is a quiet plea, and you don't resist to how weak it renders you.

You nod gently.

Leaning in, his fingers tremble as he reaches up to brush away a stray strand from your cheek. His warmth lingers over your skin, eventually brushing over your cheekbone as his gaze pours into you. He looks at you the same way he had countless times before, and you had never been able to put it to words. Till now.

When his lips touch yours, it feels like a goodbye. A wish made impossible, fulfilled for only a mere moment. It's softer than you ever expected, gentle in a way you had never been treated from anyone else before.

When you open your eyes, you watch his expression carefully draw back into his composure. He's doing it for you, picking up the pieces that's broken so you won't have to face it.

"Let's get you home." He promises, and you believe it.

As the days pass by, with your body experiencing more frequent glitches, Damian's kindness runs a deeper wound above your heart. Whenever you insist that you're fine so he can focus on his work—he merely accompanies you by your side like some personal torture he inflicts on himself. Whenever your body seizes into another episode, split between the fractures of reality—he's there, waiting for you to reach for him so you can feel real again.

He listens with a seared focus now whenever you tell him stories, of yourself—of your world, like he's running out of time. You both are.

It's the seventh day, when the daily scans of the construction site run by Damian finally begin to detect increasing abnormal activity from where you landed.

"The debris movement seems to reverse every time I run the scan." He mutters. "As if there's a disruption in the space."

You swallow dryly, eyeing the replay he's showing you. "Do you think it could mean.."

"Yes, I'm certain." Damian nods firmly. "The portal is being triggered on the other side. The only concern now is when we should be at the site."

This... is it. Despite everything you've prepared and anticipated for, the obvious fact that you should be relieved you have a chance of making it home—the realisation comes with a bitter-sweet note.

Damian doesn't comment further past the facts. He merely focuses on the hologram screen, inputting commands to verify an estimate window to make rounds at the construction site. Despite calling himself selfish, you had never seen him so composed, silent on his true thoughts of this discovery.

"In two days." He answers, staring unblinkingly at the figure. "We won't miss it."

That settles it. In two days... you're going home.

"I hate waiting."

"I am aware." Damian murmurs.

"Stop agreeing with me." You sigh.

"Alright."

Your head snaps, an unamused expression taking over your features.

His gaze flickers from his device to meet yours briefly, and his lips quirk up slightly. "Sorry." His voice doesn't sound apologetic at all. "You've made it too easy."

You can't help but scoff, chin leaning against his shoulder. "This is worse than the glitches."

"Have I mentioned that you're a horrible liar?" He mocks.

"Numerous times." You hum, eyeing the scan with a narrowed glance. "What if your calculations are wrong?"

"I ran over them one thousand and fifty-three times." He frowns. "The chance for error are near zero."

"Wow, from the looks of it—you seem rather eager to get rid of me." You tease.

"Was I that obvious?" He shrugs.

"Who's the bad liar now?" You tease.

He opens his mouth, ready to produce some quick retort—but something catches his eye.

Shifting your gaze to follow his, you catch movement from where the ground had been stagnant. The rubble—is beginning to move in an anti-clockwise direction.

"Now." Damian stands abruptly, a hand wrapping around your waist to lift you to your feet.

The shift in the atmosphere as a distant rumbling occurrs beneath your feet, it's much more aggressive than you expected. Damian tugs you back, just in time before a fracture cracks in the ground.

"The portal." You recognise, eyeing the glow beneath the fissure, something dreadfully familiar.

Your breath is almost winded, coming up short as you stare at the formation in trembling anticipation. Your gaze whips to Damian, your heart slamming against your ribcage—only for your words to fail you when you meet his expression.

Broken, that's all you saw. The same way he had seemed when you first met him.

"Damian." You call out, hesitant, but he shakes his head.

"I never got to tell you." He starts.

Your brows furrow. He had been nothing but honest since you got here. There isn’t a wound that he hasn’t uncovered in front of you, no vulnerability he hasn’t revealed. You know him, because he had let you.

"I want you to know that I am glad." He confesses, his voice picking up in pace. He sounds terrified that he won't be able to finish what he's started. "That I got to know you. There wasn't a moment where I regretted it, not even for a second."

"I must tell you." His voice cracks. "That I'd choose you, in a hundred lifetimes, no matter what reality, I'd always choose you."

The words are lost on your tongue. I'd choose you too. He has to know, even when the tears well up in your eyes.

He holds you tight, as if he's trying to sear this very embrace into his memory. "At least, I'll know now that somewhere out there, the person I am in your world was able to bring you back. That a version of me didn't lose you."

"I know it's selfish." He whispers. "But I wish I could keep you."

Contrary to his words, he lets go of you the moment he says it, his arms parting from your frame to remain firmly at his side. He's restraining himself, you realise. Damian, the very image of self-control, is barely keeping himself together. He’s letting you go, and in doing so, he’s saving you.

"Thank you." He murmurs in goodbye, casting you a solemn smile. "For sparing me the mercy of meeting you again."

"I hope he understands just how fortunate he is." A bittersweet smile graces his lips. "That he'll cherish you, and protect you always."

You think you ask him to wait. For more time. You remember briefly on how your hand extended towards him, before the portal had pulled you in. It was silent after that, and the loss of something indescribable hits you by the time the world comes back—roaring to life.

Tumbling onto the ground, you choke out a breath, saliva coating your lips as your fingers press numbly into the ground.

You're home. A quick glimpse of your surroundings is enough to confirm the familiar machinery, the abandoned lab. Yet, flashes of Damian's unmoving gaze before his frame completely disappeared, staring at you like he wanted to commit you to memory.

How could he have called it mercy, when he was so shattered?

Your tears slipped, and you feel a strange gap in your chest.

A rushed call of your name echoes before you can even name the emotion that consumes you. The syllables barely forms in your mind, as your head whips up in a daze. Your tear-stained expression is broken, completely unhidden—when you see Damian. Your Damian.

"Damian." Your voice croaks out. The name sounds strange on your tongue.

He freezes, unsure on how to process this version of you. Whatever he expected when he got you back, he must've never anticipated this. The version that has just lost him, and a part of you always will.

Pushing yourself to your feet, you stumble in your steps before collapsing into him. You're convinced he'll push you away, as he always does.

What you didn't expect was the steady warmth of his arms wrapping around you. Tense, but protective—as if he were trying to fend off the inner turmoil that's consuming you.

"It's alright." He mutters, voice stiff but his grip doesn't falter. "You're safe. I am here."

That breaks a silent sob out of you, and you bury your face into his chest. He doesn't push you for answers, nor does he distance himself. He remains planted exactly where he is, grounding you with his presence while you mourned for something that should have never been yours, and what you should have never lost.

He is embracing you so tight, it gave you a violent sense of déjà vu. The lines are blurring, and you can't find it in yourself to be angry when you know you should be.

"I am sorry." He mutters, voice breaking in composure. "I did this—I am sorry. I failed you."

"No, you didn't." You answer, your voice hoarse. "You brought me back."

It was the truth, broken into a hundred pieces.

In time, you will tell him. Of how he protected you even in another dimension. Of how that version of him will forever know that in another reality, he had saved you. That there was a Damian who didn't experience losing you.

Of how you'll never forget him. Even when he's out of bounds, but forever engraved into your existence, a memory that should have never existed.

But for now, you'll let yourself rest, knowing that you're home.

likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333

[extra pov] - alt! damian + reader’s damian after her return

dc masterlist -> damian + other dc works

damian taglist: @supercheesygarlicbread @bloomfaery @enmzgn @jxybirdiv @vanillakirstein @celestills @katzenia @chikenuggetrat @mrrayjay @arabellas-barbarella-swimsuit12 @amandjslpz @mossmydarling @batslilwhore @dclover567 @gojoswaterbottle @annabelleleefrench @neonsquad303 @strawberryfire17 @treebranch23 @vampiranne @tofudubicho @roszszs @vaderuby @revesephemeres @moon-cakei @manachiichan @caterppillar @hoshi-no-koinu @living-that-chronic-life @nxx-jordiepord @elysian-groves @pearly-pebble @fandom-fae @ninareads25 @grace-loves-to-read @jarofstarsxx @favorite-fan-fics @radheadphones @freakkay09 @mydeliciouscookies @fea-tastic @starr-jazz @yourclutched-pearls @bearhug120 @devilslittlehelper @izumi0708 @prettysweet02 @spideyskywalker (to be added, check masterlist)

[alygator77]

── off the record ၇୧

꒰ summary ꒱ when a misunderstanding leaves your family convinced you’re bringing a plus one to your cousin’s wedding in Japan, the last person you expect to volunteer for the role is your infuriatingly observant intern, Satoru. it’s supposed to be temporary. professional. strictly off the record. but with your mother already sold on the idea of your mystery boyfriend, and Satoru proving far too good at the role, pretending starts to feel a little too dangerous. also, why is your “intern” secretly the heir to gojo corporation?!

꒰ tags/warnings ꒱ fake dating ⚹︎ undercover ceo! satoru ⚹︎ accountant! reader ⚹︎ satoru is 29, reader is 26 ⚹︎ lots of family pressure. reader has a complicated relationship with her mom ⚹︎ forced proximity ⚹︎ one bed trope ⚹︎ slow burn ⚹︎ mutual pining ⚹︎ wedding chaos ⚹︎ angst and fluff ⚹︎ some suggestive content but no explicit smut ⚹︎

꒰ authors note ꒱ hi cuties! this is a commission piece, and it is about 12k total. this first part is just shy of 6k and the second part will be out next week. i hope you enjoy 🫶🏻 (art by @/hanamin_0123 on x)

"Oi. Boss lady."

“No.”

One problem at a time, and the spreadsheet in front of you wins by default. Because Column F is wrong. It’s been wrong for forty fucking minutes, and if it stays wrong for forty seconds longer, you may actually die here at your desk — hunched over, half-blind, and found by Shoko on a Monday morning with your face pressed into a pivot table like a cautionary tale.

"But… you don't even know what I was gonna—"

"—the answer is no, Satoru."

Unlike the human embodiment of a headache currently lingering on the other side of your desk, the spreadsheet in front of you is at least pretending to be important.

The chair beneath him creaks, and then comes the silence you know too well. It’s the one that comes right before he decides to be a problem on purpose. Attention is gasoline and Satoru is, structurally, a fire hazard. Still, your eyes flick up, and—

"No fair…” he huffs, that ridiculous pout tugging at his lips. “You didn't even let me finish the question."

Your eyes roll back down.

“Mhm.”

"And it was such a good question.”

You turn a page. "Really?”

“Yup.” He’s draped over the corner of your desk now, like gravity has wronged him, whining. “It was such a thoughtful… personal… deeply relevant… extremely genius level getting-to-know-you tier question that—”

You scowl. "—Satoru, enough. Just do your job."

It lands harder than expected. The sigh he lets out is deeply, theatrically offended. And when you glance up again, he’s sprawled over that same corner of your desk you made the mistake of clearing for him on day one because you’d thought, foolishly, that giving him a designated surface might contain him.

It had not.

Nothing about Satoru had ever suggested he could be contained.

Snowy white hair falls against his brow, sleeves rolled to his elbows; looking far too expensive and far too comfortable for someone whose official title is intern. His coffee is sweating beside your open planner — the one with a date next week circled in red: WEDDING, scrawled across the margin in your own handwriting. The condensation trails towards a stack of vendor invoices and—

…

Wait.

Are those the same vendor invoices you asked him to file yesterday?

Fucking great.

“Oh, c’monnn,” he grumbles, blinking at you over the rim of those absurdly expensive sunglasses he insists on wearing indoors. “One question. Just a tiiiiny one. It’s completely harmless. Humor me, yeah?”

You narrow your eyes.

“Satoru, you’ve been trying to ask one question for the last four months.”

“Yeah,” he says. “And you’ve been dodging it for four months. Imagine that.”

Technically… four months and four days. But who’s counting?

With an exhausted groan, your eyes fall shut, pinching the bridge of your nose. Noise drifts in from the hall — the elevator, the printer, a phone trilling somewhere nearby.  But when you look up again, it all seems to fall away.

He’s gone strangely still. The smug grin hasn’t disappeared, but it’s softened at the edges, hooked at one corner with his head tilted slightly. And those eyes…

Oh.

That’s — no. You’ve seen his eyes before. Obviously. Four months of them. But right now, with the morning light doing something cruel and unhelpful behind him, they catch in a way that makes you forget you were mid-thought. The kind of blue that doesn’t ask if you’re looking. It already knows.

Which means of course, you look away first. “Fine.” Your hand drops as you mutter. “One question. But if it’s stupid, I’m sending you back to HR.”

It’s not much of a threat. It’s his last day, after all, and for reasons you still don’t fully understand, Satoru has always seemed oddly immune to consequences — which, frankly, feels statistically improbable given the amount of shit he’s managed to pull in the few months of being here.

“One question?” his grin sharpens. You point your pen at him. “Don’t make me regret this.” Yet his pleased chuckle is already making you. “Awhh… look at you. Finally yielding.” His pen twirls between his fingers, nodding with false solemnity. “Okay. So, here’s the thing… throughout these four months working beside you, I’ve seen a lot—"

“—that’s not a question.” You deadpan.

But ignoring you, he reclines back in the chair, hands clasped behind his head.

“Liiiike… I’ve seen the exact face you make when Mei-Mei emails you,” he smirks. “Even noticed you work through lunch more than you should. And I’ve noticed that little line right here—” he gestures vaguely between his own brows “—every time the budget goes sideways.”

Lips parting, you blink.

…why is he so observant?!

For someone who acts like he doesn’t give a shit, he’s strangely attentive.

You clear your throat, huffing. “Okay… what’s your point?” Your hands straighten a stack of papers that doesn’t need straightening. “Is there a question in here somewhere, or are you just reciting my habits back to me for fun?”

His grin is far too pleased. “Relax. I’m getting there.” And leaning forward, his voice drops, like he’s unraveling a conspiracy. “I just find it interesting how you answer work calls before the second ring. Every damn day. Doesn’t matter who it is.” His head tilts with a smug grin. “But for whatever reason, for the past month, your personal phone’s been ringing off the hook, and you never pick up. Not once.”

Heat creeps up your neck. Not because he’s wrong — but because he’s right. And he said it like it was nothing. Like noticing the pattern of your avoidance was just something that happened to him between stamps.

Oh.

Way too observant.

Shit. He couldn't have settled on what's your favorite color!? Or, what superpower would you have!? No. Of course he had to go for the fucking jugular.

His eyes drop to the planner lying open beneath the invoices. The circled date: WEDDING. And his grin sharpens. “Ohoho… I get it now,” he whistles, leaning back in his chair and kicking one leg over the other. “What’d your fiancé do to screw up this bad? Is the wedding off?”

Your head jerks up. “F-Fiancé?!” And he rolls his eyes with a scoff, still grinning. “Knew it. God, he must be really in the doghouse. Or maybe he’s just clingy as hell to be calling that much.”

You blink.

Okay. Nevermind. He’s wrong. That is not even remotely what’s happening. The most committed relationship you’ve had is the one with your coffee machine. And yet… part of it feels almost cosmically cruel.

Because somehow, this is the second time in a month that someone had looked at the scattered pieces of your life and decided a man must be hiding inside them. Except the first time, you never even got the chance to correct it.

After all… how do you tell your mother she’s wrong?

Last month, you still answered her phone calls.

Not because you expected anything different. But because somewhere between the second ring and the third, there’s this gap — this stupid, paper-thin gap — where you still believe she might ask how you’re doing and actually wait for the answer.

Some habits taste like smoke. Some burn like liquor. But yours, unfortunately, had always looked a lot like hope.

Hope is a terrible habit you’ve never been able to kick.

“Oh—uh, hi mom!”

Your phone was wedged between your ear and shoulder while you stepped out of your car, juggling your purse and what was left of your sanity. You were already behind schedule, and your mother was calling — which meant the day had already made its intentions very clear.

“What’s up?” the door slammed shut with your hip. “I’m actually about to—”

“—Trish sent the venue photos,” she blurted, launching into a conversation like always.

Blinking, you shook the bitterness away. Striding toward the towering glass of Gojo Corporation. “That’s—yeah, that’s great,” you muttered, badge in hand as you pushed through the front doors. “But I’m actually heading into work right now? So—”

“—It’s such a beautiful venue,” she ignored you. “Very traditional, very grand. But you know the Zenin family—they never do anything small.” And as she sighed in awe, you resisted the urge to roll your eyes.

The rational part of your brain told you to let this go to voicemail. But the rational part of your brain has never once won this fight. Because…

Hope is a terrible habit you’ve never been able to kick.

"Mom, I'm sure it's lovely, really… but I'm kind of—um, excuse me…" you pivoted around a man in the bustling lobby with a sigh. “Sorry. I’m literally walking into the building right now? But maybe we can revisit this later and—"

"—have you booked your flight yet?"

Your mouth flattened.

Clearly, your half of this conversation is optional.

“No… not yet,” you mumbled, as patiently as you could manage, jabbing the up button harder than necessary. “It’s been a crazy ass week so I haven’t had a chance to, but—”

“—every week is a crazy week for you.” The huff she let out sounded almost offended by the inconvenience of your life. “Why can’t you just book it now while we’re talking? I mean, it literally takes five minutes.”

A miracle, really, that your blood pressure isn’t a medical emergency.

Every week is a crazy week?

Yeah. No shit.

Two managers resigned last quarter. Another got escorted out by security. And their work didn’t disappear. No. It landed on your desk. Because that’s how it goes. That’s how it’s always gone. Group projects. Internships. End-of-quarter disasters no one else wanted to touch. If something needed fixing, it found its way to you.

You’re the one people relied on.

Just… never the one people chose.

“Mother. I’m at work,” you said, stepping into the elevator as the doors slid open, dropping your voice as you stabbed at floor fifteen. “Look—I’m about to walk into an eight a.m. meeting. But I’ll book it tonight, promise.”

“…eight a.m.?” she repeated slowly, before letting out a small, unbothered laugh. “Oh! Right. It’s eight p.m. here. Silly me. I keep forgetting.”

…

Keep forgetting?

She keeps forgetting that she’s ten thousand miles away? Forgetting that twenty years ago she abandoned you in another country to live abroad in Japan—handing you to your grandparents like a detail she'd get back to later?

How convenient that she forgot that.

The elevator slid shut, and you watched the numbers tick upward. “Um. Yeah…” you managed, trying to keep the hurt out of your voice. “Anyways. I’ll book it tonight. After work. Okay?”

"Okay, okay. Sure. Sounds good. But are you bringing anyone?”

Squeezing the strap of your bag, you swallowed the lump in your throat. This again? The last thing you needed was to walk into your shitty eight a.m. meeting looking emotional.

No thanks.

“I… uh…” you cleared your throat. “I um—actually—haven’t decided yet. But anyways, I gotta go, so—”

“Waitwatiwait. Haven’t decided? Does that mean… you actually found someone?!”

Her voice pitched up so fast it almost startled you, and your mouth dropped so low it could’ve hit floor one.

Shit.

“I-I—I didn’t say—"

“—oh, thank God. This is incredible!!” she squealed. “We’ve been so worried. I mean—Trish is younger than you and she figured it out,” her tongue clicked. “People have been asking questions, you know. Your aunt Sara keeps bringing it up every time I see her and—”

“—Mom, I—"

“—It’s about time,” The laugh she let out was relieved, like a problem in her life had finally begun resolving itself. “You can’t keep putting love on hold forever, because men aren’t going to wait around forever. You’re already twenty-six—not getting any younger, dear.”

Love?!

Who has time for that?

And why the fuck is twenty-six the age a woman expires?!

“What’s his name?” she pressed, practically beaming through the phone. “What does he do? Is he from there, or—oh, is he Japanese? Your father would love that, he always said—”

And she was off.

Spinning an entire man out of thin air. An entire future, really. Building him in real time from a tiny slip up you had because you were too tired and cornered and desperate enough to answer the phone in the first place. And you stood there, letting her. Because interrupting her has never once worked in the history of your life.

“—actually, never mind,” she chirped a moment later, as if she was being considerate now. “You have work. I’ll call tomorrow and you can tell me everything, yes? Okay, bye-bye honey—”

Click!

And just like that, the elevator went quiet. You were left staring at your reflection in the metal doors, phone pressed to your ear, listening to the silence where your mother’s voice had been.

‘We’ve been so worried.’

…

If they were so worried… why had you spent most of your life learning to take care of yourself? And yet, the second there might be a man, suddenly you’re worth getting excited about?

Funny how that works.

Scoffing, you lowered the phone, shoving it into your bag just as the elevator chimed open. Itadori Yuji’s head snapped up behind the reception desk.

“Morning, boss,” he waved, radiating sunshine as you walked towards the conference room. “Kento’s asking if you’re still good for the budget review at eight… or if I should just tell him to panic.”

Your smile softened, burying the sting. “Yes… I’ll be right there.” And as you stepped through the polished glass doors, you played the role you’d always played.

The reliable one. Twenty-six years old, with two master’s degrees, a career at one of the most competitive corporations in the world, and a team of seven that would quietly fall apart without you.

But…

None of that glitters quite like a diamond ring, does it?

“Oi,” Satoru frowns. “You’re makin’ that face again.”

“Huh?”

Blinking out of your spiral, your eyes trace back to the man across from you. His chin is resting in his palm, those impossibly blue eyes fixed on you with a quiet stillness that makes something in your chest trip over itself — like a lock turning in a door you didn’t know was closed.

“Oh.” You clear your throat, forcing the pen back into motion. “…what face?”

“The one you make when something’s wrong,” he says quietly, gaze unmoving. “When you’re upset and trying to act like you’re not.”

For a second — one terrible, unguarded second — you don’t have a single thing to hide behind. It’s just him, looking at you like your well-being is something he’s been keeping track of in a column you didn’t even know existed.

But then the sarcasm kicks in, right on time. "Wow," you say, forcing your hands back to the papers in front of you. "So… now you read faces?"

“Mm... nah. Just yours, sweetheart.”

And that grin — god, that fucking grin — hooks at one corner like he knows exactly what just detonated inside your chest. You don’t acknowledge it. Acknowledging things have consequences, and consequences with this man are not something you can afford.

"…that’s highly inappropriate," you mutter, shoving it down. "Let’s maybe redirect some of that insight toward the invoices, yeah?"

“Sorry, sorry.” He leans back, hands up like he’s the picture of innocence. “Wouldn’t wanna start shit with your dear future husband.” His grin goes sharp as he twirls his sunglasses between two fingers. “Though, wow. Tough look for him. Whatever he did, he clearly fucked up bad.”

Why does he sound… bitter?

No. You must be imagining it. This is Satoru. Satoru, who treats everything like a joke until proven otherwise. Satoru, who doesn’t care enough about anything to sound bitter over a man who may or may not exist.

You scoff. "You’re making some wildly stupid assumptions right now…"

He perks up at that. "Oh?" With his grin hooking higher, almost hopeful. "Wait. So, there’s no fiancé, then?"

Your lips purse.

What does he care? He’s not your mother.

“I wish you’d be this interested in your actual job,” you sigh, arms crossing. “Those invoices have been sitting there all week.”

“Uh-huh.” He tips his head. “And yet somehow, I noticed you still didn’t answer me.”

You frown.

What the fuck are you supposed to say!?

Oh. Um. Actually, Satoru, there is no fiancé. That’s the problem, actually! My mother invented him the other morning and I haven't worked up the nerve to call her back.

Yeah. No. You'd rather die at this desk.

“Maybe because it’s none of your business.”

“But I—”

“Drop it.”

He stares at you for a beat, then he flops back in the chair with a dramatic huff, long legs kicking out in front of him, mouth dragging into a sulky pout.

“Well, damn,” he grumbles, pushing his sunglasses up into his hair, rolling his eyes. “No wonder you’re single if this is how you shut people down…”

The second the words leave his mouth, he blinks. His gaze flicks up to yours like he hears it too late — like he realizes, all at once, how shitty that sounded.And it only feels worse the moment he sees your face.

God.

Of all the places to hit.

“Oho… wow. Okay. This?” you say with a thin, self-deprecating laugh, chair scraping as you shove back from your seat. “Yeah. This is exactly why I shouldn’t have let you ask, Satoru.” You reach for your planner, your purse, anything to do with your hands besides let them shake.

He straightens, watching you scramble. “Whoa. Wait. I—"

“—because you don’t know when to stop!” The words come out louder than you mean, blinking at the sting behind your eyes. “You just keep pushing and pushing and pushing until you get what you want. Well good. I hope you’re happy.”

Before you can turn away, he’s on his feet. “Wait—” And the moment his hand catches yours, you freeze, breath snagging.

His voice is quieter now. His grip is firm yet gentle, and the air between you shifts, while something warm and uneasy twists low in your chest. The kind of feeling that makes you want to lean in and run in the same breath.

Though your eyes stay down. “Satoru… let go.”

“I didn’t…” he starts, then stops, gaze flicking to where his fingers still circle your wrist — before climbing back to your face, slower this time. “I’m… sorry. I just—” His mouth tightens. “I see how hard you work, okay? I see it. And every time that phone rings, you get this look on your face like it’s already ruined your day before you even touch it. And…” His brows pinch. “Fuck. I dunno why, but it pisses me off!”

Your gaze hesitantly drags to his, and the look in his eyes is softer than they have any right to be — all that blue, stripped of its usual sharpness, turned careful. Like he’s stepping toward something breakable and knows it. Like… if he asked once more, something in you might actually give.

