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lokissweater · 1 year ago

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i know your name ✭

{gojo satoru x f!reader}

summary: gojo satoru was practically everyone’s god as his shiny charming reputation has followed him ever since high school and through college— his band he had with his best friend suguru packing the local college pub every night just to see him sing and play the bass. unbeknownst to you, satoru has been keeping an eye on you, and when you officially meet him right before one of his shows, satoru just about falls to his knees over you.

warnings: MDNI. college au, CAR SMUT be patient!!, fingering, squirting, a bit of oral hehe, cursing, angst, FLUFFF, FILTHY DIRTY TALK, a sprinkle of degradation, tinyyy mentions of alcohol and drinking, gojo is obsessed with reader, afab!reader, jealousy.

word count: 8.8k

authors note: oh my goodness this one took me a FAT MINUTE but it’s SO SO CUTE and i hope you all think so too!! thank you thank you for all of your notes on my works!! MWAHH.

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“please come with me to the alley, i don’t think i can handle one moron and an even bigger moron by myself.”

shoko shimmied her jacket onto her shoulders, a disgruntled and pleading look on her face as she turned to face you. “they’re only playing a few songs, and you don’t have to drink!”

you laughed softly. “who’s they?”

“suguru and satoru, they’re playing at the alley.”

“gojo satoru?”

the cogs in your brain spun as you gnawed at the inside of your cheek, a bit apprehensive. the alley was the place everyone went to at your college to get drunk and laid, and it also happened to be the place where the two boys played their band almost every night— satoru mainly having connections with the owner of the bar to even allow a bunch of college kids to trash the place to begin with.

you didn’t necessarily know satoru, but in your years of observing him back in high school, you knew he was viewed by anyone and everyone as a god, his reputation shiny and impressive as he had the greatest charisma and charm you had ever seen.

you remember back to when basically every other day he was getting confessed to in the halls or in class— or after school… or literally anywhere now that you thought about it.

but satoru has never been prideful or rude, even though it was something that was supposed to be written for him being the most popular guy— but he just simply didn’t follow it.

satoru was kind. really kind. and even though he got millions of confessions per year, he treated each rejection with gentleness and respect, never turning a cold eye to anyone as he apologized profusely and tried to help them feel better.

he always volunteered to do your class banners and plan your school’s activities, festivals, and field trips so nobody else had the burden of missing out on the fun. he always helped out the gardener after school and watered the plants with them (soon after practically taking over the entire shift for free and telling them to relax on a bench), tutored his friends and peers when they asked him for help, and made anyone that felt left out feel included.

that’s why he was so popular. gojo satoru was a ray of sunshine with bright blue eyes and white ruffly hair, with a gorgeous face that you never saw without a smile— loud and obnoxious and a little clumsy, but kind.

“i still don’t know why they started a band.. but they get pretty big tips every night so i guess that’s why,” shoko muttered, sipping the last of her iced tea as she got up from her seat— the cafe you were both sitting in quiet and warm as you copied her actions and stood. “or could be because satoru likes the attention.”

you weren’t close with suguru or satoru like shoko was, and you’ve never even properly met them either, but you always listened to her whenever she’d complain and understood her completely nonetheless.

you laughed at her last comment and smiled. “i’ll go… but i can only stay for two songs! i have class at seven am tomorrow.”

she smiled wide and threw her arms around you, “thank you thank you thank you!”

you’ve never actually been to the alley before, only having heard about it through the grapevine and from your other classmates that went, parties and concerts and drinking never really on the schedule for you. you honestly loved parties and concerts, and you loved the idea of hanging out with people and doing whatever your hearts desired until the sun came up.

but ever since you started college, your high school group kind of disappeared, and now you only really have one true best friend that you preferred over anything else, that being shoko. your nights are usually always calm and filled with studying or self care, your little life quiet and independent as you navigated through the days on your own.

and although you were a bit lonely at times, yearning for another soul to share your nights with, you learned to enjoy your own company.

the alley was a couple of blocks down from the cafe you and shoko were originally at, your ears already picking up on the vibrations of guitars and drums from outside as she approached the bouncer at the front, not even being able to get a word in before the big man was already telling her no.

“no?!” shoko dug into her purse and pulled out her phone. “i was literally here last week, i’m friends with the band that’s playing.”

“sorry we’re at max capacity—”

“it’s okay, they both can come in. they’re on stage with us.”

your eyes snapped to the door and you recognized geto suguru, his long jet black hair cascading down to his shoulders as he sported an all black outfit— politely smiling at the bouncer.

the man moved to the side and ushered us in, shoko’s shoulders dropping in relief as you both walked in and over to a table by the stage. “thank you suguru.”

he nodded. “if i don’t, satoru will throw another fit again and say you don’t love him if you don’t show up.”

shoko rolled her eyes and looked at you, her lips pressed into a thin line. “you see what i mean?”

“shoko!” a loud, booming and enthusiastic voice rang through the pub as you turned, spotting none other than satoru with his long arms open, more or less throwing himself on her. “you came!”

“you threatened me—”

“i did no such thing!” he sprung back. “are you not here out of the goodness of your heart? to support your two best boys living their dreams?”

“no.”

“shokooo!” he whined and you giggled, which caused him to snap his head in your direction, finally noticing your presence.

her.

“oh! hello,” he smiled kindly to you and extended his hand. “i’m satoru, and you are?”

“y/n!” you grinned sweetly and politely to him, taking his cold hand in yours and shaking it.

“are you a friend of shoko’s?”

you nodded.

he cocked his head to the side, “how come i’ve never seen you around?”

“oh i don’t go out too often, that’s probably why,” you laughed lightly, a little embarrassed by your answer.

he beamed anyways, his smile so big and brilliant that you were starting to see for yourself exactly why everyone loved him so much, not that you didn’t already know the reason behind it in the first place.

“me neither!”

satoru was still holding your hand.

“yes you do!” shoko scoffed. “you’re barely ever at your apartment and i always have to be your designated driver—”

he gawked, glaring at her. “that’s not true! i was home yesterday!”

“because you were hungover.” suguru mumbled.

you laughed again, and satoru turned back to face you, a grin on his face.

just then, a rather large group of guys started making their way towards your area, all beckoning and calling for satoru while holding up several shot glasses, his head snapping towards their direction and flashing a dazzling smile.

“satoru come!”

“satoru take some with us!”

he gently let go of your hand and raised his, waving high as he readjusted his black round sunglasses up the bridge of his nose, “give me a second! i’ll be over!”

satoru turned back to you, resuming the conversation.

“sorry, she lies. she likes to lie. i’m glad i didn’t go to high school with her.”

“yes we did— i’m going over to your followers and stealing a shot, goodbye.” shoko grumbled, throwing her purse on the table and walking away, dragging suguru along with her.

“we actually um..” you shifted your weight from one foot to the other. “we went to high school together.”

“oh i know.”

your eyebrows pinched together.

he knows?

“you used to water the garden on days i couldn’t afterschool, right?”

your eyes widened a little.

“oh! and you used to fix the class banners whenever i didn’t notice my fuck up, which was always.” he patted the top of your head and laughed, “thank you for that by the way.”

“you knew?” you murmured, a rosy tint to your cheeks.

“duh,” his eyes softened. “i’m sorry i never thanked you properly then.”

you shook your head dumbly, a little spaced out as you took in what he said. “no it’s okay.”

your eyes then fell to the instruments and band set up behind him, suddenly remembering that he was performing tonight.

“so what do you guys play?” you spoke up gently, hands wringing behind your back. “do you play original songs? or covers?”

“covers! 80’s covers.” he explained excitedly. “suguru and i switch off singing. i play the bass and he plays the guitar, and we have a couple of extra friends in the back playing the drums and keyboard.”

your eyes sparkled as you watched the stage set up process, black chords scattered everywhere on the ground in disarray as several individuals on the platform tuned their instruments or plucked out a few notes.

“80’s?” you perked up. “what kind of 80’s?”

“what kind?”

“yeah! morissey? the cure? new order—”

satoru was awestruck, mouth slightly parted. “you know who they are?”

you quickly nodded, a cute smile on your face.

“you like the cure?” he asked quietly.

“i love the cure.”

satoru practically had hearts in his eyes as he beamed down at you with a stupid face, his heart a little frazzled with a familiar feeling sparkling in his chest.

“satoru!”

he snapped out of his trance and spun around, suguru on stage beckoning him over. “sorry, we have to start.”

“okay!” he walked backwards as he quickly faced you again and smiled, a little frantic. “i’ll talk to you after we play! i’m gonna quiz you on it so pay attention!”

you laughed, your hand covering your mouth a bit as you nodded. “is it counting towards my grade? or is it extra credit?”

“extra credit if you go on a date with me after the show!”

you stopped.

“she can’t! moron,” shoko suddenly appeared beside you and threw an arm around your shoulder. “she’s only staying for two songs!”

gojo’s jaw dropped slack, his shoulders slumping as he got up on stage, arms out. “two?!”

you grimaced, an apologetic look on your face and kind of feeling like a lame grandma as you nodded, “i have class at seven am tomorrow!”

before he could even respond, satoru got pulled by tech crew to test out his microphone, and you and shoko gradually settled yourselves on the high bar stool chairs at your table.

“odd,” she muttered with a funny look on her face.

“hm? what is?” your eyes switched to hers.

“satoru’s never asked a girl out before.”

your eyes bulged open. “never?”

“never.” shoko sipped a little at her beer and gave you a comforting smile. “i’ve always seen girls try it with him and ask him out or simply just follow him around like a lost dog, but he’s never gone after anyone.”

you watched a little smirk spread across her face, and your hands grew a tiny bit sweaty as you swallowed thickly.

“if you’re interested in him, there’s a line. but i think you have a head start.”

the music started— suguru introducing himself, satoru, and the band calm and pleasantly before they began playing their first song. it was loud and rhythmic, vibrations murmuring through the floor as your glass of water shook on the table with every note.

they weren’t bad at all— they were actually pretty good, really good, and you found yourself not really wanting to admit it since it seemed like satoru was good at a million different things regardless of category or genre.

“do they have a name for their band?!” you yelled over the music, leaning your frame a little closer to her without taking your eyes off of the stage.

shoko snorted, “the strongest monkeys.”

you threw your head back and laughed loudly, looking at her incredulously. “really?!”

as he performed on stage, satoru noticed you laugh and he smiled against the microphone, a vision he connected back to high school, and for reasons he couldn’t explain, he was internally a little unsteady as your pretty eyes watched him play and sing— feeling embarrassed whenever he would trip over a chord clumsily like he seemed to do at every freaking show, but feeling better seeing as it made you giggle.

by the end of their second song, you showed shoko the time on your phone and tried to stand as discretely as possible in attempts at not disturbing anyone around you, grabbing your purse from the arm of your chair and swinging it over your shoulder.

but when you looked up, satoru was already looking at you as suguru spoke through the microphone, his eyes wide and pleading as he held up his index finger.

“one more song!” he mouthed. “please.”

you gnawed at your bottom lip anxiously, your eyes darting around the pub and back to the time on your phone before they landed again on satoru.

“stay.” he mouthed again.

and for reasons you couldn’t explain, your body pulled you back down on the stool and you sat— shoko quirking an eyebrow at you in confusion.

satoru’s face broke out into the brightest smile, a smile equivalent to the blinding rays of the sun as he pushed up his round sunglasses and gave you a cute thumbs up.

“thank you.”

and your heart stuttered.

you eventually decided to stay for the rest of the show, seeing as it was already late as fuck anyways— and they played few more songs then, a mix of well known 80’s songs as well as a few underrated ones, your head nodding gently to the beat and swaying your little shoulders. in the midst of it, satoru had been watching and glancing in your direction so many times throughout the show, that he subconsciously started mimicking your little shoulder sway on stage as he performed.

college girls screamed practically every five minutes when the boys did anything, some even going as far as running up the platform and reaching up for satoru’s hands or ankles as he played, him smiling bright at each and every one of them with shoko shaking her head in disappointment— her forehead falling to the palm of her hand as you laughed.

ironically by the end of it, the band closed with the cure, and as the crowd dispersed and several took their leave from the alley— some shouting words of praise at the boys, you and shoko stood and walked over to the stage. satoru in a heartbeat noticed you coming over and hooked his mic quickly back on the mic stand, tossing the strap of his bass over his shoulders and setting it down before hopping off stage.

“did you like it?” he panted hopefully, trying to catch his breath as his forehead glistened with sweat, his hands on his hips.

you smiled gently. “i did! good job, you both played really great songs.”

suguru gave you a small smile in gratitude from the platform as he unplugged and untangled a few chords— and satoru beamed, nodding. “i’m glad! okay, here comes your quiz!”

“oh god.”

“we played the cure at the end…” satoru dragged out.

“mhm…”

“what song?” he tilted his head to the side, and your cheeks went pink as you grinned.

“pictures of you,” you replied softly. “it’s my favorite one.”

satoru’s forehead fell to rest against your shoulder, and your eyes widened in surprise.

“i would expect nothing less from you, y/n.”

you hummed out a laugh, and his heart did a tiny somersault at the sound before he picked his head back up and looked at you softly.

“thank you for staying.”

shoko bounded over to you then and looped her arm through yours. “ready to go?”

you nodded quickly before smiling sweetly at satoru. “i’ll see you around! thank you for—”

“wait!” he shot his arms out frantically with wide eyes. “what about our date?”

you froze. “our date?”

“unless you want the quiz to count towards your grade…” he mumbled lowly, eyes darting on everything and everywhere except you with pinky cheeks.

“i didn’t think you were being serious about that..” you spoke gently.

his eyebrows furrowed. “why not?”

“because you’re gojo satoru,” shoko butt in.

you quickly flicked her forehead— your lips pressed into a thin line, earning a little laugh from satoru as you turned your head to look at him again.

“i have an early class tomorrow… ill see you around though, okay?”

without thinking, satoru reached over and placed a hand on your shoulder, gently turning you to face him.

“let me take you to class.”

shoko and suguru exchanged a look and your lips parted, eyebrows pinching together.

“what?”

“i’ll take you to class in the morning,” he looked desperate. “and i won’t count the quiz towards your grade.”

you were skeptical, very skeptical, unsure of what satoru wanted from you in this situation. you had just met him, properly at least, and though you knew he was a good person, you weren’t sure if that was still relevant in the field of picking up girls.

you looked to shoko, who shrugged, and your eyes landed back to satoru’s pleading one’s, your entire body and soul hesitating.

“i—” you gnawed at your bottom lip, a nervous habit as you took in the way he looked like a sad little puppy the longer you took to respond, your heart not having the ability to ever say no to anyone, ever. not even him.

“okay.”

his shoulders relaxed, and he let out a puff of relieved air as he gave you the biggest smile, nodding hopefully.

“okay! h—here-” he reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out his phone. “if i could— if i could have your number? and i’ll text you when im on my way and stuff…”

you shakily took satoru’s phone, the screen already opened up to the ‘add contact’ feature as you typed in your number before passing it back to him.

“thank you!” he beamed. “i’ll see you tomorrow then?”

he was so excited, and you really didn’t know why, but you couldn’t help but give him a sweet smile of yours in return, nodding.

“see you.”

when you finally arrived home that night, it didn’t take satoru even ten minutes after that to text you.

(unknown): i have good news for you miss y/n

you stared at your phone, your heart jumping a bit as you typed back a response.

(you): and i have bad news for you satoru

(satoru): WHAT

(satoru): ok wait me first

(satoru): congrats you passed my class!! that quiz bumped up your grade from 0% to 100% ur so smart

(satoru): but if your bad news is you rejecting me i’m FAILING you

(you): HAHAHAHA

(you): silly silly

(you): my bad news was that i always have banana milk on my way to school in the mornings and unfortunately i don’t have any extra for you :(

(you): i ran out ;(

within the two minutes that it took for you to respond with your declared bad news, satoru was absolutely shitting it, wholeheartedly believing you were going to reject him and leave him to dramatically rot away all alone.

he replied quickly, a goofy smile on his face.

(satoru): that’s literally the only reason why i asked you out :(

(you): and how do you know i have banana milk in the mornings before school?

(satoru): OH

(satoru): SO ABOUT TOMORROW

you giggled, wiping the last of your makeup off and turning off your vanity light before jumping into bed, snuggling into your covers as the cool air softly touched your face from your open window.

(you): *address*

(you): pick me up at 6:30 please, if that’s okay :)

(satoru): i’ll pick you up at six miss y/n

(you): SIX WHY

(satoru): for a breakfast date silly!! okay goodnight xoxo

you hadn’t even realized the huge stupid smile on your face until your rosy cheeks started to ache.

(you): HAHAHA

(you): goodnight <3

a heart?!

satoru stuffed his face into his pillow, feeling like little love birdies were flying around his head and pecking at his hair.

the following morning, you ran your fingers through your hair and probably fixed your outfit a million trillion times before you were satisfied, a huge lump in your throat as you gnawed so much at your bottom lip that it drew blood.

you were nervous, but why? you didn’t know why. maybe because it was gojo satoru picking you up. maybe it was the fact that you hadn’t had a guy try to hit on you in what felt like a decade, the last time really being the last day of high school when you randomly found a note in your locker, the words literally illegible.

maybe it was the fact that satoru was the most handsome man you have ever seen.

but so was he to everybody else.

