Hi, Iâm Kitkat! I like to write when Iâm not busy with university/work/volunteering, but Iâm a busy girl so updates may not always be consistent. However, I challenged myself to post at least once a month, so Iâm hoping to at least do that. Please reach out if you have any requests!
Also, no matter how long itâs been since I have posted, never EVER feed my work into any kind of AI platform. If you see my work being used in an AI bot, please report it. I also donât give my permission for my work to be reposted onto another site unless it is by me. Even though itâs shitty, my work is mine and mine alone.
Summary: It doesn't matter how Clark's love feels, it won't fix you.
Word count: 8k+
Warnings: angst, insecurities, based on the Olivia Rodrigo song
A/N:
hey guys!! donât worry, part 2 of hula hoop is still coming <3 but I really wanted to post this fic because I genuinely think it was illegal for olivia rodrigo to release the cure??? The song is devastatingly beautiful. The second I heard it, i knew I wanted to write a fic about it.
This fic is really special to me and definitely one of the more emotional things iâve written, so I really hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it :( xxx
English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.
Happy reading xxx
I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.
The first time Clark kissed you, you cried afterward.
Not because it was bad. God, it was the opposite.
It happened in the kitchen of your apartment at two in the morning while rain hammered against the fire escape outside your window hard enough to rattle the metal. Your apartment smelled faintly like rain-damp laundry, and the tea Clark had insisted on making, even though both mugs now sat forgotten on the counter, steam long gone cold.
You wore one of his sweaters over sleep shorts, the sleeves hanging past your hands because Clark liked tugging them over your fingers absentmindedly when he talked to you. His glasses sat crooked beside the sink where he'd abandoned them while drying dishes, and without them he looked softer somehow. Less like the sharp-featured reporter from the Daily Planet and more like the man underneath all of it.
There had been music playing quietly from your phone somewhere in the living room, something low and old crackling through bad speakers. Clark had been talking about work, about Perry assigning him some impossible article, but you hadn't really been listening anymore because he kept looking at your mouth between sentences like he was trying not to.
That nervousness in him undid you.
Clark Kent, who could stop planes from falling out of the sky, looked terrified of kissing you wrong.
You leaned against the counter while he stood too close in your tiny kitchen, broad shoulders nearly blocking out the overhead light. He smelled like clean laundry and rainwater and something warm you could never fully name. Home, maybe. Safety. Whatever it was, it made your chest ache.
âYou're staring,â you murmured.
A flush crept slowly up his throat, visible even in the dim light. âSorry.â
âYou don't sound sorry.â
His mouth twitched slightly. âGuess I'm not.â
You should have looked away then. You knew you should have. Moments like this always became dangerous eventually. Intimacy always carried the possibility of disappointment behind it, and disappointment had teeth.
But Clark looked at you like you were something worth being careful with.
That was your first mistake.
His hand lifted slowly, hesitant enough to give you time to move if you wanted to. When his fingers finally touched your jaw, warmth spread through you so quickly it almost frightened you. He held your face like he thought too much pressure might crack you apart, which was ironic considering he could probably shatter concrete without trying.
âCan I kiss you?â he asked softly.
Not cocky. Not assuming.
You nodded before he even finished speaking, and Clark kissed you like he was trying to convince you of something.
Not with urgency. Not greedily. There was no performance in it, none of the practiced confidence you'd grown used to from other men. He kissed you with unbearable sincerity, like he was offering you every gentle thing inside himself all at once.
The hand on your jaw trembled slightly.
That nearly destroyed you.
Because nobody that powerful should have been nervous around you.
You kissed him back harder than you meant to, almost desperately. Your fingers tangled in the front of his shirt as if your body already knew something your mind hadn't caught up to yet. Clark made this small sound against your mouth, startled and soft, and then his other hand slid carefully to your waist.
For one suspended, impossible second, your brain went quiet.
No comparisons. No inventory list of everything you wished you could carve away from yourself. No remembering every prettier woman you'd passed on the street that day or imagining all the girls Clark could have wanted instead.
Just him. Just the warmth of his mouth against yours and the slow drag of his thumb against your waist through the sweater, just relief so overwhelming it felt almost holy.
It hit you all at once then, sudden and devastating.
Oh.
This was what people meant, this unbearable quiet.
You felt it so strongly your eyes burned instantly.
Clark kissed you deeper, slow and careful, and your chest ached with terrible, desperate hope. Maybe this was it. Maybe this was the thing you'd been waiting for your entire life. Maybe love really could reach into all the ruined places inside a person and pull them whole again.
You had spent years believing that.
And the second he pulled away, your chest cracked open with grief so sudden it embarrassed you.
The silence inside your head vanished all at once, replaced by something sharp behind your eyes.
Clark noticed immediately, of course he did.
âHey,â he said softly.
You turned your face quickly before the tears could fully spill over, wiping beneath your eye with the sleeve of his sweater. âSorry.â
Your laugh came out weak and embarrassed.
Clark's expression shifted instantly, concern softening every feature. âDid I do something wrong?â
âNo,â you answered too fast.
âWas it too much?â
The nervousness in his voice made guilt twist painfully in your chest. He looked genuinely worried he'd crossed a line somehow, his hand slipping from your waist slowly like he wasn't sure if he should still be touching you.
âNo, Clark.â You shook your head quickly. âGod, no.â
âThen why are you crying?â
You swallowed hard.
Because how were you supposed to explain that the kiss had felt too good somehow? That your emotions suddenly sat too close to the surface to hold back properly?
So instead, you lied.
âI think I'm just overwhelmed,â you said quietly, staring down at your hands. âI've been waiting for this for a long time.â
Clark's entire face softened at that.
Relief flickered visibly across his expression.
âOh.â
You nodded quickly, forcing out another shaky laugh. âIt's stupid.â
âIt isn't stupid.â
His voice dropped softer then, warmer somehow, and before you could say anything else Clark stepped closer again carefully, like he was still trying to make sure this was okay.
âYou scared me for a second,â he admitted.
The confession was so earnest it made your chest ache.
âSorry,â you whispered again.
Clark frowned immediately. âStop apologizing.â
Then he smiled a little, nervous and sweet in that way only he could manage, and brushed his thumb lightly beneath your eye where your tears had escaped.
âYou know,â he murmured, âfor the record, I've been waiting for this too.â
And somehow that made your throat tighten even more.
When you were younger, love looked medicinal.
Not literally, of course. Nobody ever sat you down and said one day another person will save you from yourself. It was quieter than that. Hidden inside every movie you watched late at night and every song you replayed until the lyrics hollowed something out inside you.
Love was always presented as transformation. The lonely girl became radiant. The insecure girl became chosen. The moment somebody looked at her with enough devotion, all the sharp little insecurities evaporated like they had never existed at all.
Every story seemed to promise the same thing in different packaging: you will be wanted, and then you will finally become whole.
You absorbed that message young enough for it to root deep.
You remember being fourteen and standing sideways in front of your bathroom mirror, sucking in your stomach until your ribs hurt because girls in magazines looked effortless, and you already understood somehow that effortlessness was the closest thing women were allowed to perfection. You remember tilting your chin different ways, pulling at your clothes, analyzing every inch of yourself with the detached cruelty of someone grading an exam.
Too soft here. Too awkward there. Not pretty in the right way.
You spent years believing there was a correct version of femininity everyone else had received instructions for except you.
At school, pretty girls moved through the world differently. People softened around them automatically. Conversations bent toward them like gravity. They laughed without covering their mouths afterward, existed without apologizing first, and you wanted that ease so badly it made your chest ache.
Instead, you became observant. Funny. Self aware in the exhausting way insecure people often are.
You learned how to laugh before anyone else could laugh first. Learned how to make yourself agreeable and easy to keep around. You became skilled at reading rooms within seconds of entering them, instinctively figuring out who needed you quieter, prettier, smarter, less emotional.
Smaller.
And underneath all of it lived jealousy so intense it frightened you sometimes. Not loud jealousy, but silent jealousy. The kind that sat in your stomach like swallowed poison while you smiled through it politely.
You would see a beautiful girl beside someone you liked and immediately begin dissecting yourself against her without even meaning to.
Her skin is clearer. Her waist is smaller. She doesn't look nervous all the time.
You could ruin entire days that way.
Then dating started, and everything got worse.
Because suddenly there were histories attached to people. Other girls who existed before you. You approached relationships like someone preparing for inevitable disappointment, every question feeling like gathering evidence before a trial.
How many exes have you had?
Have you ever been in love before?
How many girls have you slept with?
You always forced yourself to sound relaxed asking it, like the answers wouldn't matter. Then afterward you'd lie awake replaying every detail they gave you voluntarily and inventing dozens more they didn't.
Sometimes you'd stalk social media until three in the morning searching for faces you could attach to names. Then you'd compare yourself against carefully curated photos until your stomach hurt.
It became ritualistic in a horrible way. You'd spiral. You'd cry. You'd hate yourself for caring so much.
Then you'd do it again anyway.
The worst part wasn't even the jealousy. It was how humiliating love made you feel afterward. The neediness. The panic. The unbearable desire to be chosen permanently in a world where nothing actually stayed permanent.
You hated how quickly affection turned into fear inside your chest. Hated that one delayed text could unravel your entire evening. You wanted love desperately, but you resented what wanting it turned you into.
Then Clark arrived and complicated everything.
Not because he was Superman, though discovering the quiet reporter you'd started falling for could hear heartbeats from buildings away certainly rearranged your understanding of reality for a while.
No, Clark terrified you because of how gently he loved.
There was nothing calculated about him. No games. No strategic withholding. Clark cared openly, almost recklessly, like affection was the easiest thing in the world for him to give.
Most men you'd dated made you feel auditioned, even the good ones. There was always some underlying sense that attraction was conditional, that you were being evaluated against every other woman in the room.
But Clark looked at you with this steady certainty that made your chest tight. Like he wasn't searching for flaws. Like he had simply seen you and decided that was enough.
You didn't know what to do with that kind of acceptance.
The first few months of knowing him, you kept waiting for the illusion to crack. Waiting for him to notice something disappointing about you and pull away slightly afterward. You expected affection to fluctuate because every other version of love you'd encountered had.
But Clark remained painfully consistent.
He remembered things you mentioned once in passing. He brought you coffee exactly the way you liked it after memorizing your order accidentally. He texted you when he got home safe without being asked. When you spoke, he listened with his full attention instead of scanning the room over your shoulder for someone more interesting.
And maybe none of those things sound extraordinary.
But to someone who had spent years feeling fundamentally replaceable, they were.
Clark made you feel seen in a way that bordered on unbearable.
Because part of you still believed love had to be earned constantly through beauty, usefulness, perfection, or whatever version of yourself seemed easiest for other people to keep.
And Clark loved you before you had proven any of those things.
That should have healed something.
Instead, it exposed every wound more clearly.
Because if someone like Clark could love you this sincerely and you still hated yourself afterward, then maybe the problem had never been a lack of love at all.
You met him at the Daily Planet on a Thursday afternoon that already felt cursed.
The air conditioning on your floor had broken sometime before noon, leaving the newsroom sticky with late summer heat and irritation. Phones rang endlessly from every direction. Someone in politics was arguing loud enough to be heard across the bullpen. Perry had shouted your name three separate times in the span of an hour, and by three o'clock you were surviving entirely on bad coffee and spite.
You were halfway through rewriting a headline when Lois appeared beside your desk like a hurricane in heels.
âYou look terrible,â she informed you casually.
You didn't glance up from your computer. âAnd you look intrusive.â
âGood. Keep that energy.â She dropped a folder onto your keyboard before you could stop her. âI brought you something.â
âUnless it's a winning lottery ticket or hard liquor, I don't want it.â
Lois grinned, sharp and dangerous in the way only Lois Lane could manage. âPerfect. You two already sound married.â
You frowned and finally looked up.
That was when you saw him standing awkwardly a few feet behind her.
Tall. Broad shouldered. Wearing a button down rolled messily at the sleeves like he'd tried to look professional halfway and given up afterward. His tie sat slightly crooked beneath the collar, glasses slipping down his nose just enough to make him push them back up every few seconds.
Clark looked painfully out of place against the chaos of the newsroom. Like someone had taken a small town librarian and accidentally dropped him into the middle of Metropolis.
âThis,â Lois announced with immense satisfaction, âis Clark Kent. Small town farm boy. Be nice to him.â
Clark immediately looked embarrassed. âLois.â
âWhat?â she said innocently. âIt's accurate.â
You expected him to laugh it off smoothly.
Most men did.
Instead, Clark glanced at you with visible nervousness, like he genuinely cared whether or not you liked him already.
âHi,â he said, offering a hand. âClark Kent.â
His voice surprised you. Warm. Deep. Softer than someone his size should've sounded.
You shook his hand automatically and immediately noticed how careful he was. Most people shook hands absentmindedly. Clark held yours like he was worried about gripping too hard, despite the fact that you were not made of glass.
âNice to meet you,â you said.
Clark smiled then.
And God.
He was beautiful. Not movie star beautiful, not the polished kind of attractive that made heads turn instantly when someone entered a room. Clark's beauty unfolded slower than that. It crept up on you quietly until suddenly you realized you'd been staring at him for too long.
He looked warm. Open. Like sunlight through curtains early in the morning.
There was something deeply unguarded about him that threw you off balance immediately. Most people in Metropolis wore layers. Professionalism. Charm. Calculation. Everyone at the Planet sharpened themselves into something harder just to survive the pace of the city.
Clark still looked soft around the edges.
Sincere in a way that almost seemed outdated.
You remember thinking, very suddenly and very clearly, 'This man is going to ruin my life.'
Not because he was intimidating, because he wasn't.
That was the problem.
Men like Clark always ruined you the worst. The gentle ones. The ones who listened too carefully and smiled too softly and made you feel safe enough to lower your guard before they left carrying pieces of you with them.
It was never the cruel men who did the most damage. Cruelty at least prepared you for impact. But kind men convinced you to trust them first.
Then they became irreplaceable.
Clark settled into your life slowly after that.
At first he was just another reporter weaving through the chaos of the newsroom, apologizing too much when he bumped into desks and always looking faintly overwhelmed by Lois' existence. You'd catch glimpses of him throughout the day â bent over notes, arguing quietly with Perry, carrying six coffees because apparently he knew everyone's orders within a week.
And he looked at people when they spoke.
Really looked at them.
Most conversations in the newsroom happened while typing emails or scanning headlines or mentally preparing responses before the other person finished talking. Everyone was moving too fast to fully pay attention.
Clark paid attention completely.
The first real conversation you had with him happened after midnight during a stormy deadline shift. Half the office had gone home already, leaving the bullpen dim and exhausted. You were rubbing at your eyes trying to finish edits before Perry lost his mind when Clark appeared beside your desk holding two vending machine coffees.
âI think this legally qualifies as motor oil,â he said, setting one beside you. âBut it's warm.â
You laughed despite yourself.
âThat's the nicest thing anyone's done for me all week.â
His smile appeared slow and shy, like he wasn't used to making people laugh on purpose.
âYou've been here since six this morning,â he said. âFigured you could use it.â
The comment startled you.
Not because it was invasive, because he'd noticed.
âYou keeping tabs on me, Kent?â
A faint flush climbed his cheeks instantly. âNo. I just... notice things.â
And there it was again.
That sincerity.
After that, Clark became impossible to keep at a distance.
He remembered things casually, effortlessly, in ways that made your chest ache without permission. If you mentioned liking a certain pastry once, he'd bring it the next week because he âhappened to pass the bakery.â If you complained about insomnia, he'd text you ridiculous articles about sleep habits at two in the morning because apparently he was awake too.
You started expecting him without meaning to. Expecting the warmth of his voice drifting over your cubicle walls. Expecting him beside your desk asking if you'd eaten lunch yet because somehow he'd noticed you skipped it again.
One afternoon you muttered absentmindedly that your favorite pen had run out of ink.
The next morning there was an identical pack sitting on your desk.
No note. Just Clark shrugging awkwardly when you confronted him about it.