“Satoru…” your breath hitches. “I-I—"

“Oh, finally.”

Shoko’s voice trails in, and your head snaps up so fast your neck almost goes with it. She’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, coffee in hand — looking like a woman who arrived exactly on time for something she's been expecting all week.

Her gaze flicks down to where he’s holding you, and the corner of her mouth twitches.

"Sooo… not to interrupt whatever this is," she says, taking a sip, "but Kento's one eye-twitch away from a medical event. He needs you to sign off on the variance line before he starts reconciling his own will and—"

You're already jerking your hand back. "Yup—coming!" And as you step away, heat floods your face, but you don't look back. Not once. Not even when you feel him still standing there, watching you go.

Because looking back would mean acknowledging that something just shifted. And you are not — not — doing that today.

Unlike those invoices, perhaps some things are better left… unfinished.

You’re gone in a blur of heels, nerves, and professional self-preservation, leaving Shoko trailing behind and Satoru staring at the empty doorway like maybe the conversation might wander back through it.

It doesn’t.

And it’s not long before his mouth is pulling into a slow, petulant pout—just before he flops back in the chair with all the elegance of a man personally betrayed by the universe.

Un-fucking-believable.

He’d almost had you! After four months and four days of being stonewalled, redirected, and professionally shut down, you’d finally looked like you might give him something. A crack. A sliver. And then Kento had to ruin it with his stupid reconciliation sheet, his stupid earnest face, and his stupidly impeccable timing.

…

He could fire Kento.

Should he fire Kento?

As tempting as that thought is, Satoru settles for glaring at the empty doorway a second longer before dragging a hand down his face and raking it back through his hair. There’s no point. This performance will end soon. Because by this time tomorrow, he’ll be on a flight back to Tokyo. Where he can resume the slow, agonizing process of preparing to inherit a company he didn't actually give a shit about.

'Grow up, Satoru.'

'Apply yourself, Satoru.'

'You have no idea what it takes to run something like this, Satoru.'

Right. Because apparently, the heir to a multinational corporation needed to learn humility. Alphabetize files. Sit in a cubicle. Fetch coffee like some goddamn spreadsheet slut with a trust fund and nowhere to put it.

Four years of business school, two years shadowing his father; and yet, this is what they had for him?!

He scoffs. And when his gaze drops to the wreckage of your desk, he’s pulling the stack of vendor invoices toward him with a sigh that sounds put-upon even to his own ears. You’ve been nagging him about filing them for the better part of the week and… the least he can do is clear one thing before he goes.

The stamp thuds against the first page. Then the next. Then the next. And with muscle memory taking over, his face goes blank in the way it always does when boredom finally wins. It’s mindless shit. Still, he’s used to it. So naturally, when the phone on your desk buzzes, he doesn’t think twice; snatching it up, tucking it between his ear and shoulder as he reaches for the next invoice.

It’s probably another budget nuisance. Or Mei. Or one of the other thousand little crises that seem magnetically drawn to your extension.

“Yo,” another stamp echoes. “Satoru speaking.”

There’s a sharp inhale. “…who?”

His brow lifts. “Uh… Satoru?” Another thud of ink slams against the paper and he huffs, annoyed. “What do y’need?”

The line goes quiet for a beat too long. Before the woman on the other end finally murmurs, “Satoru…” Sighing in awe. “What a lovely name. Is that Japanese?”

"Uh… yeah?” he snorts, flipping to the next page. “I mean. Last I checked.”

“Mm… I thought so!” She giggles. And her voice pitches like she's just unwrapped a present she didn't know she was getting. “So… Satoru. Why exactly are you the one answering her phone, hm?”

…

Why the hell does this woman sound so invested? And why is she asking questions that should be obvious?

Frowning down at the invoice, he stamps it harder.

“Because it rang?” He says it like it’s obvious. “And uh—sorry, but. Maybe because I’ve been with her for months, so… why the hell wouldn’t I?”

"Months?!” A soft gasp crackles, far too delighted. “You've—you've been with her for months?!"

"Mmm… four months and four days, technically."

He’s been her intern for that long.

That’s the question, right?

"—technically?!" she squeals, like the word personally seduced her. "Ohmygoodness—oh, this is perfect. Four months and four days—that is so specific.”

He blinks. But she doesn’t give him time to process.

“Look at you Mr. Devoted. Keeping track. I was starting to worry she’d never find someone like you. Every time I asked it's like pulling teeth. But I knew there had to be someone. I told her father—I said, there is a man, I can feel it.”

Pausing mid-stamp, the words slowly begin to catch up. Satoru straightens.

"…sorry. Who is thi—"

“—everyone is so excited to meet you at Trish’s wedding. I already reserved your seat and—"

Her voice keeps going… and going… and going. He pulls the phone away slowly as her voice echoes on the receiver, staring down at the phone in hand to see:

📞 Mom

Oh.

Oh, shit.

This is not your work phone. Your work phone is currently sitting at its dock twelve inches to his left. And it dawns on him that he accidentally just spent the last sixty seconds answering your personal phone like an absolute jackass and—

"Uh…” he backpedals. “Wait. I—"

"I told Sara, I said, we have to meet him and—”

"Stop. I-I really think—"

“—Satoru, what are you doing?’

His head snaps up at the sound of your voice, mouth dropping as he sees you standing at the doorway, eyes wide in horror.

Oh, fuck.

“Who is on the other end of that phone,” you hiss.

He winces, pulling the phone from his ear like it’s toxic — and you’re snatching it right out of his hand. He lets you have it without a fight, sinking back into the chair like he’s trying to physically dissociate from the situation he’s just created while you press the phone to your ear.

“And I mean…” she rambles. “I certainly was never one to wait around at twenty-six, believe me. But—"

"Mom."

"Oh! Honey!” She gasps. “Oh, my goodness, hi—I was just having the loveliest chat with—"

"I'm at work. Gotta go."

"—okay! I can't wait to meet Satoru, he—"

Click!

The phone sits in your hand like evidence.

And Satoru — to his credit — has the decency to look like a man standing in the blast radius of his own stupidity. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Like he’s rehearsing an apology in a language he hasn’t learned yet.

You stare at him.

He stares at you.

And somewhere ten thousand miles away, your mother is already calling your aunt Sara.

“Sooo… funny story…”

“—what did you do?!”

Satoru flinched, and now, the tears were already rolling down your cheeks — hot, fast, completely unauthorized. Not the kind you could disguise as allergies or blame on the air conditioning. No. The ugly kind.

Great. Fucking great.

You were standing in the middle of your own office, in the building where you work, crying in front of your intern. And Satoru felt the weight of it all at once. In the last four months, he had seen you in every flavor of workplace misery there was. Pissed off, stressed out, one spreadsheet away from actual murder.

But cry?

Never.

And this had his fingerprints all over it.

"Shit," he breathed, panic flashing across his face. "I—fuck. Okay. Please don't—I can fix this. I can—"

"Fix this?" A splintered laugh ripped out of you, and you hated how thin it was. "Fix what, Satoru? You just confirmed a boyfriend to my mother, a boyfriend that doesn't exist—and she is, at this very moment, probably already—"

Another break in your voice cracked, and you squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your hand to your forehead hard like you could hold the tears in by sheer force. But it only made it worse, because now you could feel the wetness on your own face, the heat of it under your palm, and the mortification landed like a second wave.

God. How fucking humiliating.

"Hey, hey—it's okay,” his voice softened. “We'll just… call her back. Right? Tell her it was a misunderstanding. Easy."

“Easy?” you scoffed, the word coming out strangled. “Y-You don’t understand my mother, Satoru,” you managed, voice gone thin as thread. God, you sounded like a child. “If she thinks something is true, then it’s true. That’s it. That’s—there’s no correcting her, there’s no walking it back, she’s already told my aunt Sara by now and Sara’s told Trish and—oh, fuck—”

Another sob tumbled out, and your fingers dug harder into your temple.

God. Stop it.

Stop it stop it stop it.

Think.

Think logically. You're good at this. You solve problems for a living.

But every time you tried to grab onto a thought, it slipped — replaced by the echo of your mother's voice, high and delighted. The happiest she'd sounded talking to you in years. Maybe ever.

…what look will she give you when you show up alone?

"I can’t," you whispered, and the word came out waterlogged. "I-I'm supposed to get on a plane to Japan in a week and—do what? Tell them there's no one? Tell them I'm still—"

Single.

The word sat in your mouth like a stone. You didn’t realize you’d gone silent until the silence itself started ringing — your sniffling, the hum of fluorescent lights, the muffled life of the office continuing beyond the door like yours wasn’t actively coming apart at the seams.

And through all of it, you could feel Satoru looking at you. His stillness; holding you with an expression you'd never seen on him before and couldn't categorize if you tried.

"Um…” he looked down, scratching the back of his neck. “Soooo... the wedding's in Japan?"

You blinked. “What?” And as you wiped your face with the back of your hand, his gazed tentatively flicked back up. “The wedding…” he repeated, voice careful. “It’s in Japan?”

"Yes." Your brow furrowed, not understanding. "Why?"

He didn't answer right away. Just looked down at the floor for a second, jaw shifting, like he was turning something over in his head — something he hadn't fully assembled yet but could already feel the shape of.

"Huh… okay."

Okay what?

You watched his expression change in real time — from guilt to calculation to something else. "Right then!" He said, clapping his hands once, bright and sudden. "No biggie. I'll just go with you."

No biggie?

Your mouth dropped.

That wasn’t even an option, was it?

…is he crazy?

“You’re kidding,” your laugh was awkward and breathless. His eyes rolled with a smug grin. “Sweetheart, c’mon,” and he was gesturing between the two of you like the answer was sitting there in plain sight and you were the only person in the room committed to not seeing it. "Your family thinks you're bringing someone? Cool." A hand pressed to his chest with theatrical solemnity. "I'm someone."

You stared at him. Genuinely stared.

Oh. He wasn’t kidding.

Yup. He’s crazy.

"You are not 'someone,' Satoru. You are my intern."

“Yeah. For like… another six hours?"

He checked his watch with a shrug, and your lips flattened.

"…that is not the point."

“Mm… feels a little like the point."

He smirked, but it faded faster than usual, dimming at the edges as his blue eyes hesitated on yours. Something shifted in his posture; the performance pulling back, like a tide going out. "Um… look…" He pushed off the desk, stepping closer. "It’s really no hassle." He said, hands sliding into his pockets. "I already have a flight scheduled. My family's in Tokyo. And I was going back after this internship anyway, so… this just moves my timeline back a little."

He was shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal. Like he wasn’t agreeing to fly across the world with you and walk straight into the disaster that was your family.

…

His family’s in Japan too?

You barely knew anything about him. He kept his life sealed off with the same practiced deflection you kept yours — jokes in place of answers, charm in place of honesty. You never bothered to ask, because asking meant caring and that was a door you never intended to walk through with anyone.

But…

"Just… let me come with you. I’ll be your boyfriend for the weekend. For the wedding. For… whatever you need,” he said. And this time, when he stepped closer, there was no grin to hide behind. "I can be useful. I caused this. So… let me fix it."

Heat creeped up your neck, and you scoffed, weakly.

"Okay… but you can't fix my mother."

"No…” he murmured, tilting his head. His hand came up and brushed a tear trailing down your cheek with a careful gentleness. “But… I can make sure you don't have to walk in there alone?"

Your breath hitched, and when your eyes finally lifted, the morning light was being cruel again — catching in that impossible blue and turning it soft. Like stained glass dipped in sunlight. Like something holy made dangerous by the simple fact that it was looking straight at you.

“Mhn. So, do I get the job, boss lady? Because that look you’re giving me…” a slow smirk curls up the corner of his mouth. “Very encouraging for my boyfriend résumé, by the way. Might get addicted to it and wanna make it a full-time gig.”

“Shut up,” you mutter, looking away too fast to be convincing.“That was not a look. I was just—” You grimace. “…never mind.”

He’s chuckling as you brush past him. And his words are what scared you the most. Which was bad. Very, very bad. Because your mother was one problem. Japan was another. But Satoru looking at you like that?

Shit…

That felt like the kind of complication that didn’t stay neatly contained. And you knew better than anyone. Nothing about Satoru had ever suggested he could be contained.

a/n: hehe. this has been fun to work on! i am excited to share the next part. clearly i love these fake dating/fake marriage tropes aha 🙂‍↕️ bc this is like... what—my third time doing it? soooo i tried to change things up and make it feel less standard/generic :) but anyways, like i said pt 2 will be out in a week, pls lmk if you wanna be tagged 💖

[yenayaps]

Hesitance 1 | gymowner!sukuna x f!reader

Summary: Sukuna is a gym owner, and has a hard time saying goodbye to his least productive employee.

This work will be a part of a collection of moments the two have shared together during her time there.

Genre: modern au, 18+, established friendship(?)

Word Count: 1.8k

Fic warnings: ooc, profanity

Notes: i've reread forgotten souls on ao3 more times than i can count, soft sukuna always gets me. i came up with this after listening to waterfall by night tapes, feel free to listen to it while reading <3

Hearing an exaggerated 'ahem' startled you, causing you to drop your phone on the keyboard. You look up to see that it was no one other than your lovely boss, Ryomen Sukuna- who was currently wondering why he hasn't fired you in all the years you've worked for him.

Oh right, it's because everyone would've given him hell for it. Even Uraume.

And how exactly did you manage to get Uraume to like you? He had no clue. And quite frankly, he’ll always be a little offended by it. Being the only one Uraume respected at one point was something he prided himself on, up until you came waltzing into his business.

You were the personality hire at this point and work wouldn't be the same without you. Yet here you were, on your last day of working at Malevolifts. 

You thought the name for the gym was cheesy, but seeing how passionate Ryo was about working out made you change your mind.

"Heeeeeey," you nervously greeted him.

You had one job, and that was to greet the customers. You didn't even hear him come in, let alone see him.

"Whatcha doin' on your phone?"

"Oh you know~ just drafting up an essay," you were reading a fanfic, but he didn't need to know that.

He turned to look at your laptop that was next to you, the one that was closed. "Isn't that what your laptops for?"

"You're aware that docs has an app, right?"

Brat.

He put both hands over the check-in counter and leaned over you with a shit-eating grin on his face, "You are so full of shit." Causing Choso to audibly gasp and cover your precious little ears.

He couldn't help but laugh at your fast thinking. You got him there, but you both knew you weren't using that app. Who the fuck giggles and kicks their feet while writing an essay? He's seen you have multiple meltdowns in the break room over your assignments- ones he had to console you through. You weren't fooling anybody.

And to top it off, the staff was babying you, as usual. He knew you weren’t as innocent as you made yourself to be. He’s looked over your shoulder one too many times in the past, only to find that you were reading the most obscene smut, on the clock.

"Put the fucking phone away and get back to work. It's literally your last day here." He says, pushing himself off the counter and making his way towards his office.

Despite his rough demeanor, he was actually a fun boss. You've worked for him for almost three years now, he didn't truly mean half the shit he said.

He was boisterous- easy to get into random banters with, so sarcastic that the line between a joke and a serious statement was heavily blurred. It never failed to make others laugh when his oh-so mysterious assistant, Uraume, did the bare minimum like bringing him a coffee and he'd respond with something ridiculous like "AS METICULOUS AS ALWAYS ASSISTANT".

It was a local gym anyways, there was no need to be professional. The only reason why he became a gym owner was because he liked working out and hated being told what to do.

–

Once he put all of his stuff down in his office, he made his way to you again. Bothering you was routine for him, the day didn't feel right if he didn't poke fun at you at least once.

"Hey brat! Go cash these checks for me, will you?"

You looked up from your phone that you were supposed to put away a few minutes ago and pouted. "Can't you have Uraume do it? It's gonna take forever walking to the bank."

"Good thing you're taking my car," He responded, tossing his keys to you.

You shot him a death glare, he absolutely knew you were in the middle of reading something. You grabbed the stupid checks out of his hand before stomping out of the gym, making your way towards his matte black dodge charger daytona. You were impressed by it initially, it was fast and loud. He's given you so many rides home at this point though that you gradually got over it. Although it was fun during the rare times he let you drive it.

You two had an interesting relationship. Whenever someone joined the gym or was hired to work there, they'd always assume that you were dating from the way you two bickered like an old married couple. Everyone was shocked at how you'd get away with raising your voice at him or telling him to fuck off while working, but it was just another day for you both.

One time, one of his girlfriends tried to confront you over the way you spoke to him. It got shut down real quick. 

And by shut down, it meant Ryo accusing them of trying to tell him how to run his business and then dumping them. He’d apologize to you soon after.

-

You were literally two streets away from the bank. Yet here you were, pulled over on the side of the road with red and blue lights flashing behind you and waiting for Ryo to pick up the phone.

|"What?"

|"Sukuuuuu~" You sang out one of the many nicknames you’ve given him over the years.

You heard him sigh over the phone, envisioning him pinching his nose bridge. 

|"What did you do?"

|"A cop thinks I stole your car. Please save me." you giggled, nervously. 

He was there in less than ten minutes, making Uraume speed way more than you had. After showing the cop proof that it was his car and you were his employee, he walked up to the driver's seat.

“Other side, brat. You really think I'm letting you drive back after this?” He tried to hold back a smile, of course this would happen on your last day of work. 

-

“I’m so sorry Ryo,” you finally said, breaking the silence between you two on the ride back.

You turned your head to look at him after hearing a little laugh.

"Don't look at me like that, kid." He said, pinching your chin. "You know I don't care." He did care. He was annoyed that his auto insurance would be higher after this month, but was willing to let it go since it was your last day. 

“Wanna grab a drink and some food at Sergio’s?” He asked. 

It took you back, he’d usually get annoyed by something like this. He didn’t like being pulled away from work, let alone take the rest of the day off after you got pulled over in his car. You remembered the checks too, but you were hungry and didn’t want an extra stop to keep you from eating. 

-

Being alone with him never felt awkward until now. The look he had on his face was different. He was usually extremely happy or extremely mad. Seeing him in a state of neutrality brought you a sense of discomfort. 

He noticed the change in your demeanor as well, it encouraged him to lead you by your lower back with his hand towards the bar and your seat. He was never much of a talker when it came to talking about his feelings, so he hoped the small gesture helped your nervousness a little bit. 

He was nervous too. He usually only talked to you about work– Well, teased you about your lack of drive when it came to being a front desk attendant. There’d be no point if he teased you about that now. 

He asked you about your plans after college and the internship you had lined up as you both ate your food. 

An economics major. He had no idea what the fuck that was, but with the amount of time you had your head in books, it somehow made sense.

It was boring, but he still cared. Even though you never put that much effort into your job the past three years, he knew how much of a go-getter you were. It was his fault anyways, anytime he saw you slack off, he’d just make fun of you. 

No repercussions from his end at all, it was no one else’s fault but his. Personality hire, remember? He couldn’t let you go over something so small. 

Everyone loved you. 

He loved you. 

He fully believed that you’d go out there into the world and get what you wanted, that’s just who you were in his eyes.

'Waterfall' by night tapes came on. He knew it was cheesy, but he wanted nothing more than to hold you tonight. He’d never danced with anybody before, and wanted his first to be with you.

So stupid, a 25 year old man, yearning to dance with some girl.

He got up from his seat and reached his hand out to you. "It's my last day with you stink, let me have this."

He led you to the corner of the floor after you took his hand. He avoided going to the middle, wanting it to be an intimate moment.

He had his hands around your waist at first, but it didn't feel right. He wrapped one arm completely around you and cradled the back of your head with the other so he could gently push you further into his chest, resting his chin on top of your head as he slow danced with you.

Three years, how did time go by that fast? There's a part of him that feels like he just met you yesterday. The other feels like he's known you his whole life. He wasn't ready to let go.

He knew this day would come, he just kept avoiding the thought of it. He remembers your 19 year old self, walking into the gym and asking for a job. He was 22 years old at the time, the same age as you were now. He remembered the apprehension he felt when opening the gym that year, wondering if that's how you felt now that you were graduating.. wondering if you felt as alone as he did. 

God, he was so lonely.

He remembered the years with you. 

Your laugh when he cracked his stupid jokes. 

Your anger when he made all his ridiculous requests. 

The sweet moments you two shared together as you ate dinner in his office after closing the gym. 

He remembered the way you wiped food off the corner of his mouth that one time. He was starving, the cheesesteak sandwich he scarfed down that night was the first thing he’d eaten all day. He thought of how natural it was for you to swipe the grease off his lips that night. 

He remembered that one time during the holidays, when he refused to let you take the bus home at 9pm after making you stay at the gym with him. He practically forced you to get into his car so he could take you home- taking a detour of course, so you two could look at christmas lights together. 

He thought of all the moments he could’ve kissed you, he's missed so many chances of finally telling you how he felt about you. 

Tears flowed down his cheeks, remembering that you wouldn’t be at the gym, bright and early tomorrow morning. He wasn’t ready for this.

part two

additional notes: i chose the name ‘hesitance’ because it’s all he feels around her. he fell in love with her months into first meeting her, but has been afraid of expressing his emotions ever since.

All rights reserved © 2024 hauntedcrownpost. Do not copy, repost, translate, or modify my works in any platform.

[nanahidesingroves]

you know just how to get to me.

(modern!sukuna x reader)

synopsis: ༄ sobriety means nothing in the name of love, it seems, and sukuna is just another victim to it. what happens when he can't stop thinking about you, and the bottle of your perfume that he owns has just run out?

〃✦ ┆word count: 11.6k

Pushing it Down and Praying (Pt. 4 - finale)

(Lizzy McAlpine)

▶︎•၊၊||၊|။||||။၊|။•

➢(part one: softer.), (part two: harder.), (part three: in between.)

warnings: MDNI!!! swearing, hate sex/makeup sex, oral sex (fem! receiving), vaginal fingering, p in v sex, mild crying, feelings, hair pulling, YEARNING, a little begging, missionary, slight tattoo-tracing

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ (a/n): hello everyone! i can hear all of you cry out in shock, "nana's back from the dead!", and you're all correct!! I am back and still surviving (somehow). i'm so terribly sorry that this final chapter has taken so long, but life has continually been fucking me up my ass, no glue, no borax, no LUBE, so please forgive me.

due to many requests, i have decided that the yearning in this chapter will be astronomical, and i hope that as a finale to this much loved series, you will enjoy this ending just as much as you have the others <3

─────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────────────────

"i fucked up."

sukuna stumbles, trips over his feet, balancing himself against your doorway. your heart hammers despite having just woken up, glancing at your wall to see that the clock's hands are pointing to ten past three in the morning.

it had been approximately two months since you'd both blown up at each other, and in the meantime there had only been radio silence. no calls. no speaking. not even looking at each other when you walked by.

just down-turned eyes and trembling hands.

and now he's here. tripping over himself, shoes squeaking pathetically as he tries to take a step forward, swearing when he fights with his coat, trying to slip it off of his shoulders to no avail. your room stinks of alcohol - the familiar, sickening aroma of vodka makes you wrinkle your nose, accompanied by the faintest musk of sweat and that cologne.

you freeze, eyes narrowing as you finally manage to clock what's going on: ryomen sukuna, in your room, muttering profanities as his leather jacket hangs from one arm and he's leaning against your doorframe, drunkenly pawing at the shoe of his lifted foot, thick fingers fumbling with the laces, trying to push it off.

he senses you looking at him, strands of pink hair sticking to his forehead from the sweat dampening his skin, vermillion eyes bright and tinged red at the edges. they drop down to the distance between you both - three, maybe even four, feet of space from where he's stood in the open doorway to your dorm, hugging your arms across your chest.

sukuna coughs, runs his eyes over the bare skin of your arms and legs, disappointed to find that you were back to sleeping in your own t-shirts as opposed to his. the disappointment turns heavier, makes another lump form in his throat.

"i fucked up." he mumbles, head dropping down to watch his hand push at the heel of his shoe, and you swallow thickly as he rambles, "i fucked up, babe, and 'm-" he hiccups, swaying dangerously, "oh fuck- i didn't mean nothin' to ya, and that's okay. 's just-"

"sukuna, get out."

your voice rings clearer than you thought you'd be able to force it to, and somehow you're stepping towards him, clenching your jaw as the acrid smell of vodka and cologne mixes in the air, more concentrated and sickening as you get closer.

his head snaps up, and he shakes it vehemently, still trying to get his fucking shoe off, his temper growing because his feet are too big and his fucking fingers are too clumsy to untie the laces like he wants them to and he keeps muttering, muttering, muttering- "nah, nah, nah, wanna stay. wanna stay and sleep. gotta sleep in your bed otherwise 'm gonna throw up-"

"sukuna." you reach him, biting down on your lower lip and chewing delicately as you debate what to do. maybe calling toji might help - you could swallow your pride for an hour to help him drive sukuna home - but it's unlikely he'll pick up the phone for you in the first place, especially since he's probably in a worst state than sukuna.

you push the faint idea of calling satoru out of your head immediately - there'll be no physical altercations tonight.

red eyes meet yours. even slumped against the doorframe, he still towers a couple inches above you. the door is still open - if any of your flatmates decided to grab a midnight snack, you're done for. still, closing the door meant giving in; he'll take it as admission and end up forcing himself into your bed and stinking up your sheets.

your thoughts are broken by another loud, "hic!" and sukuna losing balance, clawing at the wall briefly before he feels himself falling-

but then it's you again. warm, beautiful you, hurrying forwards and huffing as you manage to slow his descent to the floor, lowering him as gently as you can onto your carpet. he hears the door shut and grunts at the familiarity of the sound.

soft hands move his face to and fro - and it takes everything for his alcohol-addled brain to keep up with you, head slumping forward. his arms feel heavy, so heavy, and his muscles ache, but he lifts them anyway, clawing gently at the back of your shirt, dragging his nails down your spine. his eyes flutter, nose dragging against your cheek as his face dips forward.

