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suna-cerely-yours · 8 months ago

Text

Break Point ft k. sakusa

synopsis: tennis!au -you shouldn't be letting your boyfriend's rival feel you up in the locker room, and you certainly shouldn't be getting on your knees for him, especially given the history between the two of you

warnings : mdni, smut, fem! bodied reader, reader has she/her pronouns, degradation, cheating, oral (m! recieving), public sex, pussy jobs, hair pulling, reader is called a good girl

song rec : fetish -selena gomez

"and we're back folks! that was some first set- of course, we are in the US Open semi-finals, and it is sakusa and terushima on the court!"

the crowd roars as you adjust your sunglasses and pick up your honey deuce to take a sip, eyes trained on terushima sitting on the bench with a towel over his head. unwillingly, you find your gaze pulled towards the player on the other side of the umpire's chair, sakusa kiyoomi uncapping a bottle of electrolytes before tilting his head back and bringing the bottle to his mouth. you take another sip, watching the strong column of his throat move as he gulps his water.

"this infamous rivalry's brought everyone together today. over in terushima's box, is, of course, his beautiful girlfriend- joined by his high-school friends!"

you raise your head and smile, raising your honey deuce as the cameras pan over to your seat at the commentator's words. in the row behind you terushima's friends holler and whistle, waving a banner with his face on it.

"terushima's partner is pretty private, so it's a real treat that we managed an interview with her before the match- she's had some fun stuff to say about this rivalry and today's match."

you watch as you pop up on the big screen, dressed in the blue and white dress you'd picked out specially for this match- makeup and hair fresher than it currently was. the string of diamonds around your throat winks in the light as you nod at whatever the interviewer was saying.

"what do you think about sakusa? he's given your boyfriend quite a good amount of grief this season."

the video-you laughs at the question, red lips curling upward. "well, he's been a household name for some time now. yuji thinks more about him than about me, if we're being frank."

"do you think his victories are earned? sakusa's won 5 out of the 6 times they've met so far, and their rivalry goes way back to their juniors days."

"sakusa's definitely a really good player, and he's improved a lot since his defeat at last year's wimbledon final. i- we, yuji and i both think he's someone to watch out for, especially if he can clean up his net play a little more. he, for sure, has the potential to surpass the big 3."

the interviewer raises her eyebrows at your admission, and Arthur Ashe clamors in real time. you sink your teeth into your lower lip, as the other screen shows sakusa's reaction to your words. as usual, the man is stoic, showing no signs of having heard your praise. however, his sharp eyes are focused on the screen showing your interview, having stopped all his inter-set preparations.

"and what about terushima? do you think he can surpass the big 3?"

you're silent for a touch too long before showering yuji with praise, however it doesn't seem like anyone except you had noticed the pause. yuji's grinning from his bench on the court making kissy faces at the screen. he has everyone's attention.

you swallow, shifting your focus back to sakusa, who's no longer looking at the screen, but has his eyes trained on you, a faint smirk evident on his face. well, that pause hadn't escaped everyone's notice. kissing your teeth, you avert your eyes- taking another sip of your honey deuce. arthur ashe titters one final time before silence settles again as the players take their positions, sakusa's serve.

"and at 144 mph that's this season's fastest serve yet! i would not want to be the one who faces that serve, that's for sure."

you lean forward, taking off your sunglasses as the men enter the fifth and final set, sakusa breaking in the first game itself. you, as well as the rest of the centre court, watch with bated breaths as the game gets tense- so focused that you completely miss the dark clouds rolling in and the thunder rumbling ominously. there's not a moment of notice as the sky opens up, the downpour brutal. fat, cold raindrops assault your senses as you scramble for cover- dress already sticking and hair frizzing. making your way down the stairs into the gallery, you hear the commentators announce the official postponement of the match.

going down a level further, you push open the double doors to reach the locker rooms. surprisingly, there's no one around. there's a clang of a locker closing somewhere, and you walk towards the sound- your heels clacking loudly. turning the corner, you freeze as a pale, muscular back- scattered with moles- comes into view. sakusa kiyoomi stands with his back to you, shirtless, with his shorts riding low and a towel slung over his shoulder. at your sharp intake he turns, hooded eyes pinning you in place.

"sorry, i um- i'll just-"

you shouldn't be here. (you've been here too many times to be anywhere else.)

he says nothing but keeps his eyes on you as he towels his hair. your gaze unconsciously strays to his biceps as they flex at the motion, before snapping back to his face. he stares at you for a moment longer, before throwing his towel back into the locker and slamming the door shut. you feel heat creeping up your cheeks as he turns to you again.

"why are you here again?"

"sorry, i just- i thought-"

he keeps quiet, cocking his head to the side, waiting for you to continue. you stammer once more before shutting up.

"sorry. i'll leave."

you feel a lump in your throat at his curt words, but you have no right to be upset. you know that very well. you're almost at the corner when his words cause you to stop.

"the big three?"

you pause, memories of younger kiyoomi talking about his dreams flashing through your mind. swallowing, you turn around.

"you know you could do it. coming from me it means nothing."

"nothing?"

you pause again, feeling your neck prickle with heat against his intense stare. he hasn't moved an inch, yet you feel cornered- like prey.

"it should mean nothing."

he scoffs at this, taking a step closer.

"is that what helps you sleep at night? do you say it before you slip your hand into your panties imagining it's my dick inside you, or do you say it after- as long as there's no guilty conscious right?"

you blink at his words, before retorting sharply, "kiyo you can't speak to me like that, watch your words-"

"so i'm kiyo again? what happened to sakusa? you said it so sweetly in the interview. i'm a regular at your perfect white picket fence household, right?"

you step back, hitting a locker, unaware that you'd been backing up. he's in front of you before you can blink, pressing up against you, one hand gripping your waist the other flat against the locker beside your head. leaning closer his breath fans across your face as he pants, still breathing deeply from his match.

"you show up- as you always do when he's playing against me- wearing the dress i bought you, the dress i fucked you in- wrapped in diamonds i bought you, diamonds that rest where my hands used to-

and that's fine. that's perfectly fine. but showing up here? in this locker room? and saying your words mean nothing to me?"

you whimper, eyes falling shut as he grips your face, smearing your lipstick with his thumb. the scent of his cologne mixed with his sweat crowds your senses, dimming them. slipping his thumb into your mouth he presses against your tongue. you obediently part your mouth, pressing your thighs to relieve some of the pressure. sakusa scoffs again, slotting his thigh between your legs, allowing you to press down and rut against him.

"what a slut, do you get wet like this for everyone? or am i just special baby? do you let every fucker who plays against your darling boyfriend feel you up in the locker room? does the idea of you getting fucked by someone he'll lose against turn him on too?"

your eyes roll back as you moan, sliding a hand to your breast, before it's snatched back by kiyoomi, pinned against the locker. his touch is too familiar for you to consider him as sakusa, he's always been your kiyo.

"you're going to get off humping my leg like a dog in heat baby, i know you can do it," he coos, grip on your face tightening.

you whimper at his words, grinding down harder. everything feels so hot, with kiyoomi pressing his body against you- weight heavy. his scent is everywhere.

"actually- i don't think you deserve that."

your eyes fly open as he shifts his thigh and moves away, leaving you cold and slumped against the lockers. you breathe heavily, fingers scrambling for purchase behind you to keep yourself upright.

you open your mouth to say something, anything- but you draw blank. what can you even say?

kiyoomi stands still in front of you, arms crossed- but with his shorts tenting it's clear he's not entirely unaffected. his dark eyes remain fixed on you, but he says nothing. the two of you remain suspended like this for a few heartbeats. you see his adam's apple bob as he swallows once, twice- before taking a step back.

"you should leave. he's probably waiting for you."

you should leave. he's definitely waiting for you.

you nod slowly, straightening your spine. taking a deep breath, you reach for your bag which you had dropped sometime during and dig through it for a tissue. your makeup must be a mess.

glancing back at kiyoomi you pause- watching as he sinks down on a bench and leans back to rest on his elbows. his legs part as he breathes, chest rising- erection still straining against his shorts.

the sight is so familiar, your heart aches. your mouth feels dry as he drops his head back, revealing the strong column of his neck.

your panties stick uncomfortably, pussy still throbbing. your breasts feel heavy as you drop your bag again, turning towards him. heat trickles down your spine as you reach for the zipper of your dress, unable to move your eyes from his physique. your dress pools by your feet as you step out of it, now dressed in nothing but your panties, heels, and his diamonds.

kiyoomi still hasn't moved.

teeth sinking into your lower lip, you reach to unbuckle your heels, your brain on autopilot. now barefoot, you pad towards kiyo, sinking to your knees in between his parted legs.

you should leave.

you reach forward to mouth at kiyo's erection, pressing open-mouthed kisses on his cock through the fabric. above you kiyo still hasn't moved, but he sighs, carding a hand through your hair. pressing a hand to his thigh for balance, you move to pull him out, continuing to mouth at his shaft. leaning forward you take him in your mouth, slowly easing him in until you feel him hit the back of your throat. eyes watering, you breath slowly, sucking him the way you know he likes it. you feel kiyo tug at your roots, and you look up at him, eyes locking. his eyes are hooded and impossibly dark, mouth bitten red as he pants.

"my pretty girl, so good for me, only for me," he slurs, grip on your hair tightening. you moan, taking him deeper, swallowing him. kiyo groans, head tipping back again. you slip your hand into your panties, desperate for some friction, moaning again. before you can move however, you find yourself being lifted straight up onto his lap.

now straddling him, your pussy slides against his dick, as you grasp his shoulders for purchase.

"you just couldn't stay away could you? what a filthy little whore. what would those reporters say if they could see you now, hmm? tennis's favourite girlfriend is nothing but a cock hungry slut, but not for her boyfriend, no- for her boyfriend's rival," he coos.

"kiyo, fuck," you whimper, everything is too much.

he moves you again, this time standing up to push you against the locker once again. your legs tremble as you lean back. he slaps your tits, as you jerk, gasping.

"kiyokiyokiyo, please," you whine, unsure what exactly you want him to do. yanking your panties down, he pumps his cock once, before tapping the head against your clit. bullying the head between your lips, he groans, rutting against you.

slapping your tits once again, he grips his cock, inhaling sharply- and he cums all over you pussy and panties. you whine again, reaching to pull his head down, needing to kiss him.

"fuck. fuck, you're so-," he pants into your neck. you nod deliriously, you need to cum so badly it hurts.

the doors clang loudly.

"yo, sakusa, you in here? the weather's cleared up, they're sayin' if it's cool with the both of us we can continue in 30 minutes."

the two of you spring apart, alarm bells ringing in your mind as you pull up your panties. rushing to your dress, you struggle to put it on.

kiyo shoots you one last look, before calling out, "sure man, you mind letting them know on my behalf? i'll be right up."

the footsteps stop just you're stumbling into your shoes.

"of course my guy, no problem."

the doors open again, and you sigh in relief.

"say, you wouldn't have seen my girl anywhere, would you? she's disappeared."

you freeze again, but sakusa's moving past you now, rounding the corner with his tennis bag hung over his shoulder.

"nah, haven't seen her."

#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu smut #hq smut #kiyoomi x reader #sakusa kiyoomi smut #sakusa smut #sakusa x reader #banner from @/hentaiscreen

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sirxaibs · 3 months ago

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Batfamily X Batmom! Reader

ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ Someone Thought Of Meཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ

I feel like Tim has very little love. So how does he feel in a family thats so weird?

masterlist

Timmy timothy tim likes to journal his problems

ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ Journal entry- Shes always there. Written from the point of view of Tim Drake. In Tim Drakes Journal. Which Is my journal… Tim Drake… because it’s my journal?

When people think of Bruce Wayne, they think of Gotham’s crowned prince brooding, rich, charming in a suit. Maybe they even think of Batman if you’re one of the few people that actually know him, the knight in Kevlar, Gotham’s relentless protector. They forget, more often than not, that behind the cowl is just a guy made of jagged edges. The kind that can cut even the people he cares about most.

But her?

She was warmth. A reporter with fire in her blood and sharp questions at her lips. That’s how Bruce met her chasing down a story she didn’t know he was part of yet. She wasn’t intimidated by his name or the shadows that followed him. And when she found out he was Batman, she didn’t run. She pivoted. She didn’t want to be used by the Gotham Gazette to milk a headline about their relationship. So she left. Started something new. Told the stories of villains not to glorify them, but to show their truth. The people they used to be. The cracks that made them break. That was her power.

I didn’t meet her until later, of course. But I always knew of her. I still stayed with my parents at the time and since she stayed at the mansion i never really saw her. she was the one everyone talked about. Not just in passing, but with reverence. Even Bruce, in his own quiet way, would drop her name like it meant safety. And to Dick and Jason? She wasn’t just a stepmom, or “Bruce’s wife.” She was Mom.

Dick talks about her like she’s the sun. When he visits he always visits, at least once a week no matter where he is you can see it. How his whole face lights up just stepping into the manor and hearing her voice from the kitchen. You’d think he was back in the circus and just found his net again.

“She used to stay up for me, no matter what time patrol ended,” he told me once. “I’d come in through the balcony, boots muddy, bruised up, sometimes bleeding and she’d be in the kitchen heating soup. Always that look on her face like I’d just come back from war. Never lectured me like Bruce. Never told me to be more careful. Just… held me. Like that fixed everything.”

Dick never stopped calling her “Mom.” Not even during the rough years when Bruce pushed him too hard. Not when he moved out. Not when the Batcave felt colder than the Gotham River in winter. If anything, she was the reason he kept coming back.

When she got that small publishing deal to write about Harvey Dent’s past, Dick flew back from Blüdhaven just to take her out to dinner. No press, no big celebration. Just a booth by the window at her favorite Thai place and a bouquet that barely fit through the door. He said he owed her everything. “I don’t care if I’m not hers by blood,” he told me once. “That woman taught me how to hold on to who I am, even when everything else was falling apart.”

Then theres my other older brother. Jason’s love is different. It’s quieter.

Harder to see unless you’re looking close. He’s not good at the soft stuff. Not anymore. But with her, he tries. He never says “I love you.” I don’t think I’ve ever heard the words leave his mouth. But he’s always fixing stuff around her house. Not the manor her place, the little brownstone Bruce bought her because she hated the echo of the mansion. The place with the bookshelf she filled herself, the mismatched mugs, the heavy desk where she does her interviews. Jason comes by when she’s out running errands. Patches the leaky sink. Replaces the light in the hallway. Leaves a bag of her favorite tea on the counter. No note. No credit. But she always knows it’s him.

“She used to sit on the fire escape with me,” he told me once, when we were staking out some arms deal in the Narrows. “I’d be pissed off at Bruce, just raging. And she’d just sit there. Didn’t ask questions. Didn’t talk me out of it. Just sat and sometimes smoked a cigarette. One time I cried. Don’t remember why. But she didn’t flinch. Just put her hand on my back. Stayed until I fell asleep.”

He’d die before saying it out loud, but I think in a way… he’s more hers than he ever was Bruce’s. And when he came back when he was the Red Hood and he was full of grief and rage and bullets she was the only one who hugged him. Everyone else flinched. Even Bruce. But she opened the door, saw what he’d become, and said, “You look like hell, baby. Come inside.” And he did.

