#and maybe she's been doing that for years | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

wosospacegirl · 3 days ago

Text

Youngest Putellas - platonic! reader

Summary: There was a shadow growing in the Putellas family, unnoticed, while everyone kept their attention on Alexia. Somehow, your mom's house and your city felt too small for both you and your sister.

Warnings: mentions of grief, angst, and just emotional stuff overall.

Word count: 4.5k

Info: This story is set before UEFA 2022. The reader has been in La Masia since she was a kid, went to Barça's A team but moved on loan to Real Madrid. She is about 21 here.

Your relationship with your sisters was always troubled. It was the type of relationship that was demanding, laborious even, that didn't stand on its own easily.

It had always been like that, though.

You were 7 years younger than Alexia, 5 years younger than Alba. They were always very close, always telling each other stuff, always getting each other's backs.

Alexia and Alba were the kind of sisters who exemplified what sisterhood was all about. Alba would sneak into Alexia’s bed in the middle of the night when she couldn’t sleep. She was the one Alexia turned to whenever she was struggling with friendships and didn’t know what to do

They weren't sisters. They were friends. Best friends.

You, on the other hand, always felt just like their relative.

Someone who grew up in the same house, someone who just happened to have the same parents.

But when you were younger, it was easier, somehow. You didn't notice how the two girls always seemed to read each other's minds while you were left alone, wondering what they were thinking.

You always thought it was because they were so close in age, they were going through basically the same stuff, the same growing pains.

With Alexia, it was even more difficult, and you honestly couldn't see why. You both enjoyed football, you were introverted and socially awkward in the same way, you had everything to get along, but you just didn't.

Maybe it was because you two looked so much alike.

It was hard looking at one's mirror every single day.

Your mum always tried to bring you sisters together, and it worked sometimes.

Your relationship wasn't completely bad after all, it was just challenging. It was like both parts had to work hard to create a connection that clearly wasn't there.

You, foolishly, thought that getting into the Barcelona team would make it all easier, that it would bring you and Alexia together.

But it didn't.

Actually, getting into Barcelona was one of the worst experiences you have ever had. You had worked hard through La Masia to get where you were, to be called up to team A, but you were too young.

You had talent, but you let your emotions get the best of you on the pitch. On a good day, you would shine. On a bad day, you would let the ball slip out of your feet straight to the other team's defence.

The managers always made sure to tell you how different your game style was from your sister, the captain.

"You should learn from her, Y/n," they would say as you were hydrating on a very sunny day. "She has technique, she's composed on the pitch."

"You let your emotions guide you in the worst way possible."

"Alexia always has her head and heart in the game, you just have the heart."

They weren't wrong. Your play style was very different from your sister's. Alexia was collected on the pitch, it was like nothing could shake her. You weren't like that.

"I'm not made of stones" was what you usually said.

In the end, it was easy and good criticism.

You needed to be more mature, on and outside of the pitch.

Growing up as the youngest, it was all you would hear all the time. Most families say the youngest ones are the most babied, but in the Putellas family, the youngest was the one who had to grow up fast, trying to catch up to the older ones.

On the 2020-2021 season, you had an okay year. You had good games, bad ones too, but it wasn't nearly good enough for Barcelona. You were too young, still too immature.

But your contract wasn't close to the end, and Barcelona had no intention of paying the lease of a broken contract, so they gave you an option.

Going on loan to Real Madrid or just accepting you were going to be benched for the remainder of the season.

You left the office without a proper answer.

If you went to Real Madrid, you knew it would be a pure disgrace to your culer family, especially to your sister, but if you went there, you knew you would be able to play.

Real Madrid needed a few defenders, and you were good enough for them. Your second option was staying in Barcelona and just... not playing.

The Champions League was approaching. You knew you would never get there with Real Madrid, but you knew that if you got a medal for winning the UEFA with Barcelona, it wouldn't be by your own doing. The club had made sure you knew you would get zero minutes.

When you got home, Alexia, Alba and your Mom were already at the table, waiting for you to start dinner.

Normally, Alexia would give you a ride, but you asked her to go without you. Instead, you took the metro, considering and rethinking everything that was said in the meeting room.

Everybody was talking.

Alexia didn't talk about football, she never did with Mom and Alba. Alexia always said she needed people she could talk to about things other than football. People that made her feet like she was more than just a player.

Maybe it was one of the reasons why the two of you didn't get along much. Besides football, you didn't have the same interests.

You liked music, playing instruments, mainly piano, which you learned from your Dad.

He also loved it. He tried to teach Alexia, but he would say she only had coordination with her feet, then he tried Alba, who had the talent, but didn't care to practice, and then he tried you.

Third time's the charm, he said. You had the talent and the passion. You practised with him every night after he came home from picking up Alexia from training. He would sit you on his lap and teach you Catalan songs while Alba would sit at the foot of the piano, her doll in hand, playing house while Alexia would kick the ball against the wall.

It was messy, but everybody was together, everybody with their own interests.

But then Dad died. It was 2012. Alexia was only 18, Alba 16, and you were 11.

Alba and Mom cried a lot.

Alexia and you not so much, but that didn't mean you didn't feel it in your bones. It wasn't sadness.

Sadness would be too little to express the emptiness and the numbness that took over your body from such a young age.

You didn't understand death, but when you asked your Mom or grandma about it, it seemed like they didn't understand it either.

When Alba would cry, you would be the first one to come hug her, say that Dad loved her, and that he was watching over from wherever he was.

Alexia would come second, not knowing very well how to comfort someone, but feeling the weight of being the oldest.

After Dad, Alexia became, at the same time, more distant, but still more present.

She was still at home; she didn't move out, even though she could. She was playing for the A team at Barcelona and had played for Spain as well. She chose to stay.

During one night, while you were supposed to be asleep, you heard her and Mom talk. Mom said she was overwhelmed. Alba was getting in trouble, sneaking out, talking with people she shouldn't, then she talked about you.

You were surprised at first. You had tried your hardest to be the one who didn't cause problems, knowing Mom was missing Dad a lot, but she said she missed hearing you on the piano.

You hadn't touched it since Dad passed away, months ago. It hurt to even look at it.

You didn't wait to hear Alexia, you went straight to bed.

The next day, you woke up with Alexia on your side of the bed.

She was sitting there, her Barcelona jersey on. She told you you were going to play, that she wanted to hear a few songs.