(satoru): i’m outside! :]

you wiped your clammy hands on your legs and stood, hiking your school bag further up your shoulder before walking down the stairs and out the door, seeing satoru seated in his car in your driveway.

you timidly opened the door to the passenger side and stepped in.

“hi!” he greeted cheerfully and proceeded to place his hand on the back of your headrest as he backed out, looking through his rear view mirror.

“hi!” you said gently. “you’re not tired?”

“nuh uh,” he smiled at you. “i had three energy drinks before i got you.”

your head instantly whipped in his direction. “satoru— three?!”

he giggled at your reaction, the sides of his blue eyes crinkling as he patted your head. “don’t worry silly, i’ve had maybe five at a time before—”

“five?!”

you slumped against the passenger seat and closed your eyes. “satoru, you’re gonna develop heart problems if you keep this up.”

“nah,” he reached into the backseat, his eyes still on the road. “i’m the strongest.”

and you snorted then, watching him retrieve two small bottles of juice from the back without taking his eyes off of the road.

“i got us orange juice— wait do you like orange juice? oh fuck maybe—”

you giggled and waved him off, taking both bottles from his hands. “it’s okay! i do like orange juice, thank you.” you settled them on your lap neatly. “i’ll hold them while you drive.”

“aww thanks sweets,” he murmured affectionately, and your face instantly went warm to the touch.

“i also got us breakfast bagels so we can sit and people watch before your class—” his eyes snapped to yours. “if— if that’s okay.”

your heart skipped a beat at his planning, nodding as you reached into your school bag and pulled out a little yellow carton, holding it out for him as he drove.

satoru tore his gaze away from the road momentarily and looked, his eyebrows furrowing.

“your daily morning banana milk?”

you smiled softly, nudging it towards him. “for you.”

he physically melted as he looked at your sweet sweet face and back towards the road.

“you’re giving up your banana milk— for me?”

you tore off the straw from the back of the milk box, sticking it through the little opening and offering it to him again.

“yup yup.”

he bit his lower lip as he gratefully took the milk box from you, giddy and flustered on the inside as he took tiny sips.

“an absolute delicacy, thank you miss y/n.”

before you even realized it, satoru was already pulling in to the campus parking lot, shifting his gear into park and turning off the ignition before opening his door.

“don’t move!” he sputtered suddenly. “don’t touch that door hold on—”

he slammed his door shut and you watched quizzically as he ran across the front of the car and opened the door for you, flashing an award winning smile that could shatter the earth if he wanted to.

you still couldn’t piece together why he was doing so much for you or why he was interested in the first place, but as you watched him set up the breakfast bagels cutely as you both sat on the bench, him carefully handing you yours along with your orange juice, you didn’t really have the heart to ask him why.

maybe it was the more selfish side of you, the one that always longed to share little moments like this with another being, the one that always spent her days alone watching movies or doing little crafts in her room to keep the time going, a bittersweet feeling in your chest every time you saw your classmates or casual friends post about their parties or outings.

you hadn’t realized that you didn’t respond to whatever satoru had said, and you snapped out of it.

“fuck— i’m sorry satoru, i spaced out.” you laughed softly. “what were you saying?”

he stared at you, his eyes examining your face. “what’s wrong?”

“huh?”

“what were you thinking about?”

“it was— it was nothing,” you took a sip of your orange juice. “i forgot.”

satoru shoved his face close to yours, your breath hitching and your cheeks growing pink as you watched his eyes scan every part of you, his expression concerned.

“something’s bothering you,” he hummed. “am i being too forward? i’m— i’m sorry sometimes i don’t even realize—“

“no!” you shot your arms out frantically and placed them on his shoulders, “no, it’s not that, you’re okay satoru. everything you’ve done has been really nice, so thank you.”

your voice was so sweet as you spoke to him, and even though it made him feel better to some degree, he still couldn’t shake the empty and sad look he saw on your face when you were spaced out.

he slowly retreated back and hesitantly nodded as you placed your hands back on your lap, your fingers then tearing a piece from your breakfast bagel and plopping it into your mouth.

“did you ever find…” he spoke in between bites. “a note in your locker the last day of high school?”

your eyebrows furrowed, taken aback. “how do you know about that?”

he swallowed, a sheepish look on his face. “that was me. i put that note in.”

your eyes widened as your body completely froze over, putting your bagel down— the wrapper crinkling underneath as you did so.

“really?”

satoru nodded, his flushed cheeks prominent on his pale skin as he suddenly found his bagel super interesting to look at.

“what did it say?”

he looked at you baffled. “what did it say? what do you mean?”

you giggled then, your hand covering your mouth as you leaned forward a little bit. “i could— i could barely read it. the handwriting-“

“oh my fucking god!” satoru threw his arms up in despair. “that explains so much. i was so sad i straight up thought you hated me.”

you stopped. “what do you mean?”

“i wrote my name and how i thought you were really pretty, and then i wrote my number at the bottom.” he dropped his shaking head in his hands, laughing. “but i wrote it really fast because i saw you coming so i just stuffed it in there.”

he slumped over his legs on the bench, his elbows on his knees as he moaned.

“you think i’m pretty?” you asked softly.

he turned his head to the side as he was hunched over, sunglasses slipping down the bridge of his nose as he smiled gently. “very.”

gojo satoru thought you were pretty.

you smiled cutely at him, reaching out and pushing his sunglasses back up his eyes, yours warm and endearing. “silly.”

you leaned back on the bench and giggled. “to be fair satoru, even if i was able to read your note, i probably would’ve thought it was a prank.”

“a prank? why?” his shoulders deflated, an unamused look on his face. “because i’m ‘gojo satoru’ like shoko said—”

“no,” you pushed. “because you’re a good person. you always go above and beyond for others and i’ve seen that as long as i’ve known you.”

you crossed a leg over the other and smiled softly. “and because of that i’m really not sure why you like me satoru, i haven’t really done anything special but—”

“what you just said is a crime. the way you think about me is the way i think about you.” he cut in, eyes serious. “you think you don’t do anything special? i literally watched you all through high school bend over backwards for people, for me, like i did,“ he sighed through his nose. “but your intentions were genuine and pure, mine were not.”

he finished the last of his bagel and crumpled up the wrapper into a ball, tossing it in the trash can next to him as he leaned back.

satoru swallowed. “i feel like if i don’t do the things that i do for people, ill end up disappointing everyone i know. i feel like everyone’s built this image of me that i don’t even know where the fuck it came from—” he shook his head. “but i don’t want to tarnish that. i don’t want to let people down. so i just let them ask me for stuff. i don’t even like going out that much either, believe it or not. i just go when they call.”

he crossed his arms. “whenever people do do something in return for me, it’s like i’m forever in their debt and they’re always expecting something from me back.”

your sad eyes softened, the confession in front of you a reaction from him you realized must’ve been buried deep deep down his chest— without any prior chance of resurfacing until this very moment.

you never thought about his situation this way. you would’ve never thought that satoru could’ve felt like this about his own reputation, something you guiltily believed was a thing he was absolutely floored over.

“you never expected anything back from me though,” he murmured. “you fixed my fucked up banners and switched around reservations when i absentmindedly chose the wrong thing for our school field trips, and you never said a word about it to me or anyone, and you didn’t expect anything back.”

he finally turned his bright blue eyes in your direction, and looked at you so deeply, so sincerely, that your mind went completely blank.

“that’s why i like you,” satoru bashfully scratched his cheek. “you do special things everyday and— and i was moved.”

there was a moment of silence, satoru staring at the ground as you stared at him, a delicate and insecure side of him unfolding before you that you don’t think anyone has ever seen, and you intended to keep it that way— wanting this special moment selfishly just for you.

you slowly leaned forward then as you made him look at you.

“its natural for you to be upset and think indifferently about people walking all over you, toru. it doesn’t mean you’re not genuine or pure.”

raising your arm, you poked his pink cheek gently and gave him a little comforting smile. “it actually only further solidifies to me how much of a good person you are. because even though people take advantage of your kindness, you help them with what they need regardless, and do way more.”

his eyes softened.

“at the end of the day, even though it makes you a little mad, you want to help people, because if you didn’t, you simply wouldn’t do it.”

you nudged his shoulder playfully with yours, “but not anymore, okay? from now on when people are blatantly taking advantage of how nice you are, you have to draw a line they can’t cross.”

he smiled wide.

“i’d let you cross it.”

“no not even me,” you shook your head. “not that’d i’d ever anyways.”

he looked at you, and then unexpectedly, satoru slowly leaned in and pressed a delicate, soft kiss to your cheek— his lips lingering there greedily for a few seconds more before pulling away, your shocked bright pink cheeks making him burst out laughing.

you missed class without even realizing, but you didn’t have an ounce of care in your body, seeing as satoru was worth more than anything from that point on.

since then you both hung out a lot more, and you still had your little quiet nights of self care, arts and crafts, and movies— except now, satoru was present in every activity.

satoru longed for your lifestyle, and you longed for his— so the act of watching movies together until two in the morning, making horrific origami bird shapes that never looked like the pictures in the instruction manual and laughing, sorting through his 80’s cd collection in his apartment while he sampled a few for you on his bass, and singing the cure so loud through his car sunroof while he drove you aimlessly at night with a strong grip on your thigh, were all a perfect blend of exactly what you both needed most.

it was several months of spending every waking moment together that you soon eventually became a little thing with satoru. there wasn’t an official label, and you guys hadn’t even kissed, but the longer than normal embraces, kisses on each others cheeks, and intertwined fingers everywhere you went was an obvious sign that something was there.

you picked up on how people looked at you more often rather quickly ever since satoru started bringing you around his circle, wondering how you came out of nowhere and captured his attention when thousands had tried for years.

and though most welcomed you with open arms and kind smiles, the majority of his girl fan base was bitter.

shoko often told you to just shake it off and not pay any mind to it, saying that it was a bunch of mean girls with nothing better to do, but it got a little harder once a pretty black haired girl named lina started grabbing satoru for conversations almost every night at the alley.

and today was no different.

“hi sweets!” satoru greeted you enthusiastically, pressing a wet kiss to your cheek as you arrived early to the pub to help him and suguru set up for tonight’s show. “you look very pretty today.”

“thank you!” you smiled wide and leaned up on your tippy toes, your body automatically pulling your lips to his until you quickly steered them to the corner of his mouth, pecking lightly before settling back down on the soles of your feet.

that wasn’t the first time you had almost accidentally kissed him, but it wasn’t just you, as satoru slipped up almost every second of every day when you both were together— the thought making you laugh internally as you followed him to the stage.

“don’t help out this time—” he pleaded gently with you as he took a high barstool chair for you and dragged it closer to the stage. “i want you to just sit and be pretty.”

you tilted your head to the side. “why toru? i don’t mind helping out i like it—”

“no i know!” he smiled sweetly at you. “but i want you to just sit there and relax and not lift a finger tonight. you’ll hurt yourself if you do.”

you giggled softly and nodded, hopping up on the stool and wringing your fingers together on your lap as you watched satoru set up his amp and readjust his mic stand, gnawing on your bottom lip as you watched the way his biceps and chest looked in his black compression tee.

“are you thirsty sweets?” he asked, his eyes trained to the ground as he untangled a bunch of chords and threw them behind him. “i can get you something from the bar?”

“oh no!” you shook your head quickly. “it’s okay toru you’re busy—”

satoru hopped off the stage and jogged over to the bar, him exchanging a few words with the bartender that you couldn’t quite make out until he jogged back over with a cold glass of sugary iced tea, placing it on your table under a coaster.

“for you.”

you smiled sheepishly, “thank you.”

“if you need—”

“satoru! hey!”

you snapped your head over to the entrance and saw lina, her wave a little flirty as she bounced over to the both of you.

lina only spared you a glance before her sparkling suggestive eyes landed back on satoru.

“oh hey?” he looked over at the clock on the wall. “im sorry, the alley doesn’t open for another two hours—”

“oh i know!” she twirled a strand of hair with her fingers. “i just wanted to stop by and see if you needed any help? you know, setting up?”

what.

your eyebrows pinched together and you looked at satoru, waiting for his answer.

“oh! um— sure! thanks!” he smiled at her, and you felt a pang of annoyance through your chest as you watched him lead her on stage and give her directions, much like how he did for you when you helped out.

you crossed a leg over the other and looked away.

satoru wasn’t your boyfriend, so it wasn’t like you could say anything or feel the way that you did… but then again, isn’t he kind of? you didn’t know, and the more you wracked your brain to try and figure out what exactly the both of you were, the angrier you got at the situation in front of you.

satoru flashed lina his world famous dazzling smile, cracked joke after joke and made her laugh, helped her when she went “confused” and helpless, and even showed her basic chords on his bass when she asked.

you pursed your lips, eyes narrowed. satoru was smiling at her the way he smiled at you and cracking jokes the way he joked with you, and your jealousy only grew as you let your mind wander if the way satoru treated you was actually anything significant if he was willing to do it for some random girl.

you sat there for what had felt like forever, people starting to pile in for the show as the alley opened, and you hopped off the stool bitterly to cool off in the restroom, not bothering to let satoru know.

just as you got in line, you felt a hand tug at your wrist.

“y/n!”

you turned around and spotted shoko, smiling until she took in your annoyed expression.

“what’s wrong?”

“lina,” you muttered.

“oh god,” shoko leaned her weight on one side of her hip. “what the fuck is she doing now?”

“satoru help me, satoru how many chords does a bass have? satoru you’re so good at singing! satoru you owe me after this!” you mimicked, your heart heavy as you let shoko lead you back to your table.

“she’s getting braver,” she muttered. “say the word y/n and i’ll fake trip and spill my drink on her it’s easy—”

you snorted, “no no, it’s okay shoko. if satoru wants to let himself be drooled over and do nothing about it in respects to me, he can be my guest.”

the show started, girls already screaming and running up the stage with, of course, lina front and center by satoru, jumping and wiggling her sick fingers up at him.

satoru was like he normally was at his shows— attentive to everyone and being just who he is, but what ticked you off more than usual was how much attention he was paying to lina, way more than the rest, and you couldn’t even watch the stage anymore when satoru reached down and held her hand for a moment, not once glancing up at you.

you were done.

“i think i’m gonna go!” you shouted to shoko over the music.

“what?!” shoko grabbed your arm. “don’t go! it’s almost over! i wanna see you chew him out!”

you laughed and shook your head. “i can’t stand being here, and he clearly doesn’t care whether i’m here or not right now so—”

more screams.

both of your heads snapped to the source.

lina was on stage with him.

you scoffed and grabbed your purse, ignoring shoko’s protests as you pushed your way through the crowd and away from the stage.

when satoru finally decided to scan for you through the pub, his eyebrows furrowed as he saw your seat empty and shoko glaring straight murderous daggers at him.

“where is she going?” he mouthed to shoko.

“home!” she spat loudly, getting up herself and disappearing through the crowd.

satoru’s eyes immediately widened, his fingers clammy and numb as he started to pluck the wrong notes, suguru giving him a weird look.

“carry the show without me,” satoru quickly told him, frantic. “please, i have to go.”

suguru nodded and waved him off, seeming like he knew why satoru’s skin was sickishly pale as he carried on calmly.

it wasn’t like you to just leave without him or not tell him anything, so as he threw the strap of his bass over his shoulders and handed it to a tech member, he hopped off stage and ran through the crowd, ignoring their pleas of protest or the tugging he felt at his clothes.

you were halfway down the parking lot when you heard the pub door slam open and footsteps running towards you.

“sweets!—” satoru yelled. “hey- where are you going?!”

“home!” you yelled over your shoulder, arms crossed as you kept walking.

satoru’s stomach dropped.

“y/n!” he caught up to you and grabbed your shoulders, spinning you around as he tried to catch his breath. “why? are you okay?”

“just fine!” you spat. “why don’t you go back on stage and drool all over lina—”

“lina?” he gawked. “drool? what are you talking—”

you shrugged his hands off of your shoulders. “do you not see how she’s been all over you for what seems like fucking months?! and you just let her! i’ve been ignoring it but today you really pissed me off—”

you turned away again and he immediately grabbed your waist with his hands, pulling you back.

“hey- no. tell me what i did okay just tell me—”

you scoffed. “you really don’t see it? first of all she came to the alley two fucking hours early today, and then she’s all over you and you’re all over her and you’re smiling at her and making her laugh like you do with me, and then she’s playing the little damsel in distress helping you set up while i just sat there and watched—”

“all over her?” his eyes narrowed. “i couldn’t give less of a shit about lina—”

“apparently you do!” you moved away from him, his hands falling from your hips. “because she’s giving you the ‘i wanna fuck you eyes’ every two seconds, and you’re holding her hand while you’re on stage, and then you literally pulled her on?! what the fuck am i supposed to think with that?!”

“i didn’t pull her on she jumped on!” satoru exclaimed, his arms out. “i’m sorry sweets that i didn’t notice okay i really am, but have you stopped to think that maybe i didn’t notice because i don’t care about her? i—”

“satoru you’ve been completely ignoring me the minute she got here—”

“toru.” he cut you off, voice firm. “it’s toru not satoru.”

you stopped, frustrated and hurt tears slowing brimming your eyes as you looked at him. “maybe you being a little flirt for everyone was okay before, but the minute you decided to butter me up and kiss my cheeks and call me sweets, that should’ve been over.”

“it is!” he exclaimed. “it’s been over! it never even started in the first place!”