I remember the first time I met her. Bruce had just taken me in. I was still flinching every time he walked into the room, still unsure if I belonged in this broken, stitched up family. And then she walked in breezy and fierce, like she’d just come off a battlefield with coffee in one hand and her phone in the other. “You must be Tim,” she said, giving me a once over like she could see right through to my spine. “You eat?”

I hadn’t. She fixed a plate, sat with me, asked me about everything except my parents. I had just lost them at the time and that’s when I got it. Why Dick lights up around her. Why Jason will move heaven and earth to fix her sink. She’s home. Not the kind with walls and Wi-Fi. The kind with presence. With knowing how to say just the right thing without ever saying too much. With safety, and warmth, and late night soup and hair ruffles and sitting on fire escapes even when the kid next to you’s got blood on his boots. I think that’s why even Bruce… softens around her. She’s the one person who makes him feel safe.

When she got her first daughter, you can tell something changed in her. Cass didn’t talk much. Not in the early days. She was quiet in the way shadows were quiet always there, always watching, always slipping through cracks without a sound. Most people assumed she just didn’t want to talk. Or couldn’t. But I saw it different.

Cass spoke just not with her mouth. She spoke with her hands, her eyes, the way she’d tense or soften when you entered a room. But with her? With Mom?

Cass bloomed.

She’d lean on her shoulder when they sat on the couch. She’d grab her hand subtle, small, but full of meaning and lead her to the garden out back just to sit in the sun. I watched Cass laugh once, like actually laugh, cheeks lifted and eyes crinkled. I didn’t even know she could laugh like that. But it was because Mom had made some dumb joke about a rogue penguin at the zoo stealing someone’s purse. Cas used to flinch at affection. Now, she hugged her. Without hesitation. Leaned into her side. Signed things with soft smiles and the rare, quiet “Love you,” if no one else was around. She didn’t even say that to Bruce. Not really. But Mom? Mom got everything.

She knew how to talk to her. Never pressed. Never coddled. Just existed beside her with a kind of understanding that didn’t require words. I think Cass clung to that someone who didn’t need her to be anything but herself. Someone who didn’t treat her like a porcelain weapon. I’d never seen Cass so… safe. So full.

Then there was Damian. God. When Bruce brought him to the manor, I thought maybe we’d finally seen the worst of it. Turns out a ten year old assassin with an ego the size of Arkham was the cherry on top.

From the minute Damian showed up, he was a walking migraine. Arrogant. Condescending. Entitled in the way only someone born and bred to believe they were superior could be. But the worst part? He was cruel to her.

Not in the loud, tantrum way kids can be cruel. No. Damian was sharp. Precise. Calculated. His insults were surgical targeted and clean like a blade to the gut. “I don’t see the point in you,” he said once, arms crossed in the foyer, looking her dead in the eye. “You’re not my mother. You’ll never be her. Father had real women in his life before you.”

It wasn’t the first time he said it. Wouldn’t be the last. she….God, she just took it. Not because she agreed. Not because she was weak. But because that’s who she is. She let him be angry. Let him lash out. Let him burn himself on her because she knew what was underneath it all. But I saw it. I saw the way her shoulders slumped when she turned away. The way she stirred her tea a little too long in the kitchen. The way she lingered in front of Bruce’s old pictures of Talia that he put up for Damien. didn’t touch them, didn’t say anything, but looked like someone standing in a war zone, wondering if the ruins were prettier than she’d ever be. She never said it aloud. Never asked if she measured up. But we all knew the weight she carried. Bruce’s past wasn’t just shadows it was legacies. Legacies she was never meant to compete with. And Damian made sure she felt that.

I don’t know when that started to change. Maybe when she helped patch him up after his first solo patrol and didn’t say a word about the busted ribs. Maybe when she sat in the library and helped him with his handwriting because even deadly assassins have messy cursive. Or maybe it was when she found his sketchbook. hid it from everyone else, never mentioned it, just left him new pencils on his desk with a quiet, “You’re very talented.”

He stopped being so sharp after that. Still rude. Still Damian. But less… venomous. Like the poison had burned itself out and he was left kind of confused by the fact that she was still there. Because she always was. For all of us.

And then there’s me. The extra. The late one. I was never brought in because Bruce wanted to be a father. I was brought in because I figured out his secrets and then wormed my way into the cave, into the suit, into the family. I don’t know if I was ever really meant to be here. Not the way the others were. Me? I had parents. Not great ones. But they were there… until they weren’t. I didn’t grow up in an alley, or a pit, or the League. Sometimes I wonder if that’s why I feel so… replaceable. But she never made me feel that way. She saw me. She knew I overworked myself. Knew I never slept. Knew I spiraled when I wasn’t useful. And instead of pushing me to be better or telling me to slow down, she just… met me where I was. Once, I found a note in my backpack. Folded between mission plans.

“Youre the most amazing boy that i know, You my boy are going to do amazing things. I love you so much!!”

I never told her I found it. But I kept it. Still have it, tucked into my journal like armor.

I don’t know if any of us would’ve survived this family without her. Bruce taught us how to fight. How to fall and get back up. But she taught us how to rest. How to breathe. How to love without blood and history binding us. She fixed all of us. Bit by bit. Even when we didn’t know we were breaking. I don’t feel broken enough to deserve that kind of care. But she gave it anyway. Because that’s who she is. Because she was always there.

I heard her once, talking on the phone to someone. Maybe a friend. Maybe a source. “They’re not mine by blood,” she said. “But God help the world if they ever needed me. I’d burn down Gotham to protect any one of them.” That’s when I knew she meant me, too. if I had to tell this story about the Batfamily, about the ones who wear masks and hide pain and throw themselves into the fire night after night I’d start with her. Because Batman might have saved Gotham but she saved us.

ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ

Tim closes the journal with a soft thump, fingers lingering on the worn leather cover. His hand hovers just a second longer before pulling away. The room feels too quiet now like his thoughts are echoing louder without the scratch of his pen to distract him.

He pushes the chair back, the legs creaking on the old hardwood floors, and stands. His back cracks. How long had he been writing? Hours maybe. It’s dark out, the kind of heavy Gotham dark that presses against the windows like it wants in. The manor groans quietly in the silence, pipes murmuring and the wind brushing tree branches against the windows like fingers tapping to be let inside.

He walks out of his room, bare feet soft on the carpet as he pads through the hallway. The air feels heavier at night in the manor. Like all the ghosts that live in the walls are finally breathing.

I turned the corner after walking mindlessly and stared. There you were.

Back facing towards me, wearing one of those oversized, faded shirts Bruce always swore he didn’t miss. Standing in front of the stove, hair pulled up, humming something under your breath as you stirred with a wooden spoon like you were crafting alchemy and not just soup. And beside you, leaning against the counter, arms folded but eyes softer than I’d seen in weeks. Jason. He wasn’t wearing his jacket. Which was rare. His boots were off. Rarer. And he was smiling. Not the cocky half grin he used when he was about to pick a fight, but something quieter. Warmer. Something like a son sitting in the only place in the world where he felt safe.

You said something to him I couldn’t hear what but you reached up on your toes and smoothed his hair out of his eyes like he was five. He rolled his eyes, said something sarcastic, but didn’t pull away. If anything, he leaned into it. that was when Alfred walked by, hands behind his back, chin tilted slightly in amusement as he passed me. “You know the rule, Master Timothy,” he said, low enough not to disturb the moment in the kitchen. “She is the only one allowed in there. The rest of you have forfeited that right after the last… incident.”

I groaned.

“That was Damian’s fault,” I hissed back.

He raised a brow. “Was it Damian’s idea to flambé a Pop Tart?”

“Okay. Fine. That part might’ve been me.”

It was one of our dumbest ideas maybe not the dumbest, but it’s a crowded race. It started with a challenge. Damian, fresh off a smug streak and newly obsessed with culinary documentaries, claimed that my “American palate” had “eroded my taste and motor skills.” I told him I could cook circles around him. Neither of us could cook.

It escalated quickly. An Iron Chef style duel. Secret ingredient: eggs. Only, I dropped mine. Three times. Damian misread the baking powder as flour. Then I panicked and tried to “smoke” the scrambled eggs for flavor using a packet of incense from the guest room and a lighter.

Within ten minutes, the fire alarm was going off, Alfred had activated the emergency sprinklers, and the kitchen looked like something between a crime scene and a culinary apocalypse. Mom was the one to find us.

Standing soaked, flour covered, blinking through smoke. Damian holding a spatula like a sword. Me covered in what I hoped was yolk. You didn’t yell. That’s the worst part. You just… looked at us. Long and hard. Then let out a breath, pinched the bridge of your nose, and said, “Alfred, I assume this is why you told me to ban them from the kitchen.”

“Indeed, madam,” he replied grimly.

And that was that. Kitchen rights revoked. Except for you. Always you.

Now I stood there in the hallway, watching you and Jason from the doorway, unseen. He was telling you about something he saw on patrol a gang trying to smuggle rare books, of all things. You were laughing, that full body laugh that makes your shoulders shake and your eyes close, like the world could still be beautiful if you just tried hard enough. And Jason?

He was drinking it in. Like he’d been starved of this kind of love for years. Ever since he came back, you were different around him. Not overly careful like Bruce. Not tense like some of us had been. You just loved him. Loudly. Freely. kisses to the temple, touching his shoulders like you had to convince yourself he was still solid. Like you had to remind him that he was still wanted. Jason never said it but he melted under it. His edges dulled. His anger slipped. When you held him, when you gave him that smile that said “you’re home,” he softened. He belonged.

I swallowed hard. Stepped back, just a bit. Let the shadows take me. Because I’d never had that. Not in the same way. You loved me I knew that. But it wasn’t the same kind of fierce, smothering love. And maybe that was fair. I wasn’t broken in the way Jason was. Not born in blood like Damian. Not carved out of grief like Dick. Not silenced like Cass.

I was just… me. Smart. Quiet. Stable, mostly. I’d always felt like a thread sewn into someone else’s tapestry. Useful. Strong, even. But not the reason anyone stayed warm. in moments like this seeing Jason melt under your hands, seeing you pour every ounce of your soul into making him feel alive I couldn’t help but wonder if I was ever going to fit here. So I stepped away from the kitchen door.

ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ

The house was quiet again. The kind of quiet that only happens after everyone’s gone to bed or pretended to. I was curled up in the corner of the library, one leg slung over the arm of the chair, a thick old book cracked open across my lap. It wasn’t for patrol or mission planning. Just something to read. Something to fill the quiet so I didn’t have to think too much.

It was peaceful, until muffled voices filled the room. I blinked, tilting my head just enough to catch the low murmur threading in from the hallway. At first, I thought maybe Bruce had wandered into the Batcave again, but then I heard my moms voice. Whispering like someone trying not to wake a sleeping baby. Bruce responded, and you both laughed, low and secretive. I rolled my eyes and went back to my page.

I stopped caring about that kind of thing a long time ago. You and Bruce were always, in a word, gross about each other. Not the clingy, PDA gross… well yes the clingy PDA way but the kind where he’d brush your cheek mid conversation like it was instinct. Or the way you’d make him coffee without asking, and he’d pass you reports to look at because he trusted your opinion more than the board’s. It was… sincere. Intimate. Kind of annoying, honestly, when you were trying to eat cereal and Bruce kissed your temple like it was some kind of reflex.

But it was comforting too. Something solid. I was just starting to lose myself in the book again when

“Boo.”

“GAH!”

I launched the book about a foot into the air and nearly twisted my entire spine trying to figure out what demon had possessed the room. My heart rocketed into my throat as I whipped around, hand halfway to a batarang that wasn’t even on me. You stood there, grinning ear to ear.

“Tim,” you cooed, covering your mouth to stifle a laugh, “you should’ve seen your face oh my god, I think you levitated.”

“I almost hit you with Tolstoy!” I hissed, breath still catching up to my body. “Don’t sneak up on a guy in this house! I was ready to throw hands with a ghost.”

“Well,” you teased, “if it was a ghost, you’d be the only one I’d trust to outsmart it.”

I gave you a flat look, still massaging my neck. You sobered a little, stepping forward and tapping the top of my head gently. “Come on, kiddo. There’s something we want to show you. In the dining room.”

I blinked. “We?”

“I’m here too,” came Bruce’s voice from the hallway, in that terrible deep gravel whisper he clearly thought was somehow sneaky. You and I both turned to look at him as he peeked around the corner, trying very hard and failing to look inconspicuous.

I squinted at him. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” he said too quickly.

You sighed and gently smacked his chest. “Why are you like this?”

“I’m building intrigue,” Bruce said with what I assumed was supposed to be a straight face. “It’s part of the plan”

“You’re ruining the surprise,” you whispered, dragging a hand down your face.

“There’s a surprise?” I asked slowly, eyes darting between the two of you.

Bruce’s expression didn’t change, but I could see the micro tension in his brow. He was lying. For the world’s greatest detective, the man couldn’t lie to his children to save his life. Every time he tried, he got this weird stiffness, like someone who’d never used human emotions before. You groaned again and took my wrist gently. “Come on. Just come to the dining room. Please?”

I stood up slowly, abandoning my book on the chair. “What’s going on?” I asked again, warier now. “Is this, like… an intervention? Did Damian break into the Tower again?”

“Nope.”

“Did Jason get arrested for vigilante loitering?”

“Not this week.”

“Are you going to make me touch grass?”

You snorted. “God, no.”

I sighed. “Alright. But if this is a trap, I want it on record that i died saying my parents were weird.”

Bruce just grunted. So I followed them. These two weird, overly affectionate, semi cryptic parents of mine one with crows’ feet from smiling too much and the other still pretending he didn’t smile at all. Down the hallway. Toward the dining room. Still completely, utterly confused.

The hallway to the dining room wasn’t long. It just felt long. Partially because Bruce was still trying to act like this wasn’t suspicious at all, and you kept elbowing him in the ribs every few steps. Partially because my nerves were starting to twitch under my skin. mostly because I could hear whisper yelling coming from the dining room.

“I said put the banner up, not strangle the chandelier with it!”

“That wasn’t me! It was Damian! He climbed up there!”

“I was fixing your poor attempt at symmetry, Grayson!”

“Why is the pie we made lopsided Jason what did you do to the pie?”

“It’s good. Shut up.”

“You burned it.”

“I call it caramelized flavor.”

“…It smells like regret.”

“Can someone…. Cass, what are you doing with the glitter glue?!”

“Decoration.”

I paused just outside the door and looked up at Bruce and you with raised eyebrows. You just smiled softly and gave a little shrug, while Bruce tried to maintain whatever shred of dignity he had left. It wasn’t working.

You both looked so stupidly in love standing like that his arm around your waist, yours looped casually around his. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like this was normal. Like this whatever chaos was waiting behind the doors was ours.

Bruce leaned in toward the doorframe like he was assessing a mission room, and I swear I saw his eye twitch.

“I gave them very simple instructions,” he muttered.

You patted his chest. “Your children are as smart and emotionally constipated as their dad”

The door swung open before anyone could knock. Dick stood there with his usual too big grin and remnants of glitter on his cheek like war paint. “Timmy! You’re late to your own surprise party!”

“It’s not my birthday?”