"i fucked…up." he murmurs, pushing his head into your shoulder.

it doesn't matter that you tense, it doesn't matter that you don't hug him back. all that's important is the smell of vanilla gently filling his nose and the feeling of your skin finally on his again.

"you stink." your brows furrow, wrinkling your nose as you try your best to avoid breathing in too harshly. sukuna smells like he's been slumming it out in some alleyway for the past few hours. "how drunk are you?"

"mm." he presses you closer to him, arms winding around your torso. there's the faintest whisper of your name, right into your ear, and he says it again, and again, like he's taking bites out of you.

for a moment, you listen. he keeps muttering your name, your heart twists in your chest. "sukuna, baby, you can't stay here."

"ryo." he corrects, pulling back, and you savour the freedom you have now to breathe, watching him sniffle and wipe his nose with the back of his hand, "used t'call me ryo."

you stare at each other for a few beats.

then, you whisper.

"not anymore, sukuna."

he scowls, or pouts, rather, the skin between his brows wrinkling. he notices you don't smoothe it out like you used to. the frown deepens, "why?"

a snort escapes you, and you shake your head and look away. what a weird situation you find yourself in - knelt between the legs of your ex-bestfriend while he sits on the floor and slumps against your wall. a month ago, and you would have imploded at the idea. two months since the argument had passed and now you're just…impassive.

tired.

"you've drank too much." the sound of clothes rustling fills the air between you both as you move to slide his jacket off of his arm, throwing it in a corner somewhere so that he stinks up the place a little less.

sukuna doesn't let up, "why?" trembling fingers find the hem of your t-shirt, gently twisting the fabric in his firm grip to ensure you stay nearby, "'s 'cause i fucked up, right?" you press your lips together and try to lean back - sukuna huffs and straightens up, head following yours.

"well, 'm sorry. real sorry. call me ryo again, now, please?" his voice cracks as he pleads with you, and for a small moment, you pause.

but then you remember that this was always how it works amongst men like him; this was a new version of cowardice that you'd never thought you'd see from sukuna, showing up drunk and fumbling his way into your room, begging for forgiveness while he slurs his words, knowing he has the escape-route of blaming it on the alcohol if it goes awry.

but you don't have it in you to blow up at him. not yet. not again.

instead you just push back the strands of hair sticking to his forehead, watching his eyelids grow heavy, and the way he tilts his face to chase the warmth of your palm with his cheek. two months ago, you would have accommodated him.

two months ago, you would have kissed his temple and traced the tattoos on his face with the tips of your fingers.

but you're well aware he doesn't deserve that anymore. you aren't sure if you deserve it either.

"that's not how it works, sukuna." you murmur.

his eyes open, and confusion ripples across his expression. then, it's anger. then, it's frustration.

"i said 'm sorry." he grits out, fist tightening it's grip on your shirt.

"so?" you reach down and carefully wrap your fingers around his wrist, slender digits covering the two black, tattooed lines beneath. a warning. a reminder. "you think just saying it drunk is good enough? you think just saying it at all is going to make everything fine again?"

a low, intimidating sound rumbles out from his chest as his face twists into one of scorn. you watch the way his lips draw back, baring teeth, his tongue struggles to pick out what his inebriated mind wants him to say.

it's a losing battle.

all that comes out is a quiet snarl, heated, before his shoulders sag and he lets go.

silence reigns supreme for more than a couple minutes. you move to sit across from him, close enough so that when he closes his eyes, he can still press his knee against yours and know that he's safe. that he's exactly where he wants to be.

in the time that you wait, all you do is stare at the clock and think. it's a struggle to try and rein in your emotions when a large flurry of memories whiz around in your head.

you'd thought two months would be long enough for you to move on, to kick him out when he shows up drunk at your door. what a stupid assumption - it was never that easy with sukuna.

"i…" you jolt slightly as his voice croaks out the beginnings of a sentence, and you turn your face to find his eyes already trained on yours. "i still-" he coughs, head lolling forward from both the alcohol and exhaustion, and he can barely muster up the strength to say anything else except a dry sob of your name.

you cave.

immediately, you're shuffling forward on your knees, cooing, arms wrapping around his neck, guiding his face into the crook of your shoulder and patting his back as he sniffles and clings to your shirt.

you feel something wet against your skin, feel his shoulders tremble, notice the faintest whimpers filling the air despite the insistent silence. and through it all, you don't mention it - you just hold him while he shakes, and don't make a sound when his nails dig too harshly into your sides as he grapples for security.

you know that in the morning, when all is said and done, when he's sober, he'll be more upset about his wounded pride than losing you. and that's alright, because you'll live. from the looks of it, he won't - he needed this.

by the time he pulls away, his face is a mess - a beautiful, chiselled mess, but a mess nonetheless.

you grab the nearest tissues at hand and wipe down his cheeks and nose, whispering sweetly against his temple as he shudders, the hand clasping his chin traces soothing lines against his jaw with your thumb. eventually, he settles.

"fuck." he grunts out, taking deep breaths in, like how you told him to, and you stop what you're doing to glance at him.

his eyes have never left your face. not once. they rarely leave your lips, either, and sukuna wishes he could rewind to two months ago, back to when you'd kissed him outside in the hallway and asked if he wanted to stay the night.

(he would've changed his answer - would have said "fuck yes" and crawled into bed with you, and in the morning afterwards he'd kiss you awake, and there'd be no losing you. not then, not ever.)

instead, he's stuck between a rock and a hard place - all he can think about is tilting his head forward and kissing you again, tempted by the moonlight filtering through your window bathing you in the most beautiful light, and how you still smell the same.

but he's sure he stinks - even with the alcohol blurring his senses he can smell the unpleasant musk of sweat and vodka clinging to his clothes and skin, and he's sure he wouldn't taste good either.

nevertheless, he loves you. very much. and you're so pretty and out of his league and he's been staring at you in silence for the past five minutes and-

"i heard you 'n uh…gojo are a thing, now." he whispers.

sukuna watches as your eyes narrow briefly, and the lines around your mouth tighten.

"no." you whisper back. "we aren't."

relief mingles with the tension in his body, and his eyes flicker over your expression. he knows that this was unfair on you - appearing out of nowhere after two months just to wake you up in the silly hours of the morning when you should be sound asleep.

but there had been no toji to stop him when he stumbled to your building (toji, of course, having crawled under a bush nursing a small bottle of whiskey), and he'd only been thinking about you more and more as the days and months passed.

sukuna blinks as he tries to form a few more coherent thoughts to defend himself and win you back - he's sure he'd taken an unspoken vow of celibacy since you'd slapped him in gojo's bathroom. he'd changed - he knows he has, and everyone seems to know it, too. everyone except you.

which should be mildly impossible, all things considered - how rumours of his saintly self-control spreading through the campus seemed to avoid you like the plague was a mystery to him.

sukuna wonders if it's the universe trying to tell him that he's no good for you, that there's no celestial plan that has you and him written in the stars.

the thought makes him angry, to the point where you're left wondering why he's curling his hands into fists, nails scraping faintly along the line of your waist, breathing turned heavy.

and there's that familiar wrinkle, right between two naturally thick, unkempt, dark pink eyebrows.

("you're gonna get wrinkles here," you murmur, pressing your thumb over the furrowed skin, carefully smoothing it out before taking the tweezers and fluidly plucking a singular hair. it leaves the skin slightly reddened, and sukuna winces, "if you keep frowning."

faint music filters into the air. soft. slow. mildly sexual.

you try to ignore the subtle allure of the lyrics - it's not your playlist, but his, after all, and it wasn't your request to pluck his eyebrows, but his. nonetheless, whatever ulterior message he's trying to send you will dissipate into the grey area your relationship stands on.

still, sukuna thinks he's in heaven.

because you're here.

half on top of him, one of his arms supporting your lower back as you dig your elbows into the pillow either side of his head, face hovering literal centimetres above his own, smoothing out his eyebrows with your fingers, pressing the cool metal of your tweezers into his skin before plucking, plucking, plucking.

and like some criminal, he gets away with using that same arm that's around you to press your chests closer - his heart near to your own. sukuna thinks that if he breathes deeply enough, slowly enough, your fates might intertwine with the synchronised beat of that warm, pulsating organ inside the both of you.

two minds, one soul - that's all he needs, all he craves.

"yeah?" he whispers - you feel the cool slide of his gaze run over your cheeks, your nose…your lips. "maybe y'should stay long 'nough to see all of me wrinkle."

you snort and keep plucking. the skipping of your heart goes ignored.

he doesn't tear his eyes away, barely even closes them when he winces. "'m sayin' i want you with me when 'm old, babe."

you pause, tearing your eyes away from his brows (wonderfully neat, if you do say so yourself), to look down at him, confused, mostly, but also reverent, like he knows exactly how to get to you.

then, you speak, "i'll stay for as long as you deserve, ryo.")

for as long as he deserves.

the words run circles around his head, so vivid and loud it's almost as if he can see them spinning in some cartoonish halo, whirring and whirring and whirring all over the place until he feels sick. you grunt as his head falls into your collarbone heavily.

you feel him nuzzle his nose into you, once, twice, smearing wet tears too silent to acknowledge.

and sukuna knows, he fucking knows, that he deserves nothing from you - especially not you staying, of all things.

and he knows that he doesn't deserve the way you handle him so gently, helping him to his feet, or the way you coo as he stumbles and throws up into your toilet, his groans filling the air as nothing but liquid rises up and out, rubbing his back and carding your fingers through his hair like he's something delicate.

nor is he entitled to the way you situate him with his back to the shower, tilting his head back with the lightest push of your thumb under his chin, showerhead in hand as it clears the air a little from the sour odour of vodka and sweat.

he does nothing to warrant the careful massage of shampoo rubbed into his scalp, or the facewash rubbed onto his skin, only to be rinsed off by a gentle shower of warm water and the quietest words of comfort murmured into his ear.

and he can't handle the way you stand in front of him, eyes almost closed from exhaustion, hair towel-dried and damp as you urge his mouth open and brush his teeth so lovingly it makes his heart clench. it's with your toothbrush, too. you used to have a second one, he remembers, kept just in case he stayed over.

now two months had gone and there's nothing left of what once was.

and it's all his fault.

"didn't mean-" it's hushed, almost mouthed instead of spoken aloud, but you listen. sukuna dips his head down low, leaning his hips back against the edge of the sink where he stands, "didn't mean to…uh- f-fffuck those other girls." he splutters.

you raise an eyebrow, unimpressed. he frowns and grapples for the right words.

"i mean i…well, i did but- uh- guess i was always…was always thinkin' of you." he sees a muscle in your jaw tick, your brows furrowing further, and sukuna swallows thickly, lashes fluttering weakly. "i know you're mad at me, babe, and 'm real fuckin' sor-"

"enough."

his eyes widen, and despite the blurred edges of his vision, sukuna realises that you're trembling with either rage or hurt. maybe both. definitely both.

"i'm not gonna listen to this, sukuna-"

"ryo." he insists.

"no. it's gonna be 'sukuna' until you can get your fucking act together." you snap. sukuna jolts, the sharp edge to your voice sparking tension throughout all of his body, and he gives you this look, like he's some mutt you'd kicked after feeding.

your shoulders sag, dragging your hand down over your face in some farce attempt to physicaly wipe off your disdain.

"come on," you sigh, leading his weight off of the sink and onto you - he takes the close proximity warmly, murmurs coming out in some incoherent mixture of words as you lead him from your bathroom to your bed. "bed time."

his head whips up, a hopeful gleam in his eye, one that you can't bear to smother. "bed time." he repeats, pressing closer to you. his breath smells of your toothpaste, now - minty, pleasant, and hot air fans over your cheek as he pushes his nose into your cheek.

there's the muffled noise of him breathing you in - slow, deep, like he hopes to inhale your soul with just a lungful of air.

"bed time means y'gotta…y'gotta rest with me." he mutters, "means y'gotta lemme hold ya again, right?"

you're dead silent as his hands slide around your waist, gliding over smooth skin to meet at your lower back. he tugs you close, and you still don't speak, not until he's had enough of the ache in his feet from standing up for so long.

sukuna is merciful enough to let you go before collapsing backwards onto your mattress, groaning with loud ecstasy as he sinks into the plush blankets and pillows, giggling softly as he's swarmed by an army of stuffed animals and plushies.

warily, you slide under the covers, back against the headboard, watching him.

moonlight illuminates his face like it does yours, and he's oblivious to how your eyes track the movement of his facial tattoos when he smiles, sluggishly throwing one of your teddy-bears to the side to give himself more room. there's a small shadow where his smile-lines reside, a small crinkle at the corners of his eyes where crow's-feet form.

it's not long before he searches for you again, whispering your name under his breath like a mantra, repeated and repeated as he crawls over to you, grunting when he sinks down and buries his face into your thigh.

you do nothing but watch - he takes initiative, drunkenly reaching for one of your wrists, forcing your fingers into his damp hair. sukuna hums when he feels your digits curl through his tresses, tugging gently just once before moulding around the curve of his skull.

"missed you sooo fuckin' bad." he giggles, tilting his head back, vermillion irises half hidden behind droopy eyelids, and there's this stupid, crooked grin on his face, one that makes your lips tingle with want.

because there's nothing that you wouldn't give up just to kiss him.

nothing except your pride.

sukuna doesn't seem to notice. maybe he just doesn't care. maybe he's just too happy to be there, with you, again. another tired giggle leaves him, shoulders shaking with relief - it's been months since his body had known anything else other than tension.

"y'know i…i cried like a fuckin' baby when y'left." he snorts, but his voice takes on a lamenting lilt, like even drunk he feels the weight of your absence on his chest. "didn't…didn't get outta bed for weeks." his hand, rough, gentle, strokes the outside of your thigh, and you listen with more of an ache to your chest.

you shouldn't be listening to him, shouldn't be indirectly taking advantage of his talkative state so that you could finally get a glimpse of what made him tick.

but you'd been hurt by his silence, too.

"sukuna." you whisper, stroking his head, "you have to stop talking, baby."

"no, no, no, i gotta tell ya-"

"you'll regret it in the morning, ryo." a lump forms in your throat at the thought. every apology, every kind word and beg for forgiveness, every attempt at reconciliation caused nothing but complications and heartache - all of it was temporary.

there was no stopping the from sun rising, or preventing the alcohol in his bloodstream from wearing off.

and there was nothing stopping him from leaving again.

"ryo." your silent grieving is paused for a moment, just briefly, by a small voice muffled into your lap, repeating the nickname.

"ryo." sukuna mumbles, exhaling a long, careful breath, eyes no longer open, heartbeat even, barely awake, "ryo, ryo, ryo."

the hand stroking your thigh stops, thick fingers resting against your skin, and you just…watch, and say nothing as all stress from his face melts off, and you're left with the sukuna ryomen that only you know, that only you are aware exists.

"nah," he sighs, "there's no regrettin' you, babe."

it's the clearest sentence he'd spoken all night - free from the underlying slur of alcohol and a misbehaving tongue.

minutes pass by with barely a noise; just the sound of his breathing, short puffs of breath hitting the bare skin of your thighs where your shorts fail to cover your legs, and the echo of your thoughts resounding into nothingness, always out of reach - if you hadn't been used to it, you're sure the frustration would have killed you by now.

by the time you glance at the clock (swallowing your dread upon coming to realise that it was already half four in the morning - with a lecture at nine, no less), sukuna is drooling into your lap.

the faint rustling of your covers is punctuated by his sleepy protests as you shift, lifting his head and guiding it to the closest pillow. muscular arms pull at your waist, and a heavy leg is thrown over your hips. you close your eyes.

by the time sukuna wakes up at noon, his head is ringing, and you're long gone.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

another week passes before you hear from him again.

obviously, after waking up well before your nine a.m. alarm and wiggling slyly out of his hold to get dressed to go to your lecture (with saintly discipline, considering that four and a half hours of sleep was all that you managed to squeeze in), you expected to find an empty bed upon your return.

what you didn't expect, though, was a bed that was actually made.

pillows fluffed up and placed tenderly against your headboard, blankets smoothed out over the mattress without so much as a wrinkle, even your plushies were respectfully lined up against the side closest to the wall - like a little choir, about to serenade you at your welcome return.

everything was so carefully planned out, so lovingly orchestrated to perfection that you wondered if it was truly possible for someone with such rough hands to be capable of this inherent tenderness.

that night, when you slide into the covers, his cologne still lingers.

it's the most restful sleep you've had in two months.

now, a week later, you aren't surprised when the sound of knocks against your door disturb the study session you'd planned for yourself.

waiting had always been one of your strong points, as was foresight. you knew sukuna kept looking at you this past week because you kept looking at him - the pointed whispers of your peers were unnecessary - and when your eyes met from across the cafeteria, and he held your gaze, it was only a matter of time, only a question of who had more patience.

unsurprisingly, it was never going to be you knocking on his door.

your socks shuffle over the carpeted floor of your dorm room, and you glance at yourself in the mirror by the door to fully gouge what sort of trainwreck you would look like; shockingly, you don't look bad. just the same, usual format of clothing: baggy t-shirt (with the words 'two-seater' printed out onto the white fabric in thick, black letters, accompanied by two equally thick arrows pointing to your face and further south - you giggle), and a pair of grey shorts.

comfortable.

more knocks are hurriedly echoing throughout your room, and you give yourself one last, long, wary look, before reaching for your door handle and turning.

and he's there.

sober this time. but looking more upset, more frustrated.

he glowers at you, mouth downturned in the beginnings of a snarl with his brows furrowed. you follow the line of them with your eyes and don't speak as your gaze settles on that familiar crinkle.

"what?"

it's spoken with far less scorn than you'd expected, your voice still strong, still unwavering in the face of a man who dwarfed you and took up almost all of the space in your doorway. his broad shoulders and head block out the light, casting shadows on his face like some sort of demon coming to get you.

sukuna just stares, and wonders if his resolve is as strong as he once thought it was.

(he wakes up with a snort, choking on his drool unceremoniously as he flails around in sheets that he knows aren't his.

the panic is dulled, though - for some reason, the sheets smell familiar. like vanilla.

like-

"oh fuck no." sukuna hisses, pushing himself to sit up despite the faint pounding of his head and the bile rising in his throat, a cascade of stuffed animals and comfortable plushies fall off of the mattress, landing on the carpeted floor with dull thuds.

his hands fly up to his hair, tugging it slightly as panic settles in fully, making a home in his chest (residing right where you used to - where you still are) and his breathing turns quick, unchecked.

what did he do last night? what did he say?

"shit." he whispers, leaning forward until his elbows are resting against his knees, head still in his hands, still drumming some incessant rhythm that aims only to hurt him and put him in a worse mood. "shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!"

a large hand grips one of your plushies on instinct, throwing it against the nearest wall. it squeaks pathetically as it lands, and he forces himself to his feet, pacing.

he thinks about going into your shower and washing the scent of vanilla off of him, and grunts when he realises that it'll only lead to the stronger scent of your shampoo and your soap on his skin.

there's this guttural feeling in his throat, deep and furious - betrayed.

because you left him to wake up in your bed alone, without your hands to wipe his tears like you did hours earlier, without your neck to bury his face into and sleep, without your fingers running through his hair, taming those salmon-pink spikes that he can never get to behave without you.

sukuna pauses at the fallen plushie. his shoulders sag. you don't owe him a thing, and you know that. in fact, you've never been indebted to him, and he'd only made it worse by breaking no contact. how much healing did he undo?

he bends down and picks up the plush, grip firm but not as deathly as when he'd thrown it against the wall. it stares up at him, face sewn into that stupidly dumb expression forever.

part of him thinks it's like looking in a mirror - him and this plushie are one and the same; always at your beck and call, always willing to be used and discarded during the day, just for a chance to be sleeping by you at night.

if you'd had thrown him against the wall, sukuna knows he'd still bounce back, knows he'll still have that same hopeful expression sewn onto his face forever.

he'd love you even if you were mean.

but you weren't mean. and somehow, that made it all the harder to tell you.

all of his exes, one pretty face after the other, all meaningless, all ignored in your shadow. you were the prettiest face he'd ever seen. you were the softest hands he'd ever let hold him. you, who inspired this all-consuming fire of lust and complete adoration, just by being next to him and doing nothing.

he remembers your voice earlier. remembers 'ryo' spoken so helplessly above him with such vivid clarity that everything else he can recall feels like it was all done underwater.

no-one else could get to him so clearly.

sukuna turns, and faces the mess he's made of your bed - sheets strewn everywhere, pillows on the other end of the room from his initial fright at waking up on the mattress of the one person he's been in love with for over a year.

there's a printed version of your timetable pinned to the board above your desk. he glances at it - a nine a.m. lecture and another at two p.m. rough.

he sets the plushie down carefully on the desk.

then, he gets to work.)

his throat feels too dry to speak, but he forces himself to anyway. the downturned angle of his lips ease into something more neutral, but equally as strained, and he looks pale, feels faint - all from the pressure of being stood in front of you with the sole aim of asking for something he doesn't deserve.

he takes too long to come up with something to say, and you narrow your eyes.

"are you sober?"

that stings a lot more than he believes you meant it to. nevertheless, he shakes his head.

"yeah." he coughs out, muscle in his jaw ticking. his hand tightens around something in his jacket pocket, "fully sober."

you stare at one another for a while. no hateful glances, just careful looks. you break the silence again:

"you aren't meant to be here."

"make me leave, then." he whispers, and like the coward he is, he shifts before you can say another word.

slowly, like he's handling something worth more than gold (and to him, it is), sukuna pulls his hand out of his pocket, holding his fist out, waiting for you to look.

warily, you drag your eyes down his arm, reaching the two tattooed, black bands around his thick wrist, following the lines on the back of his palm, observing the curve of his fingers around the thing he was holding.

a bottle - a perfume bottle.

your perfume bottle.

your breath hitches, eyes flying up to meet his determined glower for an explanation, grip on the door handle tightening, confusion (and was that hurt?) scattering across your features alongside the cosy, orange lighting from the lamp inside your room, and the yellow glow from the hallway lights.

"it's empty." he murmurs.

you swallow thickly. "what do you want me to do about it?"

sukuna stops looking at you. his eyes trail along your bedroom wall, all the way down to your desk, where a small collection of perfumes stay. they settle on the bottle identical to the one in his hand.

you follow his line of sight, realisation dawning on your features as he takes his first step into your room. the door handle slips from your grasp, but you keep staring at your desk, at that newly bought bottle of perfume - full and promising.

the door clicks shut. you're now locked in with the one man you shouldn't allow yourself to be alone with.

you say nothing as he steps past you, shoes already slipped off, jacket already hung up by the door, left only in his sweats and a fitted black tee. the empty perfume bottle clicks as he sets it down. he picks up the new one, measures the familiar weight of it in his hands.

"you can't have that." you hiss. hands at your sides curling into fists as the hurt rises. how dare he come into your room just to keep on taking? how dare he take advantage of you again?

"i need it." is his quick reply, childish in his insistence - still staring at the perfume bottle, still avoiding accountability.

"i said you can't have it." tears prick at the corner of your eyes, hands trembling, "you shouldn't even be here, sukuna. get out."

"i've ran out of the old one."

"then buy your own."

"i want yours."

"why?"

that makes him think for a moment, or at least look like he's thinking. in reality, sukuna suspects he's known the answer all along. it's just a question of bravery, a question of courage.

the clock on your wall ticks - half past nine p.m. - filling the room with the noise, sounding like minute death tolls for the both of you. five minutes pass in silence. all both of you seem to do is stare. he searches for anything that isn't you - tries to find the peace that only you could bring out of him in something else - one last time, like a desperate plea to convince himself that he needs no-one.

expectedly, there's nothing but the weight of your gaze on his back.

"why, sukuna?" you repeat again, gentler this time - still bitter, but you'd never been able to bite at him for too long. it'll wear off - you know it will, and so does he.

the gentleness prompts him to speak. "because i can't sleep without smelling you." he whispers, the broad line of his shoulders tensing. "because if it doesn't have your fingerprints on it, it doesn't fuckin' matter."

he's still not facing you.

for the umpteenth time, you admire his profile - the sharp line of his jaw and cheekbone, outlined by the razor-edged black of his tattoos, stark against his tanned skin, the beautiful curve of his nose - large, but sculpted to perfection - and hooded eyes, crimson, paired with messy eyebrows.

he flinches as you step forward, and you wait a while before you do it again. you know he's watching you in his peripheral, trying to fight with his curiosity to remain nonchalant, the perfume bottle still in hand.

"look at me." you murmur. he shakes his head in refusal. "sukuna, look at me."

still nothing.

and then:

"ryo."

he steals a glance at you, just the one, but it's something, and you can barely stand the look of shame and self-loathing littered on his face, the line of his lips tight and strained. the anger in his eyes turn distant as he looks away again - you step closer, he swallows and shifts back.

"haven't fucked anyone since you slapped me." his voice is small, and you pause for a moment, "stopped…stopped drinkin', too. was only 'cause toji thought it'd be a good idea to take me out, y'know, make me take my mind off of you that i drank anythin' last week."