âYou sounded upset,â he said simply.
The terrifying part wasn't grand gestures.
It was the consistency.
Clark cared in steady, unremarkable ways that slowly became devastating.
Even after you started dating, even after discovering he was Superman and spending several weeks mentally unraveling over that information specifically, he remained impossibly attentive.
He texted you after interviews. After late shifts. After nights out with friends.
Made it home safe?
That was it sometimes.
Four words.
But nobody had ever checked for you so consistently before.
There were nights he'd disappear suddenly in the middle of dinner because somewhere across the city a building was collapsing or someone screamed for help loud enough for only him to hear. Then hours later you'd receive a text at three in the morning.
Sorry. You asleep?
Did you remember to eat?
It made no sense. This man could be stopping disasters halfway across the planet and still remembered tiny details about you.
Sometimes you'd catch him looking at you when he thought you weren't paying attention. Not staring. Something quieter than that. Like there was an ache inside him he didn't know what to do with.
You'd be talking about something completely meaningless â office gossip, bad takeout, a movie you hated â and Clark would watch you with this soft, almost wounded affection that made your chest feel too small for your ribs.
Like he couldn't believe you were real.
And slowly, horribly, you began to hope.
Not all at once. Hope arrived carefully, in pieces. In the way your body relaxed around him without permission. In the way silence stopped feeling dangerous when you were together. In the way you started believing him every time he called you beautiful, even if only for a few seconds before doubt returned.
You hated that hope most of all.
Because hope meant vulnerability. Hope meant believing this time might be different.
And deep down, beneath all the fear and jealousy and poison you'd carried for years, a small desperate part of you started whispering something terrifying every time Clark touched you gently enough to make your throat ache:
Maybe this was it.
Maybe this was finally the antidote.
One night, months into the relationship, you sat cross legged on Clark's couch while he cooked dinner behind you.
It was late autumn by then. Cold enough outside that the windows fogged faintly around the edges, the city glowing soft and blurred beyond the glass. Clark had left one of his sweaters draped over your shoulders the second you walked through the door because apparently your hands were âalways freezing,â and now the sleeves swallowed your fingers while you scrolled absentmindedly through your phone.
His apartment smelled like garlic and tomato sauce simmering on the stove. Warm and comforting, the kind of smell people associated with home.
The television murmured quietly in the background, some black and white movie Clark loved because his parents used to watch it when he was little. You weren't paying attention to the plot, only the rhythm of it. The low static hum of old film. The occasional burst of orchestral music. Clark humming softly under his breath while he stirred the sauce.
It was domestic and safe, the kind of moment people wrote vows about.
That thought hit you strangely hard.
Because this was the sort of life you'd imagined wanting when you were younger. Not glamorous. Not dramatic. Just this. Someone moving comfortably around a kitchen while you existed together in easy silence.
Clark looked over his shoulder toward you then, wooden spoon still in hand.
âYou hungry?â
âStarving.â
âYou said that twenty minutes ago.â
âBecause I was starving twenty minutes ago too.â
A smile tugged at his mouth.
God, even that smile hurt now.
Not in a bad way. In the way beautiful things sometimes did when you loved them too much.
You watched him move around the kitchen for a moment longer. The sleeves of his gray henley pushed to his elbows. His glasses slipping down his nose while he cooked. The quiet ease in his posture now that he was home with you instead of carrying the weight of the world somewhere on his back.
Clark in private still stunned you sometimes.
Superman belonged to everyone; Clark Kent belonged only to you.
Then Clark's phone buzzed on the coffee table.
You glanced down automatically, thinking it was a text message, and felt your stomach drop almost instantly.
A girl from Clark's college years had followed him on Instagram.
You knew that because her profile included the university initials, and because her picture was beautiful enough to make something sour twist beneath your ribs before you even clicked it.
You should've ignored it.
Instead your thumb moved anyway.
The first photo loaded, and she was pretty.
Of course.
Not intimidatingly glamorous. Worse than that. Effortlessly pretty. The kind of beauty that looked untouched and easy. Soft brown eyes. Tiny waist. Bright smile that didn't seem practiced at all.
You clicked the next photo.
Then another.
And another.
A sickness bloomed slowly beneath your skin because now your brain had something to work with.
A real face. A real woman who had existed in Clark's life before you.
You imagined them younger. Meeting in college hallways. Sitting too close together at parties. Her laughing at something he said while touching his arm casually like beautiful girls always seemed to do without fear.
Had he loved her?
Had he looked at her the way he looked at you now?
Had she ever stood in this kitchen?
You hated how quickly your thoughts spiraled.
Nothing had even happened. A follow request, that was all.
But your body reacted like betrayal had already entered the room.
Your chest tightened painfully. Heat crawled up your throat. You kept scrolling even while nausea spread hot beneath your ribs because some ugly part of you needed to know exactly what kind of woman Clark had once wanted.
Every photo became evidence against yourself.
Her legs are thinner than yours.
She looks easy to love.
She probably doesn't overthink every little thing.
Clark noticed the shift immediately.
Of course he did.
âYou okay?â
His voice came from behind you, gentle and immediate.
You locked your phone too quickly. âFine.â
The answer came automatic, almost too fast.
You heard the stove click off behind you almost instantly.
Silence settled over the apartment except for the television murmuring softly in the background.
âHey.â
You looked up to find him watching you carefully from the kitchen doorway. Concern already written across his face. He wiped his hands absentmindedly on a dish towel before crossing toward the couch.
âTalk to me.â
The kindness in his voice nearly undid you on the spot.
You hated that sometimes. Hated how quickly tenderness made tears burn behind your eyes these days. It felt embarrassing, how fragile you became whenever he handled you gently.
âI just...â You laughed shakily. âGod, this is stupid.â
Clark's brow furrowed immediately.
âIt isn't stupid if it's hurting you.â
There it was again. That awful, beautiful softness. Like your pain mattered to him even when it made no logical sense.
Clark crouched in front of the couch slowly, close enough for your knees to brush his chest. His expression stayed open and patient, waiting instead of pushing.
You stared down at your locked phone in your lap.
Then whispered, âDo you ever compare me to other girls? I don't know, like girls you know, girls you dated before me, girls you see walking on the street. Do you?â
The question sat between you for a second too long.
Clark's face softened immediately, something sad flickering across his expression. Not annoyance. Not frustration. Just the quiet hurt of hearing someone he loved talk about themselves that way.
âNo,â he said softly.
You looked away first.
âBut you've loved people before.â
âI cared about people before,â he corrected gently.
The distinction should've comforted you. Instead it made your throat tighter.
âSometimes I think about everyone you've ever been with before me and I feel physically sick.â
Clark went very still.
The television laughed faintly in the background at some joke neither of you heard.
Silence stretched between you then, but not the dangerous kind. Not irritated silence. Sad silence. The kind that came from watching someone you loved hurt themselves in real time and not knowing how to stop it.
Clark reached for your hands carefully enough to give you time to pull away if you wanted.
You didn't.
His palms were warm around yours, steady.
âListen to me,â he said quietly. âI don't want anyone else.â
âBut that's not the point.â Your voice cracked unexpectedly on the last word.
Because suddenly this wasn't really about the girl on Instagram anymore.
It was about the ugly thing underneath all of it. The constant, gnawing belief that eventually everyone would realize you were harder to love than they first thought.
That one day Clark would wake up and see you clearly. Really clearly. All the insecurity and jealousy and fear curled underneath your skin. All the exhausting ways you constantly needed reassurance while simultaneously distrusting it.
And once he saw it fully, he'd leave too.
Maybe not cruelly.
Maybe sadly.
But he'd leave.
Because people always did eventually.
Clark searched your face carefully like he was trying to read thoughts you couldn't say aloud.
âWhat is the point? Please tell me.â
And there it was.
The impossible question.
You stared at him, devastated suddenly by how badly you wanted him to answer it for you.
Fix me.
Please.
Tell me why I feel this way all the time.
Tell me how to stop measuring myself against every woman who walks into a room.
Tell me how to believe you when you say you love me.
Tell me why being loved still feels terrifying instead of safe.
Clark waited patiently while tears gathered in your eyes again.
âI thought...â Your voice trembled badly. âI thought being loved would make me feel different.â
The words landed heavily between you.
Clark looked heartbroken.
Not defensive. Not frustrated. Just devastated in this quiet, aching way, like he'd finally realized how much grief you'd been carrying silently the entire time he'd known you.
âBaby,â he said softly, âyou think I don't see how hard you are on yourself?â
That did it.
You started crying fully then.
Because the worst part was that he did see it. Every flinch in front of mirrors. Every shift in your mood after seeing prettier women nearby. Every self deprecating joke disguised as humor.
He saw every ugly little fracture inside you and loved you anyway.
That should have healed something. Instead, it made the grief sharper.
Because now there was proof. Proof that even being loved completely and wholeheartedly still didn't silence the ache inside you.
And that realization terrified you more than loneliness ever had.
Clark moved immediately, sitting beside you on the couch and pulling you into him before you could apologize for crying.
You folded against his chest instinctively.
His arms wrapped around you carefully, one hand moving slowly up and down your spine while the other cradled the back of your head against his shoulder. You could hear his heartbeat beneath your ear, steady and warm and painfully human despite everything extraordinary about him.
âI've got you,â he murmured softly.
The words nearly broke you apart.
Because he meant them, completely.
âYou don't have to earn love,â he whispered into your hair after a long silence.
Your eyes squeezed shut.
Because logically, rationally, you knew he was right. You knew people weren't meant to perform perfect versions of themselves just to deserve softness from others. Clark had spent months trying to show you that through every small, steady act of care he gave so naturally.
But somewhere deep inside you, underneath all the warmth of his body against yours and the comfort of being held, another voice still lingered quietly.
Small.
Persistent.
Cruel.
Then why doesn't it feel like enough?
Loving Clark felt like standing in sunlight with frostbite.
Warmth reached you, it did. That was what made it so confusing sometimes. Because Clark loved you beautifully. Consistently. There was never any shortage of tenderness between you, never any question about whether or not he cared.
And yet some parts of you stayed numb anyway.
Some wounds remained untouched by all that warmth no matter how desperately you wanted them healed.
Clark tried so hard.
Sometimes you thought loving you must feel like trying to hold water in his hands. Every time he soothed one hurt, another crack opened somewhere else. Another insecurity. Another spiral. Another night where your own mind turned against you so viciously it left you exhausted.
And Clark met every single one of those moments with gentleness.
That was the unbearable part.
He never mocked your fear or rolled his eyes at the things that sent you spiraling. Even when he clearly didn't fully understand why your mind turned ordinary things into catastrophes, he still handled your feelings carefully, like they deserved compassion instead of ridicule.
Like you deserved compassion instead of ridicule.
There were nights he'd find you sitting on the bathroom floor after staring too long at yourself in the mirror, knees pulled to your chest while shame crawled hot beneath your skin for reasons you couldn't even fully articulate. Clark would crouch in front of you immediately, concern softening his face before you'd spoken a single word.
âHey,â he'd say quietly. âTalk to me.â
And sometimes you couldn't.
Sometimes there wasn't language for the heaviness sitting inside your ribs. How do you explain to someone that your reflection feels wrong in ways too abstract to name? How do you explain the exhaustion of constantly fighting your own brain just to exist comfortably inside yourself?
Clark never pushed when you couldn't answer. He would just sit beside you on the cold tile floor, broad shoulders pressed against yours, waiting silently until your breathing slowed again.
Once, after a panic attack left you shaking so badly you could barely unclench your hands, Clark sat cross legged on the edge of your bed and held your face between both palms with such impossible care it made fresh tears spill from your eyes.
The room was dark except for the small lamp glowing beside the bed. Your breathing still hurt from crying too hard, too long. Clark had arrived halfway through it, still wearing his glasses and rumpled work clothes, concern written all over his face the second he saw you curled against the headboard struggling to breathe properly.
He hadn't panicked, hadn't overwhelmed you with questions.
He just climbed onto the bed carefully and stayed close until the worst of it passed.
âLook at me,â he whispered gently once your breathing started slowing.
You tried. God, you tried.
But your vision blurred too badly with tears, and shame crawled hot beneath your skin at the thought of him seeing you like this again. Broken open. Unsteady. Too much.
âI can't,â you admitted weakly.
Clark's expression softened immediately. His thumb brushed beneath your eye, wiping away tears with a tenderness that almost hurt to endure.
âYes, you can,â he murmured. âThere you are.â
The words lodged somewhere painful inside your chest.
Not 'calm down.'
Not 'get it together.'
Not 'what's wrong with you?'
There you are.
Like he'd been searching for you beneath all the panic and noise. Like he still believed there was a version of you worth finding underneath all the unraveling.
And maybe that was the cruelest part of loving Clark Kent sometimes, the way he looked at you during your worst moments like you were still someone gentle and precious underneath all the damage.
Clark kissed every scar like reverence.
Not literally at first. It was quieter than that.
The scar near your knee from childhood. The stretch marks you once apologized for instinctively before he frowned and asked why you were apologizing at all. The parts of yourself you tried to hide automatically because past experiences had taught you softness was conditional.
Clark handled all of it carefully.
The first time he traced his fingers over the faint scars on your thigh without hesitation, your throat tightened so suddenly you had to look away.
It happened late at night while the two of you lay tangled together beneath his sheets, rain tapping softly against the windows while Clark talked about something you weren't really listening to anymore. Your attention had caught entirely on the gentle drag of his fingertips across skin you'd spent years trying not to think about too hard.
Then his thumb brushed over the scars.
He didn't freeze or pretend not to notice them. He simply touched them with the same tenderness he touched every other part of you.
Your chest tightened instantly.
Because he wasn't recoiling. Wasn't silently evaluating your body piece by piece beneath his hands.
Clark looked at your body like it was simply yours. Human and real and deserving of affection exactly as it was.
And still, somehow, you couldn't fully absorb it.
That disconnect tortured you quietly.
Because you knew how lucky you were. You knew people spent entire lifetimes searching for love this gentle, the kind that remained patient even when confronted with the ugliest parts of someone.
Clark loved you in a way that should have felt healing.
Instead, it often felt heartbreaking.
Not because he failed you. Because every time he held you through another spiral and the spiral still returned eventually, grief settled heavier inside your chest.
You started realizing love and healing were not the same thing.
That realization gutted you.
Sometimes Clark would wake in the middle of the night and find you staring at the ceiling beside him while thoughts churned endlessly inside your head.
âYou're thinking too loud again,â he'd mumble sleepily, voice rough with exhaustion.
You'd laugh weakly. âSorry.â
Clark always hated when you apologized for hurting.
Even half asleep, you could feel him frown.
âC'mere.â
Then he'd pull you against him immediately, large arms wrapping around your body until your back pressed firmly to his chest. Sometimes his hand would settle over your sternum like he was trying to steady the frantic rhythm underneath.
And slowly, eventually, your heartbeat would begin matching his.
Steady.
Clark held you like proximity itself could protect you from your own mind.
And maybe sometimes it helped.
There were moments where the noise inside your head softened enough for relief to slip through. Moments where Clark kissing your temple absentmindedly while half asleep made you feel briefly anchored to something solid.
But eventually the pain always returned.
You would wake the next morning and still feel fragile in your own skin. Still compare yourself against strangers without meaning to. Still flinch at compliments some days because part of you remained convinced love could disappear without warning.
And every time that happened, guilt followed immediately after.
Because Clark was trying so hard.
You'd catch him watching you carefully after another spiral with this quiet devastation in his eyes, like he hated that he couldn't save you from something invisible. Superman could stop earthquakes. Could hold collapsing buildings above his head.
But he couldn't pull the self hatred out of your bloodstream.
And the cruelest part was that some broken, childish part of you still wanted him to.
You kept waiting for the moment his love would finally outweigh your fear. For the day you'd look in the mirror and hear his voice louder than your own cruelty.
But healing didn't work like that.
Love didn't either.