“Not that kind of surprise party!” he said, reaching out to drag me in with too much enthusiasm. “It’s Appreciation Day!”

“That’s… not a real holiday.”

“Sure it is,” said Jason, appearing from behind a mess of mismatched plates and aluminum foil wrapped disasters. “We just made it real. Sit down, Nerd Boy.”

Cass waved from the head of the table with a little toothy smile. Damian was on a chair next to her, arms crossed, already pouting like he hadn’t been helping just ten minutes ago.

The table was atrocious like someone had thrown a home economics final exam and a kindergarten arts and crafts project into a blender. The centerpiece was a crooked sign that said “WE APPRECIATE YOU” in bold, messy handwriting (clearly Dick’s). There was glitter on everything. The cups didn’t match. The pie looked like it’d been in a fight. it was perfect. All of it.

Dishes were stacked, uneven and mismatched. Cookies were slightly burnt on one side. Jason’s so called “caramelized” pie was visibly cracked. Cass had made what looked like finger sandwiches shaped into little bats. Even Damian had contributed begrudgingly with a plate of sliced fruit that had been carved into vaguely threatening shapes.

And in the middle of it all was a small card in your handwriting.

Tim,

We know things have been hard.

We know it sometimes feels like you’re overlooked.

But you’re not. Not here.

You’re brilliant. You’re loved. You’re ours.

Love,

Your Family (a bunch of idiots, but yours)

I couldn’t speak. Not really. Because what was there to say? This… this wasn’t some big show. It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t perfect. But it was real. it was for me. I glanced down the table.

Dick was beaming and already scooting over to make room for me. Jason was pretending not to look at me too hard, but his expression was softer than usual. Cass gave me a small nod, the kind that said more than words. Damian looked away when our eyes met but I could see the tiniest hint of awkward approval in the way he pushed a napkin toward the empty seat beside him. I took it. Quietly. Still blinking a little too fast. I didn’t cry. I didn’t. But I felt it thick in my chest. That weight. That feeling. Because my biological parents had never done anything like this. They didn’t see me, not really. I was a project. A prodigy. An obligation. But you and Bruce, in his awkward gruff way you saw me. You made this happen. I looked up once more and saw you and Bruce still standing near the door. Arms still around each other. Watching. Bruce’s eyes met mine. He gave the smallest nod. You just smiled. I mattered here. not always loudly. not in the same way the others did. But I mattered. And this this was home.

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ahqkas · 6 months ago

Text

♯ THE SWEET ESCAPE ( you find out the batboys have fanfics written about them ! )

— gn!reader, fluff + comedy, suggestive comments in dick’s part, jason’s too ( couldn’t stop myself ), based on this req.!!

. . . BRUCE WAYNE !

THE WAYNE MANOR WAS QUIET, SAVE FOR THE SOFT CRACKLE OF THE FIREPLACE and the gentle tapping of your fingers against your phone screen. bruce sat at his desk across the study, engrossed in paperwork, his reading glasses perched on the sharp bridge of his nose. the evening had fallen into a comfortable silence, the kind of peaceful lull that felt rare amidst the chaos of dark gotham.

every so often, though, he’d glance up, noticing the way you seemed utterly absorbed in whatever you were doing on your phone. your brows would furrow in concentration, then smooth out as a quiet laugh escaped you. it wasn’t just one laugh either; it was a series of them—sometimes soft giggles, other times a burst of snickers that you quickly tried to stifle.

you were so adorable and you had no idea.

bruce’s natural curiosity was piqued. you weren’t the type to be easily distracted, especially not for this long. “what’s so funny?” he asked, his deep voice breaking the quiet.

you didn’t immediately answer to his question, too caught up in scrolling through whatever was on your screen. another chuckle slipped out before you glanced up, realizing he was watching you with an arched brow.

“oh,” you acknowledged him now, your grin widening mischievously. “curiosity got to me.”

the man tilted his head slightly, waiting for you to elaborate.

“i’m checking out your batman fanfics,” you explained with your voice sounding entirely too casual as you went back to scrolling the net.

for a moment, bruce simply blinked, processing your words. “my what?” disbelief and concern were etched in his voice along with his eyes wide and brows furrowed.

“fanfiction,” you repeated, looking up at him with a glimmer of amusement in your eyes upon witnessing his reaction. it was funny, seeing him like this. “you know, the stories people write about you. well, about batman, but still. there’s an entire app of it.”

bruce leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking softly under his weight, his arms crossing over his chest in a way that made him look both skeptical and mildly intrigued. his sharp, discerning eyes, the same ones that had seen through countless lies and hidden riddles, were now fixed squarely on you. the faintest crease appeared between his brows, betraying just a hint of exasperation beneath his otherwise calm exterior. “and what exactly made you decide to look this up?” he asked in a steady voice but carrying the subtle undertone of someone bracing for impact—like a detective piecing together a story he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the ending of.

you shrugged, biting back another laugh as your eyes returned to your phone. “i was curious. i mean, it’s not like you have a PR team or interviews for people to obsess over, so this is where the public’s imagination goes. it’s fascinating.”

pinching the bridge of his nose, the weight of your words settling over him like a blanket, and he let out a long, measured sigh. it was the kind of sigh reserved for moments when bruce wayne—esteemed billionaire and relentless vigilante—was confronted with something that defied his finely logic. his fingers pressed lightly against the frame of his glasses as if trying to stave off an impending headache. “fascinating isn’t the word i’d use,” he said in the end. there was no anger, just the faintest trace of amusement buried beneath the weariness, as if he couldn’t decide whether to lecture you or just accept the absurdity of the situation.

“it’s harmless.”

rising to his full height, he raked a hand through the dark strands of his hair. as always, curiosity—or perhaps concern—won out. he made his way over to you, his steps unhurried but purposeful. stopping just beside your plush chair, bruce rested a hand lightly on the back of it, his towering frame impossible to ignore as he looked down at you. “i’m not sure i want to know what that means,” the slight quirk of his lips betrayed the fact that some part of him couldn’t help but be curious.

“oh, you definitely don’t,” you teased, holding your phone away as he leaned down to try and get a look. “some of this is so creative. did you know there’s a whole subcategory where you’re a single dad trying to raise the batkids and find love?”

bruce raised an eyebrow. “you mean something i actually am doing?” except he’d already found love in you.

“exactly! except in this version, you’re baking cookies for PTA meetings and teaching kids how to ride bikes. it’s adorable.”

he shook his head slowly, the movement like it belonged in an old movie, as if trying to dismiss the mental image of whatever ridiculous stories you’d found. “and what about the rest of it?” he asked. “should i be worried?” the words were light, almost teasing, but there was a thread of genuine concern, as if he were bracing himself for the possibility that your exploration into this strange corner of the internet might have uncovered something truly outrageous—or worse, embarrassing.

“well . . . ” you hesitated, your grin turning a bit sheepish as the answer to his question brewed in your mind. “let’s just say not all of it is as wholesome as the single-dad stories.”

frowning, he leaned more into the back of your chair. “how unwholesome are we talking?”

you burst into laughter at his expression, your hand flying to cover your mouth and silence the sound of joy. “bruce, don’t worry. i’m not reading anything too scandalous. though . . . ” you trailed off, pretending to think deeply, “there was one story about you and superman . . . ”

bruce groaned again, this time louder, the sound resonating with a mix of frustration and resignation as if he had just heard the most absurd thing imaginable—which, frankly, he had. he dragged a hand down his face, his fingers briefly covering his glasses as though shielding himself from the mental image your words had planted. “i don’t think i want to hear the rest of that sentence,” he muttered, his voice tinged with disbelief.

the thought of batman x superman was enough to make even his composure falter. he shook his head slightly, as if trying to physically dispel the notion, but the faint pink creeping up his neck betrayed his discomfort. there were certain things even a man of the likes of bruce wayne was unprepared to confront, and apparently, this was one of them. just image clark’s reaction to this literature.

“but it was so well-written!” defending, you shook with laughter now. “i mean, the dialogue was spot on. and the angst! i had no idea people thought you two had a forbidden love affair going on.”

the poor stared at you, deadpan. “you’re enjoying this far too much.”

“of course i am. how often do i get to tease you about something you can’t control? this is gold.”

you laughed again, your joy infectious, and bruce couldn’t help but smile despite himself. the whole thing was ridiculous, but seeing you so happy—and knowing you could find lightness even in the strangest corners of his world—made it all worthwhile.

. . . DICK GRAYSON !

IN WAS A QUIET EVENING IN YOUR SHARED PENTHOUSE, the kind where the soft hum of the city below became a soothing backdrop to the peace inside. dick grayson, having wrapped up his latest patrol, was lounging on the couch, his legs stretched out and his suit traded for something more comfortable: a fitted t-shirt and sweatpants, casual yet effortlessly put together. you were curled up beside him, your phone in hand, completely absorbed in whatever you were doing. every few moments, a soft chuckle would escape your lips, followed by a quiet giggle, and your boyfriend couldn’t help but glance over at you, his curiosity piqued.

“hey,” he said, shifting on the couch and propping himself up on one elbow. “what are you reading? you’ve been at it for a while now.” His voice, as always, was light, teasing in its usual playful way, but with a hint of genuine curiosity. he could never resist wondering what kept your attention so thoroughly when he was nearby.

you glanced up from your phone, a mischievous glint in your eyes as you turned to face him. “curiosity got to me,” you said, voice carrying an almost conspiratorial tone. “i’m checking out nightwing fanfics.”

dick’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, and he blinked a few times as if trying to process what you’d just said. for a split second, he was silent, before his lips curved into a slow, teasing smile. “fanfics?” his voice dripped with amusement. “about me? are you telling me there’s a whole genre of stories about your boyfriend?”

you gave a little shrug, the hint of a grin tugging at your lips. “well, nightwing, i guess,” you corrected, “but yeah, turns out there are a lot of people who find your nightwing persona pretty . . . inspiring.” you paused and then added with a playful glint in your eye, “some of them even think you’re, like, the ultimate heartthrob. you’ve got a pretty good following.”

a soft chuckle escaped dick’s lips, and he sat up fully now, his eyes narrowing in mock contemplation. “heartthrob, huh? i knew i was good, but i didn’t realize i had a cult following.” he ran a hand through the dark strands of his hair, his usual cocky grin settling on his face, though there was a warmth to it as he leaned toward you. “you sure you’re not getting jealous over my popularity?”

laughing, you shook your head, the sound light and teasing, but there was something in your expression that made your boyfriend pause. it wasn’t just the laughter—it was the way your eyes lingered on the screen, a spark of genuine curiosity dancing in their depths. amusement tugged at your lips as you scrolled further, like you’d stumbled into some strange, secret world that you couldn’t quite tear yourself away from whatever strange rabbit hole you’d fallen into.

“so what are they writing about?” dick asked, now more intrigued than ever, leaning closer. he wasn’t the kind of person to shy away from teasing himself, and the thought of others putting him in such exaggerated, dramatic situations made his amusement even more apparent. “anything interesting? how am i portrayed? a misunderstood vigilante with a heart of gold?”

you scrolled to one of the stories, reading aloud a few choice lines. “this one’s about nightwing coming back from a long mission, injured, and you get nursed back to health by your adoring fan who just so happens to be the one who had intrigued you,” the mischievous smile now curled fully on your lips.

dick blinked, his blue eyes widening with mock disbelief as he leaned closer to you, trying to catch a glimpse of your phone screen. “wait, me?” he asked with his voice pitching slightly between surprise and amusement, the edges of a grin tugging at his lips. “i get hurt? in a fanfic?” he scoffed, sitting back and crossing his arms over his chest, feigning offense. “i call bullshit. i’m practically invincible,” he added with confidence, tilting his head as if daring you to prove him wrong. but there was a playful glint in his eyes, the kind that told you he was just as entertained by this as you were, even if he wasn’t quite ready to admit it. “what next? i’m crying because i stubbed my toe? these people clearly don’t know me.”

“well, apparently you’re human in this one, but you’re still handsome as ever.”

“but i mean, you know,” dick began, shifting a little closer to you on the couch, his grin widening as he tilted his head, watching your reaction, “if you want me to join you in reading through this . . . i guess i could show you how to write a real nightwing fanfic.” his voice was light and teasing, but there was an unmistakable edge to his tone—suggestive, playful, with just enough of a challenge to make your cheeks warm. his eyes sparkled with mischief as he leaned in slightly, closing the space between you, the corners of his mouth quirking into a smirk. “maybe it’ll be . . . more accurate,” he added, his voice dropping a fraction lower, the words rolling off his tongue like a dare. there was something so undeniably dick grayson about the way he said it—effortlessly charming, but with a teasing bite that left your mind spinning.

you gave him a sideways look, raising an eyebrow as you grinned. “and what’s the plot for that one, mr. grayson?” you asked, amused by his suggestion.

“i don’t know . . . maybe i’m the ultimate love interest who saves gotham and his secret love from some terrible villain, only to get up hurt and you have to kiss it better.” his voice dropped into a mock-serious tone. “it’ll be perfect.”

you burst out laughing, unable to keep your composure at the thought of that kind of nightwing story.

the two of you spent the next several minutes reading through the stories together—dick teasing you for the over-the-top details and wild scenarios, while you kept showing him new stories that had him both amused and mildly flustered. eventually, the two of you settled into a comfortable silence, the evening turning from playful banter into a warm, quiet togetherness. it was a rare moment of normalcy in the whirlwind life of a vigilante—and one dick cherished.

. . . JASON TODD !

JASON TODD WAS SPRAWLED ACROSS YOUR COUCH, HIS LONG FRAME TAKING UP MORE SPACE than seemed fair, boots kicked off and discarded in a lazy mess by the door. his socked feet, one crossed casually over the other, rested on the coffee table—much to your disapproval, though you’d given up pointing it out by now. the soft glow of the television flickered across his face, highlighting the sharp planes of his jaw as he absentmindedly flipped through channels before settling on an action movie he’d already half-forgotten. explosions and dramatic music filled the room, but his attention wasn’t really on the screen.

it kept drifting away, landing on you instead. you were curled up at the far end of the couch, legs tucked beneath you, and your phone clutched in your hands like it held the secrets of the universe. the light from the screen illuminated your features, catching the faint furrow of your brow as you scrolled. every so often, your expression shifted—a small smirk tugging at the corners of your lips, a quiet snort that made his ears perk up, or the way your eyes lit up just before you let out an amused laugh.

jason couldn’t help but watch you.

he wasn’t the type to pry into your business, but the way you kept snickering under your breath was impossible to ignore. “alright,” he finally said, his voice cutting through the quiet, “what’s so funny over there?”

you glanced up, startled by the sudden question, your fingers pausing mid-scroll as if caught red-handed. for a moment, your face was blank, a deer in headlights, but then the corners of your mouth began to twitch, giving you away almost instantly. there was a mischievous glint in your eye, one that jason knew all too well—a sure sign you were up to something. “nothing,” you said in a pitched voice, as if the word alone could absolve you of whatever it was you were hiding. but the slight curve of your lips, the way you bit back an involuntary grin, made it clear that “nothing” was far from the truth.

your boyfriend gave you a pointed look, the kind he’d perfected over years of interrogating lowlifes and getting them to crack under pressure. it wasn’t harsh—jason wasn’t like that with you—but it carried enough weight to make even the most confident liar squirm. his head tilted slightly, the corner of his mouth quirking up into a half-smirk that betrayed his amusement at your obvious reluctance. “uh-huh. sure, baby,” he said, his voice dripping with mock disbelief as he rested an arm on the back of the couch. “what are you reading?”

you hesitated for a second, weighing whether or not you should tell him. but then you shrugged, the grin on your face widening. why not? “curiosity got to me,” you admitted, holding up your phone. “i’m checking out your red hood fanfics.”

jason blinked, his head tilting slightly as if he hadn’t heard you right. “my what?”