"do you regret it?" you respond, "coming here?"

sukuna scoffs. "nah." just slightly, he turns his head to you, tender eyes meeting your own before turning back to face the wall, "would do it all over again."

his admittance makes your shoulders sag, like the heavy confession that there was still something alive between you both was unbearable, but simultaenously relieving.

"i wanna stay." sukuna utters under his breath, loud enough that it just barely reaches your ears. "just for the night. even if you never wanna talk to me ever again, babe, i-" his voice cracks, hand trembling, "i jus' need t'feel what it's like to be with you again."

you think for a moment - just a quiet hesitation that has his mind reeling - before you nod, and it's all he needs.

faster than he can think, before he can even thank you, you're moving to sit on the edge of your bed, running your hands down your face with practised exhaustion as you settle and stare at the carpeted floor between your feet.

sukuna remains standing, still tense, still unsure on what ground he stands on, what liberties he can take with you. he's aware that it's safer not to ask.

for a long, torturous while, you just stare. the air feels cloudy with awkward tension.

your lamp highlights the both of you in a light too loving to speak of - orange soaks into the black of his tattoos, illuminating the honed lines of his face, darkening the hollows of his cheeks.

sukuna can't even hope to look at you. he knows that what's in store for him is temptation too strong to deny - glorious, beautiful you, steeped in a glow so warm that he doesn't think he could stop himself from jumping into your arms and sobbing.

"why don't you hate me?" he whispers.

the careful, dull sound of your perfume bottle being placed back onto your desk punctuates his sentence - finalising your suspicions.

"do you think that i should?" you return, careful, cautious.

"i know that you should." he responds, palms flat against the surface of your desk, letting out a long, harrowing sigh, eyes closing, back turned towards you.

"who says i don't hate you?"

"don't lie to yourself." he scoffs, a bitter smile graces his features - one you can't see, aren't allowed to see. "you're petty. really fuckin' petty, babe, and 'm a real piece of work. surprised you even let me stay here f'longer than five seconds."

"so am i."

laughter bursts out of him at that - self-depricating laughter that takes him off-guard, and it's loud enough to have you chuckle lightly in return.

the sound makes him freeze. he turns, pupils dilated wide enough to swallow all colour, lips parted.

he takes another shaky inhale.

"i've been a real piece of shit to you." he murmurs, and you tilt your head just so, in such a delicate angle that his palms itch to cup your cheek and feel the warmth of your skin against his.

"yes, you have." your shoulders rise in a dismissive shrug, lashes fluttering just slightly - you don't have the strength in you to reprimand him for any longer than you already have. something in your chest skips a beat instead, making your breathing halt for just a moment. your eyes never leave his.

"i…" he falters before moving, lithe, like a tiger prowling through the trees, limbs practiced and fluid, but the line of his shoulders are oh so stiff, muscles rippling under his shirt. you have to tilt your head back to look at him when he reaches the space in front of you.

but then your head is tilting down, down, down - because he's sinking to his knees, jaw clenched, eyes watering, hands hovering just over your thighs, shaking like he'd recently been left out in the rain to freeze. the words he needs to say choke him when his tongue tries to move, and he looks to you pleadingly, breath hitching as he struggles to take in a lungful of air.

you watch, the tips of your ears flaring a subtle pink, just light enough so that it looks like your composure is unbroken, and when all that escapes him is the tiniest noise of frustration, you lean forward.

electricity crackles between the two of you - so potent you could practically see white-hot streaks of lightning jump from his burning gaze to your own.

a hand rises to cup his chin, thumb brushing his lower lip as your noses touch. he exhales heavily as you tug his lip down, baring his teeth just slightly, and with your next word, sukuna feels you push the life back into him, he feels you cleanse him:

"speak."

for the first time in twenty-four years, sukuna ryomen apologises - truly apologises, from the bottom of his heart.

"i'm sorry."

he swallows, considerate as he nuzzles his nose against yours. hands push your knees apart while he shuffles forward, glad for the repenting ache in his knees.

you watch, arms sliding around his neck on instinct as he rises higher, lowering your back against the mattress, chest pressing into his as your breathing hitches at the cold touch of his fingers, clumsily trying to get under your shirt.

thick digits find purchase on smooth skin. "i'm sorry, babe, fuck 'm sorry'msorry'msorry-" there's the lightest touch of your mouth against his, and sukuna whimpers. "fuckin' hell, 'm so sorry-"

you clench your jaw as you turn your head from his chasing lips, eyes fluttering shut for just a moment when he mouths at the lobe of your ear.

he catches the sound of your gulp with a breathless sigh of his own, his heavy heart only spurring him on further, like your forgiveness is all he craves - paired with the touch of your hands dipping beneath his collar to trace the outline of his spine under his shirt, and the overwhelmingly luxurious smell of vanilla-

"i fucking love you." he hisses out, voice shaky, unable to stop the slight grind of his hard-on against your thigh. "i love you- i love- oh fuck, please, please, babe, look at me."

your eyes meet: his are wide, desperate, pleading, pink strands falling loose across his forehead from where they've been pushed back out of his eyes - yours are half-lidded, excruciatingly deep.

sukuna groans quietly as he feels one of your hands travel it's fingers down his chest, faintly brushing the happy-trail leading down his pelvis, hips stuttering into your palm as you cup him through the fabric of his sweats, your name snarled into your cheek as he uses the steady hand for friction, clutching at the blankets beside your head.

"prove it." you whisper - and unabashedly, he moans at the gentle squeeze you give him, body shuddering at the light kiss you administer to the corner of his mouth. "prove that you love me, prove that you're sorry."

he doesn't have to be told twice.

soft lips, ferocious in their enthusiasm, try to pry yours apart. every swipe of his tongue against your lower lip feels like fireworks sparking along your skin, prompting subtle, full-body shudders to wrack through you.

sukuna snarls softly against your mouth, lifting your hips and pushing you further onto your bed, following after you on his hands and knees like a mutt whose soul is leashed to your own. you feel his hips rock against yours, mouth opening to whine as he grinds down against you, listening intently to the heavy panting and the frustrated whimpers when you just can't seem to keep up.

there's a resentment to it, on your behalf, at least.

every movement is achingly rabid from him - down to the way he grips your shirt and pushes it up to bare your abdomen, head dipping down to drag his tongue up your stomach in one hot stripe, pressing kisses down that same line of saliva he's left to back his words.

you watch him, hands shaking as your fingers tangle themselves in his hair and pull, equally as desperate in your plight to rip through his skin and make a home out of his bones, mouth ready and willing to come into contact with his again.

sukuna surges upward, searching for your mouth with his own again, teeth digging into your lips, a sharp nip against already-swollen skin, and the pain makes you hiss, mouth parting with just enough room to finally give what he wants.

out of spite, you dig your nails forcefully into the skin of his shoulders, driving your body up against his, while stronger hands shove you back down into the mattress as you snarl and pull his hair, aroused by the pure, carnal frustration he brings out of you.

his tongue pushes against yours while his hands roam, exploring the sweet cavern of your maw with unfiltered groans of ecstasy, unbothered by the occasional clink of teeth (like the sound of champagne glasses touching - a distant celebration of something he should have done long ago), nor the way drool seems to lather down your chin.

it's messy, frantic, and he's half crazed when you pull back for air, hissing in distaste as you swallow lungfuls of oxygen, unable to stop your panting when he pushes forward, forward, forward-

"easy-"

"no." he growls, "been waiting f'this for over a year. 'm not gonna wait any longer."

you gasp loudly when his hands - now warmed by your skin - slide down the sides of your waist, muttering profanities under his breath when he reaches the waistband of your shorts.

you feel his body-weight lift, easing off of you barely when he lowers his head to nose down your neck, occasionally diving down to mouth at your skin - there'll be proof of this union, sukuna swears to himself.

"tell me to stop." he hisses, grunting when your breath hitches at familiar fingers dragging up your inner thighs. "tell me."

"no." you hiss, "you know i can't."

your admittance makes his breath hitch, his pupils swallowing all the more colour in his eyes, head lifting from your neck only to duck lower and press his forehead into your stomach, unceremoniously lifting your hips with one hand gripping your ass so he can yank down your shorts.

you bite back a whine as heavy breathing fans out over your cunt, contrasted by the cool air, head tilting back into the pillow when he grips your legs and throws them over his shoulders.

heels dig into the small of his back, but for the life of him, sukuna can't bring himself to care.

because finally, you're letting him do this - finally, you're giving him a chance to never run from him again, to prove his worth to you. he'd take being used for his tongue and nothing more if it meant he'd get to linger at the edges of your life forever.

his mouth waters at the sight between your legs - panties damp and clinging to sacred skin - and he revels in the loud mewl you let out when he gives up all reason and simply pushes his face deep into your clothed pussy, burrowing his nose in deep to take one long, glorious inhale, followed by a guttural, lecherous groan.

"o-oh fuck-!" you choke out, squirming as the bridge of his nose bumps your clit in just the right way, mouth falling open to take in a shuddering breath.

sukuna doesn't hear you - can't hear you with your thighs closed in around his ears - and even of he did, it wouldn't make any difference.

his tongue, wet and heavy, laves over your panties, and your hips buck against his face, rubbing sinfully against that beautiful curve of his nose yet again. the taste of you makes him moan, eyes rolling back in ecstasy as he chases stimulation by humping the mattress below him.

"so…so fuckin' wet." he mutters, fingers pulling aside the fabric of your panties, his other hand pressing into your hipbone, keeping you tethered, stable. "'s this all f'me, babe?" he swipes his thumb through your folds, marvelling as it leaves you soaked, and you glance down to see that his eyes are fixated on your face.

a beat passes, your eyelashes flutter, and you tilt your head at just the right angle to strike him heavily, pretty eyes half-closed and longing. "sukuna, please."

his cheek presses into the inside of your thigh as his breathing shallows, groaning softly into delicate skin at your subtle beg. teeth catch on your skin, and chuckling bubbles out from between your legs when you jolt, "yeah…" he mutters, "yeah, i got you, babe."

sukuna shifts, still keeping your hips pressed down with one hand as he uses the other to pull your panties aside, unable to hear anything except the wonderful rush of blood flowing straight from his head to his cock, "gotta give- oh, look at you- gotta give m'girl what she wants, yeah?"

you buck as he slaps four of his fingers over your sopping-wet cunt, collecting your drooling sap with two digits just to push it back into your pulsating hole, endless moans wheedling out from the back of your throat, wild and uncontrolled.

"y'feel that stretch, pretty girl? feel how wet y'are?" he pumps his fingers in slow, too slow, sinking into you until he's down to his knuckles, "feel how good i treat you?"

furious panting fills the air as you squirm, annoyed little whines pushing past your glossy lips as you fight for some semblance of control, hands fisting into the corners of your pillow for stability. "su- sukuna…mn!"

he can't believe that this is happening to him - still in awe even as he lowers his face to press it into your pussy once more, muffling his whines against your clit while he ruts into the mattress below him.

you taste like heaven - you taste like everything he's ever wanted and everything he'll ever need. you taste like all he's been pushing down and praying for.

"ohgodrightthere-" you sigh, eyes fluttering shut as his soft lips part to smack a wet kiss against your clit, before they purse around it and suck.

you swear you see stars on the back of your eyelids, wanton moans ripping from between your clenched teeth as your hips fight to buck off of the mattress, restrained by his large hand splayed over your abdomen, pressing.

"m'gonna cum- ah!" you squeak as his fingers curl inside of you, pumping in time with the firm thrashes of his tongue against your puffy slit, forcing your eyes open to meet his, breath faltering at the sight of him between your legs, mouth latched onto you, moans reverberating over your swollen clit, eyes half-lidded and wanting.

sukuna groans as he feels one of your hands in his hair, gliding through salmon-pink tresses to gently grip the back of his head and push his face further into your weeping pussy, happy to oblige. he feels your peak getting closer, feels the way you writhe a little more desperately at the addition of a third finger, and can't help the way he nuzzles closer, until there's no air to sustain him.

he'll happily die between your legs, he thinks, with nothing but the taste of you on his tongue to get him through hell or wherever some celestial being sends him.

you cum quick, the knot in your lower stomach unravelling at the insistent rhythm of his mouth against you, combined with the unremitting pump of every thick, calloused digit working you open, jaw dropping open to let out a wordless, stuttering moan as wave after wave of pleasure wracks through you.

sukuna helps you through it, slowing when you need it. there's an undeniable heat to his gaze when he reluctantly pulls his mouth free of your cunt with a filthy pop!, fingers carefully sliding out of you, hot breath fanning out over your syrupy pussy while it clenches around nothing.

the atmosphere is quiet for a minute - save for your pitiful whine at the loss of his mouth and fingers, still near-exploding with sexual energy, but he's cautious, thrumming with so much unrestricted desire that he's scared of himself - of what he'll do. quaking hands are deft in removing his shirt, and you swallow when you slide off your own top and reach for him.

he bites his lip when he feels your fingers trace up and down his tattoos, fumbling with his sweats with barely controlled desperation, letting out a grunt of relief when he manages to kick them off and have his boxers follow in their example.

then, there's the frantic jostle of limbs, the smooth noises of skin rubbing against skin, his sweat mingling with yours, heavy, awkward breaths mixing out in the limited space between your faces.

his cock settles, heavy and leaking between your thighs, and sukuna mumbles incoherent profanities into your cheek as your hips jolt, his tip catching on your already sensitive clit.

nails dig into his shoulders, and neither of you say a word for a good, long while. it's not that he doesn't want to be inside you - fuck, sukuna wants it so bad - but he's waiting for your command; what a fool he'd been, to think he was anything else except under your spell.

imperceptibly, he lifts his head, pink lashes fluttering to shade the unmistakeable, puppy-like look in his eyes, eager to soak you in. predictably, he's not disappointed by the sight of you - sukuna would even go far enough to say that he's awestruck.

time and time again, sukuna thinks that you couldn't get prettier. time and time again, you prove him wrong.

because he's never seen the way your cheeks flush like they're doing now, so fresh and rosy from your previous orgasm. he's never seen the way your eyes widen at the sight of his cock (curved upward, gorgeously thick, the tip flared and dusted a furious shade of pink, dribbling pre down his veiny shaft), lip caught between your teeth in unsure hesitation.

a distant part of him is stunned at the rapid flow of things. he thought he'd be louder, more in control, meaner, like how he is with every other girl that let's him fuck.

so many nights had been spent fantasising about putting you in your place, proving to you that there was no one else but him, shutting you up with kisses hot enough to melt iron, paired against moans loud enough to filter into the room at the end of the hall.

but, it was all done quiet. devestatingly quiet. like he still owed you something he'll never be able to repay.

"you can take it, pretty." he whispers, woozy from the scent of your perfume lingering just where he needs it - which is everywhere, of course. "i'll go slow."

"ryo." you mumble, hand moving from his shoulder to cup the side of his face, guiding him so close that his mouth brushes against your own with every miniscule movement.

it takes some time for him to blink the foggy lust out from behind his eyes, but there's no rush. the world is yours for as long as he wills it - sukuna would be the strongest there ever lived if it meant having you like this forever.

"ryo, promise me." you breathe, steadying your shaking arms by wrapping them around his neck - tight, to keep him close. he feels your legs part further, hips shifting higher to feel more of him. "promise me that this'll matter in the morning."

he scoffs. loud, astonished that you'd think this wasn't it for him - that his entire life hadn't been put on standstill until you (youyouyouyouyou-) clawed your way into his stupid, tough, aching heart.

"this'll matter forever, babe. i promise." he mutters, expression so determined that his brows furrow, and you don't deny yourself the right to smooth out the crinkle between them - not anymore. sukuna presses his forehead against yours when you're done. "there ain't no-one better than you."

(and suddenly, you remember a car filled with weed-smoke and the underlying, acrid smell of a woman's perfume that wasn't yours. you remember his laughter, and his quiet confessions. you remember a kiss outside your dorm room.)

now, he kisses you slow, searching and powerful, tongue swirling over your own to swallow every hitch in your breathing as he lines his cock at your opening, choking on air at how wet you are.

when he pushes into you, it's like like everything just…clicks.

with every inch that fills you, every stuttered whine or embarrassing whimper, every clumsy fumble of his large, thick hands gripping the skin of your back, pulling so close that he won't be able to do anything else but kiss the bruises better later, you remember.

you remember the pain of denying yourself. you remember the pain of denying him.

your walls are so warm around him, and it's hard for you to concentrate because he's just so big, the stretch so deep that it resonates higher than where your soul can reach. you don't glance down - you can't - because he's looking at you, and you're looking at him, and for the first time you can finally see what he's been trying to tell you from the very beginning:

that he can't live without you. that he'll tell you he'll love you always, knowing that 'love' isn't a big enough word to mean what he wants it to.

"so good-" something wet lands on your cheek as he hovers his face above yours, another drop follows quickly afterwards. "so fuckin' good. oh honey, i'm so fuckin' sorry for everythin'- hngh!"

an unhinged, weak giggle ripples out of you as you wipe the tears that have yet to fall, catching them on your thumb from where they sit on his eyelashes. more follow in their stead, but you keep wiping them, and he keeps sinking into you.

there's a mad fumble for your free hand when his mushroom tip finally kisses your cervix, nestled so firmly inside of you that every gentle squirm has you hissing, thighs trembling and coated with glistening slick. clumsily he pulls it up to rest over his chest.

and you feel it - the erratic drumming of his heart beneath your fingers, beneath his sweat-slicked skin. more tears drop - his chest shakes, black lines rippling over tan skin with each violent tremble.

"do y'feel me?" he implores, eyes wide and crazed, cock dense and unmoving inside of you, always waiting for you, for your command, "do you feel me?"

"i feel you, ryo. i feel you."

that's all he needs.

his hips drag back carefully, so slow that it's enough for you to feel every vein, and the further stretch of his flared tip.

but just before he pulls out completely, he's sinking into you again, and pulling back, and sinking in, and pulling back and sinking in - until there's that familiar heat in your stomach and the softest noise of his grunting, punctuating every piercing thrust.

there's nothing carnal about the way he looks at you. there's nothing feral about the way tears splash onto your cheeks, spilling over vermillion irises and making your heart burst with love.

his hands are gentle despite the callouses. callouses you know better than even he does, now that he's dragging his palms up your arching spine and across your trembling shoulders, steadying the back of your neck as you mewl and writhe from the pleasure only he would ever be able to give you.

how could either of you think that there'd be anyone else? how could either of you have gone without the other for so long?

sukuna swears into your mouth, unable to stop this relief that overcomes him, filling him from the soles of his feet upwards. he knows you're close - eyes barely opened but watching every minute expression, pinned down to the smallest wrinkle of your nose, to the lightest flutter of those beautiful lashes.

nonsense is muttered against your lips - vulnerable murmurs of fear, worry that he'd lost you and that he wouldn't ever be able to get you back, murmurs of i'm so sorry and i love you so fuckin' much. he keeps speaking and speaking until he's spilled his heart out into your chest-

-and you keep murmuring back, replying with words of forgiveness, i'm sorry's of your own, whispered in the comfort of the heat between your lips. your hands slide up his arm, up the corded muscle of his biceps and shoulders, until your fingers barely reach those salmon-pink locks and he moans so loudly that you have to kiss him into loving quietly again.

his pace quickens, gets firmer, more sure, the air littered with dull interruptions of your headboard thudding against the wall and the sharp plap! of slickened skin against slickened skin.

one of his hands travel between the minimal space between your moving bodies, thumb slipping down your navel, finding the swollen, sensitive nub that is your clit and circling - fast enough to match his ever-growing thrusts, knocking the thoughts and air from your head and lungs - there's no preventing the guttural keening noise that rips out of you.

"sukuna-a~ mmf!"

"nuh-uh, baby," he smirks, "nuh-uh. 's- that's it, yeah, hngh! fuck back up into me- 's ryo, honey. always ryo- ooohh right there, fuck! y'like that? i got you, i got- a-ah~ i got ya, m'girl. ryo's got ya."

it's almost remarkable how - for someone usually so composed, so sensible - you can't think with his cock bullying deep into you, pausing briefly to adjust the angle, hoisting your hips up higher, somehow splitting you in half with a cock that reaches impossibly further, breaking you down with his soft words and the insistent snap of his hips.

you hear a pleased chuckle above you, followed by the gentlest slap against your cheek, blinking you back into existence. "eyes on me, baby. can't let- ha-ah~ can't let m'girl lose focus, can I?"

the low, rumbling drawl of his voice has you clenching down around him, whining pathetically around the skin of his neck where your mouth had latched onto. he moans in unison with you - pushing the vibrations of each pleasured sound into the small cavern of your ear.

it's all too much, too good - yet at the same time, it'll never be adequate - not when his fleshly body cages his soul from your own.

"i love you." it's spoken like a secret - barely alive for long enough to be passed from your tongue to his, and you're not surprised; those were three words you'd never imagined saying, much less meaning. "holy sh-shit, ryo, i- ngh~ i love- i love-"

you don't finish your sentence - can't finish your sentence, not with his thumb still rubbing persistent little circles over your throbbing clit, and not with his cock pound, pound, pounding into you.

instead, you choke on your hiccuped sobs as unrelenting quakes of your orgasm wrack through you, spine keeeening off of your mattress, pushing your body up against his sweaty, sculpted chest, pussy fluttering around his shaft in strong pulses.

the snarl that pulls free from sukuna's mouth is beastly - he's a weak man, after all, and he's weaker when it comes to you, practically defenseless when your gorgeous cunt is milking him dry.

you cum so pretty, there's nothing else he'd rather do, nowhere else he'd rather be - just the sight of you, all his, erases the thought of anyone else.

there'll only ever be you. he should have come to terms with that from the very start.

("there ain't no-one better than you, babe.")

"ah, fuck-!" he grits out, and there's nothing else he can do except rut into you like a man who'd die without release, sloshing pre into your gooey pussy until you're whispering his name like a holy mantra from the overstimulation.

it isn't until he sees it - those exquisite, glimmering tears collecting on your waterline - that gives him the final push. white, hot, dense ropes of cum paint the inside of your pussy a creamy-white, and he drives his fat tip firm against your g-spot, ensuring that all of him fits inside of you without question.

"o-oh fuckfuckfuck-" he nuzzles his face into the wrist of your hand still gripping his hair, shuddering violently over you, eyes hazy and full, pink lips parted, completely delirious as he spills into you, "marry me, yeah? promise me- hngh! fuckin' promise me ya will, baby-y, please…"

unsurprisingly, sukuna's heavy when he collapses over you, still supporting some of his own weight by keeping himself propped up on a singular elbow digging into your mattress.

heavy panting fills the air as you both fight to catch your breath, observing one another.

he shivers when your fingers slide through his hair, brushing it back, twirling satin-soft, pink locks around slender digits before letting them fall free again.

it feels like hours - it feels like minutes - before sukuna shifts to look at you properly, softening inside of you but still so large, humming in apologetic acknowledgement when you squeak from oversensitivity. neither of you have any immediate urge to get out of bed, or undo the messy entanglement of limbs.

the silence is patient at first. then hesitant.

"will you forgive me?" it's more a croak than it is an actual voice when sukuna speaks, throat sore from overuse. "for everythin'?"

"no." you whisper, and he huffs, only partially amused.

"thought so."

"mhm."

there's another small pause.

"did you mean it?" he swallows, his chest still laying over yours, the vibrations of his heart running faster than you thought possible, competing with your own. "when y'said…when y'said you loved me?"

you nod. another beat. then, "did you?"

"always." he answers vehemently, like believing he meant anything else offended him. "if there's anythin' i'm not lyin' about, babe, it's lovin' you."

more nodding, more silence. you wipe the teary residue from under his eyes.

"you cried, ryo."

"i know."

"you never cry."

"cried when y'left." he presses a kiss to your temple.

"you deserved it."

"i know." another kiss is placed on your brow, then one more on your cheek. "don't leave again." he rumbles.

he's so predictable with his movements that you end up tilting your head to meet his lips as they caress your own, tasting faintly of yourself and the softest undertones of promise and regret. "you wasted so much time being proud." you mutter.

"so did you." he snorts, kiss-bruised lips pulling back to reveal smiling teeth, "my stubborn," his mouth touches yours again, meek, "stubborn girl. i'll make it up to you."

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

it's well into the night when sukuna's snoring lulls you out of your restful sleep. you're still naked, back still pressed against his bare chest, his heavy arm slung over your waist, hand splayed over your lower stomach, not constraining, but ready to pull you back should you decide to move from his embrace.

carefully, you turn.

and everything that you've pushed down bubbles up into something akin to prayer.

there's no moonlight to illuminate the features you know so well - but you don't need it. using your hand, you trace his features from memory, fingers drifting over the delicate jut of his brow, grazing messy eyebrows beneath the pad of each digit.

you can see the colour to them in your head, the softest, gentlest shades of pink colouring each individual follical. following the line of them, straight between, is that wrinkle that you adore so much. your fingers press lightly over where it often appears, glad to find the skin is smooth, unpeturbed by the worries of the waking world.

they drift down the bump in his nose, lining the strip of black ink across the bridge, before settling finally on pillowy, loving lips. they part when you nudge them, and you recall how dizzying it felt to have his mouth on yours. with your other hand, you touch your own lips - bitten raw with longing teeth, but soothed with an apologetic tongue.

a lock of hair falls over his forehead - you're quick to push it back. he senses the movement, mutters something incoherent as he follows the touch of your hand unconsciously, keeping it carefully tangled in his hair, palm cupping the crown of his head, massaging fingers soothing him into a deeper sleep.

sukuna huffs faintly through his nose, before resuming his snoring, and you can feel your eyes twinkle with warmth. right within arm's reach lies the man who'd walk a million miles on his knees repenting. right under your fingertips is a man who'd curse you forever with his memory, with his love.

there's no use in pushing it down anymore.