That realization came slowly and painfully. It lived in the quiet moments after comfort faded. In the mornings where Clark kissed your forehead before work and you still spent twenty minutes criticizing yourself in the bathroom mirror afterward.
Clark's affection was real. Powerful, even.
There were parts of you that survived entirely because he'd loved them gently instead of harshly. Loving Clark changed you in undeniable ways. It made the world feel safer. Made tenderness feel possible again.
But it was not a cure.
His love could hold you while you unraveled, but it could not stop the unraveling itself.
And maybe that was the hardest truth of all.
Not that Clark failed to save you.
But that he was never supposed to.
The fight happened in winter.
It wasn't explosive or cruel, which somehow made it worse.
There was no screaming. No slammed doors. No sharp words designed to wound on purpose. If anything, the entire thing unfolded too softly, like watching something precious crack in slow motion while neither of you knew how to stop it.
The work gala had been sitting on your calendar for weeks. Some charity event hosted high above the city in a building full of people who looked expensive even standing still. Lois had been excited for it. You had been dreading it quietly since the invitation arrived.
By the time the night finally came, your anxiety already sat heavy beneath your ribs before you'd even started getting ready.
The apartment bathroom glowed warm with yellow light while snow drifted past the windows outside. Makeup products cluttered the counter beside half empty glasses of water and abandoned earrings you'd decided you hated the second you put them on. Three dresses lay discarded across the bedroom behind you like evidence from some humiliating crime scene.
Nothing fit right.
Or maybe it fit fine and your brain simply refused to let you see it correctly anymore.
The black dress pinched too tightly around your waist.
The blue one made your shoulders look broad.
The silk one clung wrong at the stomach.
Every angle in the mirror felt unbearable.
You stood there twisting sideways beneath the bathroom light, arms wrapped around yourself while shame crawled hot and vicious through your chest. The longer you stared, the less recognizable your reflection became. Every insecurity sharpened under scrutiny until it felt impossible to imagine leaving the apartment at all.
Outside the bathroom door, Clark moved quietly through the bedroom gathering his wallet and watch, the soft sounds of hangers shifting and drawers opening carrying faintly through the apartment.
âWe're gonna be late,â he called gently.
Not irritated. Never irritated. Even now, with the evening slipping away while you stood frozen in front of the mirror fighting yourself, his voice stayed patient and warm.
You squeezed your eyes shut briefly. âI know.â
There was a small pause before he spoke again, softer this time, closer to the door like he'd started making his way toward you.
âYou look beautiful.â
The compliment hit something raw inside your chest.
Your laugh came out brittle before you could stop it. âYou don't have to say that.â
Silence answered immediately.
Heavy silence.
The kind that made your stomach sink because you knew, instantly, you'd hurt him.
Clark stepped inside the bathroom carefully, like approaching a wounded animal that might bolt if startled too quickly. He'd already changed into his suit, dark tie loosened slightly at the collar while snowlight filtered pale through the bedroom windows behind him.
God.
Even then, part of you noticed how beautiful he was.
Not intimidatingly beautiful, just unfairly kind looking.
Clark took in the scene immediately. The dresses scattered across the room. Your mascara beginning to smudge beneath your eyes. The way your arms folded tightly around your middle like you were trying to physically hold yourself together.
Concern softened his face instantly.
âYou've been in here almost an hour,â he said quietly.
You looked away from the mirror first. âI can't find anything that looks right.â
Clark frowned slightly, confused in that earnest way he always became when confronted with pain he couldn't logic through.
âYou've changed three times,â he said gently. âYou looked beautiful in every dress.â
Your throat tightened immediately.
Because he meant it.
That was the problem.
Clark wasn't saying it automatically or carelessly. He wasn't throwing compliments at you just to end the conversation faster. He genuinely looked confused standing there in the bathroom doorway, like he couldn't understand why you were seeing something so completely different in the mirror than what he saw standing in front of you.
âI don't understand why you can't just believe me.â
The words were quiet. Careful. Not accusatory in the slightest, but they still split something open inside your chest.
Because there was hurt in them too.
Not anger.
Just the soft, exhausted sadness of someone trying desperately to hand you love in a language you still didn't know how to accept.
You stared at your reflection in the mirror, at the tears gathering humiliatingly fast in your eyes, and suddenly anger flared sharp beneath all the shame.
Not at him.
Never at him.
At yourself. At the exhaustion of carrying this feeling everywhere you went. At how impossible it seemed to escape your own mind no matter how deeply Clark loved you, no matter how gently he held you, no matter how many times he looked at you like you were something worth cherishing.
Something inside you snapped.
âBecause you love me.â
The words came out harsher than you intended, echoing off the bathroom tiles in the silence between you.
Clark blinked, visibly thrown by the sudden sharpness in your voice. âYeah,â he said slowly.
You laughed once under your breath, bitter and shaky all at once. âSo of course you don't see me clearly.â
The second the sentence left your mouth, regret crashed into you.
You watched the pain cross his face in real time.
Not offense. Not anger.
Pain.
Real, quiet pain that softened his expression instantly, like you'd reached into his chest and pressed against something bruised there. Clark stared at you for a long second without speaking, and somehow that hurt worse than if he'd snapped back. He looked at you like you'd just reduced his love to something naive. Like you'd taken something honest and beautiful he'd been trying to offer you and called it blindness instead. Like you'd struck something tender directly with your bare hands.
âIs that what you think love is?â he asked softly. âBlindness?â
You opened your mouth, and closed it again.
Because maybe it was.
Maybe some part of you truly believed love required delusion to survive. Maybe you thought people only stayed because affection distorted reality enough to make flaws tolerable.
Otherwise, why would anyone stay at all?
The silence stretched painfully between you.
Clark stepped closer slowly.
Snow drifted quietly outside the windows behind him while the radiator hissed softly in the apartment, filling the room with warmth that somehow never reached your skin.
âI know what you look like,â he said carefully.
You shook your head immediately. âClark...â
âNo.â His voice stayed gentle, but steadier now. âListen to me.â
He moved closer until he stood directly behind you in the mirror.
Not trapping.
Just there.
Grounding.
âI know every version of you,â he continued quietly. âI know when you're insecure before you even say anything. I know when you're pretending you're okay because your left eye starts twitching when you're anxious.â A sad smile flickered briefly across his face. âI know you leave cabinet doors open. I know you steal my shirts even though you claim you don't. I know you cry when dogs get hurt in movies and pretend it's allergies afterward.â
Your chest hurt.
Clark's voice softened further.
âI know you.â
The words landed heavily.
Completely.
âAnd I still love you.â
His voice wavered slightly on the last part.
That nearly destroyed you.
Because there it was again. The unbearable truth of him. Clark wasn't loving some idealized fantasy version of you. He saw the mess. The insecurity. The spiraling thoughts and sharp edges and ugly fears.
And he loved you anyway.
Tears blurred your vision instantly.
âBut why doesn't that fix me?â you whispered.
The question slipped out before you could stop it.
Raw.
Ugly.
Honest in a way that made your stomach twist afterward.
Why wasn't his love enough?
Why did you still stand in mirrors feeling fundamentally wrong even after being loved this deeply? Why did panic still crawl through your bloodstream at parties full of prettier women? Why did reassurance dissolve so quickly inside you no matter how sincerely he offered it?
Why could Superman hold collapsing buildings together with his bare hands but not the inside of your chest?
Clark looked devastated.
Not because you'd insulted him, and not because he was angry. It was worse than that. You watched understanding settle over his face slowly, painfully, like he was finally seeing the full shape of something that had been hurting right in front of him this entire time.
The problem had never been that he wasn't loving you enough.
The problem was that somewhere along the way, you'd started expecting love itself to save you. To reach into years of fear and insecurity and self hatred and somehow cut them out cleanly. Like being loved deeply enough would finally silence every ugly thing you believed about yourself.
And Clark, for all his strength, could not survive carrying that responsibility forever.
He reached toward you slowly then, hands careful and uncertain in a way that made your chest ache. Like your heart had become something fragile in his hands, something he was terrified of hurting further.
âThis isn't something I can save you from.â
The words shattered something inside you.
Not because they were cruel.
Because they were true.
You felt the truth of them immediately, sinking heavy into your ribs with devastating clarity. Clark could hold you through every panic attack. Could kiss every scar on your body gently enough to make you cry. Could love you with terrifying sincerity for the rest of your life.
But he could not heal wounds he didn't create.
Your knees gave out before you fully realized you were crying.
You slid down against the bathroom wall hard enough for the tile to sting through the thin fabric of your dress, sobs tearing out of your chest so violently it hurt to breathe. Everything inside you felt split open. Years of impossible hope collapsing all at once under the weight of reality.
Clark followed you down immediately.
Suit forgotten. Gala forgotten. Everything forgotten except you.
He knelt in front of you on the cold bathroom floor, both hands reaching for your face while tears blurred your vision so badly you could barely see him.
âHey,â he whispered urgently. âHey, look at me.â
You couldn't.
Everything hurt too badly.
âYou're your own hero in this story, baby,â he murmured shakily, pressing his forehead against yours. âBut I don't want to lose you to this.â
The words cracked something open inside you all over again.
Because Clark sounded scared.
Not exhausted. Not resentful.
Scared.
Like he was watching someone he loved drown right in front of him while knowing he couldn't jump into the water and breathe for them.
âYou won't,â you whispered automatically.
But even to your own ears, the words sounded uncertain.
Because for the first time, truly, you were beginning to understand how exhausting it must be to love someone who kept asking for proof love could resurrect them.
Clark closed his eyes briefly, his breath uneven against your skin before he spoke again.
âI'll stay,â he said quietly. âBut you have to stop asking me to heal something I didn't break.â
That one hurt the most.
Not because it was harsh.
Because he was right.
Love would hold you. Comfort you. Change you in small, tender ways over time. But it would never become the cure you spent your whole life searching for, and somewhere beneath all the grief pouring out of you on that bathroom floor, you finally understood that.
The Way to a Vigilante's Heart is Through His Stomach
Jason Todd/Civilian!reader
Gender neutral reader
T rating
Lowkey a comedy, you're just trying to do your job, Jason is a menace
1,636 words
Nobody told him there was a stupid event today.
In retrospect, it made sense why Bruce reconvened at the Batcave and ended his patrol so early tonight. Everyone was also used to Jason going off on his own once those brief meetings were done, so naturally, when Jason turned back around to grab a snack from upstairs, no one had stopped him.
The manor has tons of secret ins and outsâ one in particular leads to a hidden doorway right outside the kitchen. Entering, he sees a couple of trays and little pastries laid out. Perfect. Alfred was practicing his baking again and he knows that the butler wouldn't mind him tasting some of his work. Taking off his helmet and placing it on the table, he digs in on the finger food.
That's when he realizes he's not alone.
There's shuffling at the doorway to the kitchen and he's about to give a quick explanation to one of the many snitches around the house when he finds himself caught by...
someone.
You look back at him, freezing at the doorway of the kitchen like a startled deer about to get hit by a car.
Slowly, he picks up his helmet, and moves it back onto his head.
You recognize him instantly.
Everyone in Gotham knew who Red Hood was. A vigilante in the most basic of terms. One night he might be saving someone from a shooter, another night he could be bombing the city. And tonight? You just saw his face.
A million thoughts run through your head in this moment. You curse god, berate yourself for thinking you were safe moving from a diner job to a supposedly bougie catering company, wonder if you were gonna be able to see your cat tomorrow, wonder if your roommate remembered to feed your cat tonight...
By instinct you run. That was obviously the wrong choice, because he sprints after you, and quickly catches up.
In a situation like this, your catering tray means nothing to you, company property be damned. You take the silver platter and toss it at him like an Amazon and her discus. Except you're no Amazon, and the cheap tray doesn't do much but clatter to the ground with a loud metallic ring when he dodges.
"What do youâ mmph!"
You find yourself pinned between him and the dark wood panel of the hallway as he places a hand over your mouth.
"Don't even think about screamâ fuck! Did you just bite my hand?" He hisses, shaking said hand out to the side to mitigate the pain.
"Help! Someone help me!" You don't hesitate. Maybe it's a death wish, but considering he hasn't even whipped out a gun yet, you're taking any chances of survival you can.
That's when you feel it. Cold metal wrapped around your wrist, then a tug. You stumble forward, into him, as he places a rag he grabbed from your apron into your mouth to gag you again as he pulls you away from the kitchen entrance.
You can hear one of your coworkers walk upstairs, calling for you.
Inside one of the many rooms of Wayne Manor is where he takes you, turning the lock. It's empty, because again, it seems your luck was absolutely shit today.
He turns looking down at you.
"I'm gonna take the gag out of your mouth, and as long as you don't scream, I'm not going to hurt you."
You look back at him, clear doubt on your features, but you nod.
Despite the fact youâre stuck in a room with a masked lunatic, you stay silent. Mostly silent. You attempt to spit out some of the cloth fibers stuck on your tongue.
"Who are you?" He asks, because apparently this was now an interrogation.
"Who am I?" You hiss, "Who are- what the hell are you doing here?"
"I was trying to get a snack, until you showed up."
Your eye twitches.
"Snack? At Wayne Manor? Can't you get takeout like a normal person?"
He pauses, and even through the helmet you can tell he feels called out by your observation.
"...I like the way the butler here cooks."
Why was that so specific?
"So what? You sneak into a high profile party just to grab some cookies?"
"I didn't exactly know there was a high profile party tonight!" He argues back at you.
You know you're pushing your luck right now, but come on. This guy is completely ridiculous, violent vigilante or not.
"Do you have a list of all socialites butlers and private chefs, or something? Do you break into St Cloud's penthouse too?"
"Maybe I do."
What! The! Hell!
"Well, I hate to tell you this, but none of those puff pastries were the butler's! It was my company's! So you didn't even get a bite of Bruce Wayne's butler's cooking!" Survival instincts be damned, you just wanted to spite this guy at this point.
"Really? They're not bad," he says, a pleasantly surprised tone running through his helmet's voice filter. It was something you definitely didn't expect because you're not sure how to take the compliment.
"Well. Thanks. I actually helped cook some of those."
"It's good that you can cook, because you definitely don't have any talent in running."
If this asshole wasn't built like a brick wall and armed to the teeth, you'd smack him right now.
"I'll make a deal with you, if you give me an entire tray to go, and you don't tell anyone I was here, I'll let you go."
Your eyes narrow at him in suspicion.
"You're smart not to take my word for it, but you don't have much of a choice right now. Either you let me walk away or I knock you out and make you look like an idiot who tripped over the hallway runner."
Because of course adding a hurt ego on top of a hurt body added to his threat.
"Fine, but I'm not gonna enjoy it."
"Of course you won't."
He keeps to his word though, and unlocks the door. Quietly, more quiet than you expected a man of his frame to move, he ushers you towards the kitchen. There's a small crowd of your coworkers just around the corner, probably looking for you and what happened to you.
You feel his hands on your shoulders, and the low sound of his voice close to your ear.
"I've uncuffed you. You're going to walk over to them and blame your accident on the dog dragging you off. Then you're going to ask for a quick break where you'll bring me the goods."
Then he pushes you forward.
You turn around to find him, but the bastard disappeared.
The sound of your shoes padding against the floor cause the group to turn towards you.
"We were just looking for you! Someone heard a scream, are you alright?"
You think, just for a second, before opening your mouth. You could tell them everything that happened. That the Red Hood was here. That he gagged you. That they should call GCPD and turn on the bat signal.
You open your mouth.
"Sorry, I got spooked by the dog here. Then it tugged me down the hallway to play. He's... surprisingly friendly."
A few of them laugh at that.
"Yeah, apparently the youngest one owns like 50 animals."
"Oh I heard about that, guess you can have that many pets if you're a rich kid."
They devolve into chatter before your manager reminds you all that now they know you're safe, they need to get back out there and serve and cook for the party outside.
You're not quite safe yet though.
True to your word, you exit out the back door of the kitchen, into the open night air.
Wayne Manor's backyard was more like a personal park. There was a well maintained lawn and garden that stretched out into the darkness. It seems as though it wasn't open to the party tonight though, the lights that lined the pathway off blending into the night.