You said no. You didn't want to play for anyone who wasn't Dad.

She ignored you. She dragged you out of bed. The room you shared with Alba still pitch black. She forced you down on the piano bench.

"Play," she demanded, her voice cold, icy.

You shook your head. Why was she doing that? Didn't she know it hurt?

"Now, petita," [young sister] she said again, more harshly.

You tried to get away, but she held you back.

You started playing. Maybe if you finished it, maybe Alexia would let you go.

As you were hitting the piano keys, the same way Dad taught you, you felt the heaviness in your chest changing to something different.

It wasn't lighter, just... different.

You didn't notice you were crying until you felt the tips of your fingers wet.

Water wasn't good for the piano. Dad never let any of you near it with anything liquid.

You should stop. Take a towel and clean it, but you couldn't. The song wasn't done yet.

So you kept going. Maybe if you finished it, then Dad would make himself known to you again, maybe you would feel the love people swore he left.

People always told you Dad had gone, but that he was still here, that he left parts of himself in each of his daughters.

But you didn't see Dad when you looked in the mirror, you didn't see Dad when you looked at your sisters. He was nowhere to be seen because he wasn't here anymore.

He wasn't going to come back.

The stupid piano would be here, and he wouldn't.

When you realised you were hitting the keys with more force than intended, and Alexia was calling you, shaking you, screaming your name.

"Para ya!" [Stop it!] she shouted. Tears were streaming down her face, she was sobbing, and her face was completely red. "Para, para ya!"

You stopped at the same time Mom and Alba ran downstairs, probably having heard the screams and crying.

Mom didn't know what to do. Alexia was crying hysterically, hands on her face, while you were crying too, but it was like your fingers were glued to the piano.

You weren't playing anymore, but they were there, on the exact keys they should be on to continue the song.

On one side of the room was the youngest daughter of Eli, a kid who had just lost her father and one of her greatest passions along with it.

On the other, was the older kid, who had just turned into an adult, but was still very much her baby.

Your Mom went to Alexia, hugged her tight, telling her to breathe. Alba went in your direction, gently taking your hands off the piano while cleaning your cheeks from the tears.

Dad should be here. He would know how to make it better. He should be here. He was the missing piece. Your family wouldn't be the same without him.

You cried on Alba's shoulder, her hand patting your back as if you were a toddler who scraped her knee.

She was murmuring something about also missing Dad, that it was okay.

But it wasn't. She knew it wasn't okay, too.

The chaotic Moment only escalated when Alexia got up from the sofa, getting away from Mom's arms.

She pointed at the piano, eyes full of hatred.

"Get it away from here, throw it in the trash, I don't want it here!"

You barely had time to process.

You freed yourself from Alba’s arms before throwing the top half of your body on the piano, holding it tightly. It was cold against your naked arms, but you didn’t mind.

It was yours to keep. Your memory of Dad. The piano was Dad.

"No! You can't do that," you said in between tears, looking betrayed at both Mom and Alexia. "It's mine, it’s Dad's!"

Why were they doing that? They didn’t want Dad in the house again? How could they see the piano and not feel Dad’s comforting presence?

Didn’t Mom remember how Dad would always sing a romantic song for her on Valentine's Day? Didn’t Alba remember how Dad would play her favourite cartoon songs on the piano?

Had Alexia forgotten how Dad would always play Barcelona’s anthem for her? Had they all forgotten what the piano meant?

Maybe they did remember. Maybe it was just too much for them to look at every day.

But it wasn’t trash, they couldn’t throw it away, not without erasing Dad’s memory along with it.

"It can't be here," Alexia said between her teeth. "Dad's not here anymore, no reason to keep it."

"Girls, calm down, let's breathe," Mom said, trying to ease the situation, but it didn't work, because you and Alexia continued to argue.

You didn't remember what you said, you also couldn't remember what Alexia said.

What you did remember was how Alexia told Mom that she would move out if the piano wasn't gone.

Mom had just lost her husband, she couldn't lose her oldest kid, too. So she chose Alexia.

The piano was gone the next morning.

Now, sitting at the table, you looked to the corner of the living room, where the piano was some years ago.

You stared at it. It had nothing now, it was just a corner. Then you looked at the table, surrounded by what was left of your family.

"I'm moving to Madrid," you said, tapping at the table anxiously.

And that's when it all got so much worse.

Alexia didn't drive you to the airport; Alba did. She was smiling, but you could tell how she really felt about the whole situation; she didn't want you to go, didn't agree with it, but she understood why you were doing it.

Mom was still a mystery. The night before your flight, she helped you pack everything carefully, telling you that she was proud of you for following your own pace and for making a decision that she knew was best for your career. She filled your cheeks with kisses and tucked you in before she closed the door to your room.

The next morning, though, she prepared breakfast and cried over your eggs. You didn't say anything, just hugged her tight and told her you were going to be okay, that you were a few hours away. You were moving cities, not countries.

You had a final breakfast with your family, but you couldn't help but look up at the door, the back door everyone used instead of the front one, the door Alexia was supposed to walk through any minute because she was your sister and your captai,n and she needed to say goodbye, right?

You drank a cup of coffee and Alexia wasn't there.

You drank a second one, still no sound of Alexia's car.

When you were on your way to make the third, Mom held you hard. "She's not coming, petita."

"Oh," you said, putting your cup down. "Why? She's got training?"

Maybe she had something important. Ever since you agreed to go on a loan, Barcelona had blocked your access to the players' schedule, so you really didn't know.

Mom opened her mouth, then closed it.

You understood it right away.

Alexia wasn't coming because she didn't want to. Simple as that.

You nodded to Mom, trying to put on a brave face. She was already anxious that you were moving out to a city you'd never been in; she didn't need to know you were sad because your sister wasn't coming to say goodbye.

Your dumb, self-centred sister.

She did everything for her team, especially the youngest players, but couldn't seem to be there when you needed her the most.

You knew why, of course.

Alexia had treated it as some sort of betrayal when you told her you picked Real Madrid instead of Barcelona. You tried telling her, explaining that in Barça you were not getting any minutes as a defender, but she didn't listen.

She told you how selfish you were being, that you couldn't move away from them, that Mom and Alba would miss you—she never mentioned herself—then she talked about how idiotic you were for going to a "low-class club" that barely had won anything.

You told her to stop multiple times. Told her that you weren't asking her, you were just letting her know you were moving.