═══════════════════════════════════════════

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ (a/n): i hope you liked the grand finale of my series! this note is my official invite to send me your thoughts - discussions are always welcome, and my asks are open also!!

do forgive me if it feels rushed in any way - i tried to tie up all the loose ends as best as i could, plus get the pacing right - this is my first time writing/editing smut, so please be kind and lend me your thoughts there too!

once again, i'm so sorry it took so long, i'll try to post more frequently in the future! i love you all, lmk what you want to see next!

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[sheepispink]

A Diet?

rookieroommate!reader x ltghost +tf141 Masterlist

Summary: After your recent blood test Ghost decides you need a serious readjustment to your eating habits. Unfortunately for him, you wont go down without a fight.

---------------------------------------------

“Is that chocolate chip oatmeal…?” You eye Soap’s bowl as you set your tray down beside him, mouth practically watering.

“Yeah?” He glances at you in confusion, wondering why you seemed so surprised by that. For all he’s known you, there’s always been some sort of sweet treat in your day. “Ye want some? I got another pack—”

“No.” Ghost sits down next to you, and you let out a groan, watching as he checks over your meal to make sure you haven't added anything else.

“Why not?” Soap asks, tilting his head in confusion as his lieutenant adamantly denies him giving even a spoonful to the rookie.

“He put me on a diet!” You huff, stabbing your fork into the wrinkled Brussels sprouts in an attempt to go for the worst thing first in hopes it’ll get better.

“A diet? What for?” 

“Diet’s are a load of rubbish, I'm stoppin ‘er teeth from rotting out.” He explains despite your exasperated noises you let out whenever he tells anyone. “Not only did their dentist report come back with complaints, but their blood sugar on the recent blood test had the nurses raising eyebrows.”

“That’s not true! It’s because I ate a pack of teacakes that morning!”

“Not sure that you should eat a whole pack anyway, lass.” Soap chuckles, watching you get even more embarrassed by him calling you out. 

“Not to mention, you complain all the time about your tiredness, and stomach aches and constip—”

“Okay— okay we get it!” You elbow over Ghost before he can blurt out anything else, face burning with heat. In your defence, you had told him all of that in full confidence and here he was telling everyone in the mess hall! It’s not your fault you were lacking on fibre. “Point is.. I haven't had sugar in a whole day, and I'm going crazy!” You groan, letting your head thump against the table dramatically as Soap chuckles, watching the display.

“How do you even survive deployments? Not exactly getting a teacake fix out there.”

“She doesn't.” Ghost huffs, shaking his head as he yanks your head up by your collar to reveal your exaggerated frown. “Came back from an op with chocolate smeared on her face before she even got in the shower.”

“I was gone for ages, that’s not my fault!”

“Of course it is, you have a sugar problem.”

—

As expected since he declared it last night after receiving the reports, he was not letting you have anything in the slightest. So, when you went on your weekly shopping in the nearest Tesco, you were immediately denied everything you tried to get.

“It had fruits and nuts!” You argue, pointing at the snack bars he’d taken from your hands to place back onto the shelves again.

“And chocolate. You can just eat fruit, you know.”

He carries on walking before you can argue about the convenience of the bar, and instead tosses you a bag of dried fruit followed by plain oats that look far less appetising than the one you picked out. “There, much better.” You eye the bag of fruit suspiciously, knowing it’ll taste bitter and probably like cardboard on your tongue. 

It’s later when you’re both restocking cereal that he stops you from adding your knock off coco pops you’ve been having for months, replacing with a much ‘healthier’ option. “I’m not even going to eat these—you are.” Unsurprisingly, he doesn't react to your words, only walking over and plucking the cereal box out of your hands just to replace it with bland oats. “Suppose you’ll just starve then.” 

Of course, you did try, sneaking into the rec room whilst you knew he was in a briefing.

“Where is it..” You hum to yourself, trying to find where he had locked away the stash you keep under your bed. It wasn't the worst deal, considering you had some inside the vent, and also in the pockets of your dress uniform that you never even used. Except.. He found all of that as well, and you had to sit and watch as he packed it into a neat bag to be taken away forever.

You open the cupboard where you saw him store your air fryer last time he confiscated it..only you’re met by an absolute mess of things shoved inside. Are they hiding a body back here? Well, all the more proof it could be right behind. 

You begin to take out some carrier bags, full of all kinds of things, one even definitely has mould all over it. “Yikes.. what the hell?” 

You spend the better end of the hour, organising all the random unlabelled boxes and throwing out the occasional one that looks like it could be nurturing the next virus. Okay, maybe you were being a bit dramatic, but it was obvious that something wasn’t right.

Either way, you can feel the joy re-enter your body when you see the familiar bag right at the back. That’s the same sticker you took off a random fruit— and the pin you got from that random course you accidentally joined!

Finally, you can sink your teeth into something sweet that isn't fruit that isn't in even season, maybe some chocolate you left over? Perhaps a couple of haribos? Your mouth was watering and—-

“Nice try.” You look up at Ghost who stands behind you, arms crossed firmly over his chest like a child caught eating sugar. Wait— you basically are doing that.

You slam your hand into the bag before he can stop you, pulling out the first thing you see and ripping it open. The smirk on your face is devious as you chew into it only for you to start to taste the familiar dryness and dull taste of yet another plain protein bar.

Confused, you tip the whole bag out, all the bars falling in tandem and not a single sign of your chocolate anywhere.

——-

“He tricked me!”

“No I didn't, you chose to eat that. Not my fault you assumed it was chocolate.” Ghost stuffs another bite of chicken in his mouth, pushing his brussel sprouts into your plate just to piss you off even more.

“It’s going to go on forever until I'm a skeleton!” You groan, hands grasping Gaz’s arm in a desperate plea for vengeance. “Gaz please..”

“When does this so-called diet end anyway? It’s been almost a week now.” He takes the brussels sprout off your plate to eat himself, and then a couple of carrots, since you’re too busy leaning on him dramatically.  

“Until she stops trying to get it. Patience is a very important trait.”

“I have plenty of patience.” You argue, sitting up straight and pointing a finger directly at Ghost. “Who has to wait months for you to come home and sort out your smelly laundry? Or how about when you take so long in the shower, huh?”

“You take two hour baths.” He deadpans, and you stammer before Soap comes up opposite you, taking a seat. 

“Lt takes forever getting tae sleep sometimes. It’s bloody annoying when we ‘ave to share a sleeping bag.”

“That too! You always roll around and squash me, and then you start snoring!” You say proudly, knowing you don't move an inch in your sleep most times so basically you’ve won this. Just to rub it in his face, you high five Soap right in front of him, grinning.

“Am I the only one questioning how you’re getting squashed? Don't you have separate beds?”

You and Ghost lock eyes instantly as Gaz speaks up, and he quickly looks down at his plate to finish the food and get out of there. “She’s being dramatic.”

“He’s right I was being dramatic because o-once I was super tired and the lights were out, and I went to his bed accidentally, that's all!” You squeak out cheeks burning as you hurry to give them a reasonable answer.

This time Gaz and Soap lock eyes, a smirk rising on both their faces as they turn to you— of course they’d never get anything out of their lieutenant.

“Is he warm or really cold? Does he hug ya?” Soap nudges you under the table just as Ghost elbows him sharply before glaring at him. 

“Both of you shut up— now. None of that happened you bloody freaks.”

“None of what happened?” Price arrives with his own lunch, and you immediately shoot upright. If this is the moment you get baited out you do not want to witness the Captain’s reaction.

“I- I have to go. Goodbye!”

—————

The shower doors open as you sit beneath your covers, laptop settled on your lap as you sip at your unfortunately plain milk today. Your chocolate powder being confiscated was your last straw.

“Tomorrow I'm actually sleeping in.” He groans as he pulls his shirt over his head, leaving his damp hair to dry since the hair dryer had almost caught on fire last week. He checks his desk one last time, making sure he’s got nothing outstanding before he makes his way over to your bed.

“They were just teasing about the sleeping together thing— you don't actually have to sleep here now.” He hums, stealing more than a pea sized amount of your moisturiser to rub across his arms and neck. 

“Well, it doesn't matter because I'm not sleeping in your bed anymore.” You huff, carrying on with whatever odd game you’re playing today on your laptop.

“Alright, fine. We’ll sleep in yours then— you’re the only person who complains.” He sits on the bed finally only to stand upright when he realises he sat on your foot.. which is upright and digging into him. “Move up, I’m tired.”

“You have a bed, use it.” 

He narrows his eyes at your petty actions, and then realises you look so awkward because you’re actually laid out like a starfish.

“We always share a bed on weekends. What is this about now?”

“I want my chocolate back”

He groans as you stubbornly go back to playing your game, and giving him zero room in the already small bed. “No, I’m not giving it to you. It's for your own health.”

“You enjoy watching me suffer!”

“Sometimes.” He shrugs and then turns back, heading to his own. “Fine. I was only doing it for your sake anyway. You’re the one who likes to cling to me at night.”

——————

“Oh come on— you won't even let me touch you?”

The entire weekend went by with you stubbornly refusing to sleep beside him and when he tried to watch a movie with you today, you wouldn't even let him settle next to you. He was trying to stay as strong as you were in this, still banning you from your chocolates, but this was starting to grate on his nerves.

It’s not his fault— it’s the break in routine that’s all. He’s gone months without you, so it’s not like he craves your touch that badly. But when you’re right there, and you won't even let him touch you?

Finally, your next blood test comes around, which you go in alone for since you’re determined to turn your nose up at him until this is over. However, even when he receives the results that end up far better than the last time.. you still don't break. He lets you have more of your snacks again, lets you eat chocolate bars late at night.. and still, not even a peep of affection from you.

His last strength almost snaps when he sees you sitting on the couch with Soap too— what the hell is he doing with you?

“Oh, Ghost is here.” You deadpan at him like you’ve been doing for the whole week, and it’s killing him. 

“Just grabbing a snack.” Luckily he wouldn't be a SAS operator for nothing, and so he walks to sit right opposite you two. 

You bite your tongue before you straight up lunge at him. Of all things he’s munching on a damn ice cream bar— he doesn't even like them! He says it’s too sweet and way too much in one bite, and now he has the audacity to sit there whilst you’ve been deprived of sugar for two whole weeks?

“You alright, sugar?” Damn him for that— for that stupid nickname and even Soap snickering beside you, and even more when he holds out a bar for you. “You want one?”

Even if he had been giving you chocolates, you could only get this ice cream from a different store a little further out. In fact, it wasn't reachable by the bus you usually take to town, and was a lengthy walk too… But you’re supposed to be mad at him! You wanted him to grovel damnit, but isn't this what you also wanted? A perfect sugar hit? 

“It’s probably yoghurt isn't it.” You scowl, crossing your arms firmly over your chest as you try to keep yourself from giving in. There’s a smear of chocolate beside his lips too— you could just reach out and..

“Nope, your favourite, actually.” When you reach forward he snatches it back, just out of your grasp and you glare at him. “Simon.”

 It’s then that Soap excuses himself. Although thoroughly entertained, Simon did pay him off to do this on purpose. He still doesn't know what you have over his head, but he knows it must be serious for him to ask this kind of favour.

The door clicks as he leaves, and he takes another lick of the ice cream bar, making sure to exaggerate the noises. “You have to come sit ‘ere if you want it”

The ticks of the clock seem to be loud in your ears as you hesitate to move forward, just watching his fingers crinkle the plastic covering it. It’s probably melting in there.. just like the one in his hands. You can see it slowly moving down, calling out to you, to just lick away that melting drop until—

“Gotcha.” His arm wraps around your shoulders when you eventually give in and move over.

“Give me it—“ You reach over and snatch it from his hands, ripping it open in a matter of seconds and only pausing when you get a sudden brain freeze.

“Told you that you have no patience.”

You don't care for what he’s saying anymore, too focused on eating away the chocolate shell and savouring every last taste of it. What is he even saying anyway? You deserved this after how hard you work and—

His lips press to your cheek as he leads you to lean against him, tucked into his body, and his hand rubbing up and down his side. 

“You got chocolate on my cheek!” You groan, trying to wipe it off, but he stops you from doing so, instead getting his phone out to snap a picture of your wide eyes, mouth smeared in chocolate.

“And that’s my proof for your next blood test. In case you decide to go against my diet again.”

“Hey! Delete that! That’s forged— you put the chocolate there!”

“Maybe I should print it out and put it as a warning in the infirmary?” He offers, and you roll your eyes, opting to just savour your ice cream before you really shove it in his face. 

“Don't you dare.” You narrow your eyes at him, but he grabs your waist before you could even try to escape. 

“Alright alright. I’ll buy you a new pack of ice cream. At least you can actually go on your next deployment now.” 

“You won't be able to go on yours when I throw your gear into the lake.” You retaliate instantly but make yourself comfortable against him regardless. He lets you lean your head on his shoulder, giving him the widest grin you can.  “Can I get that cereal back now?”

“Take it from me, kid. Chocolate filled cereal is not the way to go.”  Your head snaps to the door in horror as Price casually walks in towards the kitchenette, not even commenting on how you’re basically snuggling his lieutenant.

“S-sir, I can explain–” You stammer, scrambling to sit up right and practically kicking him away from you.

“Oh yeah– take it from the great ol’ captain and have a cig for breakfast instead.” Simon huffs out, seemingly unfazed.

You can only glance between them as Price just rolls his eyes. “When I get you up early you sound like you do, Lieutenant.” Finally, he locks eyes with you, your embarrassed face and hands practically planted on the edge of the couch like you’re ready to bolt. “I’ll turn a blind eye to this if you defend me.”

“At least Price doesn't use bourbon as mouthwash” You instantly retaliate to Simon, pointing a finger at his chest accusingly. He’s literally never done that in his life, and he could definitely think of a million things to clap back at you with right now.. But he won't. At least not directly.  

“Would you like me to show Price the muddy puddle that made it look like you shit yourself?”

“Don't you dare—!” You yelp, instantly trying to grab the hand that reaches for his phone, struggling and failing to get it out his hands. “Stop— give me—“ 

“I.. didn't know WWE was on today.” You hear Gaz say behind you, followed by a camera snap which you can only assume captured you practically tackling Simon against the couch like a rabid dog. 

That’s how two new photos get added to Simon's wallet, and you lose a little more dignity. 

-----------------------------------------------------------

posting this now because i know i probably will definetly forget

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[readwritealldayallnight]

Chapter 10/10 of Bird Watching

aka hot construction worker Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x single mom!reader

Devastating : causing severe shock, distress, or grief, or to cause great damage or harm.

Simon Riley has seen his fair share of devastation throughout the years; more often than not he has been the cause of such devastation, leaving behind sorrow in place of footprints and receiving new orders instead of thanks. A man whose age fails to reflect the years behind his eyes and the blood on his hands, should in theory have become closely enough acquainted with devastation to successfully camouflage the shiver of shock that runs down most other civilians spines when faced with such sentiments.

As it stands however? You’re more likely to find drywall plaster beneath his fingernails than blood.

He’s never seen anything like this. At least, not in person. Part of him believed that such sights could only come from a screen, from a perfectly arranged stage, a set with walls ready to tear down when the scene is over.

No, this is devastation of a different kind entirely, a cruelty he himself has never faced before.

“You knew this’d be the outcome, birdie.” Simon murmurs in your ear as his hands smooth along your arms and shoulders, the both of you taking in the scene before you.

“I know, I know. I just- ugh. I thought I would at least make it through setting everything up before I lost it.” You answer him, still fidgeting with the bunch of streamers in your hand.

“I wonder if it ever changes.”

“If what changes?”

“This feeling.” Simon replies, the heaviness behind his tired eyes only growing the longer he glances around the room.

You had to have known this set up would utterly ruin the both of you, hadn’t you?

Sat in the living room with streamers strewn about the walls, beloved and cherished stuffed animals of all sizes are adorned with colorful party hats strapped over their fluffy heads, each with an equally bright helium filled balloon tied to their paws or tails to keep them from floating away.

Rosie’s favourite pals are patiently waiting for her where you’ve carefully set them up in front of empty tea cups and wrapped gifts, the sweetest of little scenes for their playmate, whom, unbeknownst to them, will be waking up as a one year old in the morning.

And perhaps as the cherry on top of it all, dozens upon dozens of framed pictures sit on nearly any and every free surface, displaying glimpses, offering snapshots into the past 365 days that have been Rosie’s first year. Pictures of your very first sonogram turning into pictures of your growing baby bump. Images of a newborn Rosie transforming into a chubby baby with a gummy smile and rolls for days. Pictures of you alone holding Rosie in your arms, rocking her, kissing her, become photos of both you and Simon kissing her squishy cheeks, of Rosie sat atop her dads large shoulders, of a tattooed arm cradling her as she sleeps soundly without a care in the world.

It’s easily the sweetest of first birthday party set ups one could ever dream of. It’s cozy, nostalgic, special, beautiful… and most of all, it’s killing him.

“Oh Si.” You say, dropping the obnoxiously bright streamer in your grip in favour of turning to face him, the burning behind your own eyes worsening as you wrap your arms around his middle. With an ear pressed up against his firm chest you feel more than hear his immense sigh. “I know. I thought I was gonna be able to hold it together but the fucking stuffies are doing it for me. This might be too cute.”

“She jus’-” he goes to reply but has to clear his throat first, emotions rising to the surface as he continues to glance at the photographs of the last year, the best year of his life. “How can she be one? How’s it been a year already, birdie?”

“I don’t know, Simon. Feels like just yesterday I was pulling my hair out looking for a damned daycare when you appeared- and I blinked and here we are now.” You agree, leaning further into his embrace when he presses a kiss to the top of your head.

“I’d argue I didn’t just ‘appear’, love. You were distractin’ my whole crew if I remember righ’, pretty bird like yourself. God, was she ever tiny when I saw her tha’ day.” He shakes his head, recalling the tiny coos that had first caught his attention, unaware that it was his own daughter, his flesh and blood on the other side of that fence that fateful day.

“Pfft.” You playfully scoff in hopes of keeping your tears at bay for a moment longer. “I would argue that she sure didn’t feel tiny when I was pushing her giant head out three weeks early to prevent tearing.” You swat at his chest, though Simon can’t seem to bring himself to chuckle back.

It’s always going to be a sensitive point, a thing of the past that cannot be changed, history that simply cannot be altered, as desperately as he may wish to turn back the clock. But the fact remains the same, Simon wasn’t there the day Rosie was born, unaware that he even had a daughter coming into the world at all. He wasn’t there for any of your pregnancy, apart from the most essential bit of getting you knocked up in the first place, a moment that forever breaks his heart and equally put it back together simultaneously.

“She sure ain’t tiny these days.” He adds, offering you a small smile. “I won’t be needing my weights much longer, if she keeps growing the way she does. Start bench pressin’ her instead.”

“You basically already do, the way you throw her around sometimes.” You laugh, thinking of the endless giggles that erupt from your daughter each and every time Simon pretends to wrestle with the wiggly girl, tossing her onto the bed over and over each time she crawls back to him with that smile of hers she knows he can’t say no to.

“But… yeah. As for this feeling?” You say to him, tightening your grip around him as he does the same, his forehead coming to lean down against yours at an angle that must be anything but comfortable for his neck, and yet he’d happily stay in this position until his last breath. “I don’t think it’s going away any time soon. ‘Fraid it might only get worse, actually.”

“Mm.” Simon acknowledges, pursing his scarred lips for a moment to press a soft kiss against the tip of your nose, contemplating your words and how they compare to the pleasant ache in his chest. “I’ve jus- I never thought-”

He still to this day struggles to put it into words. It’s a complicated task after all, to find the vocabulary fitting enough to describe the ways in which Simon Riley’s life has been turned upside down over and over again since meeting you. Especially considering the fact that there simply are no words appropriate enough in any language known to man that could accurately portray the way in which he will never be the same again.

No sentence he utters to you could ever be enough to communicate just how utterly grateful he is to exist in the same time and place in this universe as you, let alone the idea that he is the man you have chosen to love. He thinks it would be easier to cut himself open, to be displayed under harsh lights and a microscope for you to see how you’ve altered his being down to the very last atom, how the once empty and hollowed out caverns of his heart now beat with a renewed vigour for you and Rosie, how the faded and angry scars on his skin could be put together like a roadmap of his life leading him to you, and only ever you.

“Never knew life could feel like this.” He settles on saying, wishing that he were a smarter man who could tell you everything you deserve to hear. Thought the smile on your lips and the wet sheen of your eyes tells him that he can be content for the night, knowing that perhaps he’s said just what you needed to hear instead.

Tucking Rosie into her crib that night had been a bittersweet affair. On the one hand, Simon felt akin to that American bloke who’d first landed on the moon all those decades before, a feeling inside of his body too large to be a part of this world, to be witnessing something that should have been impossible yet now exists solely for him. He found himself getting dizzy at times, when he truly thought about the contrast of the many lives he’s lived up until this point.

How did a Lieutenant who spent hundreds of hours laid prone behind a sniper’s scope, find himself in the same position as he encouraged his daughter through tummy time? How did a soldier who’d grown to know the taste of MRE’s better than his mum’s cooking, find himself sympathizing with the fussy little girl who refused to open her mouth for the spoonful of baby purée he offered her. How did a life of barking orders at his men through their comms whilst reloading weapons turn into moments of reassuring Rosie that the barking doggies at the park are just happy to see her, all whilst juggling a wriggling baby who knows the safest place in the world is in her father’s arms. How did moments of tying tourniquets above bullet wounds out on the field turn into instances of tying the most minuscule of ponytails in his daughters hair to match with her mama? How did a traumatized boy so ready to give his life up for the call of duty, become a man who no longer feared death but instead walked alongside it with ease, only to become a man who was perhaps starting to live for the first time. Now that he had something worth living for.

Running a hand over her soft, wispy hair as her eyes fluttered shut for the night, Simon’s heart was near bursting at the thought of her eyes reopening in the morning as a one year old. No amount of healing, nor gratitude, nor goddamn therapy for that matter, would be able to replace the lingering ache however, of knowing that he was not there for you girls this time last year. The conversations you’d had following the earth-shattering revelations the two of you had brought to light all those months ago were still ongoing, a healing process that was anything but linear, anything but done, but it was nevertheless evident that a weight was taken off of both your shoulders.

The discovery you’d stumbled upon, the lies you had unearthed, the timeline that slowly began making sense, and finally the damned ghost mask that confirmed everything, had understandably been more than a bit to process. When you’d sat him down after the fact and told him to come clean about everything, he’d been prepared to offer you any receipt, any paystub, any crumb or shred of any evidence that you’d want, would have gone so far as to cut his skull open and allowed you to poke at his brain until you were satisfied. What was his, was yours. His mind, his heart, anything and everything that you wanted from him, you would have. Evidently, as he went through the timing of everything, admitting to his deceits and blatant lies to keep you close, you were pissed, but more than anything you had kept rolling your eyes at him.

“You seriously stole blueprints off your worksite so you’d have an excuse to hopefully keep talking to me?”

“O’ course I did.” He answered without a second’s hesitation.

“Jesus, Si.” You’d scoffed, though the twinkle in your eye told him you maybe weren’t as peeved as you were letting on. “I really had you whipped from the get go, didn’t I?”

You had no idea.

Lying to benefit their daughter and secure her spot in daycare, you’d easily forgiven, if not coming across slightly impressed at his efforts. Simon being absent during your pregnancy and Rosie’s birth, begrudgingly not as easy to move past, but ultimately forgiven, seeing as he was none the wiser about the fact that you were expecting, in spite of your efforts to find him. You knew it was something he would beat himself up over for the remainder of his days, the least you could do was not rub salt in the wound.

No, it was the money and the hiding that came afterwards that ticked you off the most, though with time you reluctantly conceded that you understood he only ever had Rosie’s and your best interests at heart, even if he’d gone about it the entirely wrong way. You knew he meant well, that this was him trying to be a good man, something he hadn’t had an example of growing up.

The biggest concensus that the two of you came to after many late night discussions on the topic was simple; Simon would never lie to you again.

A promise, if not an eternal vow he intended to keep ‘til death do you part, that the man occasionally took a tad too seriously. No, Simon Riley never lied to you ever again, if anything the already painfully blunt man became even more honest than he’d ever been.

He told you the truth when you asked if he was tired coming home after a long shift on the job site (“M’always tired, love.”), didn’t lie when you asked him for his opinion on a new outfit for Rosie (“My baby looks like Humpty Dumpty in tha’ jumper. So if tha’ was the goal, s’pose you did good.”), all too ready to comment on your shopping as well now apparently, (“Fuckin’ hate those trousers. Your arse looks too good, can’t focus on nothin’ else.”), and was honest with you even when it was technically incriminating.

There had been that one day earlier in the summer, when the weather had finally shifted into warmer rays of sun against your skin, when the breeze blowing in your hair came as more of a relief than a shiver down your spine, and you’d packed away the jumpers, boots, and beanies in favour of t-shirts, sneakers, and sunglasses. Rosie’s summer wardrobe, an amalgamation of colourful dresses and bright shirts and just about everything that likely made up an OshKosh B’gosh catalogue back in the day, was hung on hooks in her closet and folded into drawers in her dresser where they belonged, rather than stuffed into your own closet back in your old flat. Your change of wardrobe for the season however, seemed instead to only live rent free in Simon’s mind.