"Took you long enough."
You jump at the voice.
"Careful, you have something I'm interested in."
He points to the little baggie of spanakopitas in your hands.
"You're making this feel like a drug deal."
He snickers at that.
"If this were a drug deal I would've shot you."
Maybe that should've scared you, but at this point, you're a little over his bullshit and ready to get back to work.
He lifts the helmet off of him again, and you can see his face.
He's fit, not that you couldn't see that from his actual build, but the chiseled jawline certainly doesn't let you forget it. There's a few scars running across his face too. Some of them more faded than others. Instead of feeling repulsed, you can't help but think it sort of... suits him.
You shake that thought.
He opens the baggie, lifting one of the pastries to his mouth and chews, getting crumbs over his chin and his dark shirt.
"Not bad, maybe I'll have to hire you myself."
"Please don't."
He lets out a dangerously loud cackle at your immediate response and seems to humor in the way you look around like a paranoid criminal. As if feeding him made you an accessory in his other crimes.
"Thanks, and don't forget, you might've seen my face, but I know where you work."
He jabs a finger at your very clear nametag.
Then as suddenly as he appeared, he vanishes into the dark lawn.
You could try to keep track of him, report where he was headed now that he's gone, but your gut instinct tells you that's more trouble than it's worth.
Besides, what are the chances you're ever gonna meet him again?
a few friends had gathered to celebrate a mutual friendâs engagement, and of course, to fawn over the giant rock sitting pretty on her left hand.
âit was the most beautiful thing iâve ever seen,â she says, eyes misting up. âflowers everywhere. candlelit dinner on this beautiful terrace. he even hired a string quartet.â
everyone awws at once.
you twist your own ring around your finger.
âyouâll never believe what james did for me!â someone else says, and like it always does when you all get together, it becomes less of a conversation and more of a contest.
they all take turns gushing over their partners and all the grand, romantic gestures that have happened recently, each story somehow bigger than the last. flowers. surprise trips. hotel rooms covered in rose petals. tickets to shows they had only mentioned wanting to see once.
all in some absurd, glittering attempt to prove who is adored more.
they all turn to you.
what had you and simon been up to recently?
you swallow.
the last date the two of you had been on had been watching a movie on Netflix, takeout and wine littering your coffee table, your legs thrown over his lap while he rubbed absent circles into your ankle.
it had been nice.
it had been normal.
but at this table, normal feels embarrassingly small.
âwhen youâve been together so long, and with his schedule, itâs hard, yâknow, to find those momentsââ
another friend waves her hand, not unkindly, but ready to move away from what clearly wasnât going to be an interesting enough story.
âthatâs why you have to find those moments. what has he done for you lately? like for example, jack just planned this entire weekend getaway for us after my boss had been such an asshole and it was so romantic. he bought us tickets toââ
her voice begins to fade into the background.
you look down at your ring again.
itâs not that you think simon doesnât love you.
of course he loves you.
he loves with the weight of his hand at the small of your back in crowded rooms. he loves with the way he always sleeps closest to the door. he loves with the way he notices when you are too tired to eat and sets something in front of you without asking. he loves with the way he comes home half-dead and still checks the locks, the windows, the thermostat, anything that might touch you before it touches him.
but sitting there, surrounded by candlelit dinners and surprise weekends away, a different question curls itself beneath your ribs.
does he still care?
you had already known what youâd signed up for when starting this relationship. simon was never one for giant declarations of love or grand, pretty spectacles. he didnât perform affection well. never had.
hell, you couldnât even remember the last time heâd brought you flowers or planned a proper date.
you shuffle in your seat.
âthatâs really sweet,â you sigh.
rugby playing on the tv is what greets you, simon fully settled on the couch, a beer in hand.
his head lifts as soon as he hears your key in the door, shoulders falling even more relaxed at the sound of your footsteps entering the house.
usually, that would be your cue.
youâd toe your shoes off by the door, wander straight to the couch, and drop yourself onto him like it was the most perfect fit. heâd grunt like youâd knocked the air out of him, even though you both knew he could carry you around the house with one arm if he wanted to.
youâd recount whatever pointless gossip had been fed to you that morning, and heâd pretend not to be listening while remembering all of it.
instead, you busy yourself with the mail in the kitchen.
simon notices.
because of course he does.
you try the sink next, if only to give your hands something to do.
the tap sticks.
you yank it harder, and when nothing comes out but a high-pitched wheeze, you let out a frustrated groan.
simon is behind you before you can even turn around.
âprobably clogged,â he says.
you sigh.
âi can call a plumber tomorrow.â then, before you can talk yourself out of it, you turn to face him. âwe should do something tonight.â
his head tilts.
âwe are,â he says, voice low and rough with confusion. âwatching that new movie you wanted to see.â
you make a small noise under your breath.
his eyes flicker from the sink to you.
âno, si. i mean get dressed up. go out.â you swallow around the embarrassment already forming. âa real date.â
âwhy?â
your stomach lurches.
you know him. know he doesnât mean it with any malice or cruelty.
but after an entire morning of listening to women talk about being chosen loudly, extravagantly, beautifully, that one word lands like proof.
why would he need to?
why would he think to?
why would he care to?
why would you ask for more when this is what you agreed to?
âforget it,â you say quickly, already stepping away. âi have a bit of a headache. âm going to take a nap.â
simon says your name, but you donât turn around.
the clanking of metal banging against each other is what wakes you.
for a moment, you donât move.
you just lie there, blinking at the dim light of your bedroom, listening to the low metallic scrape from somewhere down the hall. the house is quiet around it, warm with evening, the television now turned down low enough that you can barely hear the commentatorâs voice.
another clank.
a muttered curse.
you rub at your eyes and make your way to the kitchen.
simon has wedged himself inside the cabinet beneath the sink, broad shoulders barely fitting in the cramped space, one arm braced against the floor while the other reaches up into the mess of pipes above him.
âsi?â
he grunts, focused on giving the valve one final screw and your gaze follows down to the toolbox lying next to his hip.
âline was damaged,â he says from under the sink. âitâll need replacing proper, but iâve got it for now. try it.â
wordlessly, you step to the sink and lift the handle.
water rushes out, hot and clear.
for some reason, it makes your eyes burn.
simon shifts, dragging himself out from under the cabinet with a quiet exhale. he sits back on his heels and looks up at you from the floor, forearms smudged, hair mussed, expression unreadable except for the little crease between his brows.
âi told you i could call a plumber,â you say.
he shrugs.
âgot me right here, donât you? i donât mind.â
your chest tightens.
because it was never going to be flowers. it was never going to be candlelit dinners. it was never going to be a string quartet playing underneath a perfect night.
it was always going to be simon, sitting on your kitchen floor with a wrench in his hand, looking at you like the solution to a problem is obvious because heâs already there.
you sit down at your kitchen table, eyes already watering from overwhelm, when a memory comes so quickly it almost embarrasses you.
you, curled on the couch with him months ago with your laptop open, showing him a table from architectural digest with the sigh that you do when youâve found something you absolutely loved.
âlook at this, simon. isnât it perfect?â
he had just hummed as you continued scrolling before you start laughing.
âabsolutely not. who spends five thousand dollars on a table?â
simon hadnât said much at the time. he rarely did when something lodged itself somewhere deep in his mind. continued stroking your hair, looked at the screen for a second longer than necessary, and went back to whatever match had been playing on the tv.
three weeks later, there had been lumber in the garage.
then sketches.
then sawdust tracked through the hallway.
then simon, scowling and cursing at a video tutorial, rewinding the same twenty seconds over and over until he understood the joint he wanted to make.
youâd laughed then.
you remember that, too.
you remember standing in the garage while he sanded the surface smooth, remember telling him he was insane, remember him saying it wasnât that hard with all the grim seriousness of a man who had absolutely made it hard.
you remember the first night you ate dinner at it.
you remember how pleased heâd looked when you wouldnât stop touching the grain.
you remember tearing up at the effort before sinking to your knees beneath that very table and thanking him so thoroughly that, to this day, he canât sit at the damn thing for too long without his eyes darkening and his pants growing tight.
your eyes move across the room.
towards the cabinets he sanded down because you said the old ones made the kitchen feel too dark.
the backsplash he learned to tile because you had paused too long on a photo of handmade ceramic.
the wall he knocked through because you hated how boxed-in the room felt.
the bedroom he painted three times because the first two colors looked different once they dried, and he had only sighed, changed shirts, and opened another tin.
a house that had been perfectly fine when you bought it, just never quite yours, until simon got it in his head that he could make it so.
your heartbeat quickens.
the whole morning suddenly feels absurd in a way that makes your chest ache.
his gaze lands heavy as he watches every expression form across your face.
âyou wanna tell me what got you in a mood earlier?â he asks.
his voice is even, but his hand drums once against his thigh.
your six-foot-four lieutenant of a husband, nervous at the thought of upsetting you.
you shake your head at first
then stop.
because no, that isnât fair either.
he does love you. he loves you in fixed pipes and sanded wood and walls torn down to let in more light. he loves you in the things he can touch, carry, mend, build. he loves you so steadily that it has become the floor beneath your feet.
but you still want flowers sometimes.
you still want to be asked to put on a dress.
you still want him to look at you across a dinner table he did not build and make you feel, just for an evening, like loving you is not only something he maintains but something he celebrates.
âi know you care about me,â you say quietly.
his brow furrows.
ânever said you didnât.â
simon stills.
âi know that,â you repeat, softer this time, because you do. God, you do. âI just⌠I think I need more sometimes.â
something shifts in his face.
âmore,â he repeats.
you huff a laugh, embarrassed now. ânot more than this.â
your hand moves over the table again and his eyes follow the movement.
âjust moreâŚâ You search for the words, then give up on making them perfect. âmore on purpose, maybe. dinner. flowers. you telling me to get dressed because you made plans. stupid things.â
âtheyâre not stupid.â he immediately corrects you, firm and like heâs already offended on your behalf.
you look up at him and he pushes himself off of the floor.
you watch him stand, slow and heavy, wiping his hands on a rag before setting it aside. he comes toward you with that careful, deliberate look that always makes your stomach dip, like every bit of his attention has narrowed down to one target.
you.
âfriday,â he says.
you blink. âfriday?â
âdinner.â his gaze drops over you, not subtle in the slightest. âwear somethinâ nice.â
despite yourself, you laugh, small and wet in disbelief at how easy it is with him.
simonâs hand comes up, thumb brushing beneath your eye before a tear can fall.
âare you asking me on a date, riley?â
his mouth twitches.
âseems like i am.â
you look down at the table, at the careful seams, the polished wood, the impossible thing he made with his own two hands because you wanted it and he saw no reason you shouldnât have it.
then back at him.
âgood,â you say, standing slowly. âand since you fixed the sinkâŚâ
simonâs eyes darken.
you take one step toward him, then another, until your fingers catch in the waistband of his jeans and tug him close.
his hand finds the edge of the table behind you.
your table.
his eyes flick down to it, and whatever memory crosses his mind makes his jaw tighten.
you smile.
âcareful,â you murmur. âyou look a little proud of yourself.â
his hand settles heavy at your waist, lifting you to rest on the edge.
Simon Rileyâs never thought that beforeâuntil theyâre barreling down his driveway, barking up a storm at you. A pretty thing in the neighborhood, pushing a stroller.Â
He follows after his stubborn German Shepherds, gruffly ordering them to heel. They wonât hurt you, of course, but you donât know that. He braces himself for the screams when he rounds the mailbox. A terrified mother and her child, chased by three trained-to-kill dogs and a masked manâ
Laughter stops him in his tracks.Â
Cap, Kilo, and Mac are planted on their asses, tails wagging, tongues hanging out. Your toddlerâs giggling so hard sheâs nearly tippinâ out of her seat as she yanks on Macâs ear, earning a face full of slobber for it.Â
And youâyouâre bent over, one hand holding Capâs paw, the other scratching behind Kiloâs ears.Â
âCute pups,â you say.Â
Cute...what?Â
You look up at him, past his mask and into his eyes. He freezes. But you just smile.Â
âYou military?âÂ
He ends up not replying, because the setting sun catches in your eyes and his brain is temporarily short-circuited. Youâre not deterred, however, your chin tilting to the gun holstered at his hip.Â
âMy husband was, too.â Your gaze drops to the paw in your hand. âHe did an op down in Coal Ridge last year.â
You donât have to say anything else. Everyone knows what went down in the ridge.
Ghost tries to find somethingâanythingâto say. Condolences would be a start. But nothing he thinks of is good enough, or sounds right in his head. So he just stands there, looming over you, watching you pet his assassin dogs.Â
And thenâit hits him in the chest like a bullet.Â
Youâre all alone in that house at the end of the street with your little girl.Â
Something rears its head under his ribs. A protective urge so strong itâs almost staggering.
âWell,â you sigh, straightening and offering him a playful, cute little salute. âHave a good one.â Your eyes flick to the insignia on his sleeve. âLieutenant.â
As you stroll away into the setting sun, Simon watches you go, and the âcute pupsâ whine at his feet as you leave.
And suddenly, three guard dogs don't seem like enough after all.Â
summary Everyone is convinced that you and wally are dating (you arenât) and damian gets it in his head that wallyâs out to steal you so he tries to sabotage your relationship (it ends up backfiring)
content 5.0k words, sunshine!reader, brothers best friend, friend to lovers, reader is obsessed with pink, yearning, a bit of protective!wally, idiots in love, the whole fam gets involved <3
status: completed!
Pt. 1: platonic dates and whatnot
Pt. 2: "Only if I get a kiss"
Pt. 3: The gala
this is part of the batcomputer logs!! comment to be tagged on other works from this collection <3 (and donât forget to specify which works!!)
since weâve had a lot of news about âai in the lit worldâ this week (literally three separate instances) im just going to reiterate that i donât support the use of ai, i will never support a writer that uses ai (even as âtoolâ for research), and i will always be loud and annoying about its use in artist spaces
on the same note, i also am against the ai witch hunt that specifically happens in social media spaces; if you suspect ai, cite your claims before harassing people pls. ai is already such a fucking drag letâs not go around pushing artists out of creating and sharing their work
"Hey, hey, whoa. What's going on?" Jason is immediately in fix-it mode, serious as can be.
There are three things that Jason doesn't play about in his life. His work as Red Hood, Arlo, and you.
"Arlo, he- he's-"
"He's what, baby?" It comes out rushed as he hurries around his apartment to quickly slip on his boots and grab his jacket and keys.
what happens when the dog that you and jason coparent together goes missing
pairing: jason todd x f!reader
cw: no use of y/n, your dog has an established name, your dog is not Dog sorry :(, use of pet names (baby), you and jason are broken up, you share custody of the dog you adopted during your relationship, angst with a happy ending
wc: 2.7k
The rain that pelted down from the sky above was frigid, cold enough to turn to slush you were certain as it hit your face. It was dark and everything was wet as you ran down the sidewalk. Tears mixed with rain when you called out again,
"Arlo!"
With no sign from your dog.
"Arlo!" You call again before another roll of thunder shakes the sky above. "Come on boy, where are you?"
The storm was so bad that even the petty criminals had taken shelter inside. The sidewalk around you was completely bareen, only a few cars driving by on the dark road. Arlo, the dog you shared custody of with your ex Jason, had gotten scared by a roll of thunder and tore out of his leash as he ran off like a bat out of Hell. What was supposed to be a quick walk before bed had turned into a twenty minute search for the poor pup in the pouring rain in nothing but your sleep shorts, some shirt that you (refused to admit) stole from Jason, your slippers and a thin sweater.
"Arlo, baby!" You sniffle. Still no sign. "Please." Your voice cracks. You know there's only one thing left to do.
With your hand shaking, fingers icy cold, you bring your phone to your ear after hitting Jason's contact.
"Aw, miss me already?" Not even a hello from him.
"Jay-" His name comes out broken.
"Hey, hey, whoa. What's going on?" Jason is immediately in fix-it mode, serious as can be.