“fanfiction,” you repeated, clearly enjoying his confusion. “you know, the stuff people write about you. well, about red hood. there’s a whole world of it out there. i just had to see it for myself.”

for a moment, jason just stared at you, his expression frozen in a mix of disbelief and sheer confusion. it was as if the words you’d just said refused to compute in his brain, the concept too absurd to fully grasp. his eyebrows furrowed slightly, a crease forming between them as he leaned back, clearly trying to piece it all together. “you mean to tell me,” he said slowly, his voice tinged with a cautious incredulity as he reached out to set the remote down on the coffee table with deliberate care, “that people are out there . . . writing stories about me?” the way he emphasized the word stories made it clear he was half expecting you to say you were joking. but the flicker of amusement in your eyes only deepened his bewilderment, and his lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to say more but couldn’t quite find the words. his gaze flicked to your phone briefly, then back to you, like he was trying to decide whether to be flattered, annoyed, or just flat-out amused.

“not you, exactly. red hood.”

“i don’t know what’s more insane—that people are doing this or that you’re actually reading it.”

you bit your lip, clearly trying not to laugh again. “you’re this super suave, dark-and-mysterious antihero who sweeps women off their feet with your tragic backstory.”

he snorted. “tragic backstory? yeah, real original.”

jason shook his head, his laughter rumbling low in his chest as he reached over to you with that quick, calculated motion you were used to. his long fingers closed around your phone before you could react, plucking it right out of your hands. “alright, that’s enough internet for you,” holding it just out of your reach when you tried to grab it back, he had the audacity to laugh even more

“hey!” you protested. “i wasn’t done!”

“oh, you’re done,” he said, grinning as he tossed the phone onto the couch behind him. “because if i have to sit here and listen to one more fanfic version of me, i might actually lose my mind.”

you pouted, crossing your arms. “but it’s so entertaining!”

he smirked, leaning in closer until his face was just inches from yours. “you want entertainment?” he murmured, his voice low and teasing. “how about the real red hood shows you why fanfics don’t do me justice?”

. . . TIM DRAKE !

TIM SAT ACROSS THE ROOM, HIS LAPTOP OPEN IN FRONT OF HIM as he worked on a few cases, tapping away at the keyboard with his usual speed and precision. the hum of gotham’s nighttime ambience outside the window, mixed with the soft buzz of the bat-computer, was strangely calming. yet, despite his focused demeanor, something in his peripheral vision caught his attention.

you were sitting next to him on the couch, your attention seemingly consumed by your phone. the screen lit up your face in the dim light of the room, and occasionally, a quiet chuckle escaped your lips. tim furrowed his brows, trying to focus on his work, but the sound of your laughter distracted him again.

it wasn’t the kind of laugh that came from a joke shared between the two of you, but rather something more private—an inside joke between you and whatever was on your phone. tim glanced over, raising an eyebrow.

“what are you doing?” he asked casually, though he was genuinely curious, a little intrigued by what could possibly be so entertaining.

you looked over at him, a smirk creeping onto your face. “curiosity got to me,” you said nonchalantly, clearly enjoying the moment. “i’m checking out your red robin fanfics.”

tim’s fingers stilled on the keyboard, the words hitting him with an almost physical force. he blinked, not entirely sure he had heard you correctly. “what?”

“fanfiction,” you repeated, turning your phone so he could see the glowing screen. “it’s a whole thing. i got curious, and it turns out that there’s quite a bit of red robin fanfics out there.” you gave the boy a grin, clearly amused by your discovery.

his mind raced. fanfic? about him? his alter ego? the boy suddenly felt a mix of embarrassment, intrigue, and a strange sense of amusement. he’d never really considered that people might write about him outside of gotham’s criminal scene. of course, he was familiar with fan culture, having read a fair share of comics and stories himself, but the idea of himself as a character in someone else’s imagination was a completely different world altogether.

“i—i mean, i guess i never thought about it,” he stammered with his voice a little less composed than usual. “what exactly do they write about?”

you leaned back, glancing at the page for a moment before looking up at him with a teasing glint in your eyes. “oh, you know. heroic rescues, dramatic fights, the usual stuff. but there are some . . . interesting spins.” your eyes sparkled as you watched him squirm slightly.

his face reddened just a touch. “interesting spins?” he repeated, his fingers subconsciously tapping against his thigh. “like what?”

“like you getting saved by batman.”

tim shook his head, his hands rubbing over his face as if trying to erase the image you’d just created in his mind. “okay, that’s . . . that’s a little too weird,” he muttered, half laughing at himself for even considering the possibilities. “i never thought i’d see the day when i was a fanfic character. did they get anything right?”

“actually,” you said, leaning in with mock seriousness, “some of it was kind of spot on. i mean, they really captured the whole brooding, self-deprecating vibe you’ve got going on.”

“i do not brood.”

“i beg to differ,” you shot back.

he glanced at you, a teasing smile still playing on his lips. “yeah, well, next time you want to get curious, just ask me. i’ll tell you all the ‘heroic rescues’ you need to know, no fanfic required.”

you laughed again, leaning against him, the warmth between you both more comforting than ever. tim’s nerves had been stretched thin when you first brought up the fanfiction, but now? now, he was just grateful that the conversation had turned into something lighter, a moment of genuine connection between the two of you. as you both sat there, laughing and joking about what ridiculous scenarios you’d found online, tim couldn’t help but feel a little proud. he might not have expected to find his alter ego splashed across the pages of a fanfiction site, but in a strange way, he was glad it was a part of the world people cared about. it made him feel, for once, like he wasn’t just a vigilante—he was someone worth writing about, someone worth being remembered. even if that meant a few ridiculous, outlandish stories in the process.

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pinkpurplesunrises · 24 days ago

Text

Letters to No One - Chapter 1: Ink & Silence

Pairing: Alexia Putellas x Reader (wlw).

Theme: Ghostwriter x Athlete | Slow Burn | Angst | Emotional Intimacy | Happy Ending.

POV: 2nd person (you), emotion ally immersive.

Setting: Barcelona, Present Day.

ACT: I

Writer's note: kicking off my first series, I'm quite excited. It's new for me though. The chapters will be small at first. Enjoy reading!

You meet her on a gray Tuesday in February.

The kind of day that forgets how to be warm. The kind where even the coffee shops seem to whisper instead of speak. You're sitting at a small table in a quiet corner of El Magnífico. Laptop open, voice recorder blinking red, heart trying not to beat too loud in your throat.

You've been assigned to ghostwrite her memoir.

Alexia Putellas.

Europe's crowned queen. Spain's golden girl. Fierce. Untouchable. And if the editor was to be believed, reluctant as hell.

"Don't expect too much at first," he warned you over the phone. "She's... guarded. Doesn't like press. Doesn't trust easy."

You didn't expect much. Just... not this. Not this version of her.

Alexia walks in wearing a black hoodie and sunglasses, like she's trying not to be seen or trying to disappear entirely. Her blonde hair is up in a lazy knot, no makeup, no shield of spotlight sheen. She moves like someone used to being watched and someone exhausted by it.

She sits across from you with a sigh that says she'd rather be anywhere else.

"Hi" you offer. Small. Careful. She nods once. "You're the writer?"

You close your laptop, look at her instead. "Yeah. I mean, technically the ghostwriter. You'll still be credited as the author. I'm just... the translator. From memory to page."

She blinks. Something about the way you said that disarms her, just a fraction.

"Okay" she says. No warmth, but no edge either.

You press record, and begin.

The first session is awkward.

She answers your questions with the efficiency of someone giving a post-match interview.

"Yes."

"No."

"I don't remember."

"Next question."

You ask about childhood. She shrugs. "Normal. Football. School. More football."

You ask about her father. Her jaw tightens. "Next question."

You try to pivot. "What's the first time you remember feeling... joy on the pitch?"

There's a beat.

Something flickers in her eyes. A memory she doesn't say out loud. Then, soft: "Levante. I was fifteen. I scored. I remember the net bulging. I felt like I belonged."

You nod, but don't press. That's enough for today.

Later that night, you sit at your desk. Replaying the recording. You transcribe her words carefully, but your fingers hover over the keyboard. they itch to write what she didn't say.

You want to write about how she fiddled with the sleeve of her hoodie when she talked about her dad.

How her voice cracked, barely, on the word belonged.

How she looked out the window like the street might give her an excuse to leave.

You write none of that.

Instead, you start a separate document.

You call it Letters to No One. It's not part of the book. It's just for you. You write:

She speaks in half-answers. Like she's still deciding if her past deserves a witness.

You save it.

Close it.

Tell yourself it's just practice.

You don't yet know that one day, she'll read those words and know they're about her.

----------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 2: The Space Between Answers

#woso community #woso writers #woso x reader #woso #woso fanfics #fc barcelona femeni #fc barcelona femeni x reader #woso imagine #alexia putellas fanfic #alexia putellas imagine #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas

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allthecanadianpolitics · 4 months ago

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Hello. I've been following your blog for a couple of years; it is an excellent source of news and political information. Please tell me why the Ontario conservatives winning this election is a bad thing?

I'm really questioning how you could follow this blog for years and not realize why this is a bad thing. Doug Ford has been in power for a long time, and has been terrible the entire time. I'm not aware of a single issue where he's genuinely made things better, outside of his rich friends and developers.

Here's a refresher:

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hamilton-here · 1 month ago

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Hey, I don’t know if your requests are open, but I was wondering if you could write a story about Lewis and tennis player Reader. Like she is nr. 1 in the world, and they celebrate her win of another tournament? (if you want it can include smut, but it doesn’t have to). Thanks❤️

𝑀𝒶��𝒸𝒽 𝒫𝑜𝒾𝓃𝓉

Authors Note: Hi lovelies! I absolutely loved writing this one-shot. I hope the person that requested it enjoys! Lots of love xx

Summary: After winning the Australian Open, the world’s top tennis player is surprised by her secret boyfriend Lewis Hamilton in the crowd, leading to a night of passion, public pride, and the start of their shared spotlight.

Warnings: sexual content, mild swearing

Taglist: @hannibeeblog @nebulastarr

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The stadium buzzed like electricity under your skin.

Rod Laver Arena was a cathedral of sport tonight, packed to capacity with tens of thousands of fans and millions more watching around the world.

A hot summer wind whispered through the open roof. The air was heavy with tension, expectation and the kind of energy that could crack lightning across the Melbourne sky.

You rolled your shoulders back and steadied your breath, standing behind the baseline with the weight of a country or more on your back.

Sweat traced a slow path between your shoulder blades beneath your violet and black Nike kit, damp strands of hair sticking to your temples beneath your hat visor.

You raised your arm patting your damp face with your wrist band, breathing heavily.

6-5 in the third set tiebreak.

Match point.

The final point of the Australian Open women’s final.

You could hear your heart pounding in your ears. Somewhere in the crowd, people were chanting your name. Others followed. Then the whole arena surged into a chant. You closed your eyes and let the sound lift you.

Focus. Breathe. Trust your body.

Across the net, Aryna Sabalenka stared you down like the warrior she was. Her chest rose and fell with exertion, her neon pink dress soaked through with effort. You had battled her for nearly three hours under the Australian sun, each set a war of wills, but you were here now. One point away.

The chair umpire called, “Time.”

You bounced the ball three times.

Tossed it into the air.

And served.

The ball cut through the air with slicing pace and landed near the sideline, forcing Aryna wide. Her return was fast but shallow.

Your instincts took over. One step in. Racket low. Forehand. Deep into the opposite corner.

She chased it.

Desperate.

Her feet scrambled across the court.

She reached. Swung.

But the ball clipped the net cord and died.

Gasps. Then silence.

And then - chaos.

The crowd erupted in a wall of sound.

You dropped your racquet and fell to your knees. Your hands flew to your face as tears pooled in your eyes.

You had done it.

You were the Australian Open champion.

Your team rushed onto the court - your coach, your physio, your hitting partner.

You embraced each of them as flashes exploded from every direction. You barely heard the interviewer’s first question as you blinked up at the stands, overwhelmed.

You scanned the VIP box instinctively. But he wasn’t supposed to be here. He was overseas getting prepared for the race season coming up and with himself starting at Ferrari.

You shook the thought from your head and waved at the crowd, lifting your arms, heart pounding with adrenaline and disbelief.

“I’m just, I don’t even have the words,” you choked out in the interview, wiping tears from your cheeks. “This one means the world. I’ve worked my entire life for this moment. Winning the Australian Open has always been my dream. Even though I am number one in the world already, this has been a massive achievement."

And you had. From a tiny court in your hometown, all the way to world No. 1.

The trophy ceremony began and you stood beneath the bright lights of Rod Laver Arena, clutching the silver Daphne Akhurst Memorial Cup like it was a lifeline. You thanked your team, your family, your fans.

And then came the camera lens.

The moment every player dreams of.

A black marker was passed to you. You knelt before the lens and grinned.

You signed your name with a flourish and, below it, wrote -

"For every girl who was told she couldn’t."

And then, in smaller letters, only visible to the few who’d pause to read it -

"For him."

You smiled.

Because even if Lewis wasn’t here, he would see it.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The celebration was still roaring behind you as you disappeared into the tunnel beneath Rod Laver Arena. Your legs felt like jelly not just from the match, but from the weight of it all. The cameras, the spotlight, the ceremony. It was over. And you’d won.

You clutched the trophy tightly to your chest like it might float away if you didn’t hold on.

A member of the WTA staff guided you through the winding halls of the stadium, offering congratulations and asking if you needed water or food. You nodded absently, still high on adrenaline.

Your team peeled off toward the press room, but your agent lingered behind, eyes twinkling.

“There’s…someone waiting in your private suite,” she said, tone casual.

You turned, puzzled. “Media?”

She shook her head with a sly grin. “Just go see.”

You padded down the hall, your tennis shoes squeaking faintly against the polished floor.

You opened the door.

And stopped.

Lewis was there.

Leaning against the windowsill of your private lounge, hands in the pockets of his charcoal Ferrari hoodie, cap pulled low over his face. But that smile - that unmistakable, heart melting smile lit up the room before he even moved.

Your mouth fell open. “You’re - what - Lewis?”

He stood up straight and took a step forward, his voice low and warm.

“Didn’t think I’d let you win your first Aussie Open without me here, did you?”

You were already in motion.

You ran into him, arms flying around his neck, trophy clattering to the carpet as he caught you. You buried your face in his hoodie and suddenly all the tears you’d held in during the trophy ceremony came crashing down.

“You lied to me,” you whispered, voice breaking. “You said you had meetings. You said you couldn’t -”

“I had to,” he murmured against your hair. “You wouldn’t have focused if you knew I was watching.”