“yes it did! you think i haven’t been watching how you are with people since high school?— you know what i’m done. i’m leaving.”

you sniffled and spun around again, but satoru only grabbed your wrist tightly and wrung you back.

“you think i haven’t been watching you?! i’ve loved you since fucking high school god dammit! i’m obsessed with you! when we officially met at the alley and i introduced myself i already knew your name and you know that! i don’t give a single living fuck about lina or anyone else but you! it’s always been you!”

you wiped your tears roughly with your sleeve.

gojo satoru loved you.

“so no. you’re not done. please don’t cry. all i’ve ever wanted was you and i let you slip through my hands in high school because i was a coward, and id rather die than let you slip through my fucking hands again and lose you over a stupid fight when i just got you!—”

“you’re not losing me i’m not going anywhere toru where the hell are you getting that from?!” you exclaimed.

“thank fuck then, so what are we still doing?! i’d cut everyone in my life off if you asked me to!—”

“no don’t do that! i was just jealous okay and i’m— and i’m angry—”

“okay but do you love me?!” he pushed angrily.

“yes! of course i do you know that!”

“okay so do i baby so what the fuck are we still fighting for?!”

“i don’t know!”

“stop giving me your little attitude then and come kiss me!”

your lips instantly collided with his as you threw your arms around his neck, fast hurried kisses that knocked the wind out of you as you both hungrily and fiercely tried to swallow each other’s lips, satoru tapping the back of your thighs and signaling you to jump on him.

you immediately sprung up and wrapped your legs around his waist, him holding you tight as he carried you over to his car and leaned you against the backseat door, his lips messily licking and swiping over yours as he seemed drunk on the taste of your sweet spit alone.

satoru dug through his pockets without breaking from your lips and found his keys, unlocking his car with a tap of a button and gently lowering you inside, him scrambling in after you and slamming the door shut, locking it.

he towered over you as he latched his lips back on yours, you laying flat on your back with your legs spread, satoru’s big cold hands on the sides of your thighs as he slowly slid your tiny little denim skirt further up— right up until he felt your silky panties under his fingertips.

“i gotta—” he said in between kisses. “take them off—”

you nodded quickly. “please take them off—”

satoru didn’t even let you finish before he practically tore your panties down your legs and stuffed them in his back pocket, his breathing erratic.

“oh my goodness,” he spread your legs gently, eyes completely wide and glazed over as he looked at your slick and shiny pussy. “you’re so pretty baby, just like how i pictured you.”

he ran a finger down your slit and your hips jumped, your teeth biting down on your lower lip as you let out a symphony of whines that satoru wanted to record on his phone and play morning, noon, and night for himself and his dick.

he stared mesmerized at your fuzzy pink cheeks and swollen wet lips as he slowly rubbed over your clit, you immediately grabbing his unoccupied hand and sticking his middle finger in your mouth to suck in response.

“oh my god—” he threw his head back, his delicious adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed. “you’re gonna make me cum in my fucking pants.”

he felt you bob your head up and down slowly on his finger and his head snapped down, eyes widening as he watched you act like a little slut for him, his hands with a mind of their own as he inserted his unoccupied middle finger in your slurping hole.

you let out a muffled gasp through the digit in your mouth and you spread your legs wider, his long and mouthwatering finger pumping in and out of you slowly, satoru’s body literally shivering at the sounds of your warm squelching pussy.

“listen to her baby…” he hummed. “she’s so fucking loud for me… how embarrassing.”

“toruuu,” you whined at his teasing, clamping your legs shut as you felt the tip of his finger hit that sweet spot in your walls that made your toes curl.

“open your legs.” he demanded. “who said you could close them, hm? i sure fucking didn’t.”

satoru picked up the pace and slipped in his ring finger without warning, your walls stretching and filling up as he abused your little cunt rapidly.

“you ever squirted before baby?” he huffed out, lips eating up your neck as you shuddered, your body jolting up and down at how fast he was fingering you.

you shook your head dumbly. “n—no, i don’t think i can—”

satoru laughed and bit your neck meanly. “yes you can sweets, your little pussy was just waiting for me to do it.”

he went even faster, a series of slap slap slap’s filling the car as his palm and digits hit your cunt repeatedly, sticky and soppy as he moaned over and over in your ear, absolutely intoxicated with the sloshing noises of your pussy and the way it was speaking to him, satoru utterly and incandescently obsessed with everything that was you.

“m—my god—” he panted, his pace brutal and animalistic as his long fingers rapidly plunged into your gummy hot hole, his tongue licking and slopping all over the side of your neck, your moans straight up filthy as the windows of his car fogged up.

“fuck fuck fuck fuck—” he dragged his mushy kisses from your neck up to your chin and back to your lips. “be my girlfriend—” slap slap slap— “p-please be my girlfriend be my girlfriend i need you so bad i c-can’t live without you anymore—”

you eagerly nodded, your thighs shaking as you gripped his shoulders and tried to keep up with his kisses that swallowed your lips up hole. “y-yes— mph! i will toru i will—”

his car shook violently as he fucked your cunt with his fingers without mercy, an unfamiliar intense feeling bubbling up at the pit of your stomach as he did so, your entire pussy pulsing and swollen as you squealed, massive droplets of liquid spraying all over satoru and the leather seats of his car.

“fuck yes baby, give me what i want that’s it—”

satoru groaned so loudly as you squirted, him jerking his nasty fingers to selfishly get more out of you.

“thaaaats it sweets—” he panted, slowing down. “that’s it.”

you evidently blacked out at this point, your brain misty and distorted as you tried to come down from your delirious high, a high you’ve never ever felt before with your own digits.

satoru licked his fingers raunchily and lowered his face to your pussy, cleaning up any remnants and left over drops on your thighs and pussy with his perverted tongue, your body jerking and you whining again as you shut your thighs closed in overstimulation.

he came back up and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before flashing you the biggest most innocent smile, as if he didn’t just absolutely destroy your cunt minutes ago without grace.

slowly, you regained a sense of direction and finally looked at him properly as he sat down and pulled you gently up by his arms, your body practically limp as he settled you on his lap and hugged you affectionately, his cheek squished up against your forehead.

“so can you squirt or what.” he teased softly, a smile still on his face.

you giggled shyly and buried your face in his neck. “i made a mess.”

“that’s literally what i wanted don’t even start.” he mumbled, and you laughed again, louder this time.

“were you serious about me being your girlfriend?” you asked suddenly, your voice smaller and timid. satoru pulled back and tilted his head, catching your eyes with his.

“of course i was,” he said quietly. “i literally begged you while my fingers were knuckle deep in—”

you covered your face with your hands and laughed with a whine. “stop! okay okay! i get it.”

you took your face away from his neck and looked at him properly, tilting your head cutely as your eyes shined and sparkled with affection, him giving you the same look back as you leaned up and pecked his lips lovingly.

“you know…” you began. “when we first properly met and you asked me out that night, shoko told me there was a line i had to stand in if i was interested in you.”

satoru snorted, his eyebrows raised. “a line?”

you nodded. “mhm. you literally can’t pretend there isn’t one toru… and lina is in it too,” you finished off, snickering.

he rolled his eyes and huffed, feigning annoyance, but when he looked at you again, he only smiled and stared at you like you hung the moon and stars yourself, a blush to his pale cheeks that never seemed to go away as long as you were around.

“line or not—” he sincerely spoke.

“you’ve always been the first one.”

6K notes · View notes

violetrainbow412-blog · 2 months ago

Text

Wrapped around you [B. R.]

Bob Reynolds x fem!reader

wc: 3k

summary: Bob has a secret lover in the city, and that night he feels the need to sleep in her arms.

masterlist part 2

You were making instant soup when your phone buzzed with a text. It was late and you were tired, so you figured whoever it was, could wait a bit.

You'd spent fourteen hours working at the convenience store, covering your usual shift and also the shift of the college student who worked in the afternoons. More than just the money, it was a kind of favor. The poor girl had been sick the past few days, and you'd hate for her to lose her job. Still, the fact that it was an act of good faith didn't help ease your fatigue.

A minute after the first message, another one rang. You ignored it, thinking that if it was something urgent, the person could always call. Two more messages rang through shortly after. And when two more did, it was enough for you to turn away from the stove and search for your phone.

The contact record was flashing in the notification bar.

Bob ♡ : hi Bob ♡ : are you home? Bob ♡ : can i come over? Bob ♡ : I know it's late Bob ♡ : sorry Bob ♡ : you can say no

You knew he hated taking calls, and although the insistence seemed odd to you, you quickly responded. You thought that, after so many months, he would have understood that it wasn't even necessary for him to ask if he could visit you. But he kept doing it, and you kept saying yes.

When you met him, it wasn't under the best circumstances. The man had walked into the store all nervous, and judging by the way he was hyperventilating, you thought he'd been mugged. It turned out he was having some kind of anxiety attack and just wanted to stay somewhere to calm down. You –still afraid he'd escaped from a mental institution– let him. After a few minutes of analyzing him, something in you told you he was just a man who needed a little kindness.

You offered him water, asked if he needed any medication, and suggested he grab something from the store if he was hungry. Bob didn't accept either option, but he appreciated the consideration you were showing him, even though you didn't know him. A while later, when he was in a more decent state, he said goodbye.

You had trouble sleeping that night. You worried about not knowing what had become of that stranger, even if his visit to the store had been so brief.

A few days later, he appeared again. He looked better this time. He still had that shy air, but now he wasn't pale and staring into space. It turned out he'd come back to thank you. You thought it was such a sweet gesture that if you could have, you would have hugged him; you didn't because it would have been too weird.

Bob continued going to the store. At first, he at least pretended he was going to buy something, almost always grabbing the first thing he found and putting it in the checkout, hoping you'd exchange a few words.

You didn't want to bankrupt the poor boy, so after a few weeks, you told him he could stop by and say hi even if he wasn't going to buy anything.

At some point, you invited him out for ice cream. You started spending more time together, and finally, one day you invited him over to your apartment. The first time, you didn't have sex. It was the second time.

From then on, you had something going on, though you still didn't dare put a name to it. Bob didn't want to make you feel stifled or pressured, and you thought talking things out would bring you bad luck.

That's why it wasn't unusual for him to stop by your apartment sometimes, whenever he felt like cuddling. Of course, you two didn't just fuck, but to be honest, the activity was extremely beneficial for producing certain chemicals in your brains that made any difficult situation better. So it was something to relax, yes.

You hadn't told anyone about him. It was like a tacit agreement, almost as if you two were leading a double life where things were less stressful, confined mostly to your couch or bed.

As for him, he also kept you a secret with some suspicion. His friends noticed that he'd been absent more in recent months, but no one had been able to investigate. The few times they wanted to bring up the subject, Bob would excuse himself by saying he was going to the library or running some errands, and the matter was settled.

Now and then, he would sleep over at your apartment. It was always because you were having a good time and you suggested it, insisting that the night could hold many dangers. But both of you knew it was the need for closeness speaking for you.

However, it was unexpected that he would take the initiative to spend the night together. Because at that hour, he was definitely going to stay until the next morning, right?

Knock, knock, knock…

Someone was at the door. You didn't know how long you'd been lost in thought, but the lukewarm soup in your bowl gave you a clue.

Bob always arrived the same way: with that strange mix of imposing presence and quiet exhaustion. Tonight was no exception. He was wearing a dark sweatshirt—one of those old, oversized ones that seemed to have lost their shape from so much use—and faded jeans, his worn boots covered in a fine layer of dust. His disheveled hair fell over his forehead, damp at the temples, as if he'd been walking too far or had just stepped out of a quick shower without drying it completely.

His shoulders were tense, but his eyes… his eyes spoke volumes. Dark circles under his eyes, heavy eyelids, as if he hadn't slept well in days. And yet, when he looked at you as you opened the door, there was a faint flicker of relief in his expression. He didn't fully smile, but you could tell something in him had given way just by looking at you.

"Hi"

He was carrying a small paper bag—probably containing something for dinner, or some absurd craving he was using as an excuse to see you—and his knuckles were red, as if he'd been rubbing them together out of anxiety or cold. He didn't say much when he entered. He only looked at you for a few seconds, as if he needed to confirm that you were letting him into your home.

"How are you?"

“Fine,” you followed him with your eyes, noticing him walking to the counter to leave the package. “And you?”

"Fine"

His answer obviously didn't convince you completely. So you quietly approached him and cupped his face for a kiss.

Bob immediately let out a sigh and his shoulders relaxed under your touch.

"You sure?"

“Yes. I just… wanted to see you. That’s all.”

“Oh, just seeing me? How unfortunate, darling.”

Suddenly, you heard him chuckle, and then he came over to hug you, burying his head in the crook of your neck. A shiver ran through you when he kissed your bare skin.

“Seeing you, hugging you, touching you, kissing you…”

“That sounds better to me.”

Instinctively you leaned further against him, letting his hand settle on your lower back and holding that position for a while.

You noticed that in the paper bag Bob had brought a couple of rolls and a bottle of chocolate milk to share with you. It was odd how he almost always brought something, as if he wanted to show you that he wasn't just going to demand your affection. Even if he had, it wouldn't have bothered you too much.

You sat down in the living room to share a small dinner, and Bob asked how your day had been. He really enjoyed listening to you, though he couldn't exactly explain why, and you were always happy to share things with him. You only stopped when he took it upon himself to brush away a couple of crumbs that had remained at the corner of your lips, doing so with a gentleness that melted your heart.

It was past midnight when you finished eating. Even though the man's presence had lifted your spirits, you still felt like your eyelids would close at any moment and you'd simply collapse. He noticed.

“Do you want me to stay?”

His voice came out in a measured tone, almost as if he didn't want to upset the fragile balance of the night. You didn't answer him immediately, but instead looked at him. The dim light barely outlined his figure, his broad shoulders, his long legs crossed with a comfort that contrasted with the question he'd just asked.

“Are you asking because you really don’t know…” you said calmly, with that kindness you usually reserved only for him, “or because you need me to say yes to feel at peace?”

Bob looked up. That familiar expression appeared on his face: a mixture of honesty and a certain emotional awkwardness.

“Maybe both”

You nodded without saying anything. The tenderness he provoked in you wasn't effusive or naive; it was more like something that knotted in your stomach and spoke to you in a low voice.

“Of course I want you to stay. You can stay as many times as you want.”

With that, you walked toward him, extending your hand in a calm gesture, almost out of habit. It wasn't an invitation: it was a certainty.

He didn't hesitate. He stood up naturally and followed you, as if that was enough to remind him that yes, this was his place. You knew something was happening to him, but you couldn't figure out what it was; there was a sign written on his forehead, in a language you couldn't read.

Your apartment was modest, but—in Bob's words—cozy. Because of this, your mattress was barely bigger than a twin, not quite a queen size, but there was enough room for the two of you.

Throughout the room, there were a few things that denoted his intermittent presence. You had a comforter, white and crisp, that you unfolded whenever he stayed. He'd told you that being covered helped him sleep. You, on the other hand, hated doing it. He slept without a pillow, and you slept with this one. Bob on the left side, you on the right.

The mere knowledge of the opposite routine was proof enough that your relationship was more intimate than either of you would have liked to admit. There was a sweater he'd forgotten, you'd gotten him a toothbrush, and you also had his favorite brand of tea, as a thoughtful gesture. One of his books rested on your nightstand.

Sometimes, in a corner of your bed, he used to forget his heart.

Shortly after wishing him goodnight, you fell asleep. You could barely feel his presence, close in the small space, but far enough away that he couldn't reach your hand or wrap you in a hug. Either way, you were just getting used to it, as neither of you had ever slept in another person's arms. At least not as a regular activity, of course.

Hours passed until, unwillingly, you suddenly woke up. It wasn't due to a noise or a bad dream; it was just your brain deciding to interrupt your sleep. A second later, slightly more conscious, you realized you needed to pee.

Reluctantly, you dragged yourself out of bed, complaining about leaving the comfort of your previous position and hissing softly as your feet hit the cold floor. You crossed to the bathroom and, as you sat down, you remembered that you hadn’t brushed your teeth before going to bed, so, taking advantage of the fact that you were already there, you did. It lasted about five minutes, at most, then you flushed the toilet and forced yourself to walk again.

All the lights were off, except for the faint glow coming through the window from the street, because you didn't want to be disturbed from sleep. The silence of three in the morning accompanied you on your journey.

Then, as you turned down the hall, you saw him.

Bob was sitting up in bed, hunched slightly forward. He hadn't turned on a lamp either. His eyes were half-closed, blinking slowly, as if drowsiness were overcoming him, but he wasn't about to give in. He yawned, long and contained, covering his mouth with a piece of the comforter he was holding.

“Hey, you okay?” you asked, stopping in your tracks, softening your voice.

It took him a few seconds to react. He looked up, staring at you as if he needed confirmation that you were back.

“You left,” he murmured hoarsely, without reproach.

You walked slowly toward, sitting across from him. You took his face in your hands, warm and firm, recognizing that subtle tremor that sometimes appeared in his jaw when something happened to him.

“Did I wake you up when I got up? I’m sorry…”

“No. I just... didn’t feel you.”

He caressed, perhaps unconsciously, the space on the mattress that still held the silhouette of your body. You watched him with a hint of confusion.

“I just went to the bathroom, Bob. I wasn't going to leave. Why didn't you stay asleep?"