There are three things that Jason doesn't play about in his life. His work as Red Hood, Arlo, and you.
"Arlo, he- he's-"
"He's what, baby?" It comes out rushed as he hurries around his apartment to quickly slip on his boots and grab his jacket and keys.
"Breathe and focus, okay?" His voice is full of panic but he speaks so calmly and gently to you that it only amplifies the guilt bubbling deep in your stomach.
You take a deep, ragged breath before nodding. The sniffle you let out breaks Jason's heart.
"C'mon, talk to me." He says, shutting his apartment door behind him. You tell yourself to focus and sniffle one more time.
"He's gone, Jay. He- I was walking him, before bed. The thunder scared him and he ran off. I have no idea where he is." You explain, still looking around.
"Did you put his vest on him?" You can hear Jason getting in his car and turning the engine.
"No," you admit with a tremble of your bottom lip, ready to start crying all over again.
"He should-"
"Jason."
You already know a lecture is about to start. "He should always have his vest on if you're walking him alone. It keeps both of you safe, blah blah blah"
"Okay, I'm sorry." He sighs.
"It was just supposed to be a quick walk before bed." You explain as your voice threatens to crack again.
"I know, I know." Jason's trying to stay calm for the both of your sake. "I'm on my way right now."
You wrap your free arm around your stomach and it's then that you realize just how cold you are, now that you've calmed down knowing that Jason was on his way.
"Do you want me to send you-"
"Nope. I already got it." He doesn't let you finish, his voice gentle.
"How-?" You shake your head. "Nevermind, I don't want to know."
Because of course your vigilante-raised-by-Gotham's-greatest-detective ex boyfriend is still tracking you.
"Okay well, do you at least have a tracker on Arlo?" You ask. Because if he's tracking you surely he's-
"What? No, that's wrong." Jason answers.
You stop with a grimace on your face.
"What do you mean "that's wrong"?"
"He's a dog, he can't consent to me putting a tracker in him."
"We put a microchip in him!" You argue back.
"No, the vet put a microchip in him. Not us. Besides-"
"Did you put a microchip in me?!" You ask in horror.
The silence speaks volumes.
"So, anyway, I'll be there in ten minutes."
"Jason!"
True to his word Jason takes exactly ten minutes to get to your location, giving you plenty of time to spiral and - you're pretty sure - start to develop hypothermia under the cover of a business awning. He pulls his car to the curb and throws it into park, barely giving the car enough time to fully come to a stop before he's hurrying out and shrugging his jacket off.
"What are you doing out here in your pajamas?" Jason's doing his best not to scold you as he bundles you in his warm jacket.
Your fingers are cold as they brush his when you slip your arms into the sleeves. He doesn't comment on his stolen shirt that you're wearing. The jacket smells sickening familiar; the warmth and musk of his cologne, the cleanliness of his deodorant, and mint.
"Are you smoking again?" You ask in return, not answering his question.
Jason stops, hands still on your shoulders, and cocks his head.
"What?"
"You're chewing gum, you're smoking again aren't you?"
"I- that's not- you never said why you're in pajamas."
Smoking was a bad habit of his that he had before you started dating. He'd always chew gum after to help get rid of the smell that you always complained about.
"Because I was walking Arlo before bed." You respond quietly.
He sighs before answering your question.
"I might've smoked on the way over. Stressed about Arlo being out hereâŚ" Jason's hands move to your face when you catches your bottom lip wobble.
"Hey, it's okay," he murmurs. His palms are warm against your cold skin. "We'll find him."
He sounds so sure, like he knows for 100% fact you're going to find Arlo, that it starts to renew your dwindling confidence on the matter. So you sniff one more time and nod your head.
"Right. We'll find him." And though your voice comes out small and shaky, you feel better than you have all night.
"Good," Jason smiles. His thumb slowly trails the apple of your cheek before he quietly exhales through his nose and let's go. "Which way did he go?"
You and Jason spend hours waking up and down each side of the street calling out for Arlo. He keeps his arm wrapped around your shoulders even though the storm has died down. He makes you stand on the sidewalk while he checks every alley, looking behind dumpsters and around corners. And stillâŚ
"You should head home," Jason's starting to sound defeated and you hate it. "I'll keep looking and-"
"No," you stop on the sidewalk, eyebrows scrunching together as you look at him, "No way. I'm not leaving."
"You're freezing-"
"I don't care. I'm not going home until we find Arlo." You declare.
Jason looks at you and sees the resolution in your eyes. He debates on arguing with you, he knows that his jacket is doing little to protect you from the cold, but he also knows â from years of experience â that arguing with you when you're like this is pointless.
"Okay." He finally breathes out with a soft nod, pulling you closer to him before he starts walking again. "Then we keep going.
You're both soaked to the bone. Jason's hair is plastered to his face, his dark shirt almost see through, you think that if you have to spend another minute in the rain you might actually start to lose your mind.
"We've searched every block," Your teeth chatter when you speak up. "Do you think�"
"What?" Jason cocks an eyebrow. It's obvious that he's not in the mood for your "worst case scenario".
"What if someone picked him up?"
"He's a menace, they'll drop his ass off at the shelter and they'll scan his microchip." He shrugs. You know he's trying to put you at ease.
"He's not a menace." You try to keep the smile off of your face, but it's hard when Jason looks over at you with a softness in eyes that speak more than his words ever could.
"He's definitely a menace." He says quietly as he squeezes you just that much closer.
"Only because he takes after his Dad." You respond teasingly.
"I take offense to that." Jason bites back. His lips twitch but he doesn't let himself smile.
"You take offense to everything." You remind him, smiling yourself.
"And now I'm taking offense to that." His tone holds mock indignation and it's hard to hold back your laugh.
It's almost too easy to fall back into a routine with him. Too easy to joke with him, send sarcastic quips his way, be held by him. So easy, in fact, that all of the fights and sleepless nights you spent arguing back and forth and countless tears shed for him are a distant memory.
You're close to going back on your word and calling it a night. You're so close to telling Jason you'll just try again in the morning and ask if you can spend the rest of the night begging for forgiveness. Your thoughts are spiraling, you're cold and exhausted and
"Do you hear that?" Jason suddenly asks.
The two of you stop walking so you can try to hear what he does.
"Hear what?" You whisper. You're on high alert, looking for any signs of danger or Arlo.
"That. Do you hear that?" He repeats. Again you hear nothing.
"NoâŚ" you answer. "You and your freaky super bat hearing, what is it?"
"It is not freaky-" he starts to defend himself before he stops. "Stay here, there's something down this alley."
When Jason disappears down the alley you wait at the mouth, trying to peer into the darkness. It's useless, you can't see anything - not even Jason anymore. And what's worse is that you can't hear anything either.
After a minute, which felt like hours, you can barely make out the soft tone of Jason's voice.
"C'mere buddy, s'okay." "That's here, come here." "Good boy. Good boy, Arlo."
You take a step further into the alley, and then another and another, until you're running into the darkness. You're ignoring all of Jason's previous warnings about staying out of them because none of that matters if he's found your baby.
"Look, buddy, there she is. There's Mama, huh?" Jason coos to Arlo who's a shivering wet mess in Jason's arms.
A small gasp leaves your lips when you see him. You kneel beside Jason and gravel bites into your skin but the pain doesn't matter. All that matters is that Arlo is safe and coming home. You wrap your arms around the wet pup and bury your face into his cold fur before letting out a cry. Jason sits there for just a second before putting a hand on the back of your head.
"Hey, it's okay. He's fine." He tells you quietly.
"No, it's not okay." You cry into Arlo's fur. Arlo wiggles in your hold, trying to get closer to you. "I lost him, Jason. Me. I did. He could have gotten hurt or-"
The pain in your voice has Jason pulling you closer to him. The three of you now huddled together in the middle of the alley.
"I know, baby, but it was an accident. Accidents happen. I'm sure it would have happened to me if-"
"But it didn't happen to you."
He's quiet again, exhaling slowly through his nose.
"I know it didn't. It happened to you and it shouldn't have." His fingers stroke through your hair before he let's go, "Come on. Let's get you guys home."
The ride back to your apartment is quiet and tense. Arlo is in the backseat of Jason's car curled up in a shivering ball. It breaks your heart. Jason, on the other hand, has been uncharacteristically quiet the entire time. After, of course, telling you a thousand and one times that it was fine if you got his car seats wet. That didn't stop the guilt from eating away at you.
But you were thankful to be home. Your apartment was warm and after rinsing off yourself and Arlo, with Jason's help of course, you were feeling better. Just a little bit. Arlo sleeping on the couch next to Jason who had changed into an old pair of sweats and a shirt you had "just lying around for no reason what so ever", you in fresh warm clothes. It almost felt normal again.
You're starting a fresh pot of coffee for Jason when he quietly gets up from the couch and pads over next to you in your kitchen. The same way he used to when you were together and he would come up behind you to wrap his arms around you and press a kiss to your temple.
Only this time he stops a few feet away from you and quietly asks, "Hey, can we talk?"
You stop as your stomach drops to your ass with anxiety and guilt. You're thinking of every worst possible scenario.
"About what?" You keep your voice steady.
"I want to make a deal with you."
"Please don't tell me you want to switch our custody agreement." You practically whimper. The thought alone makes your chest ache.
"What? No," Jason shakes his head with a huff of a laugh leaving him. "God, no, I wouldn't- I wouldn't do that to you. Or Arlo." He looks over at Arlo who's still asleep on the couch before turning back to you.
"Whenever it's raining I'll come over and walk Arlo for you. Or with you." He suggests.
You give yourself a second to think over the proposal, your arms wrapping around yourself. Not what you expected but at the same time you're not sure what to think.
"That's- that would be too much." It's your turn to shake your head. "It's too inconvenient. Besides, I can walk him myself. I just need to remember his vest next time."
Jason hums in thought before he nods again. He's trying to come up with any plan he can to be able to spend more time with you and he's hoping you won't see through his bullshit.
"Okay, what about I come over and help whenever there's a thunderstorm?"
"Jason-"
"What?" He plays nonchalant. "I just.. don't want either of you getting hurt. You know how I feel about you walking around at night."
You huff in irritation.
"You always do this, you know that?" You take a step closer to him. "I know how to handle myself."
The smirk that tugs at his mouth makes you want to smack him.
"Oh trust me, I know. So does the scar on my thigh-"
"That was an accident!" You defend yourself with a reluctant laugh and Jason starts to smile fully.
"An accident? You're still sticking to that story? Babe, you stabbed with a fork!"
"You scared me!" You laugh again. "Why would you even come up behind me like that anyway? It's your own fault."
"I did train you well." He remarks smugly before stepping closer.
"Yeah, yeah, whatever." You wave him off with a shake of your head but his hand catches yours.
And when he steps even closer? When the air between you becomes tense and warm? When his thumb smooths across the palm of your hand? Your eyes widen and you breath catches and a quiet "Jason?" leaves your parted lips.
"Just let me help." He murmurs. "Let meâŚ." He doesn't say "let me in again" like he wants to, but you can hear it when he adds on a soft "Please?".
And it probably goes against your better judgement when you easily nod in agreement.
"Yeah, okayâŚ"
You don't think about the fights or the screaming or the storming out that plagued that your previous relationship when he wraps his arms around you. You don't think about all of the nasty things you said to each other in the heat of an argument when he presses his lips to the top of your head.
All you can think about is how right it feels when he holds you close and lets himself love you without fear or uncertainty.
things I wonât let ai take away from human writers
em dash
ânot x, not y, but zâ
short sentence stacking as a stylistic choice
none of these belong to ai. these are all what human writers have been writing since day one, way before ai was invented. ai was trained to mimic how human writers write â so em dash, not x not y but z and short sentence stacking would never have been used by ai at all if ai hadnât learned and mimicked them from human writers.
no, you are not âfighting against aiâ by accusing every work that has em dash, not x not y but z or short sentence stacking in it as ai-generated, you are helping ai harm the writing community by engaging in witch hunt and scaring human writers away from creating/sharing their works for fear of being wrongly accused of using ai.
speculations, accusations and ai witch hunt harm the writing community as much as ai does, if not more.
â â âââ Ëâ simon "ghost" riley x fem!readerâ (âá´Í á´Í)â Ë
ââŚâ synopsis.â â domestic life with simon. đ§ˇâ âşâ
â . âིđś. ă imagine â ăbeingâ simon'săâ wifeâ âŽ
Simon didnât think he could be a father.
Not because he didnât want to beâhe did. Quietly, painfully. But he never believed heâd live long enough for it. He didnât think thereâd be a version of life where he could sit still, trade gunpowder for cradle songs, or let something so fragile as a child curl up on his chest and fall asleep without fear in the world.
But then you came. And then⌠she did.â đ
He was terrified.
When you told him, his first reaction was silence. Heavy, stillâthe kind that made your skin crawl even though you knew he would never hurt you. He stared at the floor for a long time. Not out of anger. Not even shock. Just a weight pressing down on every piece of him, trying to make sense of a life where he could deserve something this soft.
He didnât say anything for hours. But that night, while you lay in bed pretending to sleep, you felt his callused hand over your stomach. Gentle. Reverent. Like he thought he might break both of you.
âIâll keep you safe,â he whispered so quietly, it couldâve been a prayer.
He wasnât there when she was born.
Mission delays. A storm grounded his transport. Heâd torn through his comms trying to reach anyone, anythingâcursing the universe for making him a soldier first, father second.
But when he walked into that hospital room with dirt still on his boots and shadows under his eyes, and saw you holding her⌠saw her pink and alive and real in your armsâŚ
He broke.
He didn't cry, not really. But his shoulders shook as he sat by your side and pressed his forehead to your temple. He stared at her like she was a ghost haunting his pastâsomething he never thought heâd be allowed to touch.
âSheâs so small,â he murmured, voice cracking.
âYeah,â you replied.
That night, he didnât sleep. Just watched her chest rise and fall, afraid to blink.
Simon was awkward at first.
He held her like she might detonateâarms stiff, movements cautious. Changing diapers felt like defusing bombs. And baby talk? Forget it. He read her the back of his cereal box in a low, gravelly voice, and she cooed like he was reciting poetry.
He wouldnât say much, but he did. Morning bottles already warmed before you woke. Midnight pacing when she wouldnât stop crying. One hand rubbing small circles on her back, the other gripping the baby monitor like a lifeline when he had to leave.
He taught her to crawl by laying on the floor with her, inching backward like it was a stealth op. When she took her first steps toward him, he froze. It felt like watching a sunrise you never thought youâd see.
She follows him everywhere.
Like a little ghost of her own.
He doesnât let many people see her. Doesnât post pictures. Doesnât talk about her on base. But he keeps a small photo tucked behind his dog tags. If anyone catches a glimpse, they know not to ask.
Sheâs curious. Smart. A little quietâlike him. She watches everything. Studies the way he moves, tilts her head when he speaks like sheâs decoding him. When she starts copying his dry, deadpan jokes, you swear Simon almost smiles.
He lets her paint his face with glitter and stars when sheâs bored. He sits there stone-faced, letting her stick pink butterfly clips into his blond hair. If you ask why, he just shrugs:
âShe wanted to. Didnât wanna say no.â
He teaches her how to be strongânot cruel, not hardened, just aware. He teaches her to pay attention to exits, to trust her gut. When she has nightmares, heâs there before she can even call for him.
And when she asks him why he wears a mask sometimes, he kneels down and explains it gently. That some things are meant to protect, not hide. That itâs okay to be soft, but itâs also okay to be careful.
And then he lets her try it on. It drapes over her face like a cape. She laughs.
âLook, Daddy. Iâm just like you!â
âNo, sweetheart,â he says, and this time, he does smileâsmall, but real. âYouâre stronger than I ever was.â
Simon is a man full of ghosts.
But when heâs with her, they quiet.
Youâve seen it.
The way his shoulders relax when sheâs in the room. The way his voice drops softer when he reads to her. The way he presses his forehead to hers before he leaves, and whispers, âYou be good for Mum, yeah? Iâll be back.â
He hates going.