You pulled back to look at him, tears streaking your cheeks. “You watched the whole thing?”

He brushed your hair away from your face. “From the third row. You were unbelievable. I’ve never seen anyone move like that. Every time you hit the ball, the whole arena held its breath.”

You laughed through your tears and lightly hit his chest. “You asshole.”

“I know,” he grinned, then kissed you deeply. “But I’m your asshole.”

You melted into him. His cologne - the earthy, clean smell that always lingered in your pillows when he left hit you full force. He kissed you again, slower this time, cupping your face with reverent hands.

“You’re everything, you know that?” he whispered. “Everything.”

You laughed softly, your forehead resting against his. “You coming back to Melbourne just to see me win is already the best gift I’ve ever gotten.”

He pulled back just enough to lock eyes with you. “I didn’t just come to watch you win.”

His hands slid to your waist. “I came to remind you what happens when you do.”

The door to your suite clicked shut and locked behind you.

Lewis didn’t say a word as he backed you toward the plush couch by the floor to ceiling windows overlooking the Melbourne skyline. The city lights twinkled outside, a mirror of the stars in your eyes as he traced his fingers along your jawline.

“You’re still shaking,” he whispered, thumb brushing your cheek.

“Adrenaline,” you said, breath hitching as his hands slid down your waist. “And maybe because you just showed up like a damn movie ending.”

He smiled. “Couldn’t miss my girl’s greatest win.”

His girl.

The words settled into your chest like a promise. You tugged his hoodie upward, fingertips brushing the hem of his shirt.

“Take it off,” you breathed.

He did slowly, deliberately revealing the tattoos you knew by heart - the compass on his chest, the script over his collarbone, the lion on his pec. Every line, every shadow, made you ache for him more.

You pulled your visor off, then the damp tank top, leaving you in your sports bra and skirt. Lewis’s eyes flicked down your body with heat and reverence, as if you were the trophy tonight.

“You looked like a goddess out there,” he murmured, stepping closer, hand skating over your exposed stomach. “I nearly lost it when you signed that lens. It reminded me of when I first did it in F1."

Your voice softened. “I signed it for you.”

He paused. His thumb rested above your navel.

“I saw it,” he whispered, suddenly serious. “I saw every word.”

And then his lips were on yours again this time firmer, more desperate now. The kiss deepened quickly, mouths open, breaths mingling as his hands tangled in your hair. He backed you against the couch and gently pushed you down, climbing over you like he’d waited all season to have this moment.

His body hovered above yours, eyes dark with desire.

“Tell me if you want to stop,” he said, voice low.

You shook your head. “Don’t stop.”

Your skirt slipped down your hips, tossed somewhere near your trophy.

He kissed every inch of your inner thigh before his mouth reached the core of you, tongue warm and slow and purposeful. You gasped, your hand flying to his braids as he worked you open with lips and fingers, coaxing pleasure with the same focus you brought to center court.

When you came, you cried out his name, shaking, legs locked around his shoulders. He looked up at you, smug and tender.

“Still shaking?” he asked.

You were breathless. “For a whole different reason.”

He stood, unzipping his pants and you watched with hungry eyes as he slid them off along with his boxers. His body was beautiful, lean, carved, all heat and control. He kneeled between your legs, running his hands along your thighs again, patient, reverent.

“You’re sure?” he asked again, voice husky.

You reached for him, pulled him down until his forehead touched yours.

“Make me forget the world,” you whispered.

And he did.

He entered you slowly, both of you groaning at the perfect, familiar stretch.

You clung to him, your hands on his back, nails dragging over skin as he moved. He kissed your collarbone, your jaw, your lips between every thrust, whispering how proud he was, how beautiful you were, how no one in the world compared.

The rhythm built, his hips moving against yours in smooth, rolling waves. Each movement echoed with tension and devotion, like he needed to be closer, deeper, inside your very bones.

“I love you,” he murmured into your mouth as you began to fall apart again.

"I love you too." You moaned back throwing your head back.

You came with a sharp gasp, trembling beneath him. He followed soon after, groaning as he buried himself to the hilt and spilled into you, holding your face like he never wanted to let go.

When it was over, he collapsed beside you on the couch, both of you sticky and glowing with sweat, your skin still buzzing from the high.

Wrapped in one of the soft robes, you stood by the window a little while later, watching Melbourne glitter beneath you. Lewis came up behind you, arms slipping around your waist.

“Tomorrow, they’ll talk about your forehand,” he murmured. “Your stats. Your legacy.”

You smiled. “And tonight?”

He kissed your neck. “Tonight, you’re just mine.”

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The morning after your victory arrived like a dream you never wanted to end.

Melbourne was still glowing from the night before. Headlines flooded your phone -

"World No. 1 Reigns in Melbourne"

"The Queen of Tennis Conquers Australia"

"Crossover Power Couple? Fans Think Lewis Hamilton Was in the Crowd!"

You sat at the edge of your hotel bed, wearing nothing but Lewis’s white t-shirt and your gold WTA bracelet. The trophy was beside you, glinting in the early light. Lewis was still asleep, one arm draped over his eyes, the other stretched toward the spot where you’d been curled into him all night.

Your phone vibrated again.

A message from your agent -

“Press conference in an hour. Wear something killer. You’re the moment.”

You smiled.

In the bathroom, you applied your makeup carefully, chose a sleek white pantsuit that hugged your body and made you look as powerful as you felt. When you stepped back into the bedroom, Lewis had one eye cracked open and a crooked smile on his lips.

“You trying to kill me this early?” he said, voice still scratchy from sleep.

“You coming with me?” you asked, walking over and sliding onto the bed beside him.

He reached for your hand. “If you want me there.”

“I want them to see.”

His brow lifted slightly. “All of them?”

You kissed his shoulder. “You were there for every part of this win. It’s time they know.”

The press conference was already crowded by the time you stepped inside. Cameras flashed, journalists whispered and jostled. But the moment Lewis entered behind you, hand on your back, a hush rippled through the room like a wave.

You smiled graciously, taking your seat at the table with your nameplate and the trophy in front of you.

Lewis stood to the side, watching, his presence magnetic. He wore a tailored black suit with no tie, his braids pulled back, sunglasses tucked into his collar. Every part of him screamed quiet support and pride.

A reporter raised her hand.

“First off, congratulations! You made history last night. But I have to ask there’s been a lot of speculation online. Can you confirm that Lewis Hamilton was in the stands during your final?”

You didn’t hesitate.

“I can confirm he was,” you said, smile widening. “He flew in to surprise me. And yes, we’re together.”

The room exploded in flashes and soft gasps.

Lewis simply nodded once, cool and steady, as if he’d been by your side all along. In truth, he had ways just been in the background. Until now.

The moment you stepped off the podium, he was waiting for you.

“That was brave,” he said, fingers brushing yours.

“That was honest,” you corrected. “I don’t want to hide anymore.”

He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to your temple. “Then let’s show them how a real team celebrates.”

Later that night, you curled up with Lewis on the hotel bed, doom scrolling through social media as he laughed beside you.

@WTAfanatic: “LEWIS HAMILTON AND [Y/N]?! I THOUGHT I WAS READY BUT I WASN’T.”

@GOATandGOAT: “Their baby’s gonna have a 200 mph serve and a carbon fiber stroller.”

@F1updates: “Hamilton’s biggest win this year might not be on the track.”

“I can’t believe how loud the internet is being,” you muttered, cheeks burning with joy.

Lewis took your phone and tossed it gently onto the other pillow.

“Let them scream,” he whispered, pulling you into his arms. “We’ve got our own world.”

The chaos quieted by evening.

Your eyes caught the last of the golden sunset spilling through the windows. You stood on the balcony in one of Lewis’s oversized tees, sipping champagne from the bottle as the breeze tugged at your hair. Below, Melbourne buzzed softly with nightlife and celebration but up here, it was just peace.

Behind you, Lewis stepped out, freshly showered, his chain glinting in the dying light. He wrapped his arms around you from behind and kissed the top of your head.

“Proud of you doesn’t even cover it,” he murmured into your neck.

“I feel like I’m still floating,” you whispered, leaning back into him. “Like it didn’t happen.”

He turned you gently to face him. “You’re not dreaming. You earned every second of it. And I was lucky enough to watch you do it.”

You reached for his hand, running your thumb over the knuckles. “I used to think winning was everything. Like if I had the title, the ranking, the trophy it from every tournament would finally feel like enough.”

“And now?”

You looked up at him, eyes soft.

“Now I think the best part is who I got to share it with.”

His smile was warm. He leaned in and kissed you, slow and unhurried. Not a kiss of celebration, or of lust but of something deeper. Of foundation. Of future.

As the sky turned lavender and the first stars appeared, you both stood there in silence, the city beneath your feet and the whole world stretched ahead of you.

And for once, you didn’t feel like you were chasing anything.

You’d already won.

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astars-things · 4 months ago

Note

for lando x hughes reader au: you take lando to the hughes bowl and he's sitting there completely clueless.

When I told Lando I was taking him to a hockey game, he was excited—until he realized he had absolutely no clue what was going on.

"Wait, so both your brothers are playing against each other?" he asked as we walked into the arena.

"Yep," I grinned. "Jack and Luke on the Devils, Quinn on the Canucks. It’s the Hughes bowl tonight."

As soon as we took our seats, Lando was already confused. “So, uh… what’s the goal here?” he asked, watching as the players skated around in warmups.

I laughed. “Score goals, babe.”

He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I got that part. But, like, what are the rules? What’s offside? How many guys are on the ice at once?”

Oh boy. I had my work cut out for me.

“Okay,” I started, pointing toward the ice. “Each team has six players on the ice—five skaters and one goalie. The goal is to get the puck into the net. If you cross the blue line before the puck does, that’s offside.”

Lando nodded slowly, like he was trying to process everything. “Right, right… so it’s like track limits in F1?”

I blinked. “Uh… sure? But also no. I’ll explain as we go.”

The game started, and the crowd roared to life. I could see Jack and Luke out there, already chirping Quinn. Lando jumped when a big hit was thrown against the boards in front of us.

“Wait, they can just… do that?” he asked, wide-eyed.

“Yep. As long as it’s clean, they can hit each other all they want.”

Lando let out a low whistle. “F1 drivers would cry if we had to deal with that.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “Yeah, you guys are divas compared to hockey players.”

He shook his head, still baffled. "If I did that in F1, I’d be banned for life."

I laughed as I focused back on the game. Jack had the puck now, weaving his way through defenders, and I elbowed Lando excitedly. "Watch Jack, he's gonna—"

Before I could finish my sentence, Quinn stepped up and stole the puck cleanly, sending Jack stumbling slightly. Lando gasped like he just witnessed a crime.

"That was his own brother!"

"Yeah, well, sibling loyalty doesn’t exist on the ice," I grinned. "Quinn’s the enemy tonight."

Lando let out an exaggerated sigh, slumping back in his seat. "This sport is brutal."

I smirked, knowing he hadn’t seen anything yet.

Midway through the second period, Luke threw a massive hit on one of Quinn’s teammates, and Lando physically jumped in his seat. "Did he just—was that—what the hell?"

"Calm down, babe," I teased. "It's all part of the game."

"And nobody's getting arrested?" he asked, genuinely bewildered.

"Nope."

He ran a hand through his curls and shook his head. "This is insane."

The game continued with Lando throwing out more confused comments. "Why are they fighting?" "Why is that guy going into a tiny penalty box like he's in timeout?" "Wait, they just skate off for a line change? No pit stops?"

I was doing my best to keep up with his endless questions while also enjoying the game, but when Jack finally scored, I grabbed Lando’s arm and yanked him up with me as I cheered.

"Wait, was that Jack?!"

"YES!" I yelled.

Lando laughed at my excitement but still looked slightly overwhelmed by everything happening around him. "I feel like I need a rulebook and a therapist after this."

By the end of the game, the Devils won 4-2, and Jack and Luke had bragging rights over Quinn for the night. After the game, we’re waiting for my brothers when a reporter spots Lando and decides to interview him. The poor guy still looks overwhelmed.

"So, Lando, this was your first NHL game. What did you think?"

Lando exhales dramatically. "Honestly, I have no idea what just happened. I feel like I just watched a war on ice."

The reporter laughs. "Did you have a team you were cheering for?"

Lando glances at me before grinning. "Well, my girlfriend made it pretty clear I had to cheer for Jack and Luke, so I did. But Quinn was insane—I thought he was going to murder someone."

I shake my head as Lando continues rambling about how he still doesn’t understand how half the game is legal. He may be clueless about hockey, but at least now, he’s a fan.

#send in requests #thanks anon!#jack hughes #luke hughes #quinn hughes #lando norris x y/n #lando norris #y/n hughes x lando norris #f1 x reader #lando norris x reader

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gamesetattach · 3 months ago

Text

On the Record

Jannik Sinner x Reader A well liked personality in the tennis world, reader is one the favored sports commentators. Her interviews always make headlines for all the right reasons—the people love to watch her crack all their favorite players... especially Jannik Sinner because, I mean, the poor boy seems to just shatter. Honestly. Somewhere in time, this was an 800 word blurb... And now it's nearly 8,000. Not sure when that happened. This just became a tennis player personality study at some point, tbh

---

You weren’t just another sports commentator—you’d quickly made a name for yourself in your short career in the tennis world. The networks and the fans loved you, and so did the players. Your approach was the kind where players actually liked talking, one that made post-match interviews feel less like an obligation and more like an easy conversation. You had built a reputation for striking the perfect balance—professional and sharp, but always with just the right amount of humor to put players at ease.

It wasn’t uncommon for your analyses and your interviews to be clipped and spread, tennis fans enjoyed your commentary and admired how effortlessly you got athletes to open up. You asked questions that felt fresh, steering clear of the usual clichés that players had answered a hundred times before. You could tease them just enough to get a smile, knew when to pull back, when to lean in. And many of the players responded more than favorably to that.

---

Ben Shelton was a natural entertainer—electric on the court, brimming with confidence, always ready with a quip. But post-match interviews? Reporters could easily get him ticked off—understandably so. Questions were too often repetitive, formulaic, and sometimes interviews could be straight up disrespectful.

But with you holding the mic, it was never that.

"Ben! Congratulations on the win—another five-setter. You really like giving the crowd a show, huh?" you teased once, microphone in hand as he wiped sweat from his forehead.

Shelton grinned, shaking his head. "Look, I’m just trying to keep ticket sales up. If I finish in straights, what’s the fun in that?"

You raised an eyebrow. "Tell us, do you hold back on that power serve of yours sometimes—just to keep the game going?"

"I don’t know about all that," he replied smoothly, "But I will say, the longer I’m out here, the more entertainment value there is. I’m doing everyone else a favor."

"Selfless. A true man of the people." The crowd laughed, and so did you. “I can see why they like you.”

Ben nodded at you, moving to dap you up as the cameraman dipped the lens for the interview to wrap up. "See, you get it."

The moment was well loved, fans loving the ease of your exchanges. And that was nothing unusual—your interviews often made waves.

---

Your position often called for a sensitive touch, and your intuition meant you navigated that aspect better than most. You were always sure to respect the players’ boundaries.