When she mentioned Dad, things escalated. She said how sad Dad would be to have one of his daughters play for a club he hated.

That was when you took your plate, still filled with food, and threw it on the floor, next to Alexia's feet. You aimed it so it wouldn't hurt her, of course. Your sister was getting on your nerves, but no need to draw blood.

You didn't remember what happened next. Alba took you to your room, Mom stayed in the kitchen, calming Alexia and cleaning everything up.

You felt bad for the plate. It was Mom's favourite.

Mom was crying as soon as you got to the gate, ready to fly. You had the plane ticket in one hand, your luggage in the other, and your backpack on your back.

Alba was holding Nala, the little family dog. If it wasn't for your mom, Nala would be the family member you would miss the most—sorry, Alba.

"I need to go," you said, smiling down at Nala and scratching her head. "I'll miss you, you behave for Mom, okay?"

Nala just looked at you, not understanding what goodbyes meant.

Alba held you tight when you went in for a hug. "Don't go all crazy in Madrid, please," she said. "I mean it, I've been twenty-one before, I know how exciting things can be."

You rolled your eyes. "I'm going there for work, not to party."

Alba giggled. "You sound just like Alexia."

She quickly realised what she had said and looked at you pitifully, whispering a small "sorry."

You waved it off before kissing Mom goodbye. "You take care of yourself," Mom said between tears. "Take a taxi and go straight to the apartment, don't talk to anyone at the airport and—"

"Mom!" you said, smiling a bit. "Calm down, it's okay, I know how to care for myself."

"You are too young," Mom murmured while fixing a string of hair that was out of place on your head. "Older kids are supposed to be the first ones moving, not the youngest... you're my baby."

"Mama, I'm not a baby."

"Don't talk to your mother like that," Mom huffed. "You always will be, you three."

Three.

Three Putellas Seguras were supposed to be here, not just two.

Then, your flight was called. You had to go now.

You gave them both another round of hugs. Parting was weird, it was like the goodbyes were never enough. In reality, they never were.

You turned around, waving at them before entering the gate and walking through the tunnel straight into the plane.

When you sat in your seat—window seat, yay—you checked your phone one last time before the flight took off.

There were some messages, some from friends and players at Barcelona, telling you to enjoy and make the best out of this moment.

Another one from Alba, a selfie with her, Mom and Nala saying "Mom's saying she misses you already."

But the one that got your attention was written under the name of Ale.

"Text me when you land. Don't trust those Madristas."

You smiled at the message because, of course, Alexia was paranoid.

But she was also telling you to be safe. It was the closest Alexia could get to "I love you."

Still, you didn’t answer.

Alexia was still going to be Alexia, no matter what place in the world you would move to. She was cold, but warm when she wanted to be. She cared a lot, so much that she couldn't push herself to show it. Felt so much about everything, but still, decided to keep everything to herself.

That was who Alexia was. And it was hurting you.

You hurt her, too, you knew that. Maybe because you reminded her of Dad, maybe because the similarities between you two were too noticeable.

You weren't sure. Maybe you would never know.

Still, you wished your sister were here to say goodbye.

You sighed as you put on your earphones as the flight took off.

When you got to Madrid a few hours later, you felt like you had just opened a new chapter in your life. This was the place to make a difference for yourself, away from your sister's shadow.

Barcelona was her city. Madrid was yours now, even though you had just set foot in it. You would make it your place. You'd always felt like Barcelona wasn't quite right for you.

The memory of your dad–and the version of your family you should’ve had–always haunted those streets

Madrid was still pure of any of your sins. You had never played football on these streets. Never sneaked out to a party here. Alba had never taken you to get a tattoo hidden from Mom. Alexia had never taken you drinking on your 18th birthday here.

You were the only Putellas in Madrid. Maybe you didn't quite know what that meant, but it mattered. Somehow it did.

You were good enough to text Mom that you had gotten off the flight safely, and that you were already sprawled on the floor of your new apartment.

Mom called right away, demanding to video call so you could show her the apartment, which you did.

On the screen, the only faces were those of your Mom and Alba. It seemed like Alexia had decided not to show up at Mom’s at all that day.

You decided to ignore it. While also keeping in mind that you had yet to text her that you had landed... well, maybe mom already told her.

You showed Mom and Alba your apartment. It was small, just one room, one bathroom, a kitchen and a living room. It was in an apartment complex for players, so you had already met a few of your teammates.

They seemed nice, not any of those weird stories Alexia had told you about them being snakes. Maybe Alexia had taken to heart all of those stories Dad told when they were younger. Dad was the most culer of them all, after all.

The next day, you got your training kit and were asked to see if everything fitted so they could take a few pictures of you for media day.

As soon as you put on the Real Madrid jersey, you cried.

You thought about calling Mom, or Alba, even Alexia, but you didn't.

You chose to move away, which meant dealing with things on your own.

That badge felt wrong on you, the colour white looked horrible on your skin, and the whole situation felt off.

What were you doing? Wearing these colours? Defending another team? Maybe Alexia was right, maybe Dad was very upset right now, maybe this wasn't the life he had envisioned for you.

But what was the life he expected of you? Being a benchwarmer in Barcelona? Being compared to your sister all the time? La Reina of Barcelona?

You didn't know what was expected of you. You also didn't know what you wanted. You thought you wanted to come to Madrid, but now the decision felt exactly as Alexia said it was—stupid.

Okay, everything was fine, actually, you thought to yourself as you were being guided into Real Madrid's training grounds. It looked nice and modern. You were scared of how it was going to look. You knew Real Madrid didn’t exactly prioritise investing in the women’s team.

You did some pictures and a lot of videos for their Instagram. In a matter of days, everybody knew that you went on loan. You had read the comments, people saying it was shocking to see a Putellas in white, others congratulating you for taking this difficult step.

You did some training on the pitch with the other girls. Their training was more focused on the individual players rather than on the team, which you thought was weird, but hey, who were you to say anything?

When you lay down to sleep that night, you texted Mom to let her know how everything was. It felt good to listen to her voice.

"How are you, petita?"

"I'm okay, Mom," you said. You weren't telling her that you cried your eyes out a few days ago because you couldn't make pasta the same way she did. "And you? How's Alba... Alexia?"

"I'm good, just missing my petita," your mom said, sadly. "But your sisters are being good to me. Alba has been taking me to pilates, Alexia always comes home after training to watch TV with me."