He didn't respond. He looked at you as if he were trying to absorb you with his eyes, as if your presence alone wasn't enough to quell the restlessness he'd felt during those minutes of absence.

Bob wasn't an easy man to read, not even when he gave in to exhaustion, as if all his emotions were seeping through a tiny crack. But there, in that barely tense stillness, you understood. He wasn't worried about your absence, but rather reacting to the possibility of being alone. Again. To the fleeting image of an empty bed in the middle of the night.

Suddenly, without a word, he leaned toward you. He rested his forehead against yours, closed his eyes, and then his lips sought yours with a silent urgency. Not hunger, not passion, just need. Like someone clinging to an edge to avoid falling.

You let him do it, without asking any more questions. You responded with slow, sustained kisses, not meant to heal him, just to let him know you were there.

He clung to your waist, wrapped his arms around you, and buried himself against your body as if he wanted to disappear into your skin. He didn't stop kissing you, not even when he laid you back on the mattress. You hugged him back, caressing the back of his neck, his back, his shoulders. You no longer tried to guess what was troubling him; you had learned that he didn't need to be interrogated, but rather to be enveloped.

His caresses weren't meant to be lascivious, but simply a quiet need for contact. When he finished kissing you, he buried his face against your chest and, as if that weren't enough, tangled a leg between yours. You noticed he was still tense, even in that embrace that should have been a relief.

“Is something wrong?” you asked, slowly stroking the back of his neck.

Bob nodded, but hesitantly.

“No, nothing. I just... wondered if this is... too much.” His voice was a broken whisper, as if he didn’t know how to say it without ruining the moment. “Am I being... clingy?”

"Why do you say that?"

“I don’t want to suffocate you”

You let out a low laugh, so soft it barely vibrated in your chest. You kissed his temple and then stroked him again, more deliberately, your nails barely grazing his scalp.

“You don’t, love. I’m fine. Excellent, in fact.”

After your confession, he relaxed a little, but didn't let go of the hug. You, without rushing him, continued to tangle your fingers in his hair.

"I like it when you say nice things like that to me. You know, when you call me love and all that..."

“With that little, pretty face it’s impossible to contain myself.”

Your eyes were already closed when you said that, but both he and you knew there was a small smile on the other one face. After a few seconds, you began to hum a melody without words, soft and repetitive, with the calm rhythm of someone who doesn't need to think.

Bob could feel the vibrations in your throat and tried to focus on it, as if it were a lullaby to help him fall asleep. Eventually, that, along with the massage you were giving him on his scalp, was enough to help him fall asleep. You knew he had done it when you felt his breathing take on a calmer, more steady rhythm against your body.

Even though you were exhausted, you still took a few minutes to meditate. Having him like this, practically fused against you, clinging to you as if he feared you'd evaporate, begging for kisses in hopes of drowning whatever demon was tormenting him now, you wondered how bad it would be to have him in your house more often. Except for your parents, you weren't good at sharing your living space with anyone else. But Bob made you want it, like you suddenly wished you two were serious, formal, and maybe even settled down with him. At first, the thought made you smile. A moment later, it completely terrified you.

Bob wasn't the perfect man, and you definitely weren't the perfect woman. But in that moment, you felt like you were what each other needed. Reflecting, you stroked his head a little more until you felt your own body giving in, surrendering to the rest you so longed for.

Before slipping into unconsciousness, you concluded that, even though you didn't know what the future would hold, you were determined to enjoy the present. For the moment, that was more than enough.

taglist: @littlemsbumblebee @qardasngan

#bob reynolds #sentry #the void #bob reynolds x reader #sentry x reader #bob reynolds fanfic #thunderbolts fanfic #bob reynolds x you #thunderbolts #the new avengers #the new avengerz #lewis pullman #thunderbolts fluff #bob reynolds fluff #sentry fluff #robert reynolds #robert “bob” reynolds

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cressidagrey · 2 months ago

Text

Formidable

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: Andrea Stella figures out that Felicity Piastri is more than “just” Oscar’s wife.

Notes: Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble and checks my science-y mumbo jumbo 😂

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

It started the way most breakthroughs did—not with a groundbreaking discovery, but with a tired engineer holding a half-wrinkled printout and a hopeful expression.

“Boss,” James said, hovering just inside the doorway of Andrea’s office. “I think you should read this.”

Andrea looked up from his laptop. “If it’s another CFD model from that Reddit forum, I swear—”

“It’s not. It’s from a paper. Academic. Legit. Published in Race Systems & Applied Motion last month.”

Andrea raised an eyebrow. “Obscure.”

“Very. It has like 20 readers,” the engineer agreed. “But I think it’s real. It’s clean. It’s sharp. It’s…” He hesitated. “We might want to test it.”

That got Andrea’s attention.

He took the paper and began to skim.

Title: Redefining Compliance: Adaptive Suspension Geometry Under Load-Sensitive Parameters for Mid-Field Chassis Configurations.

Andrea kept reading. It was dense—academic, yes—but it was also practical. It spoke the language of someone who knew exactly what they were doing. There were no ego traps. No unnecessary complexity. Just hard math and hard-earned insight.

Andrea flipped the page. Then another. His eyes caught a note referencing flex dynamics in chassis response curves and passive recovery lag.

It was correct. More than correct. It was insightful.

The author wasn’t spitballing ideas from afar—this was the work of someone who had lived in the theory and understood the application. Who referenced real-world tolerances. Racing examples. The math was sound. The diagrams were better than half the ones their CFD team managed.

Andrea flipped back to the byline.

Dr. F. Piastri.

Piastri.

James grinned. “Fun coincidence in the name, right? He’s smart.”

Andrea didn’t correct him.

Because yes—coincidence. Probably. But something about it stuck in his brain, like a whisper he couldn’t quite place.

He read the essay in full that night—twice. It was elegant, sharp, and frustratingly precise in the way only truly experienced voices ever were. The type of clarity that came from years of not just understanding a concept, but translating it into reality.

The next morning, Andrea sent out an internal email.

Subject: Additional Works by Dr. F. Piastri If anyone has access to prior publications by this author, please forward them to me.

By the end of the week, his inbox was full.

One essay became three. Three became eleven. Eleven became twenty.

Each one published under the name F.Piastri, buried in obscure journals and small-circulation engineering reviews that didn’t get traffic unless someone was either deeply curious or incredibly desperate.

Andrea was both.

Each article was smarter than the last—strange, elegant engineering thought-pieces published across the most obscure academic mechanical journals Andrea had ever encountered. Niche ones. The kind that only the most obsessive minds contributed to, with names like Thermoelasticity in Microstructured Materials and Lateral Load Adaptation Quarterly.

F.Piastri had written:

An article about Load-dependent understeer in transitional corners (with math that Andrea double-checked twice because it was too clean).

A 2019 think-piece on long-run stability under thermal degradation.

An essay about Aerodynamic oscillation buffering for short-track endurance vehicles.

An article about the economic viability of 3D printed carbon struts under rotational shear (he actually flagged that one for McLaren Applied).

A thesis that corrected a widely accepted torque model—buried in a conference archive.

A published rebuttal in Journal of Vehicle Design so politely worded it read like a love letter—until you realized she’d rewritten the reviewer’s assumptions line by line.

There was even one article on fluid dynamics that had been cited in a grad-level textbook from ETH Zurich.

Andrea devoured them all.

He—She?—wrote like someone who saw the car before it was built. Who understood not just how suspension worked, but how it felt. How energy passed through a chassis not as force but as intent.

The writing style was sharp. Practical. Absolutely ruthless in its logic. There was clarity there—an elegance—that reminded him of only a few people he’d ever worked with.

It was revolutionary. It was poetic.

By the time he tracked down the doctoral thesis from Oxford, Andrea wasn’t breathing properly.

Reinforcement Through Flexibility: Dynamic Adaptation in Composite- Structured Performance Environments.

By: F. Piastri.

Submitted: December 2022

Andrea stared at the name.

F. Piastri.

He stared for so long his tea went cold beside him.

His hands were shaking—not because of nerves, but because he already knew.

He opened the PDF. Skimmed past the table of contents. Scrolled through diagrams that made his heart stutter.

There was no photo. No biographical section. Just a clean Oxford University seal, 284 pages of dense, brilliant theory, and then—

A dedication.

To Oscar: For believing in a future that didn’t exist yet, and building it with me anyway. Every lap, every choice, every time—you’ve been my constant.

And to Bee: For reminding me that softness and strength aren’t opposites. You are the best thing I’ve ever helped create.

Andrea sat back in his chair like he’d been physically shoved.

Bee.

Oscar.

F. Piastri.

Felicity Piastri.

Felicity.

Oscar’s wife.

Dr. F. Piastri wasn’t some reclusive academic or distant uncle with a gift for simulation modeling.

She lived in Oscar’s house.

She packed his lunchbox.

She raised their daughter.

And she had published papers on suspension theory that half of F1 would kill to understand. Quietly. Efficiently. Correctly.

Andrea leaned back in his chair, stared at the ceiling for a long moment, and whispered:

“…Of course it’s his wife.”

Of course the quiet, composed driver who rarely raised his voice and always had one hand on the bigger picture had married someone brilliant. Of course she wasn’t just talented—she was a published expert with a doctorate from Oxford.

Not a coincidence.

Not a mystery engineer.

Not some guy.

But Oscar’s wife.

Oscar Piastri—quiet, methodical Oscar—had married a genius.

A doctor of mechanical engineering from Oxford who wrote better technical documentation in a margin note than most engineers did in a year. Who published under initials. Who could probably solve half their handling inconsistencies while holding a toddler on her hip.

Andrea sat in silence for a full minute.

Then he exhaled. “...of course he did.”

He opened a new tab.

Email draft:

To: Technical Team

Subject: URGENT – Reference Reading Required Attached: Every single thing Dr. F. Piastri had ever published.

***

The meeting was meant to be quick.

Just a routine Monday touchpoint—debrief, run through media notes with Sophie, talk sponsor appearances, maybe discuss Oscar’s upcoming comms obligations.

Zak had rolled in with a protein shake.

Lando was lounging sideways in a chair like he’d melted into it.

Oscar had a protein bar and an expression of polite mildness, as usual.

Andrea, meanwhile, had not slept.

Not because of the race.

Because he’d spent the entire weekend reading Dr. Felicity Piastri’s entire body of work. Every published paper. Every obscenely niche journal article.

And her doctoral thesis.

He hadn’t meant to do it all in one sitting. He just couldn’t stop.

By 2 a.m. he was muttering things like “Of course she used Euler-Bernoulli assumptions, she’s too smart for non-parametric bullshit.”

By 4 a.m., he’d highlighted her proposed solution to dampen micro-vibration load in corner exits.

By 6 a.m., he had a headache, an existential crisis, and a desperate need to know: Why had Oscar Piastri never mentioned this?!

So at the end of the meeting—just as Sophie was wrapping up and Lando was aimlessly spinning a pen like a propeller—Andrea set down a file on the table.

Calmly. Casually. Like he hadn’t just had his entire mechanical worldview rattled by a woman who wasn’t even on the payroll.

“Oscar,” Andrea said, voice deceptively neutral. “Why didn’t you ever mention that your wife holds a doctorate in mechanical engineering?”

Oscar, halfway through eating his protein bar, blinked. “What?”

Andrea gestured vaguely, as if the thesis were still radiating brilliance from his desk. “Felicity. Doctorate. Thesis. Dozens of published papers. Half of them useful to our current car design issues. Why didn’t you say anything?”

Oscar blinked once. “Oh. Yeah. She gets bored sometimes.”

Andrea blinked back.

Lando stared like he’d been smacked with a front wing. “Wait—she got a doctorate?!”

Oscar nodded, chewing. “Yeah. Finished it in 2022. She was stuck in that horrible flat in Enstone while I was back and forth with Alpine, and she got bored. Wrote most of it at the kitchen table while Bee napped.”

Andrea just… stared.

He had read the thesis. Studied it. The mathematical modeling alone had kept him awake at night—and she had apparently written it during toddler nap times, while stuck in a damp shoebox flat in Oxfordshire.

Zak looked up slowly from his tablet. “Your wife was bored. So she got a PhD in mechanical engineering.”

Oscar shrugged. “She already had the research mostly done before Bee was even born in 2020. She just had to write it up. Bee was napping a lot anyway.”

Sophie blinked. “She wrote a 200-page dissertation with a toddler in the house?”

Oscar just shrugged. “It helped that Bee liked the sound of the keyboard.”

Andrea turned to Zak, still stunned. “She predicted the kind of high-frequency oscillation we’re seeing this season. Two years ago. In a footnote.”

Lando leaned forward like he was watching a live feed of someone discovering aliens. “She’s just, like, a genius?” he asked, voice too loud, too incredulous. “And you never brought it up?”

Oscar just sighed. “She hates that word.”

Andrea just stared at him. “Oscar, she’s not just good. She’s formidable. Has she ever applied anywhere formally?”

Oscar looked genuinely confused. “Why would she apply anywhere?”

Andrea stared. “To work. In engineering. In motorsport. Academia.”

Oscar blinked. “She does work. She manages our lives, Bee, the house, and the chickens.”

Lando leaned toward Andrea, wide-eyed: “I’ve never felt dumber in my entire life.”

Andrea sighed. “Join the club.”

***

The kitchen smelled like vanilla and wood polish and faintly like chicken coop — which meant Felicity had mopped and baked and wrangled Mansell, the escape artist hen, all while probably rebalancing one of their stock portfolios.

Oscar dropped his bag by the door and leaned against the kitchen entryway.

Felicity was sitting at the table in her old university hoodie, feet bare, Bee curled up under her arm asleep with Button the frog as a pillow. There were spreadsheets open on one side of her laptop screen, a half-watched nature documentary on the other, and one of Bee’s plastic toy bulls standing solemnly in the middle of the table for reasons unknown.

He smiled.

God, he loved her.

“Hey,” he said softly.

Felicity glanced up. “Hey. Dinner’s in the oven. Bee passed out mid-pie crust.”

“Excellent,” Oscar said, dropping into the chair beside her. “Because I need carbs.”

She raised an eyebrow, equal parts amusement and curiosity. “Bad day?”

“No. Just... intellectually humbling.”

Felicity made a low amused noise and went back to her laptop. “Did Lando try to explain crypto again?”

Oscar snorted and reached over to carefully lift Bee into his lap, her curls warm against his hoodie. She barely stirred.

He could have let it sit. Saved it for later. But it was buzzing under his skin.

“Stella read your papers.”

That got her attention.

Felicity paused, her fingers stilled mid-scroll. “Which one?”

“All of them,” Oscar said. “Apparently it started with one of the engineers, who brought an article in from Race Systems & Applied Motion. Then he spiraled.”

“Ah,” Felicity murmured, unsurprised. “That one had a good diagram.”

“He found your thesis,” Oscar added.

This time she didn’t answer right away.

He reached for one of Bee’s crayons and twirled it idly in his fingers, watching her.

“He read the dedication,” he said, voice quieter now.

Felicity’s eyes softened in that way that always undid him a little. Always had.

“Did he say anything?” she asked.

Oscar smiled faintly. “He said you’re formidable.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Felicity laughed—not loud, not startled, just warm and wry and a little disbelieving.

“God help the man,” she said. “He must have hit the rebuttal piece from the Vehicle Design Journal. That one made a few engineers cry.”

Oscar grinned. “Yeah, well. He was halfway to building you a shrine by the end of the meeting. I also told him you got bored in Enstone and wrote your PhD while Bee was napping.”

Felicity gave him a look. “You make it sound like I was scrapbooking.”

“Weren’t you also doing that at the time?”

Felicity blinked. “...Okay, fair.”

Bee stirred slightly in his lap, a tiny sigh escaping her lips as she nuzzled deeper into his hoodie sleeve.

Oscar looked down at her—this tiny human they somehow made and raised—and then back at the woman across the table.

Her hair was messier than usual, strands escaping her braid, and there was a faint flour smudge near her temple. She hadn’t bought herself a new pair of jeans in two years. She sometimes forgot to eat when she was buried in simulations. She once fixed the bathroom plumbing at midnight because she didn’t like how the guy from the hardware store spoke to her.

She was the smartest person he knew.

Oscar knew most people wouldn’t think it when they first met her. She smiled too easily. She didn’t correct anyone. She let others assume things—that she was just the girlfriend, just the wife, just the mother.

But she had a doctorate from Oxford, and more published academic papers than most career professors. She could hold court with race engineers and theoretical physicists in the same breath, then go home and teach Bee how to build a pulley system out of Lego and twine. She spoke in quiet, exact terms, and when she challenged people, she did it so gently they sometimes didn’t notice until it was too late.

He’d long since stopped being surprised by her. He’d just—normalized it. Integrated it. Felicity being a genius was like oxygen to him: invisible, essential, and easy to take for granted until someone else nearly passed out from the realization.

She was just Fliss to him.

The woman who sold her designer bags to pay rent when her family cut her off. The mother of his child. His fiercest critic and his most devoted supporter. The one person he trusted without hesitation.

She didn’t want headlines or praise. She wanted quiet mornings and clever puzzles. She wanted Bee to grow up confident. She wanted Oscar to remember to eat something green.

She was the smartest person he knew — and she hated being called smart. So he didn’t. He just came home.

“He called you formidable,” he repeated. “And I agree. For what it’s worth.”

Felicity smiled then—slow and quiet, the kind that reached all the way to her eyes.