When Jack Draper won his first top-ten match of the season, it hadn’t been pretty. He had barely scraped through in three sets, visibly struggling throughout, even throwing up courtside between games. It was impressive tennis, but it had been the kind of match that took everything out of both players, winner or not.

Networks had a certain, set agenda, and the players all knew of that obligation. And so some commentators might’ve been waiting, mic in hand—ready to pounce with questions about endurance, fitness, and whether he should’ve retired—without being mindful of the condition he was in. You’d offered Draper’s circumstance more tact and understanding than others would have.

You caught sight of him near the bench, after barely celebrating and stumbling his way to the net to shake hands with his opponent. He was still catching his breath as he toweled off and gathered his things, the sideline cameras were on him as your own crew quickly assembled in the middle of the court. You’d gently approached, mic cast behind your back to prevent any sound from being picked up, crouching slightly so he wouldn’t have to stop his movements to answer you.

The exhaustion was evident in his features to all who watched, his skin pale beneath the sweat, and you kept your voice soft, careful. "Jack, hey—no pressure. Are you feeling up for the interview? All good if not, I can cover for you."

Jack blinked up at you, sluggish, like it took effort to focus. For a split second, you’d even wondered if you should’ve asked at all—maybe it was better to deflect the crowd and let him slip away. But then recognition clicked in his eyes, and for a moment you thought he might wave you off, but he moved his head just a fraction down in a nod.

With a small, grateful smile at his lips, he said. "Nah, I’m good. Just… maybe we keep it short?"

You nodded immediately. "Of course. I got you."

So you’d kept the interview brief and simple, unprobing. Your voice stayed even, the questions light and general.

"Jack, congratulations. That was an impressive win against an impressive opponent. What are your thoughts coming out of it?" You asked, keeping the question away from his state.

"Yeah, tough one today, but looking forward to tomorrow." Jack exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Apologizes for the throw up, everyone.”

A soft chuckle rippled through the crowd.

You’d smiled, keeping it easy. "I won’t keep you long, but one thing’s for sure—you showed a lot of fight out there and we’re sure you will tomorrow as well. Anything more you’d like to say to the crowd, along with that?"

Jack turned toward the stands, where the crowd erupted into cheers just at the acknowledgment. "Yeah, just… thanks for sticking it out with me. You all carried me through."

You gave him a nod, and he backed out of the frame with a grateful look as he took your okay to head out. "Alright. Go get some rest, Jack. You’ve earned it."

---

Sometimes, you’d poke fun with the players—though you never crossed the line. And those interviews always showed the strength of your rapport with those on tour.

Carlos Alcaraz was truly sunshine personified. Always wearing that wide smile, he was friendly with everyone. And, with you, he was always outright charmed, knowing the interview would be memorable and fun.

After yet another dramatic comeback win, you stood across from him, shaking your head. "Carlos, you make my job so hard. I try to plan questions, but every time you pack the game with so many good shots I have a hard time choosing which one to talk about."

“Sorry.” He said, grinning and laughing up at the crowd. "You know, maybe I'll make it easy for you next time."

"Now, don’t do that. We love watching you fall into the splits and run all over the place." You both chuckled, and you continued with your questions. “Tell me, today was a spectacular match—now you're moving on to the finals—will you get a tattoo of the match date?”

“We’ll see,” Carlos’s smile had widened at that, if even possible. "If I win, maybe. Let’s see."

“What makes a day great enough to qualify for a tattoo of the date?”

“I always just try and play well, but if there’s something really special—then I like to remember that.” He shifted his weight back and forth between his feet, nodding up at the crowd as they cheered. “Especially with the great fan atmosphere, like here in the tournament.”

"Well Carlos, if you continue playing as well as you did today, I think you may run out of space pretty soon."

He’d grinned, pointing to the tiny text of his newest addition. "I get them small, still have lots of room. On the legs and all—"

You shook your head. "I say, skip the legs—go straight for the forehead."

He threw his head back at that, leaning up and away from the mic for a full-bellied laugh, and the crowd erupted with him. "We’ll see, we’ll see."

"Alright, Carlos! Thank you for your time. Great tennis tonight, we’ll see you again in two nights against Rune!" You easily finished, wrapping up the interview as he waved once more to the crowd.

---

The same often went with Andrey Rublev, a character loved by all. An intense firestorm on the court, but forever soft-spoken off it. He was one that could be reserved and bashful in interviews, even though he often couldn’t help his witty remarks—a large part of why he was so well liked.

“Andrey, congratulations! You’re having a great year so far—making it to the finals again after just winning a title,” He nodded, taking off his headband as you began the interview. “I was wondering, do you have any new superstitions this season? Or any old ones that have evolved over time?"

“Superstitions… I don’t know...” Rublev exhaled, brushing a hand through his damp hair. His eyes landed on the headband he was spinning on a finger. "Maybe this one—the headband. When I was younger, in juniors or something, I didn't have this long hair, but now before the match I’m tying like this every time."

“Ah yes, I’ve had the privilege of seeing you primp and preen before a match.” You’d teased, laughing lightly. “It’s quite the routine.”

“Yes…” He smiled, looking down a little. “It’s not so easy.”

“I mean, yeah, with that head of hair—I believe it.” You grinned at him. “I know you always looked up to Rafa Nadal growing up, do you feel like it’s kind of an ode to him?”

“Yes, of course. He was always my favorite—I was… when I was little, I was always wearing the same kit as him. Same shorts and shirt, and headband—everything. But, yes, it takes some time in front of the mirror.”

“That it does—you diva.” You laughed, and those in the stands followed suit.

“No… Diva? What is this?” Rublev glanced off camera before looking back at you, perplexed but smiling still.

“Don’t worry about it… They know.” The crowd cheered again.

He shook his head at you, chuckling a little before he gestured to you in confusion at the crowd.

You continued on, still laughing to yourself. “Everyone, Andrey Rublev! Our finalist—thank you Andrey!”

With that, the sound of your mics cut out and the other commentators came back into the audio, but the camera stayed on you and Rublev—panning out a bit. The remainder of your teasing conversation could be seen, with you presumably explaining what you had meant by diva between laughs and him playfully swatting you away immediately after.

It was a fan favorite moment, one that Rublev couldn’t seem to escape for the rest of the season. He was always sure to give you shit for it whenever he saw you around, but no one—including him—could deny that you always carried out the most entertaining interviews.

Though no interview was watched quite as closely as your ones with Jannik Sinner, however…

---

When it came to Jannik, the lens people would watch your interviews with became something else entirely.

The same reason people loved your interviews still held true—the way you got players to open up, the way you made even the most media-wary athletes feel at ease.

And Jannik wasn’t cold by any means, but he was careful. Composed. Someone who, in most press conferences and interviews, gave measured almost scripted answers, efficient and to the point. He was never rude—just reserved. He’d smile, be polite, but rarely let people in further than he had to.

And yet, every time it was you standing across from him, microphone in hand, his expression changed—softer, just barely perceptible. But people started to catch on… And when they did, they started to look for it as well.

A flicker of something lighter in his eyes, the way his usual, fidgety stance seemed to relax. If fans didn’t know him well, they might’ve missed it. But those who did could always tell that, even if he would never express it outright, he genuinely enjoyed talking to you.

---

One of the first times people noticed it was soon after your promotion, when you conducted one of your earlier on-court interviews.

It was after an iconic, comeback three-set win of Jannik’s. And something about the way he answered your questions—the way he looked at you—set the viewers abuzz. It was like the crowd had faded away for him. He still inserted his usual expressions of gratitude, but it seemed you and your questions were the center of his focus.

"Jannik, long night for you. With quite an abrupt turnaround," you had started, a smile in your voice as he nodded at your words. "Was there ever a moment where you doubted that you could take back the match? You were down for the first half there."

“No—,” He blinked, a smile slowly growing on his face. "What do you think of me? I try not to doubt… Of course, it’s not so easy but…"

He grinned at you as he trailed off, and you jumped right back in. "Oh, so you always knew you could take the game back is what you’re saying?"

His eyes stayed on you, corners of his lips twitching up again. "No, but—it’s important to stay positive. You know… I just try and play well."

“You just try…” You scoffed and looked at the camera. “You know, I think on most people’s best and most positive days, they probably can't serve so many aces in a row…”

Jannik shrugged, smiling up at the crowd as the crowd laughed at his nonchalant reaction.

It wasn’t necessarily a funny answer, or even a funny question, but Jannik’s cheeky smile and your quiet laughs in response added another layer to the tone of the interview. The audience cheered at his demeanor, a rare display of tasteful gloating from one of the world's best players.

That interview reemerged pretty consistently, you just brought out a different side of him. Not too many saw it then, but those who did were hooked.

---

The moment people most loved to replay went down after a late-afternoon match, the sun casting long shadows over the court as Jannik walked back on court for the interview, exhausted but victorious against his self-proclaimed rival. When he saw you waiting for him on the service, he didn’t just nod in acknowledgement and snap into his professional, media mode—his face visibly brightened, a slow smile tugging at his lips before he even reached you.

The smile stayed on his face, eyes fixed on you as you gave the cursory congratulations and eased the viewers into the interview while welcoming Jannik to the frame. "—and you had quite a few dives today, are you still in one piece?" You transitioned the introduction into the first question, microphone poised at his mouth after asking.

He nodded, eyes having never left you, but stayed quiet. His mouth opened as if starting to answer, but then he stopped and shook his head, hands on his hips. "... Sorry, can you repeat the question."

He pushed down protruding hairs under the brim of his cap with a sheepish smile as the audience laughed.

“Wow, zoning out already—that was only the first question Jannik.” You shook your head in teasing disapproval at the camera, and the corner of his mouth lifted to widen his smile at your reaction. “That might have been an answer to the question in and of itself—maybe you’re not in one piece… I asked about the dives you took during the match—any scrapes or scratches?”

“Ah, okay,” He nodded in understanding, catching up and smiling when people laughed once more. “No I—I’m okay. It is hard court, yes, but no scrapes so far.”

“Seems like Carlos has that effect on you, doesn’t he? You’re always diving after his balls—” You cut yourself off immediately, hand slapping to cover your mouth when you realized how that last sentence could have been interpreted.

You doubled over in laughter, unable to help yourself, and Jannik joined in when he pieced it together. It took you too long to recover, more time than was professional for sure, but the stadium was laughing along with you. Jannik watched as you tried again and again to compose yourself before you broke back into laughter each time, he chuckled at you while wagging a finger at the camera.

Then he set his palm on top of yours, taking your hand holding the mic to lift it to his mouth. “What kind of interview is this?”

The crowd went wild, pleased to see Jannik play into the humor of the situation. You wiped tears from your eyes and covered your face in embarrassment, his hand still over yours for longer than it needed to be.

When he returned the mic, and your hand, you gave an exaggerated look of regret towards the camera, breaking the fourth wall in more ways than one. “So sorry if I violated any network guidelines with that one… Did not mean for the interview to take this turn…”

And then the production assistant behind the camera, also in tears from laughter, signaled that time was almost up. Jannik teasingly threw his hands in the air when he saw the count down, poking fun at the fact that you’d derailed the interview and eaten up the screen time.

You lifted the mic and continued, shaking your head at yourself once more while smiling. “Looks like we need to wrap this up… Jannik any final words?”

“Well this is also some of my first words…” He laughed as you mouthed something in response. Don’t remind me, you’d mimed. “But I want to thank everyone here for the good energy and Carlos for another great game… And, of course, thank you for finishing off this day with such a… interesting interview.”

He said the last bit towards you, not missing the opportunity to tease you further—and nobody missed that.

The interview had understandably blown up. It had all the makings of a viral moment. An accidental, suggestive line implicating both Carlos and Jannik was bound to spread like a wildfire. Adding Jannik’s funny reaction on top of that only fueled the fire. People enjoyed seeing the facade of his usual composure break, fans were quick to interact with those rare moments where he revealed more of his charm and humor.

Though somehow, with all the traction the clip received, the discourse always seemed to land on you. Or rather, how he was with you. After getting past the comedic banter in the video, people started commenting on his behavior. On how he looked at you, how he seemed to miss the first question because he was admiring you. How he took your hand with no hesitation, and how you seemed unfazed by the touch. He was clearly comfortable with you—and you with him, judging by how naturally you took his teasing.

And so, anyone who wasn't already watching the two of you closely certainly started to after that.

---

It wasn’t just post-match interviews people watched. It was media days, press conferences, those brief moments of footage where your paths crossed in hallways.

Fans really started to notice the way his eyes would stay on you, taking just a second longer than necessary before answering the question. The way he always seemed to open up when it was you on the other side of the mic.

Jannik wasn’t the type to talk much during an interview, he kept his answers concise, but with you, there was always something—an easy joke, a quick remark, sometimes he’d even ramble on in an answer.

"Try to behave this one," he had joked when you were up to interview him after another game against Carlos, referencing that one, fateful slipup of yours a few months after its debut. You gave him a look, that line was sure to spread everywhere whether or not the rest of the interview was entertaining, and you both knew it. The people present in the stands were already whooping.

"I’ll try my best,” You smirked anyways. “I’ll try my best not to mention how Carlos gets you to fall for him.”

The crowd roared, and he shifted his jaw as he laughed with you. “That’s not how you said this the last time.”

“Well, I made many promises to many important people that I wouldn’t say anything like last time. Ever again.” You winked at the camera. “—Not on TV, at least.”

He inhaled a laugh, “Good. It’s for the best.”

"Okay… Let’s leave that behind us." You raised your brows at him as you offered a hand to shake in truce.

“Okay. Promise.” He took your hand, trying to look serious while fighting back a smile.

“Okay.” You nodded up at him, matching his expression even though your lips pursed with an incoming laugh, hands intertwined.

You both just stood like that for a beat, looking at each other with your hands clasped in a stilled handshake, laughter clearly threatening to take over. He was the first to break the silence.

“Are you going to ask a question, or what?” A smile ripped onto his face, and then your laugh just had to come out. Everyone in the stands had been in pieces since the interview’s start, but the laughter doubled at that.

“Yeah, yeah,” You shook your head. “What am I going to do with you—I’m going to be out of a job.”

“Ah, no. You’re too good for that.” His own laugh had faded into an amused smile. An affectionate one, even.

“Hear that?” You address the camera, deadpanning. “Glad we got that on tape.”

That interview continued on without any inappropriate hitches, though it stayed just as entertaining throughout.

And it wasn’t just a one-off thing. The more you interviewed him, the more obvious it became—it was a pattern. And the common denominator was you.

Fans were relentless. They clipped every smirk, every subtle glance. Every moment where Jannik let himself react.

He’s always laughing when its her She’s the only one who gets him to act like this. i love how he forgets all his media training when he’s with her Jannik, blink twice if you’re in love There’s no way they’re not a thing. If theyre not, they should be. Like now.

---

The best part? The most implicating part? You never even tried to make those moments with him. It just… happened. It always happened.

Like the time you’d been interviewing another player on court—someone else entirely, an opponent he’d lost to. Jannik could be seen in the back of the frame, still packing up at his bench. You hadn’t given any sign of noticing him, there was no moment of acknowledgement, you were faced away from Jannik as you interviewed the winning player with your usual, unique questions and comfortable professionalism—but the viewers’ eyes were on Jannik in the distance more than the interview itself, because the camera had caught everything.