"I'm glad, Mama," you answered. "You should focus a bit on yourself now, you spent almost thirty years taking care of us."

"I like taking care of my girls," she said, "but enough of that, how's training? Have you made any good friends?"

The way mom said it, it looked like she was asking if you had anyone to share your lunch with during recess.

"Yes, Mama, I've been getting close to Teresa," you said. "She's nice, she lives in the complex too, she's showing me around Madrid."

"Oh, that makes me so happy!" Mom said. "You keep focusing on yourself, bebita, focus on your football, on your friends, I want you to feel good."

"I'm working on that, Mama," you said. "I need to go now, but I'll call you tomorrow!"

"One thing before we say goodbye, petita," Mom said. "Have you been calling your sister? I know you call Alba, but what about Ale?"

Not that conversation again. Since you moved to Madrid a few weeks ago, Mom had been prying about you and Alexia's relationship, asking if you had been talking. You knew she was asking that of you and not Alexia because you were way more open than Alexia could ever be.

"We talk, Mom," you lied. "Don't stress over us, okay? We love each other."

At least you hoped Alexia loved you.

Mom sighed. "Just... call her more often. She told me she misses giving you rides to training."

And with that, Mom ended the call, and you were left wondering.

Alexia absolutely hated to give you rides. She said it messed up with her morning routine, that you ate breakfast too slowly, that you always slammed her car's door, even though you didn't.

Maybe it was because Alexia didn't really express her feelings, maybe it was because you couldn't fathom someone missing you.

Still, it sat there, aching in a corner of your chest.

a/n: "El Cant dels Ocells" (The Song of the Birds) is a famous Catalan song. It's very pretty, you guys should listen to it!! <3 -> I don't know where the idea of this fic came from. I'm reading some books where the author just writes whatever in their character's mind, so I tried to do this here. That's why the reader sounds so messy and confused, because she is haha. -> Also, I plan to write more about the reader's story. I know she'll end up in Arsenal at some point (I want to write something about Alexia and the reader against each other in the UEFA final hehe, but we'll see where we go.

#woso x reader #woso fanfic #alexia putellas fanfic #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas x sister!reader #alexia puttelas x platonic reader #woso x platonic!reader

705 notes · View notes

ilovemilestellersmoustache · 3 days ago

Text

Letters I Couldn’t Send

Bob Reynolds x Thunderbolts!reader

Summary: Bob's been feeling lonely in between missions especially when Y/n isn’t there to occupy his mind, so he decides to try therapy. There it's suggested he writes his feelings out. But what happens when the letters get out to her?

WC:4.3K

A/N: Well his definitely couldn’t of had a much more satisfying ending but in outta ideas guys please send me suggestions

⸻

It started with the silence.

Not the battlefield kind, Bob could handle that. That noise had a rhythm, a reason. The thunder of explosions, the sharp crack of gunfire, the barking of orders over comms, it all had a place. It meant something. Chaos with a cause.

But the silence in between missions?

That was different. That was the kind that lingered like smoke, curling around his ribs, felt like a question he didn’t know how to answer.

The team had shipped out again. Another international crisis. Another mess the Thunderbolts had been sent to clean up. This time it was Seoul, some subterranean weapons lab under the city that had to be neutralized before things got out of control. A high-risk, high-stakes mission.

Bob hadn’t been cleared to go.

He never fought the orders. Not anymore. There were a few missions within the year he was able to go, but not after what happened the last time he’d pushed it. He knew better. When the possibility of unleashing the Void even whispered into the room, the protocols snapped into place like a cage around him.

Stand by.

Stay ready.

Do not deploy unless sanctioned.

Those words, cold and clinical, had carved themselves into the soft tissue of his brain. And so he stayed behind. As always.

And now… now it was just him, alone in the tower. The rest of the team was who knows where, halfway across the world, running through smoke and fire. Maybe Ava was phasing through walls. Maybe Yelena was laughing in that sharp, unbothered way as she cracked someone’s ribs. Maybe Bucky was gritting his teeth through another close call. He could almost see it all. Feel it.

Meanwhile, he sat in a worn-out hoodie on the rec room couch, staring at the flickering screen of a movie he didn’t remember choosing. The credits had rolled five minutes ago, but he hadn’t moved. Didn’t blink. Just sat there in that electric stillness, his coffee long gone cold in his hand, the cup sweating against his palm.

That silence was the worst kind. The absence. The hollowness.

On good days, Y/N was there to fill it. Her laugh, her voice, her presence, it was like light through a cracked door. Just enough to remind him that the darkness wasn’t total. That he wasn’t always a ticking time bomb. That sometimes, someone saw him as more than the Void’s vessel. That someone could love him anyway.

But she was on the Seoul mission, too.

And without her…

It was like something had been scooped out of him and never put back. The walls felt closer. The silence had teeth now, and it bit every time he looked.

He didn’t blame the team. Of course he didn’t. It wasn’t their fault he couldn’t be trusted, not really. The risk was real. He knew it. They followed orders. They didn’t write them. Still, knowing that didn’t stop the isolation from curling around him like smoke, quiet, creeping, inescapable.

He tried to distract himself. He worked out until his muscles screamed, then showered in water too hot to be comfortable. He tried reading but couldn’t focus past the same three sentences. The TV offered its flashing noise, but none of it landed. Everything felt… detached. Like he was watching the world through glass.

Three days.

Seventy two hours of radio silence, punctuated by brief check-ins from mission control.

No voices he wanted to hear.

No knock on his door.

No trace of her.

On the third night, long after the bunker had gone still and the movie had long since ended, Bob sat there with the remote loosely clutched in his fingers and the cold coffee in his other hand, staring at the black screen that reflected only a faint, distorted version of himself.

He looked haunted.

He felt haunted.

And not by ghosts, exactly. Not even by the Void, though that shadow was always somewhere at the edge of his vision. No, this was something worse. Something smaller, but deeper.

The ache of being forgotten.

The ache of still being here, when the world kept turning without him.

His throat worked around a dry swallow. He hated how dramatic he sounded, even inside his own head. He was alive. Safe. Fed. Sheltered.

But he was also invisible.

And for the first time in a long time, Bob Reynolds thought, not about the darkness, not about the power sleeping beneath his skin but about something gentler. Something simpler.

Maybe I should talk to someone.

Not about the Void. That would come with too many complications.

Not even about the past stories or the weight of being left behind.

Just… about being alone.