Those shirts of yours with plunging necklines he could stare down all the day from where he’s standing, or tank tops that hug your cleavage just enough to have his knees wobbling, or shorts that have him pulling double takes whenever you walk by.

And of course… your damn sundresses.

Like that yellow one you’d dawned that morning when you pulled up to his latest construction site, a fussy Rosie in tow, tucked into her pram and not the least bit shy to voice her complaints about it, until she realized they were nearing her dad. He’d been so entranced by the sight of you twirling around the kitchen in that fucking dress that morning, his chubby baby sat on your hip as she giggled and babbled to her hearts content, none of you noticing that he’d forgotten his packed lunch until it was nearly noon.

And so there you were on your day off, (a part of those long discussions you’d had with Simon resulting in the agreement that you would work four days a week at your job, not because you had to for money, but because you wanted to, leaving your Fridays free to give Rosie a day off of nursery to be closer to her mum) his two girls a vision to behold as he spots them nearing the site, a scene so similar to how this all came to be in the first place.

And if he had to adjust his tool belt to hide the growing bulge in his pants at the sight of you- well that was no one’s business but his.

“Didn’t have to come all this way, birdie.” He’d muttered, long legs stretching to meet you half way, quick to drop a kiss against your temple as he wiped his saw dust covered hands against his trousers before reaching into the pram to pick up the now squealing girl.

“Dadadadadadada. Dadadada!”

“As you can hear, I had nothing to do with this outing.” You’d chuckled, reaching up on tip toes to wipe the dirt off his brow, your arm coming to rest against his bulging bicep as he gently bounced Rosie. “Besides, we don’t want dada going hungry when there’s a perfectly good lunch waiting for him.”

“Completely forgo’ it. Thank you, love.”

A sweet and simple gesture, a short visit before you were off to some park or another, promising to have dinner ready by the time Simon would be home after work. It wasn’t the first time you’d swung by his work in recent months, and likely wouldn’t be the last, and so the men working on his crew had hardly blinked an eye at the mum and baby stealing attention away from their boss, well aware of who you were.

“Christ, did you see the arse on her? I’d never pack a crumb if she was the one comin’ to feed me.”

Or at least… the new hire wasn’t aware.

Simon’s head was whipping around faster than should have been possible, eyes narrowed on the bloke who was unaware that his comment had been heard, though his gaze lingering on your behind as you walked away was more than enough for the former Lieutenant.

“Oy!” Simon had shouted his way, corner of his mouth twitching when he watched the young man turn without a worry, unaware of the way looks his fellow crew members were sending his way, not a single soul envious of the position he’d just put himself in. “Come ‘round ‘ere wit’ me. You’re gon’ help me put up a wall.”

Now, Simon Riley might have been retired for some time, might spend more time nowadays changing nappies and washing formula out of bottles than he did reloading magazines and washing blood of his balaclava, but there would always be something slightly darker within him, instincts more nefarious than anything else.

He wouldn’t do anything that jeapordized his life with you and Rosie, no, nothing quite like that. No, he couldn’t shoot first and ask questions later anymore, had to live a civilians life and colour within the lines so to speak. But that didn’t mean that the former Lieutenant, the man who’d survived unimaginable tortures and inflicted just as much suffering, couldn’t get a little … creative at times?

“You jus’ make sure you’ve got a good grip on it, yeah?”

“Don’t we need another lad for this, sir?” The young bloke, Harrison or Harry or whatever his bloody name was, had skeptically asked his superior.

“Nonsense.” Simon immediately shut down, adjusting his hold on the frame as he got ready to lift it up. “You’re young, ain’t ya? Strong? Now take that side and hold it steady while I secure it.”

A better man might have felt bad about this, even in spite of the man’s crude comment earlier, seeing as the lad clearly had little to no idea what he was doing on a construction site, following his boss’ order without knowing any better. But what was the point in teaching Rosie to say please and thank you, if grown men didn’t seem to have any bloody manners themselves? Better to teach him a lesson that’ll stick.

“Righ’. Lemme make sure this last stud is secure- and that does it. Not half bad. Should hold steady.” Simon gruffs, bringing the nail gun down and testing the strength of the wood in front of him. The wall didn’t budge in the slightest, perfectly secure where the men had installed it. Though, it was a shame that the bloke hadn’t realized he probably should have been standing on the other side of the wall, before they secured it.

“Uh- boss?” His voice had cracked as his eyes suddenly scanned his surroundings, realizing a moment too late that he’d essentially trapped himself. Or rather, let himself be trapped. “How am uh- how am I gettin’ out?”

“Well that’s up to you Hank-”

“It’s Henry.”

“-but you’d better not mess up the job. Lumber ain’t so cheap these days.” Simon had shrugged all too casually, picking up his tools and beginning to walk away, a cheeky smirk plastered to his face the entire time. “Oh, and kid?”

He hadn’t bothered turning to look back at him, but could just picture the lad’s eyes widening in slight panic.

“Watch your fucking mouth when you’re talkin’ ‘bout my wife.”

And so of course, when he arrived home that night, greeted to the smell of a home cooked meal and the gummy smile of his daughter, he had no reason nor motivation to lie to you, when you asked him how the rest of his day had been.

“You can’t wear those dresses ‘round the site anymore, lovie. I almost recreated The Cask of Amontillado, today.”

“Not too late to cancel this bloody party, is it?”

“Oh, only just entirely.” You roll your eyes in a playful jest, swatting at his hands as you slip out of his grip and go to correct the party hat tipping on Winnie the Pooh’s head, knowing that Simon was far from being as reluctant over this get-together than he’s been letting on. “Besides, I know you’ve been looking forward to this in your own way, what would we cancel for?”

“Don’t need anyone seein’ me like this.” He gruffs, stepping forward to hang the last streamer along the wall where you’d instructed him to.

“What? To see you with feelings? Normal, human, dad feelings?”

“Precisely.”

“No chance, Riley. Our first baby only turns one once.” He ignores the stutter his heart makes at hearing you say your first baby, as though the certainty of there eventually being a second baby was inevitable, instead silently accepting the roll of painters tape you pass him. “And besides, we still haven’t hosted anyone here since we moved into this house.”

It was true, in the few months since the three of you had officially settled into your first family home, no one apart from the three of you had been inside, wrapped in the bubble of enjoying the first place you could all call yours.

The first thing he’d purchased for the new home was a can of yellow paint. Well, that and many, many packs of nicotine gum. Along with repainting walls (a yellow nursery for Rosie had been the first thing on his to do list), updating hardware, assembling and moving furniture, changing light fixtures, installing a tiny swing on the strongest branch of the tree in the backyard, and most importantly, getting the security measures around the house and property up to his standards, Simon had decided to officially quit smoking.

He’d started weaning himself off the day he met you, knowing that he shouldn’t be smoking around the baby for one, but also not liking the wrinkle you’d occasionally get between your eyebrows when he’d come back from a quick smoke, the shirt on his back that you’d usually like to steal from him for bed at night now reeking of cigs.

But aside from that, Simon Riley wasn’t going to let something as human as lung cancer potentially shorten his time with his girls, and so if satisfying his cravings with shitty nicotine gum and ignoring the occasional shake in his hands was the slight price to pay, he’d make do. The man had yet to run across something he would not do for his girls. For his family.

“Hey.” You say, pulling his attention back to you, the kind look in your eyes far more interesting than whether the streamer is level or not. He’ll fix it later if you don’t like it. “I know it’s going to be a lot. We can keep it as short and sweet as you’d like tomorrow. Could always claim Rosie has a blowout and see how fast our guests scatter after that.”

Simon can’t help the soft chuckle that slips out, his heart warming at the idea of you, his forever partner in crime, coming up with whatever scheme it takes to ensure he isn’t uncomfortable any longer than he has to be. God, how he’s glad you’ll never have to know any life other than that of a civilians, but what he wouldn’t give to see your mind in action when you don’t have time to hesitate. It’s always been a match of quick wits between the two of you, so lord knows what you’re both in for once Rosie starts properly talking.

“‘Fraid not even tha’ would scare my men away.” He replies steadily, though he cannot help the way his chest unconsciously puffs out with pride as he mentions the lads.

Nearly two years. Two bloody years since he’s seen hide nor hair from any of the lot. He doesn’t blame them in the slightest, understands better than anyone how distorted time becomes when you don’t have a home to go back to after the job is finished, only just resting long enough to say you have before picking up the next one.

He also knows that he was a broken shell of a man the last time he saw his fellow task force members, having to avoid his piercing gaze as he was handed forced retirement papers with his boots scarcely back on the tarmac. He’d become too unpredictable, too careless, too much of a risk. The higher-ups were cutting him loose and leaving his men to watch as the the tie was severed.

But that was two years ago now. A different time. A different man.

And as well as he once knew his former Captain, Simon cannot be sure what Price would have been expecting to hear from him after so much time apart. Though he can’t help but to wonder if the man who’d become the closest thing he has to a father figure, hasn’t been keeping his own eye on him from a distance, when he so readily and unflinchingly accepts the invitation to his daughters first birthday party.

“Oh really? Your explosives buddy isn’t gonna flinch when he finds out a blowout involves more wipes and diapers than it does TNT?” You giggle to yourself, taking a step back to admire your handiwork, the last hour or so of prep the two of you have put into decorating.

“If he does, would be the first time I’ve ever seen ‘im flinch.”

“I’m excited to meet them. Feels like I’m meeting your family, or something.” You say, continuing to step around the living room, straightening things that don’t need correcting, more so just keeping your hands busy now.

“They’re good as.” Simon mentions, stepping closer to slip his hand into yours before you can fidget with anything again. “Saved my life more times than I care to remember. They’re good men. But it’s them that are comin’ to meet my family, birdie. Not the other way ‘round.”

Your gaze softens as you squeeze his hand, knowing that behind your genuine excitement to meet some of the most significant people in Simon’s life, are the unavoidable nerves that come along with meeting such important figures to someone you love.

“M’sorry your folks aren’t comin’, birdie.” He adds, giving your palm a firm squeeze, the sincerity in his words as true as they come. He still couldn’t wrap his mind around it. How you had family still living, still breathing, who said they loved you and cared for Rosie, but yet had still to meet their granddaughter? Who hadn’t even come to see you once while you were pregnant, let alone when you gave birth by yourself?

“Oh, it is what it is.” You shrug nonchalantly, though the hurt is evident in the way you can’t quite meet his eyes. “They keep saying they’ll fly over eventually, that the timing is tricky on their end. But- I’m not worried about it, Si.”

“No?”

“No. Not when I’ve got everything I could ever need right here.” You affirm, locking eyes with him and offering a meek smile. “Speaking of which, I don’t think this party needs any more decorating, we’ve probably already overdone it.”

Simon smiles softly back at you, letting you evidently change the subject, though his nod of approval as he glances around the room suggests he’s also willing to put an end to the decorating.

“Think we should keep the picture frames up afterwards. I like seein’ em.” He mentions, stepping closer to the side table lined with a dozen photos. “Tell me ‘bout this one.” He says, gesturing towards a photo of you caressing your swollen stomach, bump fully on display with your shirt shoved up and out of the way.

“Oh gosh,” you say, coming to stand next to him, bringing the frame up closer to you both. “This was when I felt about as big as a house. None of my clothes were fitting anymore, my feet were beyond swollen. Lo and behold, she was born almost exactly a week later.”

God, what he wouldn’t do to turn back the clock. You could’ve started wearing anything you wanted from his closet when your clothes got too tight, he would have massaged your aching feet every chance he got, would have told you that ‘being as big as a house’ just meant that your body was your daughter’s first home. He would have squashed all your fears, soothed all your worries, loved on you that way you deserved.

Alas, the past was the past. And there was no time like the present to make things right.

“Beautiful.” He practically whispers, bringing a calloused finger up to carefully caress the image of your swollen belly, his little girl in there. “You were so beautiful, love. Are so beautiful. Wish I’d seen you like tha’.”

He can’t help but to come up behind you, to press his chest against your back, to drag his hands over to your abdomen, the same body that grew and birthed his daughter, the same one her worships every opportunity he gets.

“Can’t wait for you to look like tha’ again.” He teases, scarred lips brushing against your ear, lips twitching when he feels a shiver run through you.

“Oh my god, you cannot say things like that to me when I’m emotional like this.” You reply, though the way you fully lean back into him, pressing your hands over top of his, tells him there’s little to no bite behind those words.

“Mm, why’s that love?”

“You know why.”

“‘Fraid I don’t.” He answers, moving his lips from your ear down to your neck, planting teasing kisses along your exposed skin, goosebumps spreading across your flesh like a wildfire. “You see, when I look at tha’ picture, when I think ‘bout you all round with our baby, with my baby, makes me think o’ all the ways I would have made you feel good.”

“Yeah?” You ask, your breaths coming quicker, heart beating faster against his own, craning your head farther back to give him more access, an invitation that his lips greedily accept.

“Oh yeah. Thinkin’ ‘bout how I would’ve been living between those delicious thighs. Never not havin’ my mouth on you. Pulling those sweet little noises from you.”

“Simon.” You groaned, pushing your hips back against his, letting one of his hands slip upward to give your breast a gentle squeeze, while the other worked its way down, teasing the skin just above your underwear.

“What do you say, birdie?” He mumbled against your skin, mouth hot against your collarbone now as he pulls you closer against him, his arousal evident in the way he rubs against you. “What better gift for Rosie than a sibling, hmm?”

“Bedroom. Now.”

“Simon! Where are we going? I thought we were grabbing the cake.” You ask him, confused as to why he’s dragging your through the house in the middle of Rosie’s party. “Who even has our baby right now?”

“Your friend Sarah’s got her, she’s alrigh’ for a minute.” Simon reassures, still clutching your hand as he leads you towards the garage. “Jus’ wanted to show you something, alone.”

Thank goodness your best friend was here to hold her for a moment, you couldn’t picture passing Rosie off to any of those 141 men currently sat in your living room.

It was a small gathering, just you and Simon, your best friend and her boyfriend, and Simon’s task force mates, coming to visit for the first time ever. You’d been more than a tad nervous to meet them, knowing that these were the men that Simon not only considered as family, but who were likely the reason he was still alive and kicking today, having saved his life more than once before you met him. Meeting them however, was like putting the last piece of the puzzle together.

You watched a weight physically being taken off of Simon’s shoulders when their vehicles had pulled into the driveway, the bear hugs the men exchanged speaking volumes about the time they’d spent together, the memories they shared, along with those they’d prefer to forget.

They greeted you just as warmly, treating you like a friend they hadn’t seen in a while, rather than a stranger they were meeting for the first time. You didn’t know them very well, nor did they know you, but you were Simon’s, and that made you good as gold in their eyes.

Rosie, on the other hand.

“Ach, i’s as if LT’s shrunk down and turned bonnie.” Johnny’s accent had rang out, as he and Rosie stared one another down.

The lads were overjoyed, if not a touch apprehensive, at meeting the littlest Riley, though it would appear Rosie did not immediately share the sentiment.

“She’s got her dad’s stare, that’s for sure.” John had said before pulling a swig of beer, each man nodding as they recognized Simon’s piercing gaze in the form of a stubborn one year old, her unwillingness to smile at them almost endearing, if only solidying that she was in fact Simon’s daughter.

“I swear, she looked like she was going to bite Kyle when he suggested holding her.” You giggled, leaning a hip against the spare freeze in the garage when he came to a stop next to it.

“Ah, she’ll warm up to ‘em. She’s jus’ givin’ ‘em a hard time.”

“Well how about before she does start to defrost, you tell me what we’re doing in here?”

“Got somethin’ for you.” Simon replies, reaching to open the freezer before angling his face back to you. “Close your eyes for a second, birdie.”

“Hmm, okay.” You said, none too suspiciously as you shut your eyes, always trusting him, but unsure of just what the had in store. You heard the familiar sound of the freezer opening, Simon rustling around before the door was slamming shut again.

“Go ‘head and open ‘em.” He told you, voice softer now. Slowly, you did just that, opening your eyes to find something bright and red sat atop the freezer now. Your brows furrowed for a moment, recognizing that you were looking at a small, heart shaped cake, slathered in red icing, and not at all the same cake you’d baked for Rosie yesterday. You were about to question him- when you read what was written in icing across the top of the cake.

‘Happy one year breastfeeding’

“Simon-”

“I know it’s been a lot. Or rather- I can only imagine how much of a burden it’s been. To breastfeed for Rosie and continue pumping up until she turned one. That’s a whole year, love. Of putting your needs aside, putting your body through that. I’ve seen you uncomfortable, and aching, and- I jus’ wanted to give you this. Celebrate you a bit today, too.”

Every time you think you’ve learned everything there is to know about Simon Riley, just when you think he cannot surprise you any more, he goes and multiplies the love you thought you had for him by another infinity or so. It’s hard to believe that he once sincerely thought he would have to endure a life without love, when there is so much inside of him.

“Oh, Si.”

“Before you start cryin’, there is one more thing.” He says quickly, rubbing a hand against the back of his neck sheepishly.

“Oh, really?”

“I migh’ have- stretched the truth, the other nigh’.”

“Stretched the truth?” You asked with an inquisitive raise of your brow, curious to know where this was going.

“‘Bout how many gifts she was gettin’.”

“Oh boy.” You said with a giggle. “Okay, so ‘stretching the truth’ was your way of not quite lying about it but-”

“You’re the one who said our first born only turns one once, love.”

And that was the story of how Simon recruited his mates, his fearsome, deadly, intimidating task force members, into sneaking a kitten into your home.

The runt of its litter, the frail little thing was meowing incessantly when Simon had rescued him from the shelter, the tiny creature passed up by every other family who was thrown off by its missing eye. Where others saw something different, something strange and perhaps unlovable, Simon saw himself. And if anyone knew how to love weird, unlovable creatures, it was you. Rosie’s scowls aimed at the 141 men instantly transformed into the most delighted of shrieks and giggles when they presented her with her newest companion, an itty bitty little thing that was decidedly named Kitty, when Rosie called out to him and he came trotting her way.

Rosie would have that cat with her for another fifteen trips around the sun. That damned cat, as Simon would come to call him each time he nearly tripped over it as it weaved through his legs, would be there to see Rosie’s first steps, would happily eat whatever food was thrown off of her high chair, would rub his head against her leg as she sniffled over a scraped knee learning to ride her bike, would leave its fur clinging to her first day of school uniform, and would even be waiting cautiously by her side as her mum and dad brought her baby brother home from the hospital. That cat would be sleeping with her on her bed up until she was a teenager, tail flicking in acknowledgment when Simon would poke his head into her room at night, because no matter how big she’d get, he’d always check in on her. Would always be there to comfort his children should a nightmare dare to creep into their heads at night, knowing just what a pair of comforting arms and a warm embrace can do for someone.

What your embrace did for him.

But no, Simon Riley hasn’t had a nightmare in a long, long time.

Not when every day still felt like a dream.

Epilogue coming Friday May 22nd…

If you’ve made it this far: thank you, thank you, thank you 🫶🏻

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[iydiamartinx]

UNEXPECTED GUESTS I

jason x reader, platonic!damian wayne

divider by: @cafekitsune & @thecutestgrotto & @omi-resources word count: 835 synopsis: Jason’s secret relationship is discovered by Damian—who keeps showing up uninvited. Jason’s patience is tested, popcorn is made, but at least Damian brought cinnamon rolls. a/n: this one went off the rails slightly and the rest of the upcoming parts are equally as unhinged (at least compared to what I usually write).

Compared to your apartment, Jason’s place was practically Fort Knox. You and he had been dating long enough that you’d practically moved in—and you knew his secret identity. Still, you’d never met his family, something Jason was adamant about keeping that way. You knew of them, of course, but hadn’t expected to meet them anytime soon.

Which was why you definitely weren’t expecting a ten-year-old ninja to break in.

You had just stepped out of the shower when you heard it—the quiet thud. At first, you thought it might’ve been Jason returning from patrol early. But then came the faint creak of the window opening.

Jason never used the window.

Cautiously, you stepped into the living room, still in a robe, hair dripping. And froze.

There, near the kitchen counter, stood a boy. Arms crossed. Hood down. Eyes sharp as blades.

“You’re not his roommate,” he said flatly.

You blinked. Your shoulders slowly relaxed. While you’d never met Damian Wayne personally, you’d seen enough pictures—and heard Jason complain just enough about the “demon child”—to recognize him instantly.

“…And you’re not the pizza guy,” you replied, equally dry, one brow raised. “So I guess we’re both surprised.”

He didn’t smile. Didn’t even blink. Just stared, like he was trying to unearth your darkest secrets with sheer willpower.

“Who are you?” he demanded, stepping forward.

“His girlfriend,” you said, calmly. And waited for the explosion.

There was no point in hiding it. You figured that now that you’d met Damian, it was only a matter of time before the rest of the Bat-family found out. Honestly, you were surprised they hadn’t already—weren’t they supposed to be the world’s greatest detectives?

It didn’t take long.

“I knew it,” the boy hissed. “He’s been acting suspicious for weeks. Staying out longer. Not snapping at everyone. There was even a smile—a smile—on his face during training.”

He circled you slowly, hands behind his back like a miniature detective—or a very judgmental cat. “I assumed he was hiding something. Drugs. Maybe a dog. But you… you’re worse.”

Your lips twitched. “A dog would’ve been worse, to be honest. He’s not exactly home on time for walkies.”

He ignored your joke. “How do I know you’re not a threat? An assassin. A spy. Someone sent to manipulate him.”

You raised your hands in mock surrender. “You think I’m seducing Jason Todd for intel?” You snorted. “Believe me, no one’s paying me for this kind of emotional labor.”

His lips twitched—just barely. Not a smile. Not quite. But something close.

Still, he didn’t back down. “What do you know about him?”

“Enough to stay,” you answered simply, dropping onto the couch and toweling off your hair. “Enough to know he sleeps better when I’m here. Eats better. Talks more. Still leaves his laundry everywhere, but that’s apparently not fixable.”

Damian stood frozen, like he was running your answer through a thousand internal filters.

Eventually, he moved to sit—perching like a hawk on the armrest across from you, expression still wary but less… militant.

“So you know what he does,” Damian said stiffly.

“It’s how we met,” you replied, reaching for the remote. “He was horrible at keeping the whole alter ego a secret.”

“Are you trained?” he asked next.

“To deal with him? Yes.” You shot him a grin. “To fight? Not really. But I have excellent aim with a frying pan.”

For the first time, a snort escaped him—quick and unintentional. And then: “I suppose you’re tolerable.”

“That’s the nicest thing anyone under five feet has said to me.”

Damian frowned. “I’m ten.”

“Still under five feet.”

He huffed but stayed where he was, and after a moment, reached for the coffee table and grabbed the half-finished puzzle you’d been working on. Without asking, he began fitting pieces into place with alarming precision.

An hour later, Jason came home through the fire escape, expecting silence—or maybe the sound of you watching reruns, bundled up in one of his old shirts.

What he didn’t expect was the sight of you and his youngest brother sitting side by side on the floor, surrounded by puzzle pieces and popcorn, mid-argument about whether Red Hood could beat a grizzly bear in a fight on pure strength alone.

He stopped in the doorway and stared.

Damian glanced up. “You’re late.”

Jason blinked. “You broke in.”

“He made popcorn,” you said helpfully, tossing a piece into your mouth.

Jason pointed between the two of you. “What the hell is happening?”

“She’s tolerable,” Damian said, as if that answered everything.

Jason groaned. “I leave for two hours…”

“And you almost lost your popcorn privileges for keeping me hidden,” you added, smirking at him. “Apparently, I’m a national security threat.”

Jason pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something about Wayne surveillance equipment and upgrading the locks to keep out demons.

But secretly?

He didn’t mind the sight of the two people he cared about most, sitting there together and getting along.

He’d just never admit it out loud.

Next Part →

[stcrgazerlily]

━━━━━━━ 𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐏𝐄 & 𝐎𝐃𝐘𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐔𝐒

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: bruce wayne x wife!reader (+ batmom!reader x platonic!jason)

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: bruce had promised he would always come back to you, his last mission makes his word difficult to keep. when news spread of mrs. wayne being all alone, suitors and trouble start to appear. all while your husband is trying to return to your side!

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: angst, crack, fluff, violence, happy ending, sexual innuendos, diana + clark + dick cameo, pervy men, bitchy women, a little bit of everything, bruce being the #imissmywife final boss, 11k words, this was absolute HELL to edit so if there are mistakes please tell me and i’ll happily fix them! REALLY recommended to play somethin’ stupid by frank + nancy sinatra, you’ll know when to play the song trust, also idk if the format is weird PLEASE tell me if it is

THE artificial hum of the Batcave buzzes around you, the only glow coming from the massive screen of the Batcomputer, its harsh glare in the dark making you squint.

You wrap your robe closer to yourself, softly rubbing the silk between your fingers for more comfort. In the late hours of night, the steel walls and long shadows of the cave don’t feel familiar— the glint of metal or the actual depths of the place make it all feel more distant.

Your eyes get used to the screen’s light and you make out the message that’s written in a computer font.

COMPLICATIONS IN MISSION. DEEP SPACE. MAY BE ANOTHER MONTH. I LOVE YOU.

Your heart drops and you’re all too aware of the cold in your body, not the one that comes from the chilly breezes of the place. No; it’s the coldness you get when the other side of the bed is empty, the cold bathroom without its vapor because no one has used it before, the cold that comes when you miss an essential part of your being.