She leaned across the table and kissed his temple. “Thanks,” she said. “But if he asks me to consult, I’m charging him triple.”

Oscar laughed softly and ran a hand through Bee’s curls. “Deal.”

And he meant it. Because maybe it was easy for him to forget sometimes, tucked into the quiet rhythm of their life, that the world hadn’t caught up to how brilliant she was.

But he never stopped being proud of her.

Not for a second.

#formula 1 #f1 fanfiction #formula 1 fanfiction #f1 smau #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #f1 grid x reader #f1 grid fanfiction #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri #Oscar Piastri fic #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri imagine #op81 fic #op81 imagine

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readwritealldayallnight · 9 months ago

Note

im on my knees begging for jealous Simon headcanons 🧎🏻‍♀️

The thing about Simon is, he really has no reason to get jealous when it comes to you, and he knows it

He knows there isn’t anyone else who could make you smile so much your cheeks hurt, no one else who could make you laugh until you claim you’re going to pee your pants, no one else who could make you feel as good as he does, in oh so many ways, because you tell him so

You tell him that those same feelings of being loved, understood, appreciated, and wanted, those very feelings that you make him feel each and every day, he gives them back to you a thousand times over

He knows when you look in his eyes and tell him that you love him, that there isn’t a doubt in your mind that he is the only one for you, and nothing or anyone could ever change that

You’re as smitten with him as he is with you

Still though, Simon does have eyes

And while the logical part of his brain is telling him that he’s got no reason to be gritting his teeth and clenching his fists underneath the table, he can’t help but grow more and more frustrated with the way Soap and Gaz continue to flirt shamelessly with you

To be fair, you had warned him that keeping your relationship a complete secret from everyone would likely result is moments where Simon would have to watch you get hit on, and simply have to grin and bear it

That didn’t mean it was any easier, watching his only best mates try and work their charm on you, all while he sits at the same table and watches you roll your eyes at their advances

“Aw, come on love, just one chance, s’all I ask for!” The handsome, young sergeant practically whines to you, cheeky grin plastered across his features as he tries in vain to convince you to let him take you out some time

“Pfft, ye’d be nothin’ but a waste o’ her time, Garrick. We wouldn’t even ‘ave to to leave base for me to show ye a good time, bonnie.” The Scotsman winks at you, pointedly ignoring the way Gaz elbows him in the ribs at his comment

Throughout the entire exchange, Ghost’s gaze has never left your face, watching every time you scoff and roll your eyes at the men’s antics, reminding himself that you’re his, and he is yours, and the two sergeants are nothing more than pains in both of your asses

Finished with your pitiful meal from the dining hall, you stand from the table with your tray gathered in your hands, flipping your hair over one shoulder as you look towards the men trying to win your affection

“Once again, gentleman,” you say to them, knowing that they’re listening to your every word and watching your every move. “I don’t fraternize with colleagues. At least not the Sergeants.”

The two men groan in feeble protest at the mention of their ranks, having heard this reasoning from you before

“Ach, what if I get myself demoted, lass? I ken I could do that, easy!” Soap teases you, only kind of joking

“Mmm, don’t think that’ll work.” You reply, beginning to slowly walk away from the group, but not before glancing over you shoulder to lock eyes with Ghost and add, “You might have to become a Lieutenant. Those are more my type.”

The two Sergeants are staring after you, slightly gobsmacked, while their Lieutenant hides an overly smug and satisfied grin beneath his mask, shielding the pride that spread through him at your words

“Shite, sounds like you might ‘ave a chance, LT.” Soap laughs, smacking Ghost across the shoulder in a playful gesture, thinking that the larger man would never actually pursue you, let alone sleep in your bed almost every night

It’s a few weeks later when you and the rest of the 141 are all out for drinks at a nearby pub however, when Simon finds his instincts growing stronger than his insecurities

Because that’s just it isn’t it? He’s not feeling insecure when he sees you walk towards the bar by yourself to order a new drink, at least a dozen pairs of eyes watching you weave through the crowd in hopes of making a move on you

He’s not feeling insecure when he watches some tipsy idiot try and pretend he’s drunker than he really he is when he ‘accidentally’ bumps into you, apparently feeling the need to put his hands on you as he apologizes

He’s not feeling insecure when he watches you shove the guy off, reading your lips he knows so well as you tell the guy you’re not interested, nor is he insecure when he knows the idiot won’t give up that easily, likely asking if you’re here alone before you point over to where the 141 have overtaken a booth in the back

No, he certainly isn’t feeling insecure when he sees that the man never bothers glancing back to the table, still trying to land a hand on your body somewhere, when Simon’s instincts take over, rising from his seat without a word to the men who glance his way and ask where he’s going suddenly

He’s acting on pure instinct as he stalks over to you, the crowd parting for his large frame to move by without hesitation, locking eyes with you just as he lands a massive skull gloved hand on the tosser’s shoulder, wringing him around to face him

Your would be admirer isn’t feeling so confident now when he’s staring up at a 6’4” wall of muscle donned in all black apart from the white markings of his skull balaclava

If he were a more jealous man, Simon might take more time to admire the way you can practically hear this idiot gulp over the loud sounds of the music, the way his eyes bulge out of his head and how he looks nearly ready to piss himself on the spot

But your man knows who he is to you, and so instead he shoves the geezer away, turning to face you as one hand lifts up the bottom of his balaclava, just far enough to swoop down and meet your lips in a passionate tangle of tongue and teeth, tasting the alcohol on each other’s breath and the desire in your systems, a kiss that says to everyone else watching, including the bewildered Captain and Sergeants gawking from across the room, that you are his and his alone

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girlgenius1111 · 27 days ago

Text

you must've been looking for me

alexia putellas x reader r is struggling in the aftermath of an injury that has sidelined her for a couple months. alexia begins to realize that r is struggling in a different way than she initially thought. yet r is not quite ready or willing to admit or accept that she isn't okay. tw for discussions of an eating disorder.

—

Alexia wasn’t sure when it started. She wasn’t sure how she missed it, either. All she knew was that one day she looked at you, and noticed for the first time that something was wrong. There were all the physical signs, sure. But what got her the most was the look in your eyes, like you were exhausted every second of every day.

Then, she started noticing more. The clear apprehension on your face at meals. The click of the lock on the bathroom door when you went to shower. The way you shied away from her hands whenever they drifted too close to your stomach or thighs. Eating less. Disappearing to the bathroom after dinner.

Suddenly, everything clicked into place. She’d written so much off as you just having a hard time adjusting to being out injured. Alexia hated herself, just a little bit, for not catching it sooner. She should have been paying more attention, should have been focused on you and your tendency to overthink rather than your ankle and when you’d be well enough to get back on the pitch.

Now, your ankle was the least of her worries. Yet she knew she had to approach this carefully. You weren’t one to jump at the chance to talk about your feelings. You never had been. Alexia had always felt that there was a layer to you that you never let anyone see. Not even her. She was okay with that, understood that. Emotions weren’t the easiest thing for her, either. It appeared that the things you kept locked away inside were hurting you a lot more than Alexia had ever considered. And she wasn’t entirely sure how she was supposed to talk to you about something she was sure you didn’t want to discuss.

—

You, meanwhile, thought you were being subtle. Perhaps because it had taken Alexia weeks to notice, you felt pretty confident that no one could tell that anything was wrong. As far as you were concerned, nothing was wrong. This was just… something that happened sometimes. A phase. A phase of having a difficult time and hating what you saw looking back at you in the mirror.

You’d… fix it, and then go back to normal. Your ankle would heal, you’d be able to go back to working out like you usually did, go back to looking how you were used to looking. You refused to think about how cliche you sounded, even in your own head. Everyone said they had control, that they’d stop once they got to where they wanted to be.

But you were sick, and the sick part of you refused to see what the logical part of your brain clearly recognized. This wasn’t okay. This wasn’t under control.

Unfortunately, logical you wasn’t winning out at the moment. The other part was in charge, pulling you deeper and deeper into a dark pit that had no mechanism to use to climb out. You fell blindly into that pit, like you were helpless to fight back. All you had to do was open your eyes and realize that what you were doing wasn’t going to make you better. Yet you stubbornly kept your eyes squeezed shut, because if you pretended not to know what you were doing, you could keep doing it.

Your plan didn’t account for your girlfriend. Your earnest, sweet, protective girlfriend, who was sitting next to you on the sofa, thoughts racing with different things she could say. In the end, she didn’t go with any of the speeches she’d practiced in her head in the shower, or at night while you slept next to her. She didn’t use any of the advice she’d read online.

Really, Alexia just panicked. Because you were sitting next to her, your hand loosely gripping hers, watching the same film she was watching, but you felt so far away. Your thoughts were elsewhere, she could tell. And all of a sudden, like a high speed crash, Alexia was hit with a wave of anxiety. You were slipping away right in front of her. You were hurting, and you were right there next to her and she didn’t know how to reach you. Didn’t know how to fix it, how to take the pain away. All she knew was that she couldn’t lose you, couldn’t watch you hurt any longer without saying something.

You’d been lost in your thoughts, considering whether it would be easier to skip breakfast or lunch the next day, when Alexia’s voice broke the calm tranquility of the evening.

“Can we talk?” Alexia said suddenly. You jolted slightly, turning your head to find her already looking at you. Already gazing at you with something unreadable in her eyes. Your surprise quickly morphed into concern, and you reached for the remote, pausing the TV.

“Yeah, of course. Is everything okay?” You wondered, turning your body to give your girlfriend your full attention.

Alexia hesitated for a moment. It was clear to her that you were blissfully unaware of what she was about to bring up. You were looking at her with your brows furrowed, like something was wrong with her, like she was the one who needed to be worried about.

The brunette took a deep breath, before smiling sadly at you and reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “I do not think you are going to want to discuss what I want to talk about. But please, amor, just let me say what I need to say. Okay?”

You blinked, a wave of fear washing over you. Was Alexia about to break up with you? Right then, right there? Was the best thing you’d ever known about to be over?

“Okay.” You said quietly, voice trembling. “Is it about… us?”

“No, bebé. It’s not about us.” You released a breath you didn’t know you were holding, and Alexia looked apprehensive,, raking a hand back through her loose hair. “It’s about you, mi amor. I’m worried about you.”

You felt your stomach drop. Heat rushed to your face. That feeling that the world might be ending settled in your chest. Your mouth went dry, your hands began to shake. “I’m… I’m fine, Ale.”

Alexia pursed her lips, before slowly shaking her head. “No, bebé. I do not think you are.”

Your girlfriend didn’t say it like there was any question to the matter; she spoke as though the issue was settled. Like there was no argument to be had about whether or not you were okay. Her firmness made you pause, long enough for Alexia to begin speaking again.

“Something has been off for a few weeks, but I just thought you were having a hard time with being injured. I have been paying more attention, though, and I know what I am seeing, now, bebé. I know what is going on, and I do not want you to pretend that it is nothing.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You said stubbornly, jaw clenched, hands balled into fists in your lap. Your whole body was taught with tension, and Alexia’s eyes flitted over you, like she wanted to pull you in but knew you wouldn’t let her right then.

Something wasn’t making sense to you. Everything your girlfriend was saying, the way she was speaking, it all made it seem like she knew. But if she knew… there was no way she’d be looking at you with the amount of love you saw on her face. There was no way she’d look this worried and not… disgusted. Not upset.

As if reading your mind, Alexia spoke again.

“You do, mi amor. And I am telling you that you do not have to be ashamed or embarrassed or feel guilty or anything. I just want you to talk to me, okay?”

Something about the soft tone of her voice shook you to your core, and suddenly it was a fight to blink away the tears pooling in your eyes. She always did this, always knew exactly what to say to get you to admit that something was wrong. She’d done it when you’d broken your ankle, and she’d somehow known you needed to cry about it. When you’d made that mistake against Seville and she hadn’t let you walk away from her without letting her hug you.

You shook your head rapidly, digging your nails into your palm. “I can’t.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them, and they felt like an admission of guilt. Alexia wasn’t phased, though, her hazel eyes gazing at you so warmly you wanted to sob.

“Okay. Then let me tell you what I have noticed, sí?” You didn’t reply, but Alexia kept going anyway. “You are eating less. And when you do not eat less, you disappear afterwards, and come back looking like you just cried. You flinch away when I touch you sometimes, and you change in the bathroom with the door shut. You’re quieter, and sadder, and I can see that you are hurting.”

Alexia paused, letting the silence fill the room as she studied you. Your eyes were fixed on a spot on the sofa underneath you, but Alexia could see the glimmer of tears waiting to break free.

“Mi amor, I think you are having a hard time eating.” Your eyes squeezed shut, and Alexia’s heart squeezed in her chest. “I want to help you, bebé, but you have to tell me how. You have to let me.”

It was quiet for a moment, Alexia watching your facial expression to gain any understanding of where your head was at, what you were about to say. She was fully prepared for more resistance, more pushback. She was half surprised you hadn’t shouted at her yet, actually.

But just as she was getting ready to say something else, to try to coax you into talking to her with more soft words and gentle reassurances, you opened your mouth. It was barely more than a whisper, but the silence that filled the room meant Alexia heard you easily.

“I didn’t want you to know.”

The pain in your voice took Alexia’s breath away, just for a moment. “Why, cariño?”

You scoffed, finally raising your head to look her in the eye. “Why? Because it’s humiliating, Alexia. It’s disgusting and it’s shameful and it’s stupid and I should know better. I’m an adult, not a teenager, and this is just so ridiculous, and now you’re worrying about it and I’m messing everything up.”

Your girlfriend shook her head gently, reaching out to cradle your cheek, swiping her thumb under your eye to catch a falling tear.

“No, it is none of those things. Not disgusting, not shameful, not stupid. Eating disorders are not something only teenagers deal with, amor, you know that.”

Your breath caught at the mere title of what you already knew was going on with you. It shouldn’t have been so jarring to hear it outloud, but something about hearing it made it more real, more serious. More terrifying.

Alexia continued, her voice soft and coaxing.“This happens to so many athletes. Did you really think I would judge you or see you differently because of this?”

You shrugged, sniffling. “Logically, no. But I just… my brain isn’t being very logical right now. And…”

You let the sentence drift off, thinking twice about what you were going to say. Your girlfriend had caught the way your eyes seemed to fill with tears again, and she leaned in to press a kiss to your temple.

“And what, bebé? Tell me.”

You inhaled deeply, bracing yourself as if for impact, when really you were saying a simple sentence. Still, the sentence felt like another admission of guilt, another failure you’d be admitting to. It felt like a testament to how sick you knew you were, but you weren’t quite ready to accept that yet.

“And I knew you’d make me stop.” You whispered.

Alexia’s expression softened even further, if that was possible, and this time she didn’t hold herself back from tugging you into her arms. With your face pressed into her chest, there was nothing left in you that was willing to pretend that you were okay. Soft sobs filled the quiet of the apartment, but you weren’t too far gone to not feel shame.

“Fuck, I’m sorry. I’m such a mess right now, you don’t need to deal with this.” You pulled away, drying the tears off your face with the hem of your shirt. When you looked back at your girlfriend she was frowning, almost sternly, like you were about to get a lecture.

“Do not talk about yourself like that, please. You are not, and never have been, something I deal with. You are someone I love, you could never be a burden to me.”

Sometimes, more often than you liked to admit, Alexia would say things to you that felt too good to be true. Like you were living someone else’s life, a life you didn’t deserve. This was one of those things that felt like it was too sweet, too good to be said to you.

All you could do in response was grab Alexia’s hand and squeeze it with a weak smile on your face. Somehow, Alexia didn’t seem to find this very convincing.

“I mean it, mi amor. I am here for you, however you need me to be. If you need me to talk to Pere and the physios with you, I will. If you want me to come with you to therapy, I will. If you need me to–”

What little peace you’d found in Alexia’s comfort evaporated almost immediately. You leaned away from her, your expression suddenly defensive and unmistakably scared.

“Talking to the physios? To Pere? Therapy? Alexia, none of that is necessary.”

Alexia’s mouth opened and shut a few times, as she looked at you, completely stunned. “You- not necessary? Amor, this is serious.”

But it couldn’t be. You couldn’t let it be serious. Couldn’t be the person everyone worried about, couldn’t be the girl who wasn’t okay. It was one thing to admit you had a bit of a problem. It was entirely another to admit that it was a problem you’d completely lost control of.

You didn’t think about how you couldn’t make it through any meal without thinking of all the calories within.

You didn’t think about hearing that voice, the one that lived inside your head that told you that you were horrible and bad and ugly and unlovable.

You didn’t think about how even on days where you did eat, and didn’t make yourself sick afterwards, the thoughts that ran through your head were enough to make you question if you really even wanted to be here at all anymore.

You didn’t think about how you couldn’t understand why anyone stayed, why anyone spent any time with you. Because it was more than just an eating problem; there was something wrong inside your head that made you hate yourself, and this was just another manifestation of that broken part of you.

“It’s not serious. It’s completely under control.”

Alexia blinked at you, completely disbelieving. It didn’t make any sense to her; you’d admitted something was going on, but taking it a step further and admitting you needed help wasn’t something you’d allow. How could you see there was a problem and not see that it couldn’t be fixed by you all on your own? It didn’t make any sense to her.

“It’s not, bebé. It is not under control. You need help.” Alexia worked to keep her voice soft, gentle. You still reacted like she’d shouted at you.