Every goodbye leaves a crack in him.
But every returnâwhen she runs to him screaming âDaddy!â and tackles his legs with her little armsâthatâs what mends it.
He doesnât know if heâs doing it right. Heâs always afraid heâs too broken, too cold, too late. But you tell him heâs the safest place she knows.
And sometimes, when the house is quiet and sheâs asleep in the next room, heâll hold you close and whisper,
âThank you.â
Sheâs eight now.
She tells people her dad is a superhero.
Simon doesnât correct her.
He doesnât know what version of him sheâs seeingâwhat stories sheâs crafted in her head to explain his scars or the way he flinches when doors slam too hard. She doesnât know what heâs done. What heâs capable of. To her, heâs just⌠strong. Invincible. Safe.
He doesnât deserve it. But he lives for it.
There are nights when the house is quiet and warm and sheâs tucked beneath her galaxy-print bedsheets, one arm flung off the mattress and glitter nail polish chipped from the day.
And heâll sit outside her room. In the hallway. Hands clenched between his knees.
He listens to her breathe.
He doesn't know why he tortures himself like thatâwhy he waits for nightmares that never come, or for screams sheâs long since outgrown. Maybe heâs still waiting for the other shoe to drop. Maybe heâs waiting to fail her. Like he failed his family. His brother. Himself.
Heâll sit there until his knees ache. Until the silence starts to feel like mercy again.
Then he goes to bed, lays next to you, and stares at the ceiling like thereâs a sniper on the roof. Like peace is a trap heâs too smart to fall for.
She was never supposed to see it.
An old flash drive. Left in a drawer he thought was too high. Sheâd plugged it into her school laptop, probably looking for cartoons.
She didnât say anything until hours later. She was quiet. Paler than usual.
âDaddy⌠you hurt bad people, right?â
He froze.
ââŚWhatâd you see, love?â
âSome men. You hurt them. But⌠you were saving someone, werenât you?â
There was no panic in her voice. No fear. Just a question, small and sincere, wrapped in child-logic and trust.
Simon knelt in front of her. Took both her hands in his. Looked her in the eye like it was the most sacred thing heâd ever done.
âYes,â he said. âI hurt bad people. Iâve done things Iâm not proud of. Things Iâd never want you to see. But Iâve never hurt someone innocent. Never would.â
She nodded slowly. And thenâGod, kids are strangeâshe just reached out and touched the scar on his cheek, the one beneath the corner of his eye.
âIâm not scared of you,â she said softly. âYouâre my hero.â
And that was the first time in his life Simon wanted to cry in front of someone.
He held her so tight that night, you thought she might get smothered. But she clung to him tooâarms around his neck like an anchor, like sheâd never let go.
She gets more clever every year.
She steals his hoodies. Starts hiding his mask in ridiculous placesâlike the freezer, or under her bedâjust to see how long it takes him to find it. She claims itâs to âkeep him home longer.â
He pretends to be annoyed.
âYouâre a little brat,â he mutters, tossing her over his shoulder.
âI'm baby!â she giggles back, kicking her legs.
They have their own games. Their own signals. A whole silent language between them. When sheâs nervous at school, she touches her wrist twiceâit means âI wish you were here.â When heâs home late from a mission, she leaves a plastic dinosaur on the kitchen tableâit means âI waited.â
She tells him she wants to be like him.
A protector. A fighter.
He tells her she already is.
But inside, the thought terrifies him.
Youâre the one who packs his bag now. She wonât help anymore. Not since last time.
Sheâd cried so hard she threw up. Told him he promised heâd stay longer. That âlongerâ shouldnât mean âonly six days.â She was angry in that way only children can beâgrief-stricken and pure.
âI hate the army,â she said, clutching the edge of his vest.
He knelt again. Always kneeling, always trying to shrink himself to meet her where she is.
âYou donât have to understand, love. But I hope one day⌠youâll forgive me for missing things.â
She didnât answer. Just turned and ran to her room.
He left anyway. And it broke him.
He kept her crayon drawing in his vest pocket the whole mission. Folded and faded. A stick figure version of him holding hands with her beneath a smiling sun.
Itâs still there.
And when he comes back, Itâs always late.
Youâll hear the gate creak. The boots on the gravel. Sheâll fly out of bed before you can stop herâbarefoot and wild-haired, running down the stairs.
He drops everything to catch her.
She wraps herself around him like a vine. He doesnât even get the mask off before her little arms are around his neck and sheâs whispering âI missed you I missed you I missed youâ like a spell.
âI missed you too, sweetheart.â
He holds her like sheâs the only thing tying him to earth. And maybe she is.
Teenage girls are loud in their silence.
Simon learned that the hard way.
She doesnât slam doors or scream. She doesnât yell âYou donât understand!â or throw things across the room. She just gets quiet. Withdraws. Answers in clipped syllables, disappears into her hoodie, headphones in, eyes distant.
She used to run to him the second he came home. Now she doesnât even look up from her phone.
Sheâs fifteen.
And sometimes, Simon thinks sheâs slipping through his fingers, and heâs got nothing left but shadows and memory.
It started small.
She stopped asking him to braid her hair before bed. Said she could do it herself. She stopped leaving dinosaurs on the kitchen table. Stopped leaving notes in his rucksack.
He knew it wasnât personal.
It was growing up.
But that didnât make it easier.
âGive her space,â you told him gently. âSheâs figuring herself out.â
He tried. He really did.
But he couldnât help hovering near her doorway some nights, watching her back hunched over a laptop, music playing softly. Wondering if she still remembered how he used to sing to her in a voice barely above a whisper when she couldnât sleep. Wondering if she remembered why he was gone so often.
Wondering if she still thought he was her hero.
It came up one night, out of nowhere.
She was setting the table. Heâd been home for five days. The air was calm, the routine safe. And then:
âDo you wear the skull mask because you want to scare people?â
He looked up from the sink, heart stalling for a second.
He turned off the water. Dried his hands slowly. Looked her in the eye.
âNo,â he said after a long pause. âI wear it because I used to think I was already dead.â
She blinked.
Didnât say anything.
He almost regretted being honest.
âBut thenâŚâ His voice caught. âThen I had you.â
The silence that followed was thick. Fragile.
And then she whispered:
âYouâre not dead.â
He cleared his throat, chest aching. âNo. Not anymore.â
She set down a fork.
Walked over.
And, for the first time in months, hugged him without needing a reason.
He didnât let go for a long time.
The hardest part of fatherhood for Simon isnât leaving. Itâs letting her live.
Sheâs starting to go out more now. With friends. Late bus rides. Music festivals. Sleepovers at houses he doesnât know.
He doesnât sleep well on those nights.
You can see itâthe way his leg bounces, the way he checks the time every fifteen minutes, the way he keeps his phone unlocked, her tracker app open on the screen.
âSheâs not a target,â you remind him. âSheâs a kid.â
But in his world, innocence doesnât mean safety.
And light doesnât mean thereâs no danger.
When she comes home, he does the same ritual every time:
One look over her face.
A glance at her hands.
Eyes flicking to her shoes, her wrists, her neck.
A checklist of survival. It takes seconds. She doesnât even notice.
But he does.
Only when heâs sure sheâs safe does he let himself exhale.
The first time she really breaksâitâs quiet.
She comes home from school, bags under her eyes, and says: âI donât think anyone really likes me.â
Simon is at the table cleaning a rifle.
But he puts it down immediately.
And for a long time, they just sit on the couch. Side by side. She doesnât cry. He doesnât pry. Eventually, she says, âI feel like Iâm too much for people. Too weird.â
He looks at her then. Really looks.
And in the softest voice he can manage, he says:
âYouâre not too much. The worldâs just too loud.â
She leans into him.
He lets her.
Sheâs taller now, but somehow still fits under his arm.
âI donât know how to be normal.â
He smiles, brushing her hair back behind her ear.
âGood. Normalâs overrated.â
She laughs, watery and real.
Itâs the sound of his heart stitching back together.
Simon isnât great with words. Not the soft ones, anyway.
But he shows her love in the way he always waits up.
In the way he replaces the lightbulb in her lamp before it burns out.
In the way he gives her his old hoodie when sheâs sick and lets her keep it.
In the way he memorizes the names of her friends. Learns their schedules. Watches over them from a distance like a silent guardian.
She doesnât say âI love youâ as often as she used to.
But when she falls asleep in the car and mumbles âDadâ like itâs homeâŚ
He knows.
He knows.
Sheâs not a child anymore.
But sheâll always be his little girl.
And heâll always be the ghost at her backâquiet, watchful, loyal.
Not haunting her.
Protecting her.
Always.
He never taught her how to drive.
You did.
She insisted.
He didnât mind. Truthfully, the thought of her behind the wheel made his pulse spike. Not because he didnât trust her, but because he knew the world. Knew how quickly things turned. He could pull a man out of a wrecked Humvee, but the idea of her skidding into a light pole because of wet asphalt made his vision go white.
So he let you take her.
Watched from the window.
She waved at him once from the driverâs seat, grinning like she owned the road.
And he waved back. Small, barely-there.
But it was enough.
It was always enough.
The house is quieter now.
Sheâs twenty-three.
Lives two cities over. Has a dog. A job. A life.
She comes home when she can, which isnât often. You say thatâs normal. Thatâs what kids do. But he still checks the front window around five every evening. Still listens for the sound of a key turning in the lock that doesnât come.
He still sets her place at the table when you arenât looking.
You find the folded napkins sometimes. The extra fork. He never explains. You donât ask.
She doesnât call him "daddy" anymore.
Thatâs what time does.
It sands things down.
She calls him Dad now. Or Old Man if sheâs feeling playful.
He likes it. But it stings in a quiet way. Like finding an old picture and realizing you donât remember the moment it captured.
There are still hugs. Still warmth. But she doesnât cling to him anymore. Doesnât bury her face in his neck. Doesnât fall asleep on his chest while he reads boring manuals aloud to lull her.
Instead, she brings over wine. Talks about work. Politics. The rent.
Sheâs brilliant. Composed. Fierce in a way that reminds him of a younger you.
And sometimes, when she laughs, he sees the little girl she used to beâcheeks round, eyes bright, hands sticky from jam.
Then the moment fades.
And sheâs grown again.
He doesnât go on missions anymore.
Retired now. Officially.
He didnât tell her right away. Wasnât sure how. He expected a celebration, or at least a toast.
But when he finally said it over dinnerâsoftly, plainly: âIâm done. Hung it up.ââshe looked at him for a long moment. Then nodded.
âGood,â she said. âYou were always more than that.â
He looked at her thenâreally lookedâand realized she hadnât seen him as a soldier in years.
Sheâd seen the man.
The father.
The one who tucked her in and stitched her broken toys and waited outside ballet recitals with bloodied knuckles he never explained.
He had been trying so hard to protect her from the world.
But sheâd been watching himâall this time.
Learning how to survive by the way he loved her.
One night he got sick.
It wasnât life-threatening. Just a flu.
But he hadnât been sick in years, and it hit him harder than expected.
She came home that weekend without asking.
Let herself in. Took one look at him bundled in blankets on the couch and said, âYou look like shit.â
He coughed. âNice to see you too.â
But her hands were gentle. She made him tea. Sat on the armrest of the couch, fingers brushing over his forehead like she was checking for fever the way he used to when she was small.
She stayed the night. Slept on the floor beside him like a sentry.
He woke at 3 a.m. and saw her curled up in an old hoodie of his, her phone clutched in one hand, screen still lit with some half-written message.
And for a secondâjust a flickerâhe wished she were small again.
Not because he didnât love who sheâd become.
But because that time was so brief.
So unbearably sweet.
And it was gone.
It was raining.
She stood beside him under a grey sky, both in black, her hand tucked into the crook of his elbow.
It was his brotherâs grave. The one he used to visit alone.
âI wish Iâd met him,â she said quietly.
âHe wouldâve loved you,â Simon replied. âYouâve got his mouth. Same sarcasm.â
She smiled through the tears. Leaned her head against his shoulder.
âDo you ever miss being young?â
He didnât answer right away. Rain hit the stone like fingers drumming.
âI miss you being young,â he finally said.
And she didnât speak again. Just held his arm tighter.
One day, it happens.
She calls himâvoice shaking, words rushed. Something about a near-accident. Someone ran a red light. Her hands were shaking. She didnât know who else to call.
And Simon?
He was already in the car before she finished the sentence.
He found her on a curb, hands trembling around a coffee cup someone had handed her. He didnât ask questions. Just crouched in front of her and pulled her into his arms.
She broke. Sobbed into his coat like she was twelve again.
Like she was small and scared and needed her dad.
And he just held her.
Kept one hand on the back of her head.
The other over her heart.
âYouâre safe,â he murmured. âIâve got you.â
Later that night, she curled up on his old couch, wrapped in his blanket, and whispered,
âI didnât want to call you. Thought I was too old.â
He shook his head.
âYouâll never be too old to be my girl.â
And one dayâŚ
One day, itâs just the two of them on the porch.
Youâre inside baking. The sunâs going down. Her eyes are softer now.
She says, âDo you ever think you couldâve had a normal life?â
He doesnât answer at first.
Just watches the wind move through the trees.
Then:
âThis is normal. For me.â
She leans her head on his shoulder.
He doesnât flinch anymore when touched. Not by her.
âYou were always enough, you know,â she says.
He swallows. Tries to look away. Fails.
And then she adds, quieter, âYou saved me. Even when I didnât know I needed saving.â
He closes his eyes.
Because in that moment, it doesnât matter what heâs done.
Who heâs killed.
What haunts him.
Because this is what remains.
This girl. This woman. This life they made.
And that⌠is enough.
He never thought heâd grow old.
Never imagined it.
He used to think men like him didnât make it past 40 â not without a bullet or a blaze or a quiet disappearance somewhere no one would bother looking. There was always something inside him waiting for it â like his bones expected to be abandoned.
But now?
Now his body aches in new ways.
His knees click when he gets up too fast.
The hair at his temples has gone silver, and his hands have lost their steady, deadly stillness.
But youâre still here.
Still brushing your teeth beside him. Still humming while folding sheets. Still asking if he wants tea or if his shoulder hurts when it rains.
And it guts him. Every single time.
That you stayed.
That you chose to grow old next to a man who never expected to live long enough to deserve it.
Your love has changed.
Itâs not fireworks now. Not firelight and breathless kissing in hotel rooms after too-long deployments.
Itâs quieter. But deeper. Warmer.
Itâs how you always leave the light on for him, even when he forgets to ask.
Itâs how he sets out your slippers without thinking, so your feet donât touch the cold floor in the morning.
Itâs how you never ask where heâs going when he disappears into the garage, and how he never questions the way you cry at old home videos, even though youâve seen them a hundred times.
Thereâs a kind of intimacy now that goes deeper than touch.
A knowing.
A weightless ease, like your hearts have learned how to lean on each other without needing to speak.
Youâll brush past him in the kitchen, and heâll place a hand on the small of your back â not to move you, not to guide you, but just to feel you. To remind himself youâre real. Here.
Still his.
Sometimes he just watches you.
He wonât say it out loud. Heâs too old for poetry, and too hardened for flowery things. But sometimes, when youâre reading by the window, your glasses slipping down your nose and the light touching your cheek just rightâ
He stares at you like youâre something holy.
Like you're the last beautiful thing left in a world he once thought heâd never understand.
Heâll pretend to be half-asleep on the couch, or too focused on whateverâs in his hands â but heâs watching you. Memorizing you again and again, like a man trying to hold onto something too big to keep.
Because he knows.
He knows time takes things.
Heâs lost too many people to pretend otherwise.
So he watches. And he commits you to memory. Every wrinkle near your eyes. Every gray strand of hair. Every sigh. Every smile.
You catch him sometimes. And he always looks away like a boy caught daydreaming.
âYouâre staring,â you tease.
He shrugs. âI always do.â
He still has the mask.
Itâs in a box now. Top of the closet. Buried under old jumpers and Christmas decorations.