About what it did to him.

About feeling like a ghost in his own skin.

And maybe, just maybe, if he said it out loud…

It wouldn’t feel so permanent.

⸻

The therapist’s name was Dr. Madani.

Mid-forties, calm eyes, no nonsense. She wore neutral colors and practical shoes, and her voice had the kind of steadiness that made you believe she wouldn’t flinch even if the walls started to bleed. That first session, Bob had waited for the telltale sign, disbelief, discomfort, judgment when he told her exactly why he was there.

That he was part of the New Avengers?That he had powers that could level cities if he lost focus? That sometimes, he wasn’t allowed to leave the country, not because he’d done something wrong, but because if he got too emotional, reality itself might tear open like wet paper.

She didn’t blink. Didn’t ask him to repeat it. Just nodded once and scribbled something calmly into her notebook.

That was a good sign.

Better than good. It was rare.

So he kept coming back.

Once a week. Tuesday mornings. Early, before the rest of the compound stirred too much. He liked it that way, quiet halls, empty coffee pots, sunlight just beginning to filter through reinforced windows. He sat on the same couch every time, hands braced on his knees, sometimes talking, sometimes not. Dr. Madani never pushed. She asked questions like she was handing him a flashlight, not leading him anywhere he didn’t want to go.

And slowly, very slowly, the words started to come. About the silence. About the guilt of being spared from missions he wanted to join. About feeling like his existence was always something to be managed, measured, mitigated. Not lived.

He didn’t tell anyone at first.

Not because it was a secret.

It just felt… personal. Sacred, even. Like something he needed to protect. A small part of himself that hadn’t yet been cracked open by the Void.

But eventually, people noticed.

It started in little ways. He was a bit more grounded. A bit less like he might disintegrate if someone looked at him too long. A bit more… here.

Yelena was the first to say anything.

She poked him in the arm one afternoon after training and gave him a once over, lips pursed. “Therapy?” she asked, like it was a codeword.

Bob blinked. “Uh… yeah.”

“Good.” she said with a sharp nod. “Maybe now you won’t look like you’ve seen a ghost every morning.”

Then she grinned, wide and wolfish, and wandered off before he could respond.

John, never one for subtlety, clapped him on the back so hard Bob nearly dropped his water bottle. “You’re seeing someone?” he asked, then immediately corrected himself. “Like a therapist someone?”

“Yeah.”

“Figured, couldn’t be a woman.”

Bucky in the background expression shifted into something more sober. “Good man. Wish I’d started sooner. Might’ve saved myself a couple bad years.”

Bob wasn’t sure how to respond, so he just nodded. They didn’t have to say it all out loud. Not every wound needed to be unpacked in public.

Alexei found out next. Over breakfast. The Russian looked up from a plate piled with bacon and muttered, “Ah, Westerners. Always with the talking.” in that deep, sardonic tone of his.

But it came with a rare approving nod. One of those subtle things Alexei did when he didn’t want to make a big deal out of being proud of someone.

Ava didn’t say much. She never did.

But one evening in the corridor, she passed him on the way to her room, paused, and met his eyes. No smile. Just a shared, quiet understanding. A nod of solidarity from one ghost to another.

And then there was you.

You found out by accident, really caught the tail end of a conversation between Bob and Dr. Madani over the phone as he tried to reschedule a session after dinner ran long. You didn’t press. Didn’t joke, didn’t pry.

Just waited until the next time the two of you were alone, in the stillness of his quarters where the air always smelled faintly like cedar and coffee, and said, gently.

“I heard… you’ve been talking to someone.”

Bob stiffened, a little embarrassed. He opened his mouth to downplay it, but you stepped in before he could.

“I’m proud of you.” you said.

Simple. Quiet. Honest.

And that-

That undid something in him.

Like a thread pulled loose from a tightly woven net, a quiet unraveling that wasn’t painful, just… necessary. The tension in his chest gave way to something warmer. Softer. Real.

He looked at you, really looked, and saw the sincerity in your eyes. No pity. No worry.

Just love. Just you.

His voice caught in his throat, but he didn’t need to speak.

You knew.

You always knew.

And in that moment, for the first time in months, Bob Reynolds felt less like a walking disaster waiting to happen… and more like a man becoming whole.

⸻

Session 9

Topic: You.

He hadn’t walked in planning to talk about you.

That morning had been like the others, gray sky, stale coffee, muscles sore from a workout he barely remembered doing.

Bob had come in wanting to talk about anything else.

But somewhere between describing the chaos in his life and feeling alone and how he’d locked himself in the tower for twenty hours afterward just to feel again, you slipped in.

You always did. Eventually.

“She’s different.” he said quietly, almost without thinking. “Y/N, I mean.”

Dr. Madani didn’t flinch. She never did. Just tilted her head the way she always did when something important passed between the lines.

“How so?”

Bob stared at the ceiling for a long moment, fingers laced together in his lap. “She doesn’t look at me like I’m going to break.”

“Who does?”

“Everyone.” he said. And it wasn’t bitter. It wasn’t even angry. It was just true.

Dr. Madani nodded slowly, absorbing that.

“But she doesn’t.” he continued. “She doesn’t tiptoe around me. Doesn’t treat me like glass. When she talks to me, it’s like��” He paused, struggling for the right shape of the thought. “It’s like I’m me. Not Sen- Not a broken man. Not whatever nightmare people think I could become.”

“You trust her.”

That landed like a stone dropped into still water.

He nodded. “Completely.”

Dr. Madani leaned forward, just slightly. Her tone softened, but there was steel beneath it. “Do you have feelings for her?”

He hesitated.

Not out of denial, but out of reverence. As if the truth might shatter something sacred.

Then he breathed out and said, “Yeah. I think I love her.”

The words changed the air in the room. Denser. Heavier. Not oppressive, but real. Like the truth had settled onto the couch next to him, folding its hands neatly in its lap.

He didn’t look at her when he said it. He looked at the floor, where his boots had tracked a bit of mud in from the rain. It felt safer, somehow, than meeting anyone’s eyes while admitting that.

Dr. Madani’s voice cut gently through the silence. “So why haven’t you told her?”

Bob stared, long and slow.

“I don’t know how to explain it.” he said. “She sees the real me. The part I don’t show anyone. And I think if I try to have more… if I try to touch that kind of happiness…” He swallowed hard. “I’ll ruin it. I’ll ruin her.”