Rising from the sofa, you put as much distance between you and your girlfriend as you could. All you felt was fear, and sadness. Neither of those emotions were safe emotions, though. Neither of those were emotions you could hide behind, so you did the only thing you could think of. You got angry.

“Alexia, I don’t need help. Not your help, not anyone else’s help. You don’t get to tell me what I need.” It wasn’t so much your words but the vitriol you spoke with that had your girlfriend realizing this conversation was over for the evening.

“You are upset. We can talk more tomorrow when we are more calm.” Alexia said slowly, looking like she wanted to reach out and grab your hand, but resisted. You were rendered speechless that she hadn’t shouted back at you. It was shocking that she hadn’t tried harder.

Shocking, and something else. Disappointing, just slightly. Like maybe she was giving up on you.

Alexia walked away into the bedroom, and you didn’t know whether to follow or not. You didn’t know how to face her after all of this, you didn’t know how to ask for what you needed.

All you could do was stare at the space she’d been standing, and wonder when everything had gotten so messy.

—

You slept on the couch that night, though you didn’t really want to. It felt like you were being torn in two, with part of you craving the comfort Alexia had provided, the relief of knowing that she finally knew and you didn’t have to keep so much hidden from her. The other part of you couldn’t admit she was right, that you did need help. You weren’t sure if it was pride that stopped you, or fear of what anyone finding out would mean. More than anything, you didn’t want anyone to see you differently. Not the team, not the staff. Not anyone. You didn’t want to be unwell, you didn’t want to be worried about. The latter part of you must have been stronger, because instead of crawling into bed next to Alexia and letting her wrap you up in her arms, you were on the couch under a soft throw blanket that didn’t feel anywhere close to as soft as Alexia.

The next morning came without either of you getting much sleep, yet you woke up with an alarming amount of clarity. Maybe Alexia had been whispering in your ear while you slept, or maybe your brain just needed to relax before it really thought critically about what was going on. Either way, you felt a little embarrassed for how you reacted the night before. You didn’t want to need help, but you also weren’t completely blind to the fact that you needed it. The suggestion, though, of telling people, of asking for help, was so terrifying it had you spiralling and downright refusing before you’d even really thought much about it.

But in the light of day, you realized maybe Alexia had a point. There was a before all this, a time when you didn’t think about the way you looked or obsessed over the things you ate. There was a time before everything felt this heavy, even if you hadn’t realized how heavy things had gotten until just now. And you’d thought, for a while, that a time after would come when you’d been successful, when you’d gotten to where you wanted to be. You also knew how wrong that thinking was, knew enough about eating disorders to know there was no point you’d be satisfied if you kept going like this.

There could still be an after, just maybe a more healthy one.

How to explain this mess of thoughts to your girlfriend, you weren’t sure.

You were hesitantly standing in the doorway of the bedroom, needing to get dressed to go to training, though training was still just rehab for you, but unsure if Alexia wanted you in the room.

She’d been upset last night, that was for sure. And, to an extent, you understood why. You just weren’t sure how long this… whatever she was feeling, anger or not, would last. You didn’t know if she was going to look at you with that fearful and disappointed look in her eyes again, the look you saw last night and would be perfectly content never seeing again as long as you lived.

Yet Alexia came out of the bathroom, pulling a t-shirt over her head, and her lips tilted into a small smile at the sight of you. Without any hesitation on her part, your girlfriend crossed the room in a few steps and pulled you into a hug. You hugged her back, though you were confused.

Alexia murmured a quiet good morning into your hair, seemingly content to just… stand there and hold you for a minute.

“Hi.” You whispered back. “Are you not… not mad at me?”

Alexia pulled away finally, her forehead creased in confusion. “Mad? Why would I be mad?”

“I… last night you were mad because I said I didn’t need any help. You were upset with me, that’s why I slept on the sofa.”

“No, mi amor, no.” Alexia said rather frantically, gently grabbing your face in her hands. “I was not mad. I was upset, yes, but not mad at you. You were so worked up and upset, I thought you wanted space, that is why I did not say anything when you didn’t come to bed.”

“Oh.” You mumbled, eyes casted downwards in an effort to avoid eye contact with your girlfriend. “I misunderstood.”

You felt Alexia’s lips press against your temple before you were back in her arms, squeezed tight to her chest.

“I am sorry, bebé. I was not angry with you. This is not… this is not something I get to be angry with you about, understand? This is so difficult, and you need to do this on your own time and your own terms. I cannot, and will not, force you to do something you are not ready to do. Recovery… it has to be a choice, mi amor. It has to be your choice.”

Somehow, all of that made you feel worse. You’d half been hoping she’d still be mad, you realized, just so you could be mad back at her. Just so you could go back to ignoring the fact that she was right last night. You did need help. But she was being soft and understanding and patient, and that didn’t leave you much room to deny what you knew to be true.

Alexia was right. Getting better had to be something you wanted. And while you were sure you were at wanting yet, you knew that you needed to get better.

You must have been quiet for longer than you thought, because Alexia was tilting your chin up and saying your name for what sounded like not the first time.

“Tell me what is going on in your head. Please.”

You inhaled deeply, suddenly feeling like you didn’t have the words to explain anything that was going on in your head. “I just… I don’t know. I think you were right last night, but I don’t want to think that. I don’t want to need help, Ale, I really don’t. I don’t know what to do. I’m- I’m scared.”

Those words may have never left your mouth before, save for when you were forced into watching horror movies. Yet they spilled right out of your mouth so easily, Alexia’s magic power of somehow making you be vulnerable working too well.

The relief that flashed across your girlfriend’s face was not something you could possibly miss. You hadn’t even fully agreed with her yet, but clearly the fact that you weren’t still stuck in denial was enough for Alexia, and that made it feel like enough for you, too.

“You do not have to know what to do. You do not have to fix this yourself. We can figure it out together, amor. Take today to think about what you want to do. Nothing has to be decided right now. Think about therapy, consider it. But try to breathe for now, hm? Everything is going to be okay. I promise.”

Alexia leaned in, then, gently pressing her lips to yours. She kissed you with emotion and love and so much softness, you felt tears sting your eyes. You weren’t sure why, exactly, but you believed her that everything would be okay. It was the way she said it, confident and sure, that settled something within you. That took some of the unease and just made it go away.

—

Of course, today of all days was when the medical staff decided you were ready to run again. You’d thought it was still a few days off, maybe a week, but they were happy with the progress you were making. Esther, the lead physio in charge of your recovery, told you the news excitedly, and initially, you felt the same way.

Though it was just meant to be a light jog on the treadmill, you thought it might make you feel better, might calm the racing thoughts that had been plaguing you since the night before, but which had grown even worse since Alexia had left you to train with the team. You could tell she was nervous by the way she bit at her bottom lip and squeezed your hand almost too tight in the hall outside the gym.

“Have someone come get me if you need me, okay? Promise?” She’d said.

You’d promised, though you hadn’t thought you’d need her. You’d have been wrong though.

Because here you were, barely a half hour later, and it felt like everything was crashing down around you for the second time in less than 24 hours.

You hadn’t done any intense exercise since your injury. Hadn’t run since then. Incidentally, that meant you hadn’t done any intense exercise or running since… it had started. And within just a few minutes of your run, your head began to spin. Black spots dotted your eyes, and your breath came short.

You’d have liked to think that it was just a lack of water, or maybe the stress of the night before combined with such an overwhelming step forward in your recovery. Instead, as you pulled the emergency stop pin and stumbled off the treadmill, all you could think was that you’d really messed up.

You could feel the weakness in your body, the lack of strength that had nothing to do with your time off recovering from your injury.

What you’d probably known already became suddenly very apparent and undeniable. You were weak because you hadn’t been eating. Hadn’t been fueling yourself correctly. Not enough to get through the day, certainly not enough to get through a workout. The consequences of your actions were staring you right in the face, and even though you should have seen them coming, they were a complete shock.

What you’d tried to tell yourself was a quest to be better, be healthier, was something else entirely. It wasn’t healthy. It wasn’t about that. It was about what you looked like and how you felt in your body.

If you kept going like this, your career would be in trouble. The realization felt like a slap to the face, a punch to the stomach.

You sat down heavily on a weight bench, dropping your head into your hands. You were lost in your head, entirely and completely enveloped in the enormity of what you’d been doing to yourself, and what it meant for you.

A hand rested on your back, and a voice met your ears.

“Hey, talk to me. What’s going on? Is it your ankle?” Esther asked, scanning your body for any sign of what was wrong. You’d been fine one minute, jogging happily on the treadmill, a small smile on your face. The next, you’d gone pale, all the color draining from your face before you practically fell off the treadmill.

“N-no.” You managed. “Dizzy.”

You didn’t have to look at Esther’s face to know she was confused. Before she could speak, though, a second voice piped up.

“Esther, can you go get Alexia?” Kika said quietly, crouching down on your other side. Her face was scrunched with concern, and she grabbed your hand, squeezing gently.

Esther was off without another word, and your stomach twisted at the thought of Alexia seeing you like this, of Alexia knowing that things were this bad. It seemed, too, that Alexia wasn’t the only one that knew something was going on.

Even though your head was still spinning, you forced your eyes back open and looked down at Kika.

“What did she tell you?”

Kika gave you a sad smile. “Nothing, really. Just asked me to get her if you didn’t seem okay.”

Your heart simultaneously clenched and melted. Of course Alexia would ask the only other player in the gym for recovery with you to keep an eye on you. And of course, she didn’t tell anyone anything specific, just as she promised she wouldn’t.

“Just breathe slow, okay? I’ll get you some water once Ale gets here.”

You nodded, just barely, and focused on your breathing. Eyes fixed on your navy training shorts, you inhaled and exhaled, trying to match the rhythm that Kika was rubbing her thumb back and forth over your knuckles.

You didn’t even have time to glance up when the door opened again before Alexia was darting across the gym and falling to her knees in front of you. She was breathless, frantic, and you felt a pang of guilt for worrying her like this.

Alexia’s hands cupped your cheeks, tilting your face in her direction. She was sweaty, eyes wide with alarm and frantically scanning your whole body for a sign of what might be hurting you.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

Your eyes flickered to Kika, though the movement made you dizzier. You gripped Alexia’s forearms, trying to hold yourself steady, unsure how to answer Alexia’s question without lying and without letting Kika know what was going on. You didn’t think you could take the shame of another person knowing just yet.

Luckily, Kika got the hint, mumbling something about water and an energy gel and heading out the door.

Alexia didn’t look away from you the whole time, her eyes fixated on you, burning with worry. She looked to be seconds away from taking you by the shoulders and shaking you, begging for you to tell her what is wrong.

“I-I’m not okay.” You whispered, hoping that Alexia knew you well enough to understand what you somehow couldn’t force yourself to say out loud.

Her expression softened, one hand moving to cradle your cheek.

“I know, amor. Tell me what does not feel right.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to steady the wobble of your bottom lip. It was no use, and soon tears were sliding down your cheeks, warm and silent.

“Dizzy. Really dizzy. I almost passed out.”

You couldn’t look your girlfriend in the eye, but you could feel the realization hit her, the way her breath caught and her hand tightened its hold on yours.

“Because of…?”

You nodded, eyes still shut. “I’m not okay.” Repeating this sentence felt like the only thing you could do to ask for help. Because actually asking would have made you the weakest person on earth.

“Okay. Okay, bebé.” Alexia murmured, tapping your cheek lightly until you opened your eyes again. “You need help, mi amor. We need to get you help.”

This time, you didn’t jump away from her or act like she was crazy. You didn’t shout. You just exhaled a short breath, and nodded slightly.

It made you feel sick, agreeing with her. Because asking for help, trying to help yourself was somehow harder than hurting yourself. That was easy, you realized. Hating yourself and believing you didn’t deserve anything good came so naturally to you.

The mere acknowledgement that you needed help was the hardest thing you think you’d ever done. Yet you knew that whatever came next would be even harder.

—

i metaphorically just gave you a piece of my soul. please enjoy.

#woso x reader #woso imagine #barcelona femeni x reader #woso one shot #barça femeni x reader #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas imagine

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syrecjh · 1 month ago

Text

── .✦🌼Not All of It Was the Quirk

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ || katsuki bakugo x reader, pure fluff

(Sec req in which the reader is hit with a love quirk and it makes her really lovey dovey towards their friend katsuki)

You and Katsuki Bakugo have always been close.

Not the loud, attention-drawing kind of close — but the quiet, steady, always-there kind. You were the storm’s eye to his thundercloud. A strange, magnetic balance of fury and stillness. He barked; you blinked. He scowled; you shrugged. You spoke in glances, breathed in silences.

It worked.

And it was safe.

He knew how to read your pauses.

You knew how to translate the gritted vowels between his teeth.

You’d been this way since the early days of U.A. Kirishima used to joke that you and Bakugo shared a language no one else understood — that if anyone were to finally humanize Bakugo, it would be you. You just rolled your eyes at that. Bakugo rolled his eyes harder. But neither of you denied it.

So maybe that’s why this hurts so good.

Because the mission was supposed to be routine. Just a clean sweep, a villain with minor psychic disruptions. Easy. Until the bastard smirked and released a shimmer — pink, weightless, almost beautiful.

The quirk was called Emberglow.

“Emotion amplifier,” they said later. “Temporarily intensifies any hidden or repressed feeling. Especially love.”

You barely remember being hit. One second you were chasing the target, heart pounding from adrenaline. The next, your knees buckled — not from pain, but because you turned your head and saw him.

Katsuki.

Your best friend.

Katsuki, with the ash-blond hair and the sun-burnt temper. Katsuki, who peeled your oranges but grumbled the whole time. Who memorized your coffee order and barked at you to hydrate. Who stood outside your door during storms, pretending he “just happened to be passing by.”

The same Katsuki who now looked at you, brow furrowed, and asked, “You good?”

You blinked.

And your brain? Went stupid.

It hits harder back at HQ. The BakuSquad is gathered in the common room, sharing snacks, debriefing, joking. You’re still in hero gear, flushed and dazed, smile lazy and lovesick.

And then you're beside him. Way too close. Practically climbing into his lap.

“Hey, Bakugou,” you purr.

The room freezes.

Your voice doesn’t even sound like yours — it’s dipped in honey, dreamlike, a shade too slow. Your hand grazes his bicep. “Have I ever told you how pretty your hands are?”

Bakugo tenses. “The fuck?”

“No, like—seriously,” you coo, fingers tracing him like you’ve known his skin forever. “You have the most kissable knuckles. Rough. Strong. Hero hands.”

You giggle. Loudly.

Mina gasps like she’s watching a live drama. Kaminari’s jaw is on the floor. Kirishima has stopped breathing entirely.

And Bakugo? He’s gone stiff as a statue. “What the hell’s wrong with her?”

You tilt your head, grin sly. “Nothing, Katsu. I’m just finally saying what I’ve always thought.”

You never call him Katsu. Ever.

That alone nearly kills him.

“Katsu,” you sigh, leaning your head on his shoulder, “you’re so hot. It’s honestly distracting. I don’t know how I haven’t jumped you before.”

“Jump—?!” he chokes. “You’re not actin’ like yourself, dumbass.”

But you’re not done.

You reach up and twirl a strand of his hair between your fingers. “You always smell good. Like… explosions and cinnamon. I like it. I like you.”

He yanks his head back like you just threatened his life. “Okay, seriously. What the fuck kinda quirk was that!?”

“Love amplifier,” Sero mutters, half-laughing, half-afraid. “Guess it brings out all the hidden feelings. Looks like someone’s been hiding a lot.”

Bakugo stares at you like you’ve just kicked him in the heart.

Because this isn’t a crush. This isn’t flirt-for-fun. This is confession dressed in candyfloss.

You shift even closer. Hands now smoothing down his forearm like it belongs to you. “Have I told you how good your ass looks in those pants?”

He jerks back so fast it’s a miracle the couch doesn’t explode.

“I—okay—someone do something before I let her kiss me back!”

And that’s what undoes him.

Because he wants to.

God help him, he wants to.

Not because of the quirk.

But because every word dripping from your sugar-sweet lips sounds too real.

He’s been biting back this hunger for years. Watching your eyes crinkle when you laugh. Knowing your silence better than anyone knows your voice. Feeling something warm curl in his chest every time you pick sleep out of your lashes and smile like he’s the first thing you see.

So now? With you slumped beside him, warm and love-drunk, babbling truths you’ve locked away — he can’t even breathe.

“I’m just being honest,” you whisper again, voice soft now, like it’s meant only for him. “I really like you. I always have.”

He exhales sharply. Like it hurts.

And then, gently, like holding fire in his hands, he shifts you off of him.

Not far.

Just enough.

“Not like this,” he mutters, brushing your hair back, heart pounding. “You’re not gonna remember this right. You’re not in control.”

You frown. “But I meant it.”

“I know,” he says, eyes fierce. “That’s why I’m waiting.”

—

The quirk fades by nightfall.

You wake with a headache and a mouth full of regret, blanket tucked around you, a glass of water at your side. Bakugo is gone. But on the table, you find a note in his unmistakable scrawl:

> “You said some dumbass things today.”

> “Not all of it was dumb.”

> “Call me tomorrow.”

And just below that:

> “For the record…

> …you smell like peaches and ink. I like it too.”