You told him he didnât need it anymore, and he agreed.
But he kept it. Quietly. Respectfully.
You found him once, years ago, just sitting with it in his lap. The house was silent. The air still.
You didnât say anything. Just sat beside him.
He looked at you, eyes far away, voice quieter than youâd ever heard.
âI wore this to keep the world out,â he said. âBut somehow, you still found your way in.â
And you leaned against him.
And he let you.
And neither of you moved for a long time.
He loves you differently now.
Not less. Not softer.
But heavier.
Thereâs a weight to it now. A depth.
He knows what it means to have someone for a lifetime. He knows what it costs to stay â what it takes to love a man who wakes from nightmares, who still pauses at loud noises, who forgets heâs safe even now.
And he sees what it cost you, too.
He saw it in your eyes when the baby was crying and he wasnât home.
Saw it when you had to explain to your daughter why âdaddyâ missed her school recital.
Saw it in the way you smiled through the loneliness, always so patient, always so good.
He never said thank you. Not enough.
So now he shows it.
In every slow dance in the kitchen.
In every cup of tea made before you ask.
In every time he reaches for your hand during a movie, just to feel your fingers between his.
He asks you one night.
âDo you regret it?â
Itâs late. The moonlightâs dripping through the window, and the sheets are tangled between your legs. Youâre half-asleep, but his voice pulls you back.
You turn toward him. Find him already watching you.
âAll of it,â he says, quietly.
And you reach for him, tuck your fingers beneath his chin like you did when you were younger. His beard is whiter now. His eyes softer.
âIâd do it all over again,â you say.
And he believes you. With every beat of his scarred, stubborn heart.
You fall asleep like that â your fingers in his, your breath slow against his skin.
And somewhere in the dark, in a house full of years and silence and everything you've both endured...
Simon smiles.
Because in the end, despite everything heâs done, everything heâs lostâ
You stayed.
And that made all the difference.
It starts with small things.
Keys. Names.
What day it is.
Where he left his book.
At first, you joke about it. Call it âold man brain,â and he chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck, muttering something about brain damage and too many concussions.
But then he starts calling the dog by the wrong name.
Asks where your daughter is â even though she just called.
He forgets the kettle is on.
Leaves the tap running.
Stares at the cupboard, confused, trying to remember why he opened it.
And one day, you find him standing in the hallway, still as stone, holding one of her baby toys in his hand.
âShe used to chew on this,â he says, quiet, âdidnât she?â
You nod.
âSheâs twenty-seven now, Simon.â
He blinks at the toy.
âOh.â
You learn his patterns.
He doesnât like loud noises anymore.
Doesnât like too many people in the house.
Gets tired easily. Confused quickly. Frustrated at himself more than anything.
But heâs still him.
He still drinks his tea the same way. Still looks for your hand under the blanket when you watch old movies. Still walks beside you in the garden, pointing at flowers like he remembers what theyâre called â even if he doesnât.
âIs that one the⌠the purple one?â he asks.
You smile. âLavender.â
âRight. Right, I knew that.â
He didnât.
But he likes when you pretend he did.
Sometimes he has bad days.
Days where he wakes up and doesnât know where he is.
Days when he looks at you and his face folds â not in anger, but in heartbreak.
âIâm supposed to know you,â he says once, voice shaking. âArenât I?â
You take his hands. Place them on your cheeks. Let him feel the shape of your face.
âYou do. You always have.â
He breathes in, trembling.
âIâm scared, love.â
âI know,â you whisper. âItâs okay. Iâm not going anywhere.â
And you donât.
You never do.
But there are still good days.
Days when he laughs at your terrible jokes.
When he remembers how to make your tea before you do.
When he tells you a story from the army â one he swore heâd forgotten.
And there are still evenings where he pulls you in, slow and careful, kisses the corner of your mouth and says,
âStill the prettiest thing Iâve ever seen.â
âEven with the wrinkles?â you tease.
âEspecially with them,â he grins.
You cry in the kitchen after that one.
Quietly.
Not because youâre sad.
But because you still get to have this.
And then one morning, he doesnât know your name.
He wakes with a start. Looks at you.
And doesnât say anything.
Not confusion. Not fear. Just⌠blankness.
You speak gently. Smile.
Tell him your name like itâs the first time.
Tell him youâre safe. That he is too.
And he nods.
âAlright. If you say so.â
But later â later that same day â when you bring him tea, he takes your hand and murmurs:
âThank you, sweetheart.â
You freeze.
âDo you know who I am?â
He blinks. Thinks.
âNo. But I know I love you.â
The days stretch longer now.
Heâs quieter, softer â not from peace, but from the slow unraveling of time. There are whole mornings where he doesnât speak at all. Just watches the trees, the clouds, your hands in the garden. Like his soul has moved somewhere deep inside, and heâs just floating now.
He forgets more often than he remembers.
But he still holds your hand.
Even when he doesnât know who you are, he finds your fingers. Rubs his thumb over your knuckle. Leans into your shoulder like a man whoâs known only one comfort in his entire life.
And he has.
You.
He sleeps more now.
Sometimes all day.
You sit with him. Read aloud. Tell stories he once told you. Some of them are true, some of them arenât â he wouldnât correct you now even if he knew.
But he smiles sometimes. At the sound of your voice.
Like part of him â the part too deep to lose â still knows you.
And when he wakes, slow and blinking, he always asks:
âYouâre still here?â
And you always answer, soft and warm:
âIâve always been here.â
It happens on a rainy morning.
Thereâs nothing dramatic about it.
No gasp. No panic. No final words.
Just a stillness.
You wake first. His hand is still wrapped around yours. His chest still, his face soft, relaxed â like he simply drifted somewhere quieter. Somewhere gentler.
He doesnât look afraid.
He looks young.
Somehow.
Like the weight finally left him.
And for a long, long time, you donât move.
You just rest your head on his chest, where his heartbeat used to be, and whisper the only thing that ever mattered:
âYou made it, Simon. Youâre safe now.â
You bury him beside the lavender.
The spot he always loved â where the bees hummed and the light hit just right in spring.
Your daughter helps. The grandkids each place a flower on the earth. You keep your hand on the stone long after everyone else has gone.
Thereâs no mask on it. No rank. No war stories.
Just:
Simon Riley
Beloved Husband. Father. Safe, at last.
And you keep living.
Not out of duty.
Not out of guilt.
But because he would want you to.
You still drink your tea the way he made it.
Still hum old songs while folding the laundry.
Still leave the porch light on, out of habit.
Some nights, you sit alone with the rain on the window and close your eyes â and you swear you feel it:
His hand on your shoulder.
The breath of him.
The warmth.
You speak into the dark like heâs still beside you.
âIâll be there soon. Not yet. But soon.â
Because real love never ends.
And the life you built together â the quiet, the pain, the laughter, the child, the years â it doesnât vanish when he goes.
It lives in you.
In your daughter.
In every soft, ordinary, beautiful thing he once thought he could never have.
Simon made it home.
And home was always you.
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regularly scheduled reminder that I hate AI, I don't consent to any of my art being used for AI whether that's for chatbots or generative AI, I've never used ChatGPT or Claude or Gemini or Grok or whatever the fuck in my life and never will and I do think that makes me a better person than people who do. also if you're a "fan" of mine and willingly use AI, I think you're actively making the choice to hand over all brain function to companies owned by billionaires who hate you and humanity, which makes you pathetic and embarrassing.
MY BEST FRIENDâS BROTHER IS THE ONE FOR ME! â JASON TODD X READER
Warnings: Kissing (kinda), fem!reader, swearing, this was very rushed lol i listened to this song and wrote this within a couple hours. I think thatâs it.
Divider: @pixopix
3.1k words
Youâve known Stephanie Brown since youâve known⌠anything, really. Your friendship with her dates back to long before she was spoiler, or even robin. Before the thought of vigilantism even crossed her mind. At this point, the Wayne manor is like a second home to you. You know your way all around the gigantic house. From the bathrooms, to the kitchen for your late night snacks, all the way to Stephanieâs little hideout spots.
The one part of the house your path doesnât too often cross is the batcave. You can count the amount of times youâve been down there on one hand. Her father, Bruce, doesnât take too kindly to guests, even though youâre well aware of their nightly activities. Something about âsafetyâ and âprivacyâ or whatever.
But right now, youâre about to add to your count of visits down there. Stephanie said, and you quote, âSomeone effortless to spar with.â Now, you donât know exactly what she meant by that, but youâre pretty sure sheâs calling you weak? Youâre determined to prove her wrong.
Over the years of knowing Stephanie, sheâs taught you how to defend yourself in various situations, teaching you the techniques that her father taught her. Yeah, this is going to be a piece of cake.
You two settle onto the sparring mat, taking your positions. Stephanie adjusts her stance before saying, âAnd⌠start!â She immediately breaks your defensive stance, landing a soft hit to your shoulder. âGotta be quicker than that, stupid.â
âOh, shut up.â You put your arms up once again, settling into a fighting stance. You two dance around each other for a moment, trying to strategize. You push your arms under hers, landing a soft hit on her stomach. âOw!â
âYou know damn well that didnât hurt.â She puts a hand over her heart dramatically, âYou wound me.â
Itâs just then that you two hear footsteps approaching. You donât acknowledge them, until the person producing them speaks up. âYou two sparring?â Jason.
You snap your head in his direction without even thinking about it. Completely dropping your defensive stance, Stephanie lands a hit to your shoulder once again, this time a little harder. âOuch! What the hell, Steph?â
âYour fault, I win.â She says in a sing-song voice with a devious grin.
âFair and square, I guess.â Jason says, while walking towards the industrial monitorâs. Right. Jason. Where do you even start with him. Jason, Jason, Jason. The name rings in your head.
It was about 3 years ago when you first saw Jason Todd. You and Stephanie were in the manorâs kitchen, gossiping about whatever was going on in your lives at the time. Honestly, you donât remember what exactly you were talking about. All you can remember is Jason Todd casually strolling into the kitchen, like he owned the place.
The first thing you thought when you saw him was that youâve never seen a face quite like that before. And god, those eyes. In that moment, you knew he was the one for you. The next thing you remember thinking was that this is Stephanieâs brother that youâre thinking about. Her previous words that her brotherâs were strictly off limits wandered into your head. She even made you pinky swear to it.
And since then, youâve tried your best to stay far, far away from Jason. Because you donât know that you could ever stop yourself from shooting your shot if you had the chance.
So, when he decided to show his face in the cave right now, you stay silent. Completely ignoring his existence. Jasonâs noticed how cold you are with him. How could he not? He noticed everything. He notices how youâre always sunshine and rainbows, but cloudy when heâs near.
Truth is, he loves being around you. Even though itâs usually just for a brief moment, until you inevitably flee. He loves your naturally bright demeanor and how it shines over his dark attitude. He thinks you may just be the prettiest girl heâs ever laid his eyes on, to be honest. But he also made a silent promise to Stephanie. He knows yourself off limits.
But he also notices how you avoid his gaze, how you somehow always have somewhere else to be when he enters the room.
Heâs determined to get to the bottom of this. To right whatever it is that he did wrong. I mean, did he offend you or something? He doesnât understand. But he needs to know.
But thatâs where is plan ends. How is he supposed to get you alone to ask, when all you do is avoid him?
Youâre painfully snapped back into reality when Jason and Stephanie start talking about their plans for patrol later. You lose your thoughts at the sound of his voice. The deepness to it. The darkness. Oh, you have got to get out of here.
You interject into their conversation, âI uhâ I have to go get something.â Stephanie just looks at you, raising an eyebrow. You ignore her look, instantly turning away after you speak, speed walking as far as you can get from Jasonâs presence.
Jason turns his body, watching as you walk away. And⌠there she goes. When he turns around, he sees Stephanie glaring at him. âWhat?â
âNothing,â she says âIâm gonna go. Donât be stupid.â She really means more than what sheâs saying with that. And she thinks Jason knows that. She doesnât pretend like she doesnât see the way you look at him. The way he looks at you.
She knows how you act when youâre nervous. And boy, do you act nervous around Jason Todd. Stephanie tries her best to ignore it. Passing it off as your usual shy nature. But that doesnât mean she doesnât see it.
As she enters her room, she sees you, sitting on her bed. Specifically, you, not just going to âgrab something.â
âWhat are you doing in here?â
âOh umâ I was just⌠grabbing something.â You grab the first thing you see in your vicinity, which just so happens to be an empty glass on her night stand. Fuck. Not suspicious whatsoever.
ââŚOkay,â She says, drawing out the vowel at the end. Honestly, at this point sheâs just going to ask straight up, âSoo, what was that back there?â
âWhat was what?â You ask, acting like you donât know what sheâs referring to. âYou know exactly what Iâm talking about. Donât play dumb.â She gives you a knowing look.
âOkayâ if Iâm being honest,â youâre not, âJason scares me a little bit.â You donât really know why you chose to say that, but now you just have to roll with it. âHe⌠scares you? How so?â
You feel like youâre about to drown in your own lies, âHeâs just so⌠yâknow?â
âSo you didnât actually say anything just then. How does he scare you?â Think, think, think. Now you have to keep up the lie. âHeâs just intimidating. Thatâs all.â
Up until now, Stephanie swore that you had a crush on him or something ridiculous like that. She now realizes how wrong she (thinks she) was. How could she have been so blind? Obviously, youâre intimidated by him. Isnât everyone?
She looks away, making a sour expression, âHm. I see that, I guess. But just so you know, heâs like, the nicest person ever. He just looks like that.â You laugh at her wording.
âIâm sure,â Pretty damn sure, that is, âI justâ I donât mean to make things awkward. I just donât ever know what to talk about with him there.â
She sits beside you now, âHey. You donât make anything awkward,â she pauses for a moment, âI have an idea.â
âOh god, what is it.â You know exactly what sheâs going to say. Thatâs what best friends do, right? âHow about⌠we go somewhere with him? Like, to get coffee or something?â
You wish you could say no to her. But, you dug yourself in this hole, and now youâre stuck. ââŚSure!â You say with your fakest smile, âThat sounds⌠great.â
âCool! Itâs a date!â She says jokingly. You almost flinch at her choice of words. âTotally!â
A couple days pass since your conversation with Stephanie. In that time, she invited Jason to the cafe you guys frequent. Claiming that sheâs âdetermined to mend whatever the hell is wrong with you two.â He almost couldnât believe that you agreed to do this.
You wanted to him to intrude on yours and Stephanieâs personal time? I mean, not that you have to ask him twice, but it just seems a little⌠unbelievable. Almost like a setup. Of course thatâs where his mind goes.
Todayâs the day that youâre going to hang out with them. You spend hours getting ready. Going from your bathroom to stare at yourself for the millionth time, to your bed to try and calm the hell down for a minute. You do this for hours, until you result to anxiously pacing around your room. And you do that until you hear your doorbell ring.
You make your way down stairs a little too fast, all while trying to calm your breathing. Once youâre at your door you just stand there for a second, walking in place to make it seem like you didnât just flea your room at the thought of seeing Jason Todd.
You then open your door, revealing Stephanie and Jason on the other side. âOh! Youâre⌠both here. At my door.â You nervously laugh. âYup!â Stephanie pulls you into a tight hug. She whispers in your ear quietly enough for Jason not to hear, âJust be yourself. You got this.â
You pull away, giving her a knowing look. Then you look at Jason. Should you⌠hug him? No! That would be weird, right? You settle for a quick, âHey.â
âHey.â He says with a boyish grin. He takes in your entire appearance. From your strangely perfect looking hair, all the way to your shoes. If he didnât know any better, heâd assume you got all dolled up for him. I mean, he spent longer than usual getting all ready for you. And boy, do you notice.
Stephanie breaks this seemingly awkward moment, âOkay! We should go.â She grabs your hand, pulling you into the direction of their car. As sheâs pulling you, you turn around, shooting Jason a quick smile. He returns the favor.
The ride to the coffee shop is⌠awkward to say the least. Stephanie tries her best to fill the silence, giving you two both opportunities to talk about literally anything. But you both keep your responses brief, only furthering the awkwardness.