“You’re afraid.”

He didn’t argue. Just stared at his hands, watching how they trembled ever so slightly.

“Yeah.”

For a long moment, there was only the soft ticking of the office clock.

Then Dr. Madani leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on her knees. “Try this.” she said. “Write it down. Letters. Say what you want to say to her but don’t give them to her. Not yet. Keep them for yourself. Get the words out of your head.”

He looked up, brow furrowed.

“Even if you never show her?” he asked.

“Even then.” she replied. “Letting love exist on the page is still better than letting fear keep it caged.”

He didn’t say anything, but the thought rooted in his chest, somewhere between his heartbeat and the Void.

That night, when the tower was quiet again and everyone was asleep, he sat at his desk under the soft buzz of the overhead lamp, a pen between his fingers and an untouched notebook in front of him.

For a while, he just stared.

Then, finally, he wrote:

Y/N,

You don’t know this but when I hear your voice, the noise in my head quiets. The shadows settle. The Void gets smaller. I think that means something.

I think you saved me before I even knew I needed saving.

He stopped there.

Closed the notebook.

And for the first time in a long time, Bob went to bed feeling like something in him had been released.

⸻

Letter One

Not Sent.

Y/N,

You asked me once casually, like it was nothing, what the Void feels like.

I gave you the easy answer. Told you it was a black hole. And that’s true. It is. It’s gravity and hunger and noise. It’s this constant ache just under my skin, like I’m being pulled in two directions toward destruction, and away from myself.

But I didn’t tell you the rest. Not really.

The Void isn’t just darkness. It’s absence. Of peace. Of quiet. Of being seen. It’s like standing in the middle of a screaming crowd where every voice is my own, shouting all the worst things I’ve ever believed about myself.

And then there’s you.

When you talk to me even just in passing, about dumb things like who drank the last cup of coffee or how Ava pretends not to like that dumb soap opera you got her into the noise changes. It doesn’t vanish, not completely. But it dulls. It backs off, like it knows it doesn’t belong in the room when you’re in it.

You make the world quieter, Y/N.

You make me quieter.

And I think that’s what love is.

Not fireworks. Not grand declarations. Just… a quieting. A calming. Someone who makes all the chaos feel like it has somewhere to go.

You do that for me.

And maybe I’ll never say this out loud, not the way I should but I need somewhere to put the truth.

So here it is.

I think I’m in love with you.

⸻

He wrote after therapy.

After the sessions where he’d dig through the wreckage of his mind and come back with shards too sharp to hold. After days when Dr. Madani asked gentle, pointed questions that left him raw and humming with things he didn’t know how to say out loud.

He wrote after bad dreams, when the Void swallowed cities behind his eyelids, when he woke up choking on screams that never left his throat. He wrote because it was the only way to drain the darkness out before it rooted deeper.

And sometimes, he wrote after the softest moments. The ones that shouldn’t have meant anything.

Like watching you twirl a pen between your fingers during a mission briefing, utterly focused and unaware.

Like the way your brow furrowed when you were reading intel too fast.

Like the time your laugh, real, unguarded, echoed off the walls of the living room at 1 a.m. because Yelena told a joke so bad it looped back to being good.

Those moments lodged themselves in him like stars against an obsidian sky. They glowed when everything else went dark.

He wrote because he couldn’t tell you.

He wrote because he wanted to.

Because his hands could say what his mouth never would.

The letters piled up.

Neatly folded, tucked into the back of a weather-worn notebook no one ever touched.

No signature. No dates. Just page after page of aching clarity.

He didn’t need to claim them. They were all his.

All you.

Sometimes they were two sentences.

Sometimes five pages.

Sometimes just a line that repeated over and over again until the ink smudged:

Please don’t ever leave.

They weren’t meant for the light.

Weren’t meant to be found.

They were a quiet kind of survival. A confession without consequence.

But even as they sat hidden in the dark, they were something real.

Like the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching.

Like the way he never said goodbye, only “Be safe.”

Like the silence that always followed after you left a room.

⸻

Then they were gone.

It only took one careless moment.

Late one night after training, the team had drifted into the bunker kitchen like ghosts, sweaty, half-laughing, bruised from sparring but wired from adrenaline. Yelena, still in her tank top and boots, ducked into the storage lockers for her secret stash of Russian chocolate.

Bob’s locker was just below hers. She nudged it with her foot, just to balance herself, and something shifted.

A low thud. Then a soft, papery sound like wings.

A field manual slipped out and landed on the concrete floor, its spine cracked from age and use.

“Oops.” she muttered, bending to grab it.

But when she reached down, her fingers brushed not one, but several loose pages, creased and tucked between the manual’s back cover and its binding. They scattered like leaves. Maybe a dozen. Maybe more.

She picked one up without thinking. Eyes skimmed.

Then stopped.

The words weren’t tactical notes. Not mission logs.

They were intimate.

You asked me once what the Void feels like…

Her stomach dropped.

Another page.

When you laugh or look at me like I’m just Bob, it’s like the noise goes quiet…

Her breath caught. She looked over her shoulder, eyes wide, then back at the paper in her hand like it had burned her.

This wasn’t a journal.

These were letters.

To Y/N.

Without waiting, she grabbed a few more pages, reading faster now, pieces of the same heartbreak pulled out of hiding:

Sometimes I don’t know if I want you to know how deep this goes. If you knew… you’d leave. Or worse, you’d stay, and it would break you.

I would never forgive myself for making you carry this weight, too.

I think you make me want to be something more than just a weapon.

Yelena stood frozen, heart pounding.

Footsteps padded in from the hallway. John, towel slung over his shoulder, drinking water from a bottle. “You find your chocolate or what?”

She didn’t answer. Just looked at him, eyes dark and unreadable.

Then she held up the pages like evidence.

“Guys…” she said, voice steady but soft. “You need to see this.”

Within minutes, the small living room was quiet. Too quiet.

John sat with one knee bouncing anxiously, flipping a page with careful fingers.

Ava stood against the wall, arms crossed, reading one of the shorter ones three times over and saying nothing.

Alexei muttered something under his breath in Russian that no one asked him to translate.

But it was Y/N’s arrival that shifted the air.

You walked in fresh from a shower, towel around your shoulders, hair still damp, laughing at something on your phone.

Then you stopped.

They were all looking at you.

And on the table in front of them, you saw the unmistakable handwriting you’d seen on Bob’s grocery lists, his mission notes, the corner of your birthday card this year.