It seemed the moment Jannik realized it was you speaking, that it was you on court, his head snapped to your direction. He was slower in gathering his things, looking back at you often. Even when signing things for fans on the sidelines, he’d turn his face to you every time you laughed. When he did finally walk out, his eyes stayed trained on you, turning his neck towards you until you simply had to leave line of sight.

And, even after the loss, it seemed he had a slight smile playing on his lips when he left. The soft kind, the same one he always seemed to wear when you were around.

Fans had slowed it down frame by frame, zooming in—and they saw it all.

---

The phenomenon quickly took on a life of its own. People had moved past just noticing, fan just straight up speculated after a while. Even other players and commentators were aware of the trope—it was everywhere online and it was hard to ignore the dynamic between you and him even in person.

It started small. A few viral clips, some curious tweets, the occasional comment under a post-match interview: He never laughs like that with anyone else. But that phase passed quickly. Then the compilation videos came in swarms soon after. The frame-by-frame breakdowns of every interview, every shared glance, every moment where Jannik seemed just a little too engaged, a little too interested.

"It’s the way he looks at her," Coco Guaff even said in a WTA YouTube video, the content being a montage of players’ talking about associations and relationships with umpires and broadcasters. You and Coco had an easy friendship, despite your role usually landing on the ATP side, so it only made sense that she dropped your name…

But it just so happened that her mention of you very quickly devolved into propaganda supporting those fan speculations of Jannik’s relationship to you.

"I mean, that’s not normal." She continued, shrugging at the camera as she giggled to herself. “The proof is in the footage, I don’t know what to tell you.”

And that wasn’t the only instance—Coco herself being notorious for backing the allegations.

Once, a post on a tennis podcast’s Instagram had gone doubly viral after she liked it. It was a screenshot of Jannik in mid-interview with you, visibly engaged, stars in his eyes. The text above the image read: Mans has never been happier in his life.

And the comments were rampant.

Need someone to look at me like that Guys, Coco liked?? You’d never know he just won a title, looks like the highlight of his day is just her Si vede che è cotto! Uh, heyy Coco

Another, a comparison of images—A photo of Jannik immediately after a match, visibly drained, side-by-side with another of him only minutes after, beaming down at you. Find someone who looks at you the way Jannik Sinner looks at his favorite commentator.

Forget clostebol, bros drug is just love Si vede che è cotto a puntino if they have no fans, im dead

Even official tennis accounts and sports networks got in on it, subtly referencing it in posts and during match breakdowns and things of that sort.

The ATP social team once posted a story of you two laughing behind the scenes on media day. And people immediately jumped on it, the screenshot spreading all over twitter.

Tennis Channel’s table of commentators once referenced you after discussing the tennis rankings and Jannik’s consistent performance.

“How does he do it?” One asked, after running through Jannik’s match statistics and win streak.

“I’m not sure, but I doubt he’d say.”

“We gotta get [Your Name] to ask, then I’m sure he’ll tell all.” Another chimed in.

Everyone at the table laughed, very obviously understanding the context. “It’s true, it’s true.”

And, of course, that clip was everywhere within minutes of it airing, as well.

...But the kick of it all was that neither of you ever seemed to deny the rumors—no matter how many times they were thrown at your face…

It wasn’t like anyone was subtle about it.

---

Once, Frances Tiafoe, never one to pass up the chance for a joke, had been sitting in the player locker lounge when Jannik walked in after a win.

“The match was tough,” He said as he briefly looked up from his phone to clap Jannik’s hand in congratulations. Then Frances smiled to himself before tacking on a cheeky line for the room to hear. “I’m sure the extra motivation helped… Knowing you’d get your favorite interviewer after, and all that."

Frances immediately seized with laughter, cracking himself up, and others around chuckled with equal enjoyment.

Jannik only shook his head as he made his way to the stationary bikes, smiling at Tiafoe’s antics, but he was mostly unfazed. He didn’t bother to give a response—no denial, not even much overt amusement—just that calm, neutral reaction. Masterfully deflecting without a single word.

It was the response he always gave when people brought it up, behind closed doors or otherwise.

Like when John McEnroe playfully called Jannik out on camera during a post-match interview after a Grand Slams quarterfinals. When Jannik approached the court again after winning, waving at the stands, it was McEnroe waiting to ask questions, mic in hand.

The crowd still listened and cheered throughout the interview, hanging on to all of Jannik’s words, but it was nothing compared to the reactions your interviews always prompted.

McEnroe decided to bring you up towards the end of his questions, dramatically sighing and shaking his head. "Alright, thanks for humoring me Jannik—Sorry it’s me today and not your favorite commentator."

The audience roared at your mention, but Jannik only exhaled a laugh, catching one of his ankles in his hands to stretch as he simply shook his head.

And McEnroe took Jannik’s lack of response as an answer. "Won’t even deny it, huh?"

Jannik just smiled, eyes drifting off to his box, and McEnroe took the action as reason to continue. Looking towards the camera in exaggerated belief, he threw his hands up, “And now he’s looking away from me—Wow, I can’t even keep his attention.”

Jannik laughed at that, placing a friendly hand on McEnroe’s shoulder. “No, I just—I saw my team say something so I looked over.”

“Right, right.” McEnroe kept on with his lamenting, teasing at the point further. “I was only the World Number One for a bit, won 70 titles…”

“I think—I think we go back to the questions, maybe.” Jannik said jokingly and McEnroe let out one more incredulous laugh.

“Okay, I’ll try… but I’m starting to doubt if I’m any good at that now…”

“I have no favorite.” Jannik finally offered, his voice faint as the mic was still pointed away from him.

“Too late, Jannik, it’s too late.”

The moment was all in jest, and John was sure to relay the interaction back to you later that day, as if you hadn't already watched it unfold live. You only laughed in response, teasingly placating him but never touching on what he’d suggested in the interview. McEnroe was just one of many peers in the sports broadcasting world that would make little comments to you, and you never gave them much of anything.

It was harder when players called you out though—especially when they did it live, in front of thousands of people.

Fresh off a hard-fought win, Matteo was still slightly out of breath when you grinned at him for the interview. "Matteo, great tennis out there today! We’ve been seeing you play at the net a lot more since your return—more confident, more aggressive with those volleys—tell us about that."

"No, no, I think I've always felt comfortable at the net.” He shook his head immediately, ducking his head down to really look at you, teasing glint in his eyes. “Maybe you’re too young to know my earlier game… or maybe you’re getting me confused with someone else."

The crowd already latched on to the reference, a collective ooh passing through the stands, you tried your best to play dumb despite that. You went the first reason he offered, "I mean I remember watching your games before I got on the job, but if I blocked out memories of volleys like today’s, then no one’s more sorry than I am."

Matteo smirked, looking out toward the crowd, not letting you change the subject or take the easy way out. "I know we’re both Italian, but come on."

You allowed a laugh, but were quick to move on, not lingering on Matteo’s implication very long.

The exchange had made the highlight reels, fans eating up both Matteo’s teasing and your barely-there reaction, and the way you had to abruptly ask the next question to avoid it from dragging on too long.

But the teasing, the compilations, the endless speculation—it was all fun, all harmless. Because as far as anyone knew, it was just a fan theory. Just playful banter and an easy chemistry that everyone got to bear witness to. And, if yours and Jannik’s response to all the teasing was anything to go by, it really was just baseless guess work—after all, neither of you had ever given concrete proof on any of it.

But most continued to entertain it anyways, because if it was true: it was only a matter of time before it came out…

---

The long-awaited proof came after an especially grueling match of Jannik’s.

The game had been absolutely brutal.

It was one of those that felt less like a tennis match and more like a battle of sheer will. Three and a half hours in the sweltering heat, the air thick and unmoving, turning every rally into a war of attrition. Jannik had fought through service games that stretched over ten minutes, through back-to-back tie-breaks where every point had felt like a match in itself. He had been pushed to his limits, his legs leaden, his body aching from the relentless pace. Every time it seemed like he had finally broken free, his opponent clawed back, forcing another hold, another deuce, another impossibly long rally.

By the final set, even his renowned movements had lost their usual crispness, his footwork a fraction slower, his serves just a little less sharp. But he refused to let up.

So when he finally won—when the last point ended and his opponent’s shot sailed long—it took him a second to process it. It took a second for everyone watching, too.

He barely lifted his arms in victory, letting his head drop as he panted. The stadium erupted around him, the crowd on their feet, but it seemed that all he could think about was how his entire body felt like it had been wrung out. He made his way to the net, movements heavy but thoughtful in his handshake and hug as he offered a good game to the opponent that matched and elevated his level throughout the game. Then trudged toward his bench with a nod to the umpire, shoulders still rising and falling with every exhausted breath.

The play had tested endurance more than anything—nearly four hours under the blazing afternoon sun, and no easy points. He held his face into his towel for a long moment, and then flicked water from his bottle over his face and on the back of his neck, his usual expression one of raw exhaustion.

He barely had enough left in him to toss a fist into the air when he made his way back onto the court, though the crowd had yet to cease their cheering. And then he all but stumbled his way over to you.

You. Waiting just off the service line, a steady presence in the chaos, a welcome face after the intense match.

And the familiarity of it, of you, cut through his exhaustion. Your expression was still pleasant, but it was different from the smile you usually had during interviews. There was something tight under your professional exterior—concern, maybe subtle, but unmistakable once anyone saw it. It was in the way your eyes flickered over him, assessing, before you even said a word.

And still, as he approached, his gaze softened—as it always did when his eyes landed on you. But his face was flushed from the heat, sweat dampening the curls at the nape of his neck, so as he stepped closer, you instinctively reached out, fingertips brushing against his arm before you pulled back.

Maybe people would pick up the small gesture later, but for now the stadium was still roaring, the energy crackling through the stands. You hadn’t moved to begin the interview yet, your crew still assembling beside you.

He gave you the slightest of nods, eyelids low and heavy. You held his eyes, raising a single brow, before giving the go-ahead to the production assistant. And then the mic was live, and you fell into interview mode.

Or you tried to, as best as you could.

"Jannik—what can I even say? That was a battle out there," you started. "I know you love tennis, but a part of you has to hate it at least a little right now. I mean, congratulations for sure, but are you regretting any life decisions?"

His head was down for most of your intro, chin tucked to his chest as he rolled out his ankles and looked at you through the brim of his cap. He smiled, despite himself—he could always count on you to keep the mood high.

“What do you mean? That was the most fun I’ve had in my life.” His voice was a little labored, but he managed to answer lightly.

“The scary part is, I believe you.” The crowd laughed. “I think we can all agree, watching that match was the most fun any tennis fan could have. Honestly.”

You had to raise your volume towards the end of your praise as the audience joined in to cheer in agreement. It really had been an incredible display of the sport.

The stands then erupted into a joint song, all chanting his name in unison. You dropped the mic as he stepped back to humbly receive the attention, and he looked up at the people while you looked up at him.

You held the mic back to him after the chants subsided, knowing his next move would be to thank the crowd. “Thank you everyone for supporting. It really is an incredible thing to play such tennis with this amazing crowd—it’s very special. Thank you!”

He waved up at everyone for a moment longer before returning his attention back to you. You were waiting patiently, watching him with a tender smile.

“We should probably be grateful that even such a taxing match could only make you love tennis more.” You restarted, picking back up from your initial question. “I don’t know if the sport could take it if that wasn’t the case—”

“No, I will be honest—” Jannik interjected, and you tilted the mic to him so it could catch his voice properly. “I will be honest. Right now I feel good, tired, but good. But maybe tomorrow, when I wake up, my legs will be sore and this kind of things… and then I might hate tennis—just a little bit. I will still be happy, but…”

“Wow, thank you for the honesty.” You laughed at the confession. “But even then, you say hate but it’s probably just like a ‘minus one’, right?”

“That’s true, 'minus one' on a scale of ten.”

“So where do you usually rank tennis, when you're not terribly sore? On a scale of ten?”

“... At least 11, maybe higher.” He said grinning, proud of the answer.

“So, we’re right back where we started then.” You threw up your hands in fake exasperation. “I’m trying to make you look bad here, at least help me a little.”

He shrugged and continued to smile at you, and you shook your head before moving the interview along. “In two days, hopefully after recovering from any remaining soreness, you’ll face off with De Minaur. He’s been playing really well throughout the tournament, how do you plan to approach that?”

He nodded thoughtfully, as he shifted to stretch his legs. It seemed that his adrenaline had faded again, along with the banter and the peak of the crowd’s celebration. The tension of exhaustion furrowed his eyebrows once more as his smile lessened while he took a moment to deliberate an answer.

“Alex and I are good friends, we practice together often and he’s a great player. I look forward to playing him in the finals. And hopefully, we can make a good match like today.”

You cast a glance at your production assistant, who signaled that you still had half the allotted session for the interview left, before nodding at Jannik’s answer. You decided to use up the bulk of the remaining time yourself, to help take the weight of Jannik a bit, and so you let your next question have a long and wordy lead up.

“You and Alex go way back. You kind of made your breakthrough a little after his, winning the ATP Next Gen tournament against him soon after he broached the top 20. You’ve kind of revolved near each other since then—you practice together often, like you mentioned—and it seems you and him often make big evolutions for your respective careers in and around the same tournaments.” You droned on, stalling an actual ask of any question, and you hoped no one took notice.

His face was strained, though his eyes were still on you—even though you hoped to cover your intent, it seemed Jannik had caught on to your attempt to alleviate the need for him to use any further brain power. You could tell he’d switched off from listening because of it, now focusing on his body. You continued to string together facts in the background, trying to catalog Jannik’s state as you did.

Within the minute and half you spoke, it seemed he couldn’t help but fidget in all his fatigue. He flexed his right wrist once. And lifted one heel, and then the other. Rolling his shoulders back four times and then forward three times. He hit the heel of his palm against his quads, once, then once more. And his fingers twitched, rubbing absently at the sorest spots—digging into the tender muscle of his forearm, kneading at the base of his neck.

Every shift in position came with the faintest grimace, something only you could catch in your proximity to him. In all your closeness to him.

Then Jannik parted his mouth every so slightly, a quiet exhale leaving him as he did. He shifted his jaw side to side in a slow, stiff motion, testing the tension held there before it clicked with a faint pop. And, words still on autopilot, you forgot yourself.

You kept speaking, though the spiel was probably well past erring on excessive, but you unconsciously reached a hand up. Your palm settled on the side of his face, index on the bone behind his ear, thumb on hinge of his jaw. Your fingers nestled under the hair at the nape of his neck as you gently rubbed your thumb back and forth.

It was a simple, almost thoughtless action. An instinct. An undeniably intimate one. And then, before you could move to pull away, he caught your hand in his.

He lifted it ever so slightly, so your palm rested on his cheek, and he pressed his own hand into yours as he leaned his face into your touch.

The gesture was effortless, organic, like he had done it a hundred times before. Like he needed it then.

He sighed and his eyes flickered closed. His thumb brushed against the back of your hand, and he didn’t let go immediately. And when he did open his eyes, his expression softened just slightly as he glanced at you, as if all his strain melted away with your warmth.