Once she parks, you practically hop out of the car while itâs still moving. You need some fresh air. The three of you walk into the shop, waiting in line. Stephanieâs in front of you two, leaving you to stand next to Jason. If you thought about it a bit more, youâd think she did that on purpose (she did).
You glance to your right side, where Jasonâs standing. And heâs already looking at you. Both of you immediately turn your gazes back to the menu. You think about how upset Stephanie might be if you didnât at least try to talk to him.
You turn to him once again, âSo⌠what are you thinking of getting.â Jasonâs brain stutters for a moment, âYâknow. My usual.â
You just laugh at his response, âNo, I donât know your usual.â You say, putting an extra little emphasis on that last word. âRight. Just black coffee.â
âYou drink straight up black coffee? Why doesnât that surprise me.â
âGuess I just give off that vibe.â He says with a laugh. âGuess so.â
When you three are up in line, Jason orders his usual, Stephanie gets the sweetest drink on the menu, and you⌠didnât think about it. Shit. You were too caught up in all of Jason Toddâs glory.
The barista turns to you, âIâll get⌠just a black coffee please.â
âSince when do you drink black coffee?â Never in all of her years has Stephanie seen you drink black coffee. âIâm trying something new?â
She just looks away with a suspicious look on her face. Once you guys have your drinks, you find a comfy spot to sit, tucked in the corner of the cafe. Thereâs three chairs at the table: Two on one side, and one on the other. Stephanie makes a conscious choice to sit in the single chair, leaving you and Jason to sit next to each other. You donât audibly scoff, but you sure as hell do in your head.
Like the car ride here, the table is silent. Stephanie once again, decides to start up the conversation. She says your name, âYou should tell Jason about that guy you were telling me about.â
Jason almost squints his eyes, âWhat guy?â He thinks. âRight. So thereâs this guy in my class that sits in front of me and heâs just always playing The Sims.â
âJason, you love that game, right?â Stephanie gives him an urging look. âLove it? I havenât played that since I was like, 13.â The urging look continues.
âRight. Yeah I love that game.â Jason says, with the slightest hint of sarcasm. You turn towards him, âKinda sounds like youâre lying, Jason.â You say through a shy laugh.
He nervously stutters, âNoâ no! Well, yeah. Kinda.â He nervously scratches the back of his head. You and Stephanie are silent for a moment, until you both burst into laughter. After this, the conversation starts to flow a bit. This situation is starting to get far less awkward than how it started.
After a while of your coffee just sitting there untouched, Jason looks at your cup, then you, âYou gonna drink that?â
âIâ uh. Yeah. Totally.â You take a short, but almost painful sip of your drink. Your face sours. Jason takes in your expression and just laughs. Stephanie looks at you with a playful disdain, âI knew you wouldnât like it.â
âYeah, yeah. Whatever.â You put your drink down. You look at Jason, whoâs looking at you (again). âYou want this?â You say, scooting your drink towards him.
âSure. Iâll take it.â Jason says with a laugh. He takes the cup, putting it up to his lips. His lips graze over the spot stained with your lipstick. Does this count as a first kiss?
He drinks the coffee with haste, like itâs nothing. You make a few snide comments, before returning to the now natural flow of the conversation. You three talk for almost an hour before night falls, and a soft gloomiest takes over the sky.
The car ride back to the manor is a lot less awkward than the car ride there. Youâre asking Jason about his motorcycle, and heâs asking you about school. Stephanieâs silent for the most part, basking in the success of her mission to bring you two together.
Once youâre all back at the manor, Stephanie lets out a long sigh, âYeah, Iâm beat. Iâm gonna go take a nap before patrol. See ya.â She makes her way up to her room, leaving you and Jason standing in the foyer.
âSoâŚâ You say, trying to fill the sudden silence.
âSo.â Jason says, not really knowing what the fuck else to say. âThat was fun⌠right?â You say, fingers nervously intertwined.
âRight. Couldâve sworn you hated me before today.â So, youâre talking about it. Okay. âOh, shut up! I did not hate you.â
âSure you didnât. Your avoidance says otherwise.â He says, raising an eyebrow. You scour for ways to change the topic. âUmâ Iâm hungry. Whereâs the kitchen?â
âYou⌠donât know where the kitchen is? Youâre here like, everyday.â
âRight. Noâ yeah totally.â You say, turning off one foot, heading to the kitchen that you almost forgot existed for a minute. Jason follows you. Once youâre there, you open the fridge, trying to busy yourself. Youâre not even really that hungry. You settle on Stephanieâs left overs from a couple days ago, purely out of nerves to look like you meant it.
You place the leftovers in the microwave, then turning back to Jason whoâs leaning against the kitchen island. âYou hungry? We can share the food?â
Out of pure excitement for something as simple as a domestic moment with you, Jason says, âYeah. Starving, actually.â You give him a flat smile, âCool.â
Once the food is done heating, you two settle in the dining room. You two fall into a casual conversation almost immediately. You honestly donât know what took you so long to come around. Stephanie was right, he really is one of the nicest people ever. And this only fuels your puppy love more.
The conversation inevitably circles back to your past âdisdainâ for him. Like he thought a couple days ago, he really is determined to get to the bottom of this. âYou gonna tell me why you were really avoiding me?â He says with that deep, almost sultry voice. He knows exactly what heâs doing.
âI already told you Jasonâ I wasnât avoiding you.â You say with a small laugh, taking another bite of your food.
âYeah. Okay.â He says giving you a look. Yes, that look. Is this his attempt at flirting? Because heâs doing a damn good job at it. âYou really wanna know?â You say with all your might. Here goes nothing. âObviously.â
âPromise you wonât tell Steph. Or anyone, for that matter.â You hold out your pinky. He intertwines his with yours, âPinky promise.â
You look down, nervously laughing, before basically whispering out, âI think youâre cute.â
âYou what?â The way he says it almost makes you think you fucked up, that is, until he swiftly gets out of his chair, walks over to the other side of the table, and sits next to you. âYou think Iâm cute?â
You eagerly nod, and he just laughs. Shit. You just broke your promise of multiple years for this? Jason laughs, âWell, I think youâre pretty cute, too.â You can hardly believe what youâre hearing. You just giggle at his words, âReally?â
âYes, really.â The two of you just laugh. Until the moment falls a bit more serious. You start to lean in for a kiss. I mean, youâve already come this far, right? Might as well give it all away.
He begins to lean in. The two of you are so caught up in the moment that you donât hear to footsteps approaching the dining room. You hear a small gasp. Both of you turn your heads at the same time, seeing none other than Stephanie standing in the entrance.
I already put the first half of this up but there is more now so
It happens at work.
You get a whiff.
At first, youâre not sure what exactly it is youâre smelling. Leather and tobacco soaked in sea spray, mixed with cardamom and honeyed black tea.
What is that?
You sniff the air. Itâs barbaric, embarrassing, but you canât fight the instinct that has your nose lifting, nor can you stop your feet from automatically moving, following the trail.
Your skin prickles as it grows stronger, and thereâs a pinch in your stomach, a light twinge that yanks you forward, propels you out of the kitchen and into the dining room, hot on the heels of whoever it is that smells like this.
An unbidden, fully uninhibited omega whine crawls up the back of your throat as the scent rises to itâs full strength and leads you down a row of red pleather booths, to where two alphas sit across from one another.
The whine is loud.
They both turn when you get close, nostrils flaring, eyes widening with surprise, suspicion, and your focus splits right down the middle, the rational, logical part of you trying to stay in control, and the animal, omega part of you trying to bare your throat. Offer yourself up.
Now that youâre here, in front of them, the scent has shifted. Itâs still strong, but somehow softer. Warmer.
Safer.
Itâs safe.
Itâs more than safe, itâs like light. Blinding, baptizing, white light that sinks into your cells and rolls through your shoulders, unclenches your teeth and tightens your core.
Itâs holy. The closest youâll ever get.
Scent matches.
True mates.
Itâs kismet. You know in your bones, in your cells, theyâre yours. Theyâre meant to be yours.
Not one, but two.
âOmega.â The one breathes, drawing your attention, your focus. Heâs tall, muscled, brown hair cut into a mohawk, bright blue eyes like Caribbean waters. So handsome it hurts, his scent is the warm, honeyed tea, the cardamom in the fall.
You forget yourself. Forget this place, this dead end job, this backwoods town. Forget the little notepad in your hand, the old almost dried out ball point pen between your fingers.
âIâŚâ Speak. Say something, say anything. Your gaze swings to the other alpha, the one who looks too large for the booth, the room even. Where the blue eyed one is handsome, this one is severe, beautiful like a sharp cliff that sheers off into the ocean. Focused brown eyes with a crooked nose, black hoodie pulled up over his head. Thereâs something dark about him, something dangerous, and itâs his scent that is the burnished leather, tobacco leaf, dried salt of the sea.
Your gaze drifts, and then snags on the sight of a bite. Just barely peeking over the outline of the hood, is a clear as day bite mark. A claiming mark.
A bond.
Your stomach drops.
This alpha is bonded. You glance at the other one, blue eyes, and immediately find his in the same spot, proudly displayed. These are not new, fresh bites. Theyâre faded, scarred over, commitments, and it all plays out in front of you like a horror movie. Two alphas with two marks, and one omega, standing in front of them, too late.
They are not for you.
The truth is crushing. All this time, all your life, you hoped, you dreamed, and now that dream is sitting in front of you, crumbling to ash.
âIâmâŚâ Youâre⌠what? Youâre sorry, maybe. Sorry this happened. Sorry youâre here, sorry youâre their scent match, their true mate, when they obviously already have an omega.
You donât know. You canât think, canât hear over the pounding of your heart, the tight draw of your lungs. The air in the room has gone thin, overhead pendant lights gone dark. You feel sick. Your knees feel weak. Everything is falling apart.
âTwo black coffees.â The order snaps like a whip from the dangerous one, the one in the hoodie. So ordinary, so routine.
Itâs like a slap to your face.
Blue eyes gives him a look, one you canât place, while brown eyes keeps his gaze locked on yours.
âDid you hear me?â
âSimon.â Blue eyes says quietly, but it must fall on deaf ears because brown eyes, Simon, cocks his head.
âTwo black coffees,â you whisper back to him, the three words scratching the back of your throat. Fated mates, and these are your first words to each other. Two black coffees.
âMake a fresh pot, if itâs not already.â He instructs, and the heat of humiliation rises in your cheeks.
âSimon.â Blue eyes says a little louder this time, a little harsher, and Simon finally drags his eyes away from yours.
âItâs her job Johnny.â He doesnât spare you another glance as he looks down at his phone. âIsnât it, omega?â
âY-yes.â You whisper, knuckles aching from how tight youâre clinging to your pen. âBe right back.â
You get the coffee. Everything is on autopilot, and they barely even look at you. Simon, the mean one, turns his face towards the window as he hands his menu over, and Johnny, the blue eyed one, only glances at you briefly before looking away.
Your already broken heart cracks into a million pieces, shattering inside your chest so violently you swear you can feel it.
They donât even leave you a tip.
And you should know to leave well enough alone, because you do. Because life has kicked you in your soft spots enough, youâve been taught lessons a plenty.
But when you see them leave, when they turn their backs on you without so much as goodbye, you canât stop yourself from running out the back door, gravel flying under your feet, trying to catch up with them as theyâre about to get into a truck.
âWait!â You canât help it, you have to try, and they both go rigid at the sound of your voice. âDonât you ⌠donât you smell it? Smell me?â Your hope is a reckless, desperate thing, a tenacious thing that refuses to die.
No matter how many times itâs been killed.
When they donât respond, when they meet you head on with grey rocked expressions, you know you should stop.
But you canât.
âIâm your scent match.â You try to explain. Maybe saying it out loud will make it make sense. âIâm your mate.â Something flickers in Simonâs eyes, something you canât make sense of, and itâs gone as soon as it comes, replaced by ice. Winter coats his next words.
âYouâre nothing to us.â
Youâre nothing to us.
Your blood runs cold. The world spins around you.
âOh.â Johnny moves, takes a small step forward. Itâs barely there, more of a lurch than anything, and your eyes start to burn with tears as he looks at you, impossibly blank.
âGo back inside, omega.â You want to cry, you want to scream, you want to beg them to see it, see you.
âI donât understand.â You whisper, more to yourself than anyone else. Youâre lost now. Drowning. Rejected.
Scent spikes. Salted leather and honeyed cardamom, they mix together, the once intoxicating, drug like heady cocktail now turning acidic, sour on your tongue. The scent that felt safe, now poison.Â
âThereâs nothing to understand.â Simon says, sounding bored. Like heâs lecturing a child. âYouâre confused, happens all the time.â What?
âIt does?â Does it? Youâve never heard this, but then again, youâre not really on the cutting edge of⌠anything, really. You don't pay attention to the news, or science, or pop culture. You're too busy trying to keep your head above water.Â
âSure.â His mouth twists into a cruel smile. âYouâre not the first desperate omega whoâs tried to attach herself to us.â
It would have hurt less if he had struck you.Â
Johnny sucks in a breath. Itâs barely there, but you catch it, and your biology refuses to let go. Your hindbrain digs in its heels.
Heâs wrong. He has to be. Maybe he just doesnât know it.
âNo," you protest. âNo, I know what I smelled.â
âNo ye didnât.â Johnny says, shaking his head. He's pitying you, you realize in horror. âYeâre just confused.â Your world is being torn in two. Violent sheared away at the seams, your instinct wails, screams in the back of your mind, your grip on reality slowly pulling away. This isn't how it's supposed to be.
âIâm n-not. Please.â You whimper, but you donât know what youâre asking for at this point. All you know is it comes out reedy and broken. Simonâs jaw flexes, Johnny looks over your shoulder, a blank, glazed look in his eyes. Shut down.
Your knees hit the gravel. Rocks scrape at your skin, tear at your tights, dig and draw blood. It should hurt, but it doesnât. You canât feel anything except for this hole in your chest. This hole where your mates are supposed to be, where bonds are supposed to be.
âPathetic.â Salt in the wound. Simon practically spits it at you, and your vision glosses over, tears now spilling down your cheeks. âGet up.â Itâs not a request, itâs an alpha bark, something youâre biologically subservient to, something your body forces you to obey. You push yourself up, heels of your palms in the gravel, little rocks falling from where theyâve embedded themselves in your knees.
Johnny reaches into his jacket pocket. You wonder, for a split second, if heâs going to pull out a card, or a piece of paper, something, anything, that could connect you to them. A tether.
Whatâs left of your pride, the very small scrap, withers and dies when he produces two folded up bills, and bile rises in the back of your throat when he chucks them at your feet.Â
"Almost forgot. Yer tip." It cuts so casually, like it means nothing, like you're nothing more than trash. A problem he has to throw a few bills at. Worthless.
âDonât follow us, donât try to find us, weâre nothing to you.â Simon warns over his shoulder, already walking away.
âAnâ yeâre nothinâ to us.â Johnny echoes as you stand frozen in place, watching your alphas climb into the truck, watching as your mates prepare to drive away. The engine roars to life, the headlights sweep across the parking lot as they pull out, leaving you behind. Leaving without another word, leaving destruction in their wake. Not even looking back.
It baffles me how so many grown adults seem to believe AI is 100% reliable and never wrong. âHave you tried unplugging it and plugging it back in?â/âHave you tried turning it off and on again?â was a huge meme when I first began using the internet because technology shits the bed in a myriad of ways for no particular reason at all. If your GPS can try to send you down a street that you canât turn on to and your phone randomly freezes and your laptop periodically gives you the blue screen of death, why the fuck would you trust artificial intelligence to make all the important decisions in your life?
Semi-related note but I hate that society is shifting further and further away from having analogue backups to anything, especially the medical field. There was that software outage last year and my physiatrist casually admitted to me she did not know what patients she was seeing that day and at what time because it was all saved electronically and dependent on the Internet and mentally I was like. Oh. Thatâs really bad.