And your name.

Over.

And over.

And over again.

The letters weren’t signed.

They didn’t need to be.

⸻

The team sat around the table. Quiet.

The kind of quiet that wasn’t natural for them. No joking, no casual bickering. Just the kind that settled in like fog before something heavy fell.

Yelena had spread the letters out like puzzle pieces, some wrinkled, some barely touched. All fragile in their own way.

“This is about Y/N.” she said, voice low but certain. “All of it.”

Ava, slow and careful, picked one up. Her eyes scanned it with that clinical precision she used when reading threat assessments. Only this time, her features softened.

“It’s him.” she said. “It’s Bob.”

John leaned back, frowning. He tapped a page with the back of his knuckle. “No shit sherlock.”

The second your eyes fell on the handwriting, tight, slightly slanted, every ‘t’ crossed with a deliberate flick you knew.

Because you’d seen it scribbled across mission logs, smudged onto napkins from midnight meals. Because once, during a stakeout in Argentina, you’d fallen asleep beside him and woke to find your name written in the corner of his notebook over and over like he was trying to memorize it.

Because only Bob would write something like:

You make the monsters quiet.

And suddenly it felt like the ground beneath you shifted. Not in a way that knocked you over. But in that slow, undeniable way earthquakes start, quiet and deep and unstoppable.

You stepped forward, hand hovering over the letters like they were sacred. Your eyes flitted across half-finished thoughts, tear-stained lines, pages where he’d scratched something out only to rewrite it again a few lines down.

I watch you brush your hair behind your ear, and it’s like watching sunlight bend.

If I were braver, I’d tell you. But I think if I did, something inside me might unravel for good.

You are the only silence I’ve ever trusted.

The breath caught in your throat.

You didn’t cry. Not yet.

But your fingers curled slightly, like you were gripping onto air to stay steady.

Yelena watched you carefully, saying nothing for once.

No one spoke. No one moved.

The room belonged to you now. You, and the weight of what he’d kept hidden.

All those nights Bob had stayed behind while the rest of you flew into chaos. All the long silences. The soft, watchful way he looked at you when he thought you wouldn’t notice. The way his voice always softened when he said your name.

It was never nothing.

And now, it was everything.

⸻

You found him on the roof.

Of course you did.

It was the only place he ever went when the bunker walls started closing in, when the weight of what he was, what he carried, got too heavy to breathe through. Up there, the night sky was endless and forgiving, and no one asked him to be a hero or a ghost. Just a man.

The wind tugged at your sleeves as you stepped beside him, silent at first.

He was sitting near the ledge, knees pulled up, hands clasped tightly between them like a boy waiting for punishment or a prayer to be answered.

You stood there for a long moment before you spoke.

“I found the letters.” you said softly.

His head jerked slightly. “What? I mean- what letters, I-“

But the panic in his voice was already giving him away.

He flinched, shoulders curling inward. “They weren’t supposed to get out, you weren’t supposed to see that-“

“I know.”

Silence again. The wind whistled low between the buildings below, a distant car horn echoing like it belonged in another life. He still didn’t look at you. His jaw tightened, and you could see the twitch in the muscle near his temple, an old tic from when he was trying not to fall apart.

“I was scared.” he said eventually, voice raw. “Not of you. Of what I’d do to something good.”

He swallowed hard. “You’re good.”

You sat next to him. Not touching, yet. Just close enough that the heat from your shoulder brushed his.

“So are you.” you said.

He let out a broken laugh. Shaky. Bitter.

“That’s not true.”

“It is to me.”

And that’s when he looked at you. Really looked.

Not the sidelong glances in mission briefings. Not the half-second stares when he thought you were asleep on the couch. This was different.

This was Bob, stripped bare.

And what you saw was everything, the fear he’d never quite shaken, the hope he’d buried under layers of self-control, and the longing so sharp it cleaved straight through the air between you.

“I’m not perfect.” he whispered. Like it was a confession. A warning. A truth he thought might send you running.

“Neither am I.” you replied gently. “But I still choose you.”

He blinked, and his whole body seemed to tilt toward you, like he didn’t quite believe the weight of what you’d just said. Like he didn’t dare.

“But the Void-”

“Isn’t all of you,” you cut in.

“But it could be-”

“And if it ever is.” you said, voice steady now, “I’ll be there. I’m not afraid of the dark, Bob. I just don’t want you to live in it alone.”

The breath he let out was half a sob.

He turned away, just slightly, as if giving himself a second to pull the world back into place but he didn’t move far. And when you reached out and slid your fingers over his, he let you.

Just like that.

A quiet surrender.

A beginning.

You sat there together until the sky turned navy and the stars blinked on, one by one. No grand declaration. Just being. And a passionate overdue kiss that’s been waiting to happen

Because love, real love isn’t always loud.

Sometimes, it’s just two people on a rooftop, holding hands in the dark.

⸻

Letter Twenty-One. Sent.

Y/N,

You told me once that I wasn’t alone. I didn’t believe you then. But I do now. Because you saw me when I didn’t want to be seen, and you stayed.

I love you. In every version of me. Even the ones I haven’t met yet.

Always,

Bob

⸻

592 notes · View notes

trainer-from-unova · 2 days ago

Text

summer of love

Ⓢ english ao3 Ⓢ spanish ao3 Ⓢ masterlist Ⓢ

ship: robert reynolds x afab!reader

summary: it's summer and bob's birthday is around the corner so the new avengers convinced val to give them a weekend to celebrate his birthday party at the beach. because of your feelings and your strong friendship with him you're the one who organised everything and the one who gifted him more gifts, and one of those gifts it's helping him lose his virginity

au: for plot reasons bob goes to missions but I didn't specify whether he uses his powers to any extent or as a soldier trained by the others

c/w: road and weekend trip, beach and pool episode vibes (from an ecchi anime lmao), topless at the beach, domestic fluff, birthday party, alcohol, drinking games / questions, birthday sex, unsafe piv sex, bob has an oral fixation, biting, nipple play and licking, cunnilingus, face-sitting, masturbation, gentle and rough kissing, virgin!bob, submissive!bob, needy!bob, horny thoughts, praise kink, edging, dacryphilia I guess, multiple orgasms, orgasm control, creampie, friends to lovers, friendship so strong between them that they can joke and laugh during foreplay, third pov, use of y/n (like a lot)

a/n: virgin!bob and face-sitting was a request, and needy and nervous submissive!bob was another one, so I decided to mix them with my ideas: beach episode and birthday party / sex. I don't have experience writing (nor reading) virgin men nor face-sitting nor submissive men / dominant women soooo I tried my best and hope you all like it, also english isn't my first language and for more notes and tags check ao3

word count: 9290

Bob's birthday was around the corner, and pretending they had forgotten to surprise him wasn't an option. ______ knew firsthand how important birthdays were — a before and after, a new beginning. And it wasn't just a celebration of getting a year older, it was a celebration of staying alive. Bob's birthdays (and those of anyone on the team) may not have been joyous in the past, but now he had a family that was glad to have him to celebrate them with.