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mariasont · 27 days ago

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the hundred-and-eleventh kiss

you desperately try to steal a kiss from spencer, but interruptions keep getting in your way.

pairing: spencer reid x translator!reader warnings: fluff!, mild sexual suggestiveness nothing crazy, PDA (at least attempting), banter goes crazy between these freaks prompt: here! wc: 0.4k

“Please.”

You’ve resorted to begging. All that education, and yet, faced with one (admittedly beautiful) man, you’ve reduced yourself to a puddle of pathetic yearning.

A pathetic puddle of yearning liquified in sticky-sweet increments onto a wooden dock like gelato left out in July heat, all because his thumb finds the sensitive hollow beneath your kneecap.

His gaze does a quick reconnaissance — checking for teammates, wildlife, asteroids, any of the thousands of cosmic interferences fate might throw your way — before settling back on you with a look of poorly contained affection you adore, and frankly, deserve after all your suffering.

“Morgan will never let me hear the end of it.”

“Ah, yes. It must be terribly humiliating,” you sigh, rolling your eyes heavenward, “to have an irresistible, brilliant woman completely in love with you. However do you cope?”

His smile widens until you see teeth.

“With great difficulty. If you understood the sheer catastrophe your irresistible beauty causes my brain cells daily, you’d be impressed I still manage to remember my own name.”

He's burnt today, droplets of radiation dappling along his legs and arms, casualties of a last-minute, half-hearted spritz-and-pray approach to sunscreen. His face, however, is unblemished, cool to the touch, because of you and your patient hands and SPF 50.

“Hmm,” you muse, your foot sliding along his calf watching as red flesh turns white, “sounds serious. I’m sure I can think of some creative ways to refresh your memory later.”

He smiles at that.

“You know, repetition is the key to learning,” he counters, grabbing your ankle and pressing his forefinger into the freckle that sits there. “We might need a lot of practice before it sticks.”

“C’est prometteur,” you tease, tilting your head closer until your nose brushes his. “Mais avant les répétitions, un baiser serait un bon début, non?”

“I’ve been trying all day,” he sighs, fingers moving slowly up your leg to dance along the bikini string at your hip. “If Morgan or Hotch had even a shred of tact, I’d have already kissed you at least a hundred times. Possibly more, purely for reinforcement.”

“Maybe the hundred-and-eleventh time's the charm?”

Spencer laughs, the warmth of it skimming your lips and lighting a constellation of little fires under your skin. When he finally leans in, your entire being seems to sigh happily, embarrassingly eager and desperately grateful to be receiving the nourishment it’s been denied.

Your thoughts scatter into a kaleidoscope of languages, all variations of finally and please and thank you.

“Has anyone seen Spencer? Garica’s setting up trivia and I need him on my team.”

Fuck.

Spencer’s eyes shut momentarily, his reluctant smile pressing against your temple as you bury your face into his neck, releasing a muffled, heartbroken groan.

Apparently, the universe and asteroids and wildlife and your teammates have conspired to ensure you’ll never actually kiss your boyfriend again.

You know you have approximately three seconds, maybe less, before Emily discovers your not-so-secret hideaway.

Drawing back slightly, just enough to capture Spencer’s eyes with your own, you whisper decisively, “You owe me tonight, Dr. Reid. Big.”

“Believe me, angel, by morning you’ll consider the debt paid — with interest.”

join me at the lake for my 5k event!

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rikudaa · 2 months ago

Text

₊⊹ ᶻz !! Echoes in the Hall !! ␥

Batfam x Reader | You are here!! >>>

✮ Epitome: It’s that time of the year again.

The Manor’s old chapel smells like wax and lavender.

It always has. But today, the scent drapes heavier than usual—settled into the dust like memory, like grief with its coat hung up and staying awhile.

The wood beneath Alfred’s shoes creaks with every step. He walks slowly, reverently, like if he moves too quickly, the air might shatter… or worse, wake you. As if somewhere inside this hush, you’re only sleeping. Just tucked away behind one of the pews, knees up, head bowed, breath misting against a story too big for your age.

You used to sit here when the rain was too cruel outside.

Legs swinging, nose buried in a battered mystery novel you’d found in Bruce’s library. Your feet never touched the floor, not even once. You always wanted to look solemn, look wise. But your eyes would keep flicking toward the stained-glass windows, chasing the colored light. Your lips would twitch every time Alfred pretended not to notice.

“This candle,” he used to say, striking the match with practiced grace, “is for those we miss.”

You frowned the first time. That very serious, very you kind of frown.

“But what if they come back?”

He’d smiled then—slow and warm, like melted sugar in tea.

“Then it’ll still be burning.”

Today, he lights that candle again.

Not for Thomas Wayne.

Not for Martha.

But for you.

It flickers. The flame dances uncertainly, casting soft, trembling light against the dark wood pews.

Your pew–the one closest to the far window, where your rain-drenched umbrella used to lean. The rug beneath it is still faintly stained, a muddy crescent Alfred never quite got out. He’d never really tried.

He stands there for a long time. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink.

Just breathes.

Just remembers.

•

Later then he’s preparing tea for tea time at dining room.

The tea is already steeped when he sets it down–your favorite blend. Two sugars. No milk. A little too sweet for anyone else’s taste, but you always claimed it made your brain sharper.

The cup sits across from him at the end of the long, too-empty dining table.

No one sits there anymore.

Except for one.

A gray stuffed cat, fur matted with age and affection, slouches in the high-backed chair. Its seams are loose, belly bulging slightly from years of bedtime wrestling.

You loved that thing more than any of the designer plushies Bruce ever tried to substitute it with. Said it “understood things.”

Alfred smooths the cat’s fur with steady fingers, then adjusts the lopsided ribbon you once tied around its neck. Crooked. Purple. Fraying. He never had the heart to retie it properly.

“There we are,” he murmurs, satisfied.

And then he sits.

He doesn’t look at the tea. Not right away.

Instead, he talks to the cat.

To the chair.

To the air, heavy with your laughter. With your scent. With the echo of a life too short, too bright.

“I polished your room today,” he says softly. “Even dusted the top of the bookshelf. Folded your blanket just the way you liked– military corners, heaven forbid. Picked the lint off that ridiculous green sweater you always wore on rainy days.”

His voice begins to shake, just slightly.

“I don’t know why.”

He pauses.

His hand comes to rest against the table, knuckles pale. His eyes sting, but the tears don’t fall yet. Not here. Not in front of the cat. Not where you might still be watching.

“I just thought you might…” he swallows. “Need it.”

The tea cools.

Outside, rain begins to tick against the windows, just like it used to.

Alfred closes his eyes and breathes in the scent of lavender and bergamot.

Pretends for a second–that your muddy shoes will squeak down the hall, that your voice will call his name with sleepy cheer, that you’ll flop down beside him with a sigh and a smile, asking for toast.

He opens his eyes.

Stillness. Still.

Then, finally, he speaks—not to the room, not to the candle, not even to himself.

But to you.

“As long as I remember,” he whispers, “you’re not gone.”

And the candle burns.

───── ୨୧ ─────

Dick’s fists split open again.

He doesn’t feel it, not right away–doesn’t notice until the sweat dripping from his jaw darkens where it lands. The mat beneath him is smeared with it now: blood, sweat, ghost-shadows. Guilt that bleeds through his skin like poison.

He keeps going.

Jab. Cross.

Hook. Elbow.

Repeat until the rhythm drowns out the silence in his chest.

He doesn’t grunt. Doesn’t yell. He trains with a silence so loud it buzzes in his ears, fists slamming into the bag like he’s trying to fight God. Or fate. Or himself.

The room smells of iron and regret. It stinks. The old kind. The kind you can’t wash out. Not even with fire.

When he finally stops, it’s not because the pain hits—it’s because he can’t breathe through it anymore.

He stumbles back, drops against the wall, slides down until he’s crouched low, fists resting uselessly against his knees. His chest heaves. Sweat stings the corner of his eyes.

“Goddammit,” he mutters.

And then, quieter–barely audible, like a breath leaking from the deepest part of him, he whispers your name.

Sometimes it sounds like an apology.

Sometimes like a question.

Always like a wound.

•

When you were small.

You used to throw yourself at him the second he walked in the door, sticky hands, tangled hair, face lit up like Gotham had never been anything but safe.

He always smelled like leather, sweat, and the overwashed cotton of his favorite t-shirts. You said he smelled like “outside” and “fun.” He said you smelled like cereal and trouble.

You clung to him like a koala, legs wrapped around his waist, tiny arms choking his neck. He’d pretend to stumble, groaning, “You’re getting too heavy, kid—gonna squish me like a pancake,” and you’d scream with laughter, daring him to fall.

“You’re my favorite person,” you once told him, curled into his side after patrol, your voice gummy with sleep.

Not ‘brother.’ Not ‘hero.’ Just person. Like that was the most sacred title in the world.

He laughed. Ruffled your hair. “Don’t let the others hear that,” he said.

And then he left.

Blüdhaven called. So did the idea of being more than a shadow. He needed distance from Bruce. From the cave. From the mission. He told himself he deserved to carve his own path.

You’d cried. Like a child. Because you were one.

He kissed your forehead and promised, “I’ll be back all the time, dummy.”

He wasn’t.

Not that night.

Not when it counted.

Not when you needed him most.

•

Now.

Sometimes he walks the rooftops just to feel closer to you. Retracing steps from that night you begged to see Gotham from above–your first time.

The look in your eyes as the city spread beneath you like a secret. How your hands clutched his arm, not out of fear, but awe.

Once, not long ago, he swore he saw you.

Just a flicker. A shape turning the corner. A shadow with your gait. A laugh that echoed and shattered him.

“Y/N!” he shouted, lunging forward.

Nothing.

Just smoke.

•

Now he hears you sometimes. When the wind moves right. When the city’s quiet. When the guilt inside him claws too loud to ignore.

Your voice.

“Dick.”

He always turns. Always.

Nothing’s there.

He doesn’t tell anyone that the hallucinations are back. Not even Alfred. Not even Bruce. Because this time, it’s different. This time, it’s you.

Jason’s death gutted him.

But yours?

Yours stole something he never had words for.

You weren’t a symbol. You weren’t the mission. You were his little comfort. His anchor. His reason.

You were the soft thing that came after pain. And now you’re gone.

•

Wayne Manor. His room. 3:17 a.m.

He sits on the floor. Legs crossed. Forehead pressed to the photo frame like a prayer.

You’re laughing in it, out of focus. He took it mid-giggle—caught you by accident, and never deleted it. It’s his favorite.

“I should’ve stayed,” he says.

His voice breaks around the words.

“I should’ve taken you with me.”

He doesn’t say anything else. Just breathes. Hurts. Waits.

And somewhere, in the silence, in the ache of it all–

He believes you would’ve forgiven him.

But he doesn’t forgive himself.

──── ୨୧ ────

Jason’s quiet this year.

He doesn’t make a thing of it—doesn’t storm in, doesn’t throw punches at ghosts. But he shows up more than he used to. And when he’s there, he’s almost always in your room.

He never turns on the light. Just cracks the window open like he’s pretending he still has manners, even though the smoke curls in anyway, soft as snow. It drifts onto everything you left behind–your bookshelf, your game controllers, the hoodie he used to “borrow” and never give back.

The hoodie still smells like you. Or maybe that’s in his head.

He doesn’t sleep here, not really. Just sits.

Sometimes with the lights of Gotham blinking against the windowpane. Sometimes with his head pressed against the edge of your bed like he’s waiting to hear you breathing again.

He acts like he’s over it. Like he’s past the point of breaking. But his jacket always carries this ratty envelope—creases worn white at the edges, the paper inside frayed and curled.

It’s full of your notes.

The kind you used to leave him everywhere, absurd places.

Tucked inside his helmet, slipped into the pockets of his jacket, wedged beneath the clip of a gun or folded into a boot.

Some are nonsense:

“Eat something or I’ll break your kneecaps.”

“Extra pickles in the fridge. You’re welcome.”

“I saw you smile. I’m telling B.”

Some are softer:

“Get some sleep, grumpface.”

One, he reads more than the others. Ink faded. Folded and unfolded so many times it’s practically tissue.

“I’m glad you came back.”

He doesn’t tell anyone about that one. Not even Alfred. Not even Dick. Especially not Bruce.

Because that one—that one undoes him.

•

Cemetery. Late evening.

Your grave is clean. Someone’s been here before him—probably Alfred. Maybe Steph. The flowers are fresh. The stone smooth, your name etched deep and clear like the world needed a reminder of how real this loss is.

Jason stands there, helmet tucked under his arm. The wind brushes past him, low and sharp. A cigarette dangles between his fingers, the tip burning orange in the dim light.

He doesn’t talk, not really.

He never has much to say around here.

But he pulls another cigarette from his pocket—lights it, just like yours—and places it next to the flowers. Lets it burn down in silence.

A strange ritual. But it feels like you’d understand. You always understood the parts of him that didn’t know how to be soft without cracking open entirely.

He stays until the stars come out.

Then, without ceremony, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a bullet. It’s not bloodstained or marked. Just smooth. Polished. The kind meant to promise, not threaten.

He sets it gently at the base of your headstone.

“I came back,” he mutters.

His voice is raw. Low. Not meant for anyone but you.

He waits a beat. Two.

Then quieter–

“Next time, I won’t be late.”

And he means it.

Even if it kills him.

──── ୨୧ ────

A tiny café tucked between 7th and Bristol.

The table is still the same—slightly lopsided, with a chipped ceramic sugar jar and two mismatched mugs.

You used to call it “your spot,” like claiming it made it more real. Like a trio of underage vigilantes sneaking lattes and stolen pastries were just another group of high schoolers with nowhere better to be.

Now there are only two seats filled.

Tim stares down at his coffee like it might spill answers into the foam. His hands are wrapped around the cup even though it’s gone cold.

Stephanie sits across from him, one leg pulled up into the booth, arms tight across her chest like she’s trying to hold herself together with elbows. She hasn’t touched her drink.

The air smells like cinnamon and burnt beans. Someone’s playing a crackly vinyl in the corner—some jazz that doesn’t quite reach their corner of the café.

They haven’t spoken for ten minutes.

They don’t have to. You were always the talker. The mood-setter. The one who made the silences feel intentional, cozy even. You’d come here and poke fun at Tim for his caffeine dependency, steal a sip of Steph’s drink and declare it too sweet, and then pay the tip in exact change just to irritate the barista.

Now the air sits heavy. Like a ghost still ordering a caramel macchiato.

Tim exhales, shaky. “They always reminded me to eat,” he says, voice hoarse, like it had to be dragged up from somewhere deep and raw. “Even when we were mid-mission. They’d shove a protein bar in my hand and say, ‘Eat this or pass out, your choice.’”

Steph snorts through her nose, but her smile doesn’t hold. Her chin quivers, and she looks away.

“They’d be pissed if we cried in public,” she says. Her voice is light, teasing, almost defiant—but her eyes are glossy, throat tight.

Tim looks at her.

She looks back.

And there’s a flicker of the old rhythm. That space where you would’ve made a joke. Broken the tension. Called them “emo” and suggested getting cupcakes.

But you’re not here.

Steph nods slowly, more to herself than anyone else.

“We’ll cry after.”

Tim nods, too. Silent agreement. An old pact, rewritten.

And they do.

Not right there—not loud, not breaking—but when they leave the café and walk around the corner, past the alley where you once spray-painted a smiley face on the brick wall because “it looked like it needed a friend,” Steph presses her forehead to the cold concrete.

Tim stands beside her, eyes closed.

They don’t speak.

Tears slide down without permission. Quiet. Steady.

Because the glue is gone.

And the rift is real.

And neither of them knows how to fix something that’s been buried.

But for a moment—just one—they let themselves fall apart. Together.

────୨ৎ────

Gotham Community Center, Friday afternoon.

The rug beneath Duke’s knees is a chaos of colors—bright reds, sunny yellows, thick stripes of green and blue curling like vines. It’s sticky in places. Crayon wax is crushed into one corner. A juice box leaks quietly behind him, forgotten in the flurry of small limbs and louder voices.

He’s not wearing armor. No cape, no domino mask. Just a hoodie and jeans and a name tag that reads “DUKE 🦇 Volunteer” in glitter pen.

You’d made that. You always used the glitter pen, even when he protested. “Heroes don’t sparkle,” he’d said once.

“Batman doesn’t,” you had grinned, “but you do.”

Now the glitter’s faded, but the ache hasn’t.

Kids crawl over him like he’s playground equipment. One clings to his shoulder, firing off questions in rapid succession.

“Why do you talk slow sometimes?”

“Why’s the sun yellow and not green?”

“Why do bad guys wear capes too? That’s cheating.”

Duke’s lips twitch into a smile. It’s practiced. Not quite fake. Not quite real.

“I talk slow when I’m thinking,” he says, answering the first.

The other questions blur together. His brain drags behind his mouth. It’s always like this lately. Like thinking is something he has to wade through.

You dragged him here his first week in the family. He’d been stiff, unsure, still clinging to the idea of what being a hero should look like. Crime-fighting. Patrol. Glory.

But you–

“Be a hero out of costume too.”

That’s what you’d told him, apron tied backwards, glue in your hair, helping two five-year-olds make pasta necklaces while explaining Newton’s Third Law in baby talk.

He hadn’t realized then how those words would come back like broken ribs every time he breathed.

A little girl with pigtails and a unicorn sticker on her cheek clutches his arm.