The whole display happened within just a handful of seconds, but it was like the stadium fell still. And it might have just been the moment between you, but as you slipped your hand back to your side from underneath his, it really did feel like the entirety of the crowd was holding their breath.

You had trailed off somewhere in your monologue, and you couldn’t be sure of where, but you didn’t dare risk a look at the camera or towards your crew. The audience came alive again, murmurs rippling through the stands.

Jannik ran a hand over his face, taking only a beat to reset and set his attention back to the interview, looking as collected as ever. You tried to follow suit and compose yourself, finally asking the last question. "So, how do you plan to go into the match with Alex?"

You resisted smacking your hand to your face as soon as you said it. That might as well have been the exact question you’d asked earlier—it basically was—and it was far from the natural recovery you’d wanted. But Jannik, to his credit, took the redundant ask in stride and mixed up his response from his last one.

“Alex has kind of this defensive playing style that matches well with mine, and, of course, he’s fast and has the ability to return every ball. I’ve seen him grow and develop into an even better player in the past few years… so, it will be a very tough match—but, we’ll see.”

“Yes, we will!” You tried not to slump in relief when you caught the times-up signal in your periphery, and faked the best, most enthusiastic camera voice you could muster. “Thank you, Jannik, and good luck!”

You avoided his eyes, and the lens of the camera, and he smirked a little at that as he waved once more to the crowd before walking back to his bag. You allowed a single glance at him when he moved to the tunnel after signing some autographs, and he was already looking towards you. His smile was small and teasing, and you could see the mirth in his eyes even from your distance. You shook your head at his expression, just enough for him to see—he should’ve been more scared.

Because you both were in for it.

It was all out now.

---

The internet lost its mind.

For a year—two, even—everyone had speculated. The entirety of the tennis world.

They analyzed every glance, every subtle moment, every clipped interaction, convinced there was something there. And now? There was no denying it.

What you both pulled in that last interview couldn’t be faked, it couldn’t be rationalized. This wasn’t playful banter or a viral compilation of smirks and long-held eye contact. This was something neither of you could explain away. It was intrinsic. Reflexive intimacy, something was too practiced, too familiar.

It was proof.

Slow-motion replays were everywhere even before you ended the interview. The reception flooded all social media platforms.

Okay that wasn’t just chemistry. That was straight-up muscle memory. This whole time??? This WHOLE time?? I KNEW IT. I KNEW IT. Guys we called it

Tennis journalists tried to stay professional, but even the most formal accounts posted some variation of "well, this is interesting… "

And the fan posts were endless. Someone strung together a complete timeline of your relationship, tracing back all the way to when you started your role. Another person edited a fake wedding invite.

And the players—the players…

When Jannik walked into the gym to cool down, it was like stepping into an ambush. All eyes were on him.

Everyone behind the scenes has stopped in their tracks to watch the legendary game of his that had just gone down. And so, everyone behind the scenes also witnessed your accidental reveal. The confirmation.

Every congratulations he received was immediately followed up with some sort of reference to it.

“Great game,” Alex De Minuar said. “...And, mate… the whole time?

"That game was insane, man…" Ben Shelton patted Jannik on the back as he passed, turning as he added. "And I guess now's as good a time as any… to hard launch I mean."

“No words, no words.” Carlos Alcaraz, from where he was stretching, shook his head up at Jannik in disbelief. “For that match, and for the reveal.”

Jannik chuckled a little with Carlos, shaking his head to himself as he moved deeper into the facility.

“I knew it so—” Coco just watched from a distance, her and Madi Keys stopping mid conversation when Jannik entered. "Like literally the whole time, I believed it."

"Niente da dire?" Nothing to say? Matteo drawled, clapping Jannik on the back with a smirk. "Neanche una spiegazioncine?" Not even a little explanation?

And, around then, you’d made your way back to the commentary box, bracing yourself. You heard John McEnroe's voice from behind the door before you even entered. You couldn't help but cringe at the volume.

“Where is she?” The sound of a headset being placed down, with significant force. Laughter came from around him. “Where is she at?”

“Here we go.” You whispered to yourself.

---

Okay so, tell me, like for real, were you surprised? Did you know they were together all along, or did I get you? Because, I meant to get you, I did. Tell me where you realized, please please. It's okay if it wasn't a surpise, dw

Okay anyways, this was so fun. Too fun. Got carried away, in a lot of places, but I hope it's a fun read. Did not in fact edit, don't care, too long, didn't read—jk I'll go back in at some point soon. But if you're one of the lucky early few, read with one eye closed, and with the other mostly squinted.

Got almost all my favs in here, not nearly enough of the ladies, but my near-goat Ms. Coco has a cameo and what else really matters. What else really matters? And maybe, while reading, you were wondering: when is Jannik coming in? Does he ever? Well, I was wondering the same, okay...

K , kisses xx

#jannik sinner #jannik sinner x reader #jannik sinner blurb #jannik sinner one-shot #jannik sinner fanart #jannik sinner smut #atp tour x reader #tennis #tennis fic #jannik sinner fluff #Jack Draper x reader #GameSetAttach #jannik sinner one shot

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deliciousangelfestival · 3 months ago

Text

Let's Play Pretend - 6 | bodyguard!Bucky

Character: Bucky Barnes x singer! Female reader

Summary: You just wanted to hide here and find peace from the mess that wasn’t caused by you. But then, your hot neighbor bothered you. As if that wasn’t enough, the enemies you hated found you too.

PART 1 , PART 2 , PART 3 , PART 4 , PART 5 , PART 6 , PART 7 , PART 8 , PART 9 , END.

Main Masterlist || If you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee on Ko-fi 🙏🏻

By the way, I publish my book Arrogant Ex-Husband and Dad, I Can't Let You Go by Alina C. Bing on Kindle.

Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️

The meeting with Mr. Vert hadn’t provided any safety net. Instead, it had only piled on more work.

He wasn't kidding. The next day—you had a photoshoot.

Bucky was doing his job by being there and watching everything. Everyone in the studio had lowered their guard or was taking things easy, simply because they believed he was your ‘boyfriend.’

He watched you from across the room as the team worked on your makeup, preparing you for the shoot. There was a shift in you, something subtle but noticeable. The intense, almost lifeless person he had seen this morning had slipped into a different mode—work mode. The transformation was unsettling.

After the shoot, an interview followed.

It started with condolences, the interviewer offering their empathy, but that wasn’t why they were here. They wanted the real story. They wanted to dig into your grief, make you relive it, rewind it over and over again, all for the sake of a headline.

Bucky, watching from behind the camera, folded his arms as he turned to Selena, who stood nearby with a look of quiet satisfaction—proud, like a soccer mom watching her star player.

"Do you think this is good for her?" he asked, his voice low.

Selena barely glanced at him. “She can’t grieve forever, or she’ll drown in it,” she said, arms crossed. Then she met his gaze, her tone sharp. “I know what’s best for her.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “Give her space to breathe.”

“What she needs right now is to channel her emotions into something productive. Even in grief, she can create a masterpiece.” Selena’s eyes flicked back to you, as if she were assessing an investment rather than a person. “She’s an A+ singer. Her world tour tickets always sell out. You wouldn’t understand.”

And with that, she turned on her heel and walked toward you as the interview wrapped up.

Bucky scoffed. He knew Selena didn’t like him. But it was more than that—she didn’t want to share you. Possessive manager? Was that a normal thing in the entertainment industry? He had no idea.

What he did know was that you never said no.

Not once.

Even when you were ushered into a meeting with the creative team, where all the concept designers and executives had gathered to discuss your image, Selena had been the one leading the entire discussion.

The main topic? Rebranding you.

Two hours of back-and-forth between the team, arguing over aesthetics, colors, themes—but not once did you object. Not once did you voice an opinion.

Bucky watched, feeling something twist in his gut. Even from an outsider’s perspective, some of the ideas were ridiculous. But you just sat there, nodding when expected, agreeing without question.

From his eyes, you were like a walking zombie.

This wasn’t the person he had met in Mrs. Walls’ house.

That person had fire. Stubbornness. A presence that demanded attention.

Now?

Now, you were a living doll.

And he couldn’t help but wonder—who were you?

After the meeting, you and Bucky made your way down to the lobby, where the car was already waiting.

Without a word, he walked ahead, pulling the door open for you. You slid inside, feeling drained. He shut the door before rounding the car and slipping into the driver’s seat.

Just as he reached for the ignition, a tap on the window made you turn your head.

Selena stood outside, motioning for you to lower it. You pressed the button, and the window hummed down.

“Don’t worry,” she said with a reassuring smile. “After this, you have no schedule. I’ll handle the rest for you.”

“Thank you,” you murmured.

“Go get some rest, so tomorrow—”

Before she could finish, the car lurched forward, cutting her off mid-sentence.

You gasped, instinctively gripping the seat. Then, realizing the sudden movement, you scrambled to fasten your seatbelt.

“Bucky!” you snapped, shooting him a glare.

His expression was unreadable as he kept his eyes on the road. “Do you actually agree with those changes?”

You hesitated before answering, voice quieter than before. “It’s what’s best.”

“Really?” His tone was laced with skepticism.

You exhaled a slow breath, leaning back against the seat. “I lost my identity the moment I signed the contract. They molded me into someone new.”

Bucky glanced at you briefly before returning his gaze to the road. “What, did you make a pact with the devil? Sacrifice your blood or your firstborn for fame?”

A short laugh escaped your lips. “No. Are you into conspiracy theories or something?”

He scoffed. “That’s exactly what a devil worshipper would say.”

You laughed again, but this time it was brief—just a flicker before fading into silence. Your fingers curled against your lap as you turned your gaze toward the window.

Bucky noticed the shift in your expression. The way your shoulders tensed. The way your laughter had disappeared too quickly, as if you were forcing yourself to act fine.

It was like you were forcing yourself to live.

“Do you want to let off some steam?” he asked suddenly.

You turned to him, narrowing your eyes. “Wait… do you actually care about me?”

His lips quirked slightly. “I’m already getting paid.”

Before you could respond, he switched lanes, taking an unexpected turn.

“Where are we going?” you asked, watching the unfamiliar route unfold ahead.

Bucky only smirked. “You’ll see.”

🪓🪓🪓🪓

You glanced around, taking in your surroundings. This was your first time in a place like this. The dim lighting, the scent of wood and metal, and the sharp sound of axes striking targets filled the air.

Your eyes landed on a group of people, each taking turns hurling axes at circular targets painted on thick slabs of wood. Some were laughing, others intensely focused.

Then you noticed something odd—one of the targets had a portrait pinned to it. A woman stood in front of it, gripping her axe with both hands before launching it forward. The blade embedded itself right between the eyes of whoever was in the picture.

You swallowed.

“Here you go.”

You nearly jumped out of your skin when Bucky suddenly placed an axe on the table behind you with a loud thud. Turning around, you found him standing there, arms crossed over his chest, looking smug.

“What kind of place is this?” you whispered, leaning in slightly.

He smirked. “An axe-throwing range.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” You shot him a look. “But why did you bring me here?”

His grin widened. “Just throw it, and you’ll understand.”

Before you could argue, he grabbed the axe from the table and placed it in your hands. Then he guided you toward the marked spot on the floor.

You tightened your grip on the wooden handle, feeling its weight. It wasn’t too heavy, but it definitely wasn’t light either. You squared your shoulders, adjusting your stance, but hesitation crept in.

You glanced at Bucky. He gave you a small nod as if you needed confirmation from him.

Taking a deep breath, you raised the axe over your head and threw it forward with all your strength.

Thunk!

The axe struck the target, embedding itself into the wood.

A strange sensation bubbled in your chest—something raw, something rising. It wasn’t just excitement. It was release.

You turned to Bucky, wide-eyed, and as if he had been expecting this, he silently motioned to the table beside him.

Five more axes were lined up, waiting for you.

A slow smile spread across your lips. Without hesitation, you grabbed another axe, lifted it, and threw.

Thunk!

Another.

Thunk!

Each throw felt like a weight lifting off your shoulders. Every time the blade hit its mark, a rush of energy surged through you. The frustration, the exhaustion, the numbness—it all poured out with each release.

You didn’t stop after one round. You went for a second. A third. Each time, the feeling inside you intensified.

By the time you finally stepped back, your breathing was slightly uneven, but for the first time in a long while, you felt… lighter.

Bucky watched you, tilting his head slightly. “Are you hungry?”

“Yes!” You laughed, your stomach growling as if on cue. This was the first time in a while that you actually wanted to eat—no, more than that, you wanted to eat everything.

Bucky chuckled. “Alright. Let’s get some food.”

And just like that, you followed him out, feeling something you hadn’t in a long time.

Alive.

🪓🪓🪓🪓

The two of you sat on a park bench, the cool evening air carrying the distant hum of the city. A streetlamp cast a warm glow over the wooden table where your burgers and drinks rested.

You took a big bite, savoring the smoky flavor of the grilled patty. Across from you, Bucky leaned back slightly, his fingers wrapped around his burger as he took an unhurried bite.

As you chewed, you glanced at him. “Why did you bring me to that place?”

Bucky took a sip of his cola before answering. “Because I could tell you were about to explode—like a volcano right before it erupts. You’re this close to breaking down.” He held up two fingers, barely any space between them.

You swallowed, then muttered in your head, Some of my stress is from you.

“My depression is that obvious, huh?” you said instead.

Bucky shrugged. “I also see strength in you. Even at your lowest, there’s still something left in you that keeps going.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Really?”

He nodded, gaze turning distant. “You remind me of someone I once met in prison. A hostage. He’d been locked up years before I got there. Smaller than me, weaker too, and tortured for so long… but he stayed alive because he believed—really believed—he’d be rescued one day.”

Your grip tightened around your burger. “You… you were tortured?”

Bucky smirked, but there was no humor in it. “Oops. Said too much.” He exhaled through his nose. “But yeah. Long story short—I survived. And Mrs. Walls helped me crawl out of the nightmares.”

You stared at him, your chest tightening. “Wait—your story is way more complicated than mine.”

Bucky laughed, the sound light, almost careless. Like everything that had happened to him didn’t weigh him down anymore. Like it was nothing.

But you knew better.

Without thinking, you reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. His body tensed for a split second before relaxing under your touch.

“You went through hell,” you said softly. “I’m glad you’re free. I’m glad you’re alive.”

Bucky stilled. His eyes flickered to your hand before meeting your gaze.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Then, his lips parted, and he gave a small nod.

“…Thanks.”

His voice was quieter than before. Almost like it wasn’t used to saying that word.

🪓🪓🪓🪓🪓

The Next Morning

You were in the middle of adjusting your jacket when the door to your apartment suddenly burst open.

“Are you serious right now?!”

Selena stormed in, heels clicking against the floor as she slapped a newspaper down onto the counter.

You and Bucky both turned toward her, mid-preparation to leave.

On the front page was a photo of the two of you—sitting close at the park, laughing, and looking way too comfortable with each other.

Selena crossed her arms, raising an eyebrow. “Are you sure he’s just a mere bodyguard to you?”

Bucky, unfazed, picked up the newspaper, tilting his head at the image. “Huh. Not my best angle.”

You groaned. Great. Just what you needed.

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My book Arrogant Ex-Husband and Dad, I Can't Let You Go by Alina C. Bing is FREE on Kindle for a few days. Check it out!

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