______ had organised everything weeks in advance, and she was so excited it almost felt like her birthday, but she couldn't help it because she was in love with him. After a lot of begging they managed to get a weekend off all at once, and since it was summer they decided to rent a mansion in the Hamptons on the beachfront for a change of scenery, celebrate Bob's birthday and relax on the beach. Also, since they would probably need them to get around, they decided to go in cars even though going by helicopter or private jet would be faster: ______, Bob, Yelena and Fanny went in one and Bucky, Ava, John and Alexei in another, listening and singing along to the Spotify playlist they all shared, with songs they had all chosen and sometimes also played in the tower while training or doing other things. After about four hours of driving they arrived at the address, were greeted by the owner and took the suitcases out of the cars.

"Be careful with this one, please," ______ asked Bucky as he took one of her suitcases from the boot of the car she'd been in, parked in the courtyard while Bob and the others explored the inside of the mansion. They were probably on the first floor, choosing their bedrooms.

"There's no physiological need to bring so much stuff," said John, nonchalantly hefting some suitcases over his shoulders as they all made their way to the open door to go inside.

"Most of them are presents for Bob," she said in a whisper, slightly embarrassed.

"What did you get him?" asked Alexei, also carrying suitcases on his shoulders.

"The question is, what didn't she buy him?" said Bucky, carrying the suitcase she had indicated as if it was a princess in his arms.

"A little bit of everything, really... I may have overdone it a bit, yeah..."

Maybe then Bob would feel in a bind, wanting to pay her back when it was her birthday, but when it came to thinking and buying the presents she felt they weren't enough, especially considering that being an Avenger she now had plenty of money to spare.

But inside some suitcases she had a lot of snacks, drinks and even ingredients (and Yelena had obviously taken Fanny's feed as well). So they wouldn't have to waste time shopping there, she would make the cake there too, and so as not to waste time cooking they would order food and go to restaurants.

It was around six o'clock on Friday evening when everyone was settled, suitcases unpacked and everything in place, so it was time to start baking the cake, and considering it was a summer Friday the sooner they ordered the better as the food was sure to take a long time to arrive.

"And I'll have a pepperoni pizza," Yelena said finally while Bucky wrote down everything in his mobile phone notes, so that Alexei, who was the one who was going to order by his phone, wouldn't forget anything.

They were all around the kitchen island, and upon hearing his daughter's order Alexei nodded and withdrew with his mobile in one hand and Bucky's mobile in the other to make the call more calmly. Bucky went behind him in case the screen of the mobile was blocked, to unlock it with his fingerprint.

"So who's going to help me bake the cake?" asked ______ as she opened the fridge. There were basic things, like milk and water, that the landlady left for her guests or that others had left before them, so luckily there was no need to go out shopping to make it.

"Me," said Yelena as she went to the drawers in search of utensils.

"And me," said John as he went in search of the aprons where the landlady had said they were.

"Cake?" asked Bob. "Really?" he asked resignedly, since he'd had that conversation with her before and didn't think he needed to repeat it, but deep down he was glad that she was paying so much attention to him for several reasons, among them and above all because he was in love with her. Deep down he couldn't help but smile, a smile that he passed on to the organiser.

"Are you seriously asking me if I'm really going to bake you a cake for your birthday?" She asked the same question as she slammed the fridge shut, holding a huge brick of milk in her hands.

"I said I didn't need to," Bob said as she set the milk down on the counter, next to the utensils Yelena was pulling out of the drawers.

"Shhhh, shut up," she said putting the index finger of her dominant hand in front of her lips as she laughed.

"It's not a proper birthday party if there's no cake, is it?" Ava asked, surveying the scene hunched over the counter while John pulled on an apron.

"If you don't eat the rest of us will eat for you, don't worry," John said half-jokingly but half-seriously as he handed aprons to the girls.

"Yeah, especially him," Ava said to Bob referring to John, since John and the others (including him, even though he was playing hard to get with the cake) were eating like crazy because of their serums.

"Well, then let me help too," said Bob.

"You're the birthday boy, you can't help make the cake," said Yelena as she tied her apron.

"Exactly!" exclaimed ______. "Go to the beach, enjoy yourself," she said to Bob. "Take him," she said to Ava while pointing to the open door towards the beach, and seeing Alexei and Bucky approaching again, she asked them. "Take him."

"Come on, let's go change," Bucky said to Bob, putting his arm around him to walk him towards the stairs. Bob craned his neck to look at ______ resigned but laughing, and she looked at him the same way. Ava and Alexei followed behind them, apart from Alexei reporting that the pizzas would take almost two hours to arrive.

They stood there preparing the cake with a recipe that ______ had saved on her mobile phone, and then the others went downstairs in their swimming costumes with towels in their hands to go to the beach. They decided to make two to make the most of the ingredients, so they wouldn't have to return with them to Manhattan or leave them there, and also so that none (of the men) would go hungry. Luckily it didn't take long, and she and John were left to decorate one of the cakes while Yelena took Fanny for a walk. When they finished they put them in the fridge and then went upstairs to change clothes to go to the beach with the others during the golden hour. When the pizzas arrived they had a picnic dinner on the sand while they watched the sunset overlooking the ocean.

"Can we have cake?" asked Alexei as they packed up and headed into the house for the night.

"The cake is for tomorrow," answered Yelena as they started walking across the sand to the mansion.

"He's not going to blow out the candles" said ______ referring to the birthday boy, in the same position as Yelena, "with the cake in pieces."

"But there are two," reminded Bucky. The truth is, like Alexei, he too wanted to try the cake for once.

"What if I'm in the mood now, too?" asked Bob, trying his luck as he joked, "Can't I