Luckily, crime has been low. Dick and his hero friends have taken over patrol and are doing a fantastic job. Jason tags along for the easier missions. He’s not getting into any dangerous situations under your watch any time soon, thank you very much.

You pinch the silk again, but it slides through your digits. You had forgotten to bake brownies for Dick and his friends. Oh well, you can do it now— there’s no point coming up to bed again— you haven’t been getting much sleep anyway.

You check the time: 3:29. With a small sigh, you go up to the kitchen, careful not to wake Alfred. By four, there’s a fresh batch of fudgy, crusted-top but gooey-inside brownies. You bite one; the hollow feeling in your stomach is still there. You take another bite, it just feels like throwing crumbs into an empty space.

I love you too.

Next morning you’re in a chirpier mood, humming a familiar tune under your breath (Frank Sinatra). Jason is grumbling sleepily beside you, stuffing his mouth with toast and eggs and really everything else on the table— including the no-sugar cookies he claims taste like cardboard. That kid will eat about anything, and with Flash speed.

You open the morning paper before pushing your plate of eggs towards Jason.

“No, Ma, it’s your breakfast.”

You smile softly, brushing some of his loose curls, the end of the newspaper flopping forward. “It’s okay, baby, I’m not very hungry.”

Jason doesn’t look too convinced, but after a bit more insisting he happily gobbles them up.

Your stomach drops when you read the heading of today’s article.

IS THE WAYNES’ FAIRY TALE LOVE STORY OVER? Bruce Wayne hasn’t been seen in Gotham for over a month, and despite Wayne Enterprises claiming it’s for business reasons, close sources to the family confirm this is a lie. Apparently, he and Mrs. Wayne are undergoing a long and tumultuous divorce. For some reason— yet to be uncovered— he’s left their adoptive son (Jason Todd-Wayne) and the ancestral Wayne home under her care. Something doesn’t add up, and this reporter will find out what! While I personally rooted for the young couple, life happens and it is often not easy…

The article continues, droning on about possible reasons why the divorce might have happened and blah blah blah. You finish your coffee and turn to the economy section; the gossip always makes your stomach churn. It has gotten better with time, of course, but this particular topic… there’s not much you can do about it, only choosing to ignore it.

Besides, who reads the gossip section of the Gotham Gazette?

Apparently, everybody.

While you drop Jason off at school, the other mothers look at you with a mixture of pity and thinly veiled disgust. You just give them a polite smile before getting into your car again. Inside— and hidden by the tinted windows— you pinch your nose and put on some more Frank Sinatra. The weekend can’t come soon enough.

You start the car and secretly stare at the other mothers from the rearview mirror; they’re still huddled amongst each other, their designer purses brushing as they lean closer to talk in hushed tones. One of them glances at your car and her lips turn into a mocking smile while she laughs with the others.

You drive away.

When you’re going through Old Gotham— where the trees are more naked and time is more evident on the wasted bricks of buildings and the gothic elements crowning certain places— Lucius calls you.

The music halts at the same time as the light turns red.

He greets you with your name. “I assume you’re on your way.”

“Yeah, I’ll be at the office in five.” The light turns green. “Is something wrong?”

“I don’t know,” the man sighs, “two of the board members were acting a bit… weird— it’s probably nothing, but I thought I’d tell you just in case.”

“Weird how?”

“Whispered conversations mostly. Again, it’s probably nothing. But with Bruce out of town they might get funny ideas.”

Shortly after the League was funded, Bruce created a protocol; if he had to be away for more than three weeks, all of his power as owner and CEO and major stockholder of Wayne Enterprises would go to you. You insisted it had to be Lucius, but it was legally easier for it to be you. The downside is the other board members don’t respect you as much as they respect (or fear?) Bruce. But so far they haven’t been out of line.

You hope they don’t start now.

“Thanks, Lucius. I’ll be on watch just in case.”

You say your goodbyes as the familiar Wayne building comes into view; bright, sleek, impossibly tall, with that massive W looking down at you.

The moment you enter the office you feel the stares, from interns to higher-ups. People at the Wayne building always react the same way to you. Just like clockwork, you think.

They’ll look at the length of your legs, settle on your hips, climb a little higher and— oh. Finally, your face and a soft smile that greets them.

Some try to initiate conversation, but you don’t want to be late, so you just make polite small talk before continuing your path to the elevator. The moment the metallic doors close, the outside world, and your smile slips, you blink at the metal and press the button for the last floor.

You’re looking at your phone— checking if either Alfred, Dick or Jason need something— when the doors slide open.

The neutral female voice announces the floor the person clicked. Huh, the same as yours. You lift your eyes from the screen and meet his.

You immediately recognize him; medium build, blonde fine hair, an elongated nose, and startling blue eyes like two pale beams. Nolan Morrison, one of the main shareholders of the company.

“Mr. Morrison,” you greet, “good morning.”

He grins, a phony thing that makes your eyes narrow. “Mrs. Wayne.” His eyes study your figure. “Looking as good as ever.”

You flash your ring, the great rock catching the light of the elevator. “You’re too polite.”

He laughs. “Oh, don’t be modest. You surely know the effect you have on people.”

Your stomach starts tightening and you don’t allow yourself to look at the rising elevator numbers, just pray the doors open.

Nolan doesn’t notice your discomfort.

“That’s probably why Bruce married you, huh?”

Your eyes snap back. “Excuse me?” Your tone lacks all of its characteristic warmth.

He still grins— that stupid, stupid grin— he must think himself very smart. “You’re still hot.” He laughs, amused by himself. And you’re too in shock to put into words everything you want to say to this man. “I don’t mind you being someone’s seconds, is all.”

“Mr. Morrison,” you snap, “I’m still very happily married, thank you very much.” You force yourself to slow down and flash your ring— oh honestly! How do you miss a ring that big?— “You’d do well in remembering that until Bruce comes back, which he is, I’m your boss. So either you treat me with respect or I’ll be forced to take action.”

Nolan opens and closes his mouth, his grin wiped off, and you internally smile. However, it’s quickly replaced with a sneer and the upward tug of his mouth.

Before he can reply, the doors finally slide open; smiling softly is Lucius, a cup of coffee in each of his hands. He greets you by your first name, and you reciprocate with an even brighter smile.

Your heels click against the floor, and you don’t even spare Nolan Morrison a glance.

“Oh, Nolan, hello.” Lucius hands you one of the coffees. “The rest are already there. Why did you leave?”

You look at him, waiting for his response, but he doesn’t dare even flick his eyes your way. “Just stretching my legs.”

“Good, good.” Lucius turns to you again and you both leave for his office, leaving a very humiliated man.

When you’re out of earshot, Lucius’ voice drops. “Did something happen?”

You snort. “He’s just unbelievably rude, that’s all.”

Lucius doesn’t look calmer. If anything, his eyebrows sink even further. “He’s one of the two I saw whispering.” He opens the office doors for you.

You hum and step into the familiar space. “Figures.”

After revising some shared notes on the meeting and other miscellaneous matters, you and the man go to the main room where the shareholders’ meeting will be held.

Everyone is already seated, chatting amongst themselves, but the noise quickly dissipates as you two step inside.

Lucius takes the seat closest to the door, while you have to walk the length of the long table until you reach your seat.

You neatly set your notes down and take out a nice blue ink pen, clicking it open. “Where should we start?”

First comes the heavy-loading company numbers and more technical matters. You write clean notes on your pad and the rhythm of comments and feedback flows seamlessly.

Then comes the new integration to the multinational insurance plans for outside Gotham.

“So,” you look at your printed notes, “we now cover alien damage in Metropolis?”

Margaret, the shareholder in charge of the project, nods. “We cover what LexCorp covered, with the addition of pet and emotional damage.”

You smile. “Perfect. How are the results coming along?”

Margaret shares the numbers, and they’re actually really good.

“But what about Queen Industries?” someone else asks. “They’ve also gotten into the insurance business.”

You wave your hand lightly. “We’re Gotham-based. Anything happens in this city on the daily and we survive. People buy our insurance because we have a credible background— the worst thing that can happen in Star City is if a cat gets stuck in a tree.” The whole table laughs and nods in agreement. You obviously know this is not true; Oliver works incredibly hard to keep his city safe, but a little humour doesn’t hurt anybody. “Plus, our packages are cheaper.”

Things go well until the last point on the agenda comes up; the Martha Wayne scholarships. You and Bruce had started the initiative a few years ago, and apparently its success was… rocky at best.

You have a stack of a hundred papers or so in front of you, not a single corner out of place, just simple crisp white papers. But your gut is tugging down.

You try to read the first page, but it’s only a simple compulsory introduction for legal requirements. The wrongness in your gut expands to your stomach.

“Is there something wrong?”

You snap your eyes away, but you don’t move to grab your pen and sign. “Not at all, I’ll just sign them later. Let’s go back to this month’s numbers,”

you dart at your notes despite knowing there’s nothing amiss, “the IT department could ease up on the company’s spending on that nearby bakery.”

You miss the worried glances (everyone else does, as a matter of fact), and the uncomfortable feeling in your body hasn’t left you.

Your dress glitters like moonlight and flows like the sinuous waters of a river. Beside you, Jason tugs at his tie.

He huffs. “I hate these stuffy galas.”

You laugh and crouch down to his eye level. “We just have to be here for an hour and then we can go back home.”

“And we can continue reading Emma?” he asks excitedly.

You smooth his tie and kiss his forehead, slowly rising again. “Mm, no. You have school tomorrow.”

He groans. “Why can’t Bruce be here to deal with this?”

“He’ll be back soon enough,” you reply easily.

Jason hums, and the topic quickly shifts to his day at school. People greet you both, pinching his too-rosy cheeks and assessing your figure. As always, pleasantries are exchanged until the next batch of people arrives.

But tonight is unlike past galas; you feel more… stared at. Jason has disappeared to the dessert table and you talk with some shareholders, but you can’t ignore the looking and whispering.

You internally roll your eyes. It appears everyone does read the gossip section of the Gazette.

You politely excuse yourself and go to the bar. As you make your way there, you see one of the moms from school whispering to another group of women. You meet her eyes and she smiles brightly at you.

“A martini, please.”

The bartender nods and begins mixing your drink.

“Mrs. Wayne?”

A chair scrapes beside you and a man sits down. You recognize him as one of the company’s seniors.

“Mr. Carlisle, hello.” You greet.

He smiles, pleased to be recognized. “I just wanted to thank you in person.”

The bartender slides your drink over to you, the stem cold under your fingertips. “For what?” you smile curiously.

“The Martha Wayne scholarship,” he replies with a slight blush, “my daughter is studying medicine thanks to it.” He smiles. “She’s in her second year now.”

You feel light in your chest. “That’s great! Does she know what she wants to specialize in already?”

He nods. “Yes, yes. She wants to be a paediatrician.”

You are about to reply when suddenly the entire room falls silent.

“And you don’t get to say that about my Ma!”

Your back stiffens; you recognize that voice. You rush a goodbye to Mr. Carlisle and hurry toward Jason.

The people are still frozen, almost caught in a spell, as they watch Jason shout at a man.

You have to shove a woman aside to reach him.

“What is going on here?” you glare at the man and squeeze Jason’s shoulder, your hand settling at the small of his back.

The man scoffs, his face red and the flute of champagne in his hand dangerously empty. “Tell this kid to respect his elders.”

“Maybe his elders should learn to behave first.”

Someone gasps behind you.

“Let’s go, Jason.”

Jason’s chest is rising and falling too quickly, the anger practically radiating off him. The moment the cold air of the street hits your skin, you text Alfred to pick you up.

“Jason,” you meet his eyes, “what happened?”

“Nothing,” he bites out.

“Jason,” you say softly. “Things are easier when you share them.”

He sighs, and the rhythm of his heart slows. “They were saying mean things about you,” he looks down at the pavement. “And I got angry.”

You wrap him in a hug, his small head pressed against your stomach. He hugs you back. You tighten your hold and press a kiss to his hair. “People always have something to say. The best thing we can do is ignore it. They’ll eventually get bored.”

He pulls back slightly. “But it’s wrong— what they were saying. It doesn’t matter if they stop or not, they can’t say that stuff.”

You’re not going to ask what they said. “You already fight as Robin. I don’t want you fighting for me too.”

He hugs you again. “I love you, Ma.”

Your eyes sting, and your heart is practically going to burst with the love you hold for this boy. Your son in everything but blood. “I love you, Jay.”

You sit crossed legged in Bruce’s chair, the cold leather sinking under your weight. The scholarship papers are spread out before you. Your pijamas— which consists of one of Bruce’s shirts and a pair of sweatpants— are losing their scent, you inhale the cotton and realise his perfume is much fainter now than a month ago.

You perk up the moment the study’s door open, thinking it’s Alfred again reminding you to sleep. It’s not, it’s Jason. Rubbing his eyes and hair sticking in odd angles, he comes up to you.

“How long have you been here?”

“A little while only.” About an hour give or take. “You should be sleeping, baby.”

He nods, now reading the papers. “Yeah well, you should too.”

You laugh but don’t reply. “See anything interesting?”

A beat passes. “Yeah actually,” he points at one of the papers, “this neighbourhood doesn’t receive the Martha Wayne scholarship money.”

Your stomach falls. “What?”

He notices your worried face. “No, no. I say it because they don’t need it. This neighbourhood is under Penguin, and a year ago some of his senior goons unionised.”

“Penguin has to deal with unions?”

Jason nods. “Yup. So anyways, he now offers funding for those kids who have great grades.”

You blink slowly and pick up a bright yellow highlighter, you swipe it evenly through the name of the neighbourhood. “That’s actually really helpful.”

“So I can help you?” His eyes light up.

“Hah, no way.” You pick up your computer and the papers. “But we can move to the couch, you sleep and I finish this.”

He pretends to think about it. “I think it’s a deal.”

When you call Lucius to cite an emergency board meeting for this same afternoon, you’re actually in a better mood than yesterday.

Luckily, you don’t bump into Nolan into the elevator. But when you step into the room, he and the others look slightly worried.

“Good afternoon,” you sit in your place, “this is about the Martha Wayne scholarships, and I understand the entire board has to be present for this.” You look at the woman from legal, she nods.

You pull the stack of papers down. “I will not be signing none of these until I see the evidence that the money is going where it’s needed.”

You show them the third page. “Everything that’s in yellow are the discrepancies, I’ve already sent the copies to the department.”

“But that’s going to take us another week,” one of the shareholders says— Conrad, you think. “We don’t have time.”

“Time for what? Last time I checked your department is in charge of energy.”

He goes red. “I’m just saying.”

“Well, this is what is going to happen.” You look at Nolan. “I understand your department does this sort of thing.”

He nods slowly. “We do, but Conrad is right, time is tight.”

You pinch your eyebrows. “Don’t we have interns? It’s a simple task. Just check that the money is going where it needs to.”

Nobody else says anything, and you internally smile.

You and Nolan are the only two people in the elevator. And again, it’s moving far too slowly.

You’re staring at the elevator doors, painfully aware of his eyes trained on your face. Someone else comes in, you sigh in relief, they come out again.

“Is something wrong?” You ask, finally acknowledging him.

He works his jaw. “There is.”

You’re two seconds away from getting off the next floor. “Is something related to Wayne Enterprises? Our HR department—"

“You’re an absolute bitch,” he snaps and grabs your wrist. His thick hand exerting pressure on your skin and bones.

You immediately bring your knee to his crotch while simultaneously, with his free hand, you punch his throat. “Don’t you even think about touching me.”

Nolan is gasping, knees crouched and a hand on his heaving chest. You slam the button for the next floor, desperate to get out as blood rushes in your eyes.

But the moment a thread of light slowly appears, Nolan hits you cold in the head.

The first time Bruce was in space, he found it magnificent. Now? He’s two seconds away from gauging his eyes if he sees another fantastical boulder.

Everyone is working at their full capacity to make the ship work, but the damage is big and the distance to Earth— to you— too large.

Bruce inhales, taking up precious oxygen. He doesn’t really mind. He’s focussed on stepping away from a moment, go behind that massive boulder and take out the only thing that has been keeping him sane for this past month.

The moment he knows he’s alone, he greedily grabs the picture. It’s a dog eared thing about the size of his outstretched hand. In it, Alfred, Dick, Jason, Bruce and you. You’re all smiling at the camera, your arms wrapped around him, the picture doesn’t show it, but his hands were settled on your hips.

He has a small smile gracing his lips, eyes locked on your face. Alfred is looking all softly at the camera, Dick and Jason are both grinning but he remembers they were shoving each other and bickering for the past five minutes.

His eyes meet yours— or well, the picture version of yours.

He feels your absence like a ghost limb. A cold, hollow, feeling lives in his chest and isn’t going anywhere until he sees you. His hold body feels submerged by absolute cold and in the depths of the night, his mind doesn’t stop playing you— your voice, your scent, your face, your jokes and your quirks— until daylight comes. Then he has work to do in order to come back home. It's exhausting, he's exhausted.

“Bruce.”

Clark and Diana are there, with a swift movement he hides the picture. “Any news?”

Diana shakes her head. “No, we just came to check up on you.”

Clark nods slowly. “You’ve been acting… strange, during this past week. Disappearing a lot.”

“Hal was convince it was to—" She shakes her head. “That’s not important. What’s important is that you’re our teammate, our friend, and we’re here to help you.”

Bruce stares at them without making a sound.

Clark rubs the back of his head. “Are you going to say something?”

Another beat of silence. Then a long sigh. He decides to give up.

“I just want to go back to Earth.”

Clark watches him carefully, his arms are folded across his chest, cape resting heavy against his back.

Diana tilts her head slightly, eyes narrowing. Her gaze is not unkind, just assessing like it usually is.

“You miss your family,” she says finally. It’s not phrased like a question, its ’s a fact. Her voice is even. “Your wife.”

Bruce doesn’t respond immediately.

His gaze stays forward, fixed somewhere past the bulkhead. His hand rests beside him. He appeares calm but his posture is too rigid, too precise.

Clark notices the tension in his posture immediately. The way his shoulders sit just slightly too sharp for someone standing still.

Bruce exhales through his nose; slow and controlled, but he isn't really feeling calm. His fingers flex once against the great boulder's wall. A small movement, but it’s enough to show pressure building somewhere underneath. The gaping hole in his chest flutters.

Bruce finally looks at them.

“You are not as alone as you behave,” Diana says. “Stop acting as if you are.”

Clark nods once, small but firm. “We’ve got your back,” he says simply. “But you don’t get to vanish on us and call it fine, Bruce.”

The man exhales slowly through his nose again, deeper this time. “I know how to get back,” he suddenly says.

Diana’s gaze sharpens instantly. “Then stop standing still,” she replies.

The three of them quickly move to join Barry and Hal again, impatient to get to work.

Bruce can’t wait to have you in his arms again.

The ropes burn against your skin, your head is heavy and there’s a slow but strong beat of a drum inside it— shaking up all of the bones of your crane.

You try to remember what had happened; cooking with Alfred, picking up Jason from school, the meeting, Nolan—

“What the fuck are we going to do?” A voice snaps. “This is Mrs. Wayne, for crying out loud. Everyone will notice her being gone.”

“Oh relax, we’ll figure something out.”

“You messed up Nolan,” a familiar voice says, “she saw your face. What do you think she’ll do if we let her go?”

“She didn’t see ours,” the first voice says, “we still have a chance to get out.”

You screw your eyes tight, before relaxing them trying to appear still unconscious.

Nolan lets out a sharp laugh. “If I’m going down you’re going down with me.”

You hear footsteps against concrete but before you can think of anything else, a sharp crack resonates through the room as the skin of your cheek flares up with pain

“Dude!” A gasp. “You don’t hit girls!” A voice calls through the sharp ringing in your ears.

Your eyes snap open and see three men staring down at you; Nolan, the shareholder that questioned you at the meeting, and the man from the gala’s bar…

Nolan rubs your painfully raw cheek, nothing about the caress is comforting. If anything it makes bile rise up your throat. “Morning.”

Your head is blaring with panic and fear— and pain, but you desperately try to keep your composure.

Nolan sighs. “You just had to sign the scholarship papers like Bruce does.” He mock pouts and takes a step away from you. “Now you’re here."

“You’re stealing from children who need it,” you rasp out and look at the others, “why? You already have money.”

Nobody says nothing for a moment, then the other shareholder shrugs. “You can never have enough.”

“So,” you swallow painfully, “what’s going to happen now? Are you going to kill me?”

Mr.Carlisle winces. “You just have to sign the papers.”

Immediately, a plan forms in your head.

You let your body go slack, like something in you has snapped clean in half. Your breathing stutters, shallow and uneven, and you drop your gaze to the floor, watching the faint smear of dirt dragged across the concrete by the shareholder’s shoe.

“Fine,” you whisper, voice thin, fraying at the edges. “I’ll sign it.”

Silence follows.

Nolan studies you, eyes narrowed, but greed wins— it always does with men like him.. You see it in the way his shoulders loosen, in the slight curl of his lip.

“Thought so,” he mutters.

Carlisle hesitates. “Untie her.”

The ropes scrape as they loosen, fibers dragging harshly over your skin. It burns; sharp and raw, like your wrists have been peeled open. You swallow the reaction, biting it down until it settles somewhere deep and sharp like little crystal shards.

Your hands fall into your lap, numb for a second before the pins and needles start— violent, prickling, almost worse than the ropes.

They shove the papers in front of you. Those damn papers, with the Wayne name stamped across the top mocking you.

A pen follows, cheap and plastic, nothing like your elegant ones. You take it, but your fingers slightly tremble and this is not part of the act.

“Right there,” Nolan says, tapping the line with the tip of his long and bony finger.

Your heart is pounding so hard it feels like it might crack your ribs open. You lean forward slightly. A small pause, pretending they buy your dizzy act.

Then—

You move.

It’s fast enough but the angle is wrong and desesperation curls out of you like a bad stench. The pen lurches forward with everything you have, jamming into the soft space just beneath Nolan’s jaw.

For a split second, reality stops. You just feel like a puppet with your limbs being tugged by a strange entity your adrenaline made up to save you.

There's some resistance from the skin at first, before the initial force and despondency do the job. Then it gives. Nolan chokes— a wet, broken sound— stumbling back as his hands fly to his neck, eyes wide in shock more than pain.

Nobody moves, the other two men simply stare in absolute shock.

You shove yourself up, legs screaming in protest, and slam into Carlisle’s shoulder hard enough to knock him sideways as you run past.

“What the—?!”

You’re already out the door; your footsteps echo— loud and uneven, the pattern is all wrong. Behind you—

“GET HER!”

You run like you've never before. Your lungs burn almost immediately, your calves ache and dragging in air feels too thin, too sharp on your frail lungs. Your legs threaten to fold with every step, muscles shaking from disuse and adrenaline. But you force yourself to not look back.

You don’t—

A hand claws on the flesh of your back, near your hip. You let out a raw, animal sound.

It yanks you sideways, slamming you into the wall hard enough to knock the breath out of you. Lights flash in your vision and you gasp with pain.

Nolan.

There’s blood— too much of it— slicking his pure white collar, his hand pressed desperately to his neck, but his other hand is on you, fingers now digging into your throat.

“You—” he gasps, voice wrecked, “you fucking cunt— think you can—”

His grip tightens, you gasp.

Your vision sparks. Your hands claw at him, nails scraping, trying to pry him off, but he’s heavier, stronger, fueled by something frantic and dying— And then he’s gone.

Not pushed or pulled. No, literally ripped away from you. Your neck goes from the extreme pressure of his hold to cold, you sofly rub it with your fingertips as you greedily breathe in air.

He hits the ground hard, dragged back by something that moves too fast to track. Your heart recognises him before your eyes do.

Batman.

He doesn’t hesitate.

The first punch lands with a sickening crack, snapping Nolan’s head to the side. The second follows instantly. Then another. And another.

Nolan tries to fight back, but it’s sloppy and the hits-- if you can even call them that-- land weak, his limbs and movements futile against the assault.

Batman grabs him by the front of his shirt and slams him into the wall.

Again.

And again.

The sound echoes down the hallway and reverberates through the walls.

“Stop—” Nolan chokes, barely conscious now.

Batman does not stop.

His grip tightens, gauntlet curling into fabric and skin like he might just—

“Batman!” Your voice tears out of you, still raw.

He freezes. So subtle is almost not there, but just enough to reprieve Nolan of the next hit.

His head turns slightly toward you.

“Don’t,” you manage, pushing yourself upright, your legs shaking violently, he notices and his hold around the man tightens. “Please don’t do it.”

A beat too long.

The tension in him coils tighter— then breaks; he lets Nolan drop.

The man crumples, barely more than dead weight now.

Batman turns to you fully. And in two strides, he’s there. For the first time in months, you feel all of the cold fizzle away, for the first time in months, you relax.

His hands are on you instantly; checking, grounding, moving over your arms, your shoulders, your face like he needs to confirm you’re still in one piece. Oh his touch, so delicate and tender... despite the cool texture of his suit, you feel eneloped in a cocoon.

“You’re hurt.”

“I’m fine,” you breathe, even though your throat burns and your wrists feel flayed open and your whole body is trembling. “I’m okay.”

He pulls you into him. He holds you tight, almost desperate— steals the air from your lungs in a completely different way. You can't feel his hearbteat, but its thundering in his chest just as yours is now.

Your hands fist into him without thinking.