“Where’s the one who wore the silly apron?” she asks, her voice small but certain.

His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “They had to go away,” he says.

She frowns. “Why?”

Duke hesitates. The right words don’t come. The truth is too big for this room.

“They were tired,” he finally says. “So they’re resting now.”

The girl nods solemnly and squeezes his arm. “They were funny. They made the macaroni dragon.”

“I know,” he whispers.

When the last parent signs out their kid, when the art bins are put away and the lights dim, Duke slips into the janitor’s closet like muscle memory. Quiet. Familiar.

The air smells like bleach and lemon cleaner. The floor is damp from a mop someone forgot to rinse. He lowers himself onto the cold tile beside the mop bucket, back against the wall, head in his hands.

It starts with a sniff. Then another. Then his whole chest caves inward like a collapsed tunnel.

He tries to stay quiet.

He’s not wearing the mask. But he still doesn’t want anyone to hear a hero cry.

Fists pressed to his eyes, knees tucked to his chest, he sobs into the sleeve of his hoodie. Muffled. Shameful. Like it’s something he’s not allowed to feel.

But the pain doesn’t care about permission.

He presses his forehead to the wall, breathing fast, like maybe he can sob it all out before anyone notices. Like grief is something you can squeeze into a janitor’s closet and leave behind with the mop water.

You would’ve hated this.

You would’ve found him, offered a juice box and a dumb joke, like “The mop’s name is Jeremy. Respect him.”

You would’ve stayed.

But now it’s just him. Glitter fading on a name tag. Salt on his cheeks.

And silence.

────୨ৎ────

Gotham Clocktower. Afternoon light bleeds through the high windows.

The room is too quiet. Not peaceful—hollow.

Cass sits on the floor, spine against the leg of Barbara’s work desk, knees drawn up. Her hands hover in the space between them, fingers twitching with unspoken words. Barbara is beside her, wheelchair angled slightly, as if ready to catch a thought falling apart mid-air.

Cass blinks at her own hands like they belong to someone else.

“I…”

Her fingers move, slow. Unsure.

“I can…”

She hesitates. The sign falters.

“…say…”

She stops. Arms fall into her lap. Her throat tightens. No sound comes. Only the silence pressing against her skull, thick and suffocating.

Barbara leans in, her hand a warm weight over Cass’s.

“It’s okay,” she says, voice soft, breaking like glass at the edges. “Take your time.”

Cass shakes her head, eyes narrowed with frustration. Her breath hitches, chest pulling tight in a way words never learned how to describe.

You used to guide her—tap her wrist gently, shape her fingers, smile with that crooked grin when she got it right. You didn’t speak over her silence. You didn’t rush to finish her sentence. You waited. You listened. Even when she couldn’t listen to herself.

Cass signs again. Slower this time. Deliberate.

“They helped… me say.”

Barbara’s mouth trembles.

“I know.” She reaches over, fingers curling around Cass’s hand. “You’re still doing it. You’re still saying things, Cass.”

But it’s different. The shape of silence is different now. Before, it was full—filled with your laughter, your patience, your voice reading aloud from some book you barely understood just because Cass liked the rhythm. Now it’s just silence. Unanchored.

Cass lowers her gaze. Her hands fall still. “Harder now,” she signs. Her lip quivers. “No… no one hears fast. Like them.”

Barbara nods. “I know. I feel it too.”

They sit like that for a moment, fingers clasped. Still.

Beneath the desk, Barbara’s other hand finds something—a notebook. Your notebook.

Half-filled pages, messy diagrams, unfinished attempts at sign language jokes. One of them is a dumb pun involving the sign for “grape” and “great.” Cass had hated it. You kept doing it.

Barbara opens to the page and shows her.

Cass breathes out a laugh, small but real. “Stupid,” she signs.

Barbara chuckles wetly. “Yeah. God, they were annoying.”

Cass nods. The grin slips, then wavers, then collapses again into grief. Her face folds in on itself, chin tucked to chest. “Miss them,” she signs. “Miss how they looked.”

Barbara touches her chest. “Me too. I still think they’re gonna walk in. Say something ridiculous. Like—‘Hey, what’s up, danger?’”

That one makes Cass huff. “Dumb.”

“You loved it.”

Cass nods.

There are no more jokes. No more signs. Just the weight of everything unsaid.

Barbara shifts, pulling herself closer. She cups Cass’s cheek with one hand. “You don’t need to be perfect. You don’t need to get it all right. I’m here. I’ll wait for your words. However long it takes.”

Cass blinks. One tear slips down. Her fingers rise again. Tentative. Trusting.

“I will keep… saying,” she signs. “Even if they’re gone. For them. With you.”

Barbara squeezes her hand. “Then we’ll learn again. Together.”

Silence settles again, but this time it’s softer. Shared. Not empty. A space you once filled now held between them, remembered.

They’re still trying.

For you.

────୨ৎ────

The cave is colder than usual.

Damian sits cross-legged on the stone floor, bare feet pressed to the earth, spine arrow-straight. He’s been meditating for hours—long past sunrise. Long past when Alfred would’ve called him up for tea or breakfast. But there’s no Alfred here.

Just the ghost of your laughter echoing off the walls, like water dripping in an empty cistern.

Titus rests nearby, his massive head laid solemnly over his paws. Every so often, his ears twitch at some noise—an air vent hum, a bat fluttering in the high dark rafters—but he never strays far.

The dog knows. He always knew when you were near.

Alfred the cat—named with stubborn irony—circles Damian’s still form once, then curls tightly in his lap without asking. Damian doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t open his eyes. Just rests one hand over the cat’s arched back, steady. Controlled.

The only sound in the room is the low, almost bovine breath of Bat-Cow, tucked in her special paddock at the back of the cave. (Yes she still alive)

She’s been oddly quiet today too, as if the animals can feel it.

It’s your death anniversary.

Another year without you.

Another year where the world has kept spinning and Damian has kept sharpening his blades.

But this morning, all he’s done is sit. Until now.

His breath hitches—a crack in the calm.

He opens his eyes slowly. The light from the Batcomputer behind him casts just enough of a glow to catch the shimmer at the corner of his lashes.

He doesn’t wipe it away.

Instead, he looks at the sword across his knees. The hilt is worn with years of use—but at the very base, carved in tight, decisive strokes, is your name.

Etched deep.

Deep enough to splinter the grip if he ever loses control.

Deep enough that it cannot be erased, even if he tried.

He’d used his own dagger to do it. The same one his grandfather once gave him.

Precision work. Clean lines. The kind of carving done not in a fit of grief, but with total, surgical focus.

“You’d have mocked me for how dramatic it looks,” he murmurs, voice low. Almost hoarse. He scratches gently behind Alfred the cat’s ears. “Then insisted it was still sweet. That I was secretly sentimental.”

Titus raises his head, as if hearing your voice too. His tail thumps once, hopeful.

Damian exhales. Then speaks again. This time to you. Wherever you are.

“You were the first one to ever hug me.”

The words leave him like a confession. A whispered sin.

He remembers it like it just happened.

You’d been younger than he is now—maybe fourteen, fifteen. He’d been a child barely taller than your chest. Angry at the world. All jagged reflexes and rigid posturing.

You had launched at him. No warning. Just barreled into his side and wrapped him up like you belonged there.

He’d gone stiff as a board. Every muscle tensed. Ready to lash out and throw you across the room.

You only laughed. Hugged tighter.

“You little assassin nerd,” you’d teased, ruffling his hair, pressing your cheek to his shoulder. “You need, like, ten more of these per day.”

And the next day, you did it again.

And the next.

Eventually… he hugged back.

You were the only one he let drag him to museums. Art galleries. Rooftops for stargazing and hot chocolate. He used to roll his eyes the whole time, but you’d catch the edge of his smile in the glass of a display case or in the shimmer of moonlight on his face.

No one else could ever make him go. But he always went with you.

“I hated most of it,” he lies now, just to hear himself say it. “Except I didn’t. You knew I didn’t.”

He leans forward and presses his forehead to the hilt of the sword. Your name is cold against his skin.

“We share the same blood,” he whispers. “And I still couldn’t protect you.”

The breath leaves his body all at once. Like a blow to the ribs.

His fingers curl tight around the hilt. He doesn’t scream. Doesn’t cry. Doesn’t move.

But when he finally stands—quietly, with Alfred leaping down from his lap—his steps lead him not upstairs.

They lead him to the training floor.

Titus watches from the edge. Knows what’s coming.

Damian doesn’t warm up. Doesn’t speak.

He draws the sword with a sound like lightning splitting through bone.

And then—he moves.

Every strike is a memory. A fracture. A sin. A promise broken.

When he finishes, the training dummy is sliced clean in half. Not jagged. Not splintered.

Clean.

There’s a moment of stillness as the pieces fall to the floor.

Damian’s chest rises and falls. Sweat beads at his temple. His hands tremble now, only now, when the damage is already done.

He doesn’t look at the sword again.

Just drops to his knees beside Titus. Bows his head into the dog’s fur and breathes like it might be enough to pull you back from wherever you are.

“You were my favorite,” he admits into the dark. “I never told you. But you were. Always.”

Titus whines, soft and aching.

The cave is quiet again.

And this time, Damian lets himself grieve—no blades, no masks, no training.

Just your name carved in steel.

And a family of animals who still remember the warmth you left behind.

────୨ৎ────

Wayne Manor. Surveillance Room. 3:17 A.M.

The monitor hums softly in the dark.

Everything else is still. No clocks ticking. No comms buzzing. Just static-light flickering over Bruce’s unshaven face as he sits hunched forward, eyes locked to the footage like it might change if he wills it hard enough.

He presses play again.

There you are.

Walking into the gala.

Nervous.

You tug self-consciously at the collar of your formal suit—the one Alfred insisted looked “dignified” and you called “fashionable punishment.” You shift your weight like you want to bolt. Straighten your shoulders just like Alfred told you to.

A forced smile. Then a real one. You laugh at something someone says just off-frame. You tilt your head toward a voice calling your name, mouth parted in response.

Then:

“I’m not ready.”

And then–

Static.

Bruce freezes the frame. Rewinds. Plays it again.

That moment.

That voice.

The tiny tremble in it.

He watches it over and over. Not the whole clip. Just that fragment. You fidgeting. Speaking. Glancing over your shoulder like something might be following. Like you already knew.

You did.

God. You knew.

You’d begged him.

•

Memory, Two Nights Before.

You stood by the cave exit, arms crossed, voice small beneath all the steel.

“Don’t go out like this. Something feels wrong tonight.”

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t look back.

“We can talk when I’m back.”

“What if I’m not here when you are?”

You had said it lightly. Like a joke.

He hadn’t laughed.

He didn’t say “I love you.”

Didn’t say “thank you” or “I hear you.”

He was already gone.

•

“I thought you were safe,” Bruce murmurs, the words barely audible. As if saying them too loud might make them even less true.

“I thought you were safe… inside these walls. Under my roof. Inside the gates.”

His jaw clenches. His throat works. He doesn’t blink.

“You were supposed to be safe.”

His eyes are bloodshot. The footage crackles. His hand hovers over the keyboard, knuckles taut, veins visible. He’s memorized every angle of your smile, every hitch in your breath in those last moments, every fraction of unease in your body language.

And it wasn’t enough.

None of it was.

•

The silence is unbearable.

He walks through the halls like a ghost, barefoot and aimless. Every footstep is muffled on ancient carpets. Every turn reminds him of you—sitting upside down on the staircase railing, trailing your fingers along the banister, laughing too loud during dinners no one else found funny.

He still hears your voice sometimes. The echo of it. The lingering shape of your presence carved into the silence.

He doesn’t sleep anymore. Not really.

•

He makes his way to your room’s door.

He pauses there.

Doesn’t open it.

Can’t.

Instead, he stands outside it like a soldier posted at a tomb. Like he’s guarding what little remains.

His hand lifts halfway toward the doorknob. Then falls.

“I’m sorry,” he says, so softly it doesn’t echo.

And still the house groans in reply. The silence doesn’t forgive. The halls do not answer.

•

Back in the cave.

He sits again. Hits play.

“I’m not ready.”

He knows now you were right. Not about the gala. Not just about that night.

About everything.

Neither of you were ready—for the way things would break. For the silence afterward. For the finality of a child dying before their father.

And yet here he is.

Alone. With the flickering image of a child who looked back one last time.

And with all the ways he didn’t listen.

────୨ৎ────

Crime Alley. Midnight.

Rain traces down the gutters like veins. The alley is quiet now—emptied of police tape and flashing lights, but the memory of it burns brighter than any crime scene spotlight. Gotham’s heart never stops bleeding, but here—it gushed.

Selina stands at the edge.

Her heels click once against wet stone, then fall silent. She walks further in. No mask. No costume. Just a long black coat, tailored like grief, soaked at the hem.

She stops where the scorch marks begin.

The brick is still charred, dark veins of soot climbing like vines toward the broken fire escape. The bloodstain is barely visible now—diluted, washed down the drain, but she sees it. She knows where it was.

She kneels.

Gloved fingers skim the wall, right where it happened. She doesn’t flinch at the soot that stains the leather. Doesn’t wipe it off. She presses her palm flat to the stone.

Her breath catches.

But she doesn’t cry.

She hasn’t cried since the call. Not even when they showed her the evidence bag with the charm bracelet. Not when she saw the tooth-blackened bone. Not when Alfred held her shoulder so tightly it bruised.

Because if she cries, it means it’s real.

Instead, she breathes you in. Or what’s left.

Ash. Smoke. The faintest memory of your shampoo—lavender and mint—and the strange way it mixed with Gotham filth. She swears she can still smell it in the stone. Still feel the hum of your laughter ricocheting off the alley walls.

You used to chase her through alleys like this. Little boots pounding behind her, giggling as she pretended to vanish over the rooftops.

You’d call:

“I saw your tail, Mama!”

And she’d shout back,

“Then keep up, kitten!”

God. You tried so hard to keep up.

•

She whispers now, voice barely there, like she’s afraid the rain might swallow it:

“I left you once.”

Her fingers tremble. She flattens them harder against the wall, grounding herself, biting down on her lip so hard it breaks skin.

“And I never got to come back.”

That’s the truth. The only one that matters.

She left you. A mother’s greatest crime, wrapped in good intentions and selfish fear.

She thought you’d be safer with Bruce. She thought love meant stepping aside.

But you needed her. And she was gone.

•

The wind picks up. Carries smoke from somewhere deeper in Gotham—a chimney, a car fire, a signal.

But in the twist of air through the alley, for just a breath, it smells like you.

She inhales sharply. Eyes flutter shut.

A hand rises to cover her mouth.

And for one cruel, fleeting second, she imagines you’re there. Hiding behind the dumpster like you used to. Waiting to leap out. Playing some awful joke. Laughing that reckless, raw laugh that sounded too much like hers.

The shadows flicker like cat’s tails. Her kind of magic.

But you’re not there.

Just the stone. The ash. The guilt.

•

She stands slowly, knees stiff, spine aching with years of running from consequences. But she doesn’t wipe the soot off her glove. She lets it stay—like a mark, a bruise, a promise.

She doesn’t say goodbye.

She never has.

Instead, she turns her head to the wind one last time. Listening. Reaching.

Just in case.

In case you’re still near.

In case ghosts really follow bloodlines.

In case your soul is clever enough to linger.

And in the stillness, she whispers:

“I should’ve stayed.”

────୨ৎ────

They only found pieces of you.

Bone fragments. Teeth. A sliver of jaw. Skin fused to fabric in a way that made the coroners turn away and breathe through their sleeves.

Bruce signed the report without flinching. Selina refused to.

Some of it wasn’t even yours.

Gotham chews its children and spits out what’s left.

And you—you were never meant to be in its mouth in the first place. You weren’t a soldier. You weren’t a sidekick. They trained you just enough—to recognize danger, to escape if it came too close. You knew how to vanish down alleys. How to disappear behind curtains. How to run.

Your last call was panicked static. Muffled breath. A sob that stuttered into a gasp. Someone shouted your name—maybe through the phone, maybe in the street. You’ll never know. The line went dead before you could answer.

You remember the way your chest locked. The heat. Not flames yet, but pressure—a vacuum before the collapse. The sound of splintering bone. Concrete. Something wet.

Then stillness.

Your final thought wasn’t of vengeance or glory.

You want none of that.

It was: Did he hate me when I left?

It was: Did she know I loved her, even after everything?

It was: I’m not strong enough.

But you were.

Maybe not in the way Gotham needed.

Maybe you should have run faster.

But enough that, today…

They still speak to you.

In tea cups. In worn hoodies. In cracked knuckles. In candlelight.

You were not a soldier.

You were not a vigilante.

You were the heart.

And no one—not Gotham, not even death—can erase that.

•Note: holycow it’s over 5k words in 72 hours💀💀 I have rewritten over and over but still not satisfied enough with 10+ drafts in my Apple Note LMAO. If you’re wondering why the fic published so fast and long then it’s because Im in summer vacation, I’ve been writing through days till nights so yeah the outcome might come after 1-2 days.

This is the inspiration I talk about here, there’s also some of my concept in comment. This series strictly platonic towards the Batfam but there also some love interests.

Ngl Im gonna take a rest after this for awhile and fulfill promise by working on Descent Into Shadows, hope you enjoy this fic! If you have some questions after this, leave a comment/through inbox to let me know💙

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