For a moment, everything else falls away. Then he pulls back just enough to look at you.

And then he kisses you.

It’s not soft or careful. It’s quick, urgent— like he needs to make sure you’re real, not a figment of his imagination, that you’re really here and alive.

Your breath catches.

“There’s more,” you say, voice still uneven, pointing weakly back toward the room. “Inside. The other two.”

“Stay.” He commands, but the tone is... off. Was Batman put out by a kiss?

You nod, sinking back against the wall as your legs finally give out beneath you.

He’s already gone.

The hallway swallows him in seconds.

Then— noise. Thuds and some shouting. The sharp, controlled rhythm of a fight that doesn’t last too long. It ends quickly as it usually does.

Sirens split the air open, their jarring noise ricocheting through the hallway.

Red and blue lights flood the space, washing over everything; Nolan’s unconscious body, the blood, you. You’re sprawled against a cold wall, trying to calm your heart and quiet your head.

Batman doesn’t come back; he’s not there as the paramedics rush you into the ambulance, or as the cops flood the scene like ants around honey.

You desperately search for his figure in every face, every dark crook. At some point, you ask where he is. The paramedics reply that your family are on their way.

“Mom!”

You look up from where you’re sitting. Rushing through the crowd are Jason and Dick.

Immediately, Dick scans you for any possible injuries the paramedics might have missed. He hugs you, and you melt into him.

“Is your hair longer?” You ask.

“Mom,” he frowns.

You brush a rogue strand from his face, just like he did when he was much younger. “Dick.”

Jason is on you like a tiny leopard, clutching your body like it’s a lifeline.

“Uh, Jay, Mom is a bit—”

He nuzzles his head into the crook of your neck. “I don’t care.” He looks up at you. “We were so worried. We thought—”

You rub soothing circles on his back. “I’m okay now.”

Jason hides again.

Your eyes spot a worried Alfred walking in your direction, his breath slightly uneven.

Your eyes meet his above Jason’s body.

“My dear—”

You soften immediately. “Hi, Alfred.” You frown. “You don’t have to worry,” you look at Dick too, who is still looking at you like you might disappear if he blinks, “I’m fine now.”

His eyes flick over you, taking everything in. “We shall have words about your definition of ‘fine,’” Alfred says gently. He mutters something about you and Bruce being annoyingly stubborn.

You almost smile.

But then the entire world— the whole of planet Earth with its billions of inhabitants and thousands of living creatures— stops. Everything stops the moment his voice reaches you.

“Where is my wife?”

Bruce’s voice is nothing but stern and demanding. Both Dick and Jason turn toward the source.

Jason unpeels from you and goes to stand between Alfred and Dick.

Your eyes find Bruce’s instantly, and before you even realize it, he is in front of you, cradling your head in his hands, consuming you with a kiss.

You’re alive. You’re here. I didn’t lose you. I love you.

He tries to say with just the language your lips and his can speak.

“Hello to you too, Bruce,” Dick says.

Bruce’s forehead is pressed against yours, the kiss broken but his face still close. “Children.”

He spins around, and before anyone can say anything else, he pulls Dick and Jason into a tight hug.

“Let go!”

A laugh rumbles in his chest. “Can’t.”

You four end up at Batburger; huddled in one of the booths at the back to avoid people staring.

Bruce hasn’t left your side for a second, even on the ride there. It was Alfred who drove. Jason and Dick ordered enough food to feed an army, while Alfred pretended to disapprove and only ordered a glass of water. You weren’t really hungry, but occasionally dipped your spoon into your Mr. Freeze ice cream.

Bruce has an arm around your waist, your body and his impossibly close. So close he can hear your heartbeat— though you suspect that’s one of the reasons why.

As Jason and Dick steal fries from each other, Alfred laughs, and you and Bruce finally allow yourselves to rest against each other.

The pier is mostly quiet, aside from the soft lapping of waves at the shore and the chatter and laughter from nearby restaurants.

You and Bruce walk under the moonlight, your bodies sharing the same warmth. Alfred, Dick, and Jason have already headed home, but you two needed this alone time.

“I missed you,” he says.

You laugh, a soft and crystalline sound ringing through the night. “I was about to say the same thing.”

“I thought I had arrived too late,” he confesses. “I saw his hands on you and I just lost it—”

“But you didn’t. You stopped, Bruce.” You rub his knuckles with your fingers, your wedding ring brushing against his, a testament to your love.

Suddenly, a soft familiar song begins playing. You cannot see the source, but it’s probably one of the street musicians that roam Gotham, especially near restuarant areas.

Bruce perks up. “That’s our song.” He softly grabs your hand, the other settling around your waist.

You smile and begin swaying to the music.

The time is right, your perfume fills my head, the stars get red.

Bruce spins you, and you cannot help the laugh that bubbles out of you. His small smile widens into something rare and honest; his blue eyes sparkle, and you wonder how anyone can love someone the way you love him.

Frank Sinatra’s voice continues as you let your bodies do the talking. It doesn’t feel like just flesh and bones— it feels like your souls are intertwining, his soul not only touching yours, but kissing, craddling, caressing, it too.

“I love you, Mrs. Wayne.”

You smile up at him. “I love you too, Mr. Wayne.”

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

[selinakylelove]

caught

summary: you and Damian are kissing in his room and his most energetic brother decides to barge right in

a/n: very cute and cozy fic eith a bit of humour and overall non-sexual intimacy

———————————————————————

His hands were warm against your back. Pulling you closer whenever you tried to catch some air.

When you first started dating Damian Wayne, he wasn't big into affection. That was alright with you, especially since it was an early relationship.

But as time went on, he became slowly touchier and touchier. Until eventually he rarely had a hand off you.

Typically he'd have one around your waist, one on your thigh if you were sitting down. Twirling your hair with gently touches so he didn't mess it up.

And of course the kisses.

Damian didn't like to rush things. Especially moments that were more intimate and vulnerable between you and him.

Gentle caresses here. Softly spoken words. And his warm lips against yours. Never speeding it up, letting your lips mold together in a slow dance that felt more intimate than anything else.

It was always the type of kiss to take your breath away despite the slowness of it. Being so close to him, your face warming due to the sheer closeness of it all.

Truly one of your favourite moments in your relationship with Damian.

You had been in his room for a while now. First it was to watch a movie but as the sun started dipping and everything felt calm, the moment turned to a kiss just like that.

A blanket was around both of your hips. You sat straddled on top of him. Not even sexually, just needing to be as close as possible.

He had been kissing you for what felt like hours now and you were just now pulling back to bring air back into your lungs.

Your boyfriend's deep green eyes were clouded over with gentle desire. Nothing firey or quick. But still intense.

"Good?"

He also had a very admirable habit of checking in on you during anything like this.

Your small nod wasn't enough to assure him.

"Yes, I'm good." You placed a small peck to his lips

"You?"

"Good."

With that he was pulling you in again. The same rhythm he always kept continued. Until a sudden burst of energy came into the room.

Dick, Damian's adopted older brother came barging in, clearly had no regard for privacy because he definitely didn't knock.

He was already rambling about something you couldn't quite understand, only to freeze the second he saw you sitting together. Or rather you still on top of him.

Both of you were still rather breathless, flushed faces and hair a messed up from each others hands. It was clear wha had been going on.

After a moment of Dick's silence, an unmistakable grin spread across his face, one that said nothing good was going to come out of him seeing you too like this.

"Well well well." He was already chuckling.

"Didn't realize you had anyone over little bird. Definitely didn't realize this was what you'd been doing. Well I'm sure the others will be happy to find out."

Before you could even really sit in the embarrassment of everything, Dick booked it out of here and Damian was hot on his heels after he carefully moved you off his lap.

Though he didn't chase him any further outside of the room, only slamming the door in annoyance at his pesky brothers teasing antics.

"Sorry beloved. I should have known Dick doesn't have the brain cells to understand the concept of knocking."

A dramatic sigh left his now slightly swollen lips as he made his way back to you. Pulling you right up against him and pressing play on the movie you had been watching earlier before getting…distracted.

Yet despite the little interruption, things quickly settled down again and you were able to melt back into one another. Quietly watching the movie with a few shared whispers and touches.

Only fully relaxing when both of your eyes closed and you fell asleep in each others arms.

Best believe Dick would have come in and taken a picture of that too.

———————————————————————

taglist: @elsyageorgia

[bittersweetlyblue]

absoloutely nobody believes that simon ghost riley has a wife.

it's not like he's not attractive. he is. with his soft blonde hair and baby blue eyes, he's a knock out. nor is it about his personality, because at heart he's really just a gentle giant.

no, maybe it has something to do with the fact that he's not socialised with a woman since he enlisted in the army. yeah, he'll say a few mumbled words to the nurses that tend to him when he's injured, but otherwise than a gruff "thank yer" he's never talked to a woman, not once.

or at least, that's what the team thinks.

it's become a running joke for them to all laugh and slap each other on the backs when simon mentions you. which sucks, but still.

it starts small. a look here, a pause there. the kind of silence that stretches just a second too long when you say it — my husband. like the word doesn’t quite belong to you. like it slipped out by accident.

because how could it?

how could someone like you — soft around the edges, warm smile, hands that linger when you pass someone a cup of tea — be married to Simon Ghost Riley?

they don’t say it outright. they don’t have to.

you hear it in the way they laugh it off, in the way johnny soap mactavish raises a brow and goes, “aye? ghost’s got a wife now, does he?” like it’s a joke you’re both in on.

you smile, because what else can you do?

“yeah,” you say, quiet but steady. “he does.”

they think you’re confused. or worse — lying.

it becomes a sort of… base rumor. harmless, they think. something to pass the time between missions. the girl who thinks she’s ghost’s wife.

no one’s cruel about it. not really. just dismissive.

except price, who watches you a little longer than the others. like he’s trying to figure something out, but hasn’t decided yet.

you keep your head down and do your job.

logistics support isn’t glamorous, but it keeps everything breathing — manifests, supply chains, gear allocations, making sure the right kit ends up in the right hands at the right time. you’re in briefings because you have to be, because missions fall apart without the quiet work you do beforehand.

still, it means you’re always there.

always visible.

ghost himself isn’t around much when it happens. in and out, missions stacking, shadows swallowing him whole before anyone can pin him down.

typically, most of them forget to bring it up since ghost having a wife isn't the biggest priority for anyone when you're in the military. but when he is there, he doesn’t clarify.

he passes you in the halls like nothing’s wrong, like everything’s normal. sometimes his hand brushes yours — brief, deliberate. sometimes he murmurs something low, too quiet for anyone else to catch.

you think that should be enough, but it isn’t.

“you don’t have to keep that up,” soap tells you one night, not unkind, but not believing you either. “no one’s buyin’ it.”

you don’t argue. there’s no point.

still, ghost doesn’t help your case. when he’s on base, he moves like he always does — quiet, distant, impossible to pin down. he doesn’t go around announcing anything, doesn’t correct anyone when they joke.

he hands you things before you ask. stands just a little closer than necessary. lingers for half a second longer than he does with anyone else.

once, when you’re reaching for a box on a high shelf, he just steps in behind you, takes it down without a word, and sets it in your hands like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

soap definitely notices that one.

“huh,” he mutters, watching ghost walk off again.

you pretend not to hear.

you’re in a briefing when it finally clicks for them.

you’re where you always are — off to the side, tablet in hand, ready to jump in if something about routes or supplies needs fixing. Kyle Gaz Garrick is talking through intel, John Price listening with that focused, quiet intensity.

ghost slips in late. no surprise there. he just takes his usual spot, silent, arms crossed.

you don’t even look up at first. you’re scrolling through a manifest, frowning slightly, adjusting something last minute.

then: “that’s wrong.”

you blink, glancing up. “what?”

ghost tilts his head toward your screen. “third line. timing’s off.”

you stare at him. “you read that from over there?”

he doesn’t answer, just steps closer, reaching past you to tap the exact line you were just looking at. “this needs adjusting,” he says. his arm is basically around you. he's not subtle: there's not a singular person who isn't gaping.

you swallow, trying to focus. “i was just about to fix it.”

“mm.” he doesn’t move away. just stays there for a second longer than necessary, like he’s making sure you actually do it.

ou make the change, a little flustered now. “there.”

“good.”

and then — casual as anything — his hand briefly rests against your back. just a light touch. grounding. familiar. gone a second later, like it never happened.

the room is very, very quiet. you don’t notice. you’re already back in your work. but when you glance up again: soap is staring. gaz is staring. price is… not staring, exactly, but definitely paying attention in a way he wasn’t before.

ghost has already stepped away and just like that, the moment is over.

it snowballs after that. little things.

he brings you tea without asking and sets it next to your hand while you’re working. you don’t even question it, just murmur a quiet “thanks” like this happens all the time.

because it does. he adjusts your headset for you before a comms check, fingers brushing your hair back for half a second longer than necessary.

he calls your name — soft, low — and you look up immediately, like it’s instinct like you’ve done it a hundred times before.

and slowly, very slowly… the team starts to realise.

“you weren’t joking,” soap says one evening, dropping into the seat across from you.

you glance up from your tablet. “about?”

he gestures vaguely. “that.”

you follow his line of sight. ghost is across the room, but the second you look at him, he’s already looking back. he gives the smallest tilt of his head and you smile without thinking. “oh,” you say. “yeah. i wasn’t.”

soap lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. “that’s… mental.”

“mm.” you go back to your work.

a second later, ghost is suddenly there — you didn’t even see him cross the room. “you’ve been sat here too long,” he mutters.

you blink up at him. “i have not.”

“have.” he nudges your shoulder lightly. “break.”

you sigh, but there’s no real resistance in it. “fine.”

you stand, stretching slightly, and he waits — actually waits — before falling into step beside you as you walk off. soap watches the whole thing.

“right,” he says to no one in particular. “yeah. okay. that tracks.”

later that night, when things are quieter, ghost finds you like he always does. no audience this time. no curious stares. just you and him. “they know,” you say softly.

“took them long enough.”

you huff a quiet laugh. “you could’ve told them.”

he looks at you, head tilting slightly. “why would i?”

you smile. fair enough. your hand slips into his.

he squeezes it once, firm and warm and this time, when he leans down, pressing his forehead gently to yours, there’s nothing hidden about it. there never really was.

© #BITTERSWEETLYBLUE ─── join the taglist for whenever i post for simon here!

taglist: @fiercetigerpoison , @irelands-reading, @aiwlotrkaeya , @angel06babysworld , @sorqenlos , @britishaccentsrhot

[patientofarkhamasylum]

something about the sound of you jason todd x reader

summary: falling asleep on facetime with him when he’s away on a mission <3 soft, but a tiny bit angsty because jason is emotionally constipated (affectionate) and reader misses him a lot.

Your phone lights up at 2:47 AM with a FaceTime call. Jason.

You were already awake. You've been awake for hours, lying in the dark with the fan on, doing that thing where your mind won’t settle, but sleep won’t come either. Just existing in the gap between. You haven’t heard from him in days, and your thumb hits accept before the first ring is done.

It takes a second for the call to connect, for the black screen to resolve into a dark room—a safehouse, maybe, or a motel. The only light is the glow of a joint between his fingers, flickering softly against his face. 

His eyes are low and glassy from the smoke. They’re pretty in a way he'd hate you for noticing, lashes casting long shadows down his cheeks.

"Hi,” he says. His voice is rough, scratching raw against your ear through the shitty phone speaker.

“Hey.” You pull the blanket up over your shoulders and tuck yourself against the headboard. You’re mirror images of each other now, propped up in separate beds in separate cities. “You okay?”

It's a stupid question. You know it the second it leaves your mouth. He looks exhausted. It shows in his shoulders, in how stiff he is. Every muscle is locked in place because letting go means maybe not being able to pull himself back together.

Whatever this job is, it’s clearly eating him alive.

His jaw shifts. For a second, it looks like he might say something sharp. Instead, he takes a hit, holds it, then lets it go slow.

"Yeah," he says through the exhale, smoke curling up past his face. “No. I don't know."

He pauses, and all you can hear is his breathing. It’s deliberate, measured. A pattern you’ve come to recognize: him trying to manually override his own nervous system. He does it after nightmares, after patrol, after those long silences that mean he went somewhere in his head that he can’t easily get back from.

“Can’t sleep,” he adds eventually, like a concession. 

You don’t push or ask why. He won’t give you that. Not yet anyway.

The line goes quiet, and usually you can sit with it. But after the last few days, it’s harder, and a quiet me neither slips out before you can swallow it back.

That’s when he really looks at you. His gaze catches on the old shirt you’re wearing, his shirt, then drifts over the rest of you: messy hair, bitten lips, the dullness of your skin.

A frown pulls his brows together, the edge in his voice softening. “What’s going on?”

You hesitate. You didn’t want to tell him this stuff; you tried to tuck it away for a reason. Because how do you tell him you’re having a hard time without him when he’s out there risking his life every day? It feels like adding weight to someone already carrying too much. It feels ridiculous.

But those hazy, steady eyes stay on you, patient, waiting, and they pull the truth right out.

"It's just a lot right now," you finish after a while, sounding more vulnerable than you meant to.

"Yeah." He taps ash off the joint somewhere offscreen. "I know exactly what you mean."

And the knot in your chest finally starts to loosen. You can’t believe you almost didn’t tell him. Of course he didn’t dismiss you or downplay your feelings. He never has. For all his stubbornness, all the pulling away and going quiet, he’s never once made you feel small for needing him, even when you’d convinced yourself he would.

The next drag he takes is slower. Not so desperate.

"That helping?" you ask.

He glances at the joint, then back at you. "Not really."

He holds your gaze for a long moment. You can almost see him deciding whether to say it. When he does, it’s quiet, almost boyish: “Keep talking.”

The weight of that settles beneath your ribs, steady. Jason Todd, who would rather bleed out in an alley than admit he needs someone, is asking you to keep talking because maybe your voice is doing what the smoke can’t.

So you do.

You tell him about the book you've been trying to finish, how you keep rereading the same page because your brain won't hold the sentences. You tell him about the rain earlier, how it smelled. You tell him about the stupid thing that made you laugh three days ago that you saved to tell him and then forgot until right now.

He doesn't interrupt. The joint burns down between his fingers, forgotten, and his blinks start getting longer. He sinks lower against the pillows without seeming to realize it, the camera tilting with him until he's on his side with one hand resting on the mattress. Close to the phone, close to you.

You keep going. You tell him you miss him. You tell him the bed's too big without him.

His eyes flutter closed, and his breathing slows, deepens, losing that tight, controlled edge. He doesn’t open them again.

You smile, small and soft. He’s finally asleep. Truly asleep—the kind that doesn’t come easy, the kind that never seems to stay.

You don't hang up, just turn the brightness down, set the phone on the pillow beside you, and close your eyes to the sound of him breathing. It’s not the same as having him here. Not his weight on the mattress, not his arm heavy across your waist, not his heartbeat under your ear.

But it’s him, alive and still yours, even from miles away.

You fall asleep twenty minutes later, and the call runs until morning.

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[http-joyx]

Damian Wayne x Fem!reader

Synopsis: For weeks, the Wayne family has watched Damian grow increasingly distant and volatile, unable to uncover the cause behind his shift in behavior. But when a mysterious young woman from the League of Assassins arrives at their door, the truth comes to light: Damian had been hiding a secret even they couldn’t uncover—an arranged marriage from his past.

Damian Wayne had always been the biggest mystery in the family.

And that was saying something—considering the family included a billionaire who dressed like a bat, a former circus acrobat turned cop, a genius insomniac, and a crime lord with a helmet.

When Damian first arrived at Wayne Manor, he’d been sharp edges and silence. He spoke only when necessary—and usually to insult someone. Over the years, that had… softened. Slightly.

Now, at nineteen, he tolerated proximity. Occasionally accepted touch. Insulted people less creatively.

But he was still closed off in ways none of them could quite reach.

And lately?

Something was wrong.

“He’s been off for weeks,” Dick said, sprawled across the couch, one arm thrown over his eyes. “More than usual.”

Tim didn’t look up from his phone. “I checked patrol logs. Camera feeds, comms—nothing unusual. No injuries he didn’t report, no weird encounters.”

Jason, half-watching a basketball game, shrugged. “Maybe he’s just being his usual charming self.”

“Master Damian has been… more irritable than normal,” Alfred added politely.

Bruce stood near the fireplace, arms crossed, brow furrowed. “It’s not just irritation,” he said quietly. “Something’s bothering him.”

Jason glanced over. “Talia?”

Bruce hesitated. “No recent contact.”

That didn’t make it better.

If anything, it made it worse.

The room fell quiet, each of them turning it over in their heads—because for all their differences, they agreed on one thing:

If something was wrong with Damian, they wanted to fix it.

A knock echoed through the manor.

All of them stilled.

At this hour?

Alfred moved first, as he always did.

When he opened the door, he paused.

That alone was enough to draw the others closer.

You stood on the threshold, framed by the dim lights outside. Composed, but not entirely at ease. Your posture was perfect—trained—but there was something restrained in it, like you were holding yourself carefully in place.

The dress you wore was unmistakable in its craftsmanship—deep greens, gold threading, elegant but deliberate.

League.

“Good evening, miss,” Alfred said smoothly. “How may I assist you?”

Before you could answer—

“Habibti?”

Every head turned.

Damian stood at the top of the stairs.

Frozen.

For a moment, he didn’t move at all. Just stared—like his brain hadn’t caught up to what his eyes were seeing.

Then something in him broke loose.

He moved—fast

Down the stairs, across the floor—straight to you.

His hands found you first, then his arms wrapped around you fully, pulling you in like he needed to make sure you were real. His face pressed into your hair, his breathing uneven for the first time anyone in that room could remember.

“Beloved…” His voice was quieter now. Rougher. “I haven’t—”

He stopped.

Didn’t finish.

Just held you tighter.

Three years.

That’s how long it had been.

“Dame,” Jason cut in, because of course he did, “who the hell is that?”

Damian didn’t let go of you when he answered.

“My wife,” he said flatly.

Silence.

Complete.

Utter.

Jason blinked. “Your what?”

Damian finally pulled back just enough to look at them, one arm still firmly around your waist.

“My wife,” he repeated, slower this time, like they were the stupid ones. “Arranged marriage. League politics.” A pause—brief, but meaningful. “Not just that.”

The way he looked at you then said the rest.

It wasn’t obligation anymore.

Hadn’t been for a long time.

“I haven’t seen her since I left.”

That landed.

Harder than anything else.

You lifted a hand slightly, offering a small, uncertain wave. “Hello.”

Damian immediately tightened his hold on you, just slightly—protective, grounding.

“Ignore them,” he muttered near your temple. “They are incapable of behaving properly.”

There was a faint warmth in his voice that hadn’t been there before.

A softness none of them had ever heard directed at anyone.

Then, quieter—just for you:

“You’re really here.”

“I was sent,” you said gently.

That did it.

His entire body went still.

Not relaxed—still.

“Talia,” he said, and it sounded like a warning

You felt the shift instantly—the tension, the instinct to shield, to prepare.

He pulled back just enough to look at you properly, his hand lifting to your cheek without thinking.

“Why?” he asked, low. Controlled. “What does she want?”

“I’m safe,” you said first, before anything else. You could see where his mind had gone. “She didn’t threaten me.”

That didn’t fully ease him—but it helped.

“The League is unstable right now,” you continued, glancing briefly at Bruce before returning to Damian. “Internal conflict. Power struggles.” A small pause. “I am… politically valuable.”

That was putting it lightly.

Damian’s jaw tightened.

He understood exactly what that meant.

And he hated it.

Bruce stepped forward slightly, his voice measured. “You’re seeking refuge.”

“Yes,” you said simply. “If you allow it.”

Before Bruce could answer—

“You’re staying.”

Damian didn’t even look at him.

It wasn’t a suggestion.

It wasn’t a request.

It was a fact.

Bruce studied him for a moment, then you.

“…You’re welcome to stay,” he said finally.

You inclined your head politely. “Thank you.”

Dick clapped his hands once, trying to break the tension. “Great! Ground rules—”

Damian groaned under his breath.

“No killing,” Bruce said immediately.

You tilted your head slightly. “That is all?”

Jason snorted. “Oh, she’s definitely League.”

“Weapons will be logged,” Bruce added.

You nodded once.

Then, without hesitation, you lifted the slit of your dress and retrieved two blades, holding them out handle-first to Alfred.

“Careful,” you said calmly. “They are poisoned.”

Alfred accepted them without so much as blinking.

Behind you, there was a very noticeable silence.

“…Poisoned?” Damian repeated.

There wasn’t judgment in his voice.

There was concern.

Not about the weapons.

About you.

You glanced at him, just briefly. “Standard precaution.”

His expression darkened slightly—not at you, but at what that implied about how you’d been living.

For a moment, he said nothing.

Then his hand found yours again, grip firm, grounding.

“You will not need that here,” he said quietly.

Not an order.

A promise.

He stepped a little closer, positioning himself just slightly in front of you—not enough to be obvious, but enough that anyone watching would understand.

You were under his protection.

Entirely.

And for the first time since you’d arrived—

He didn’t look like a mystery.

He looked like someone who had been missing something.

And had just gotten it back.

Credits: I used a cai bot from @h0ttiewithab0dy as my base so all credits go to them.

Note: Just the same as my other post. I just posted this here cause i refuse to share my personal info with Cai or other chatbots to verify my age and i think its a bit wasteful to let the stories go. So im posting them so the wont be lost, but the purpose is just saving them for myself. Sorry if my english lags its not my first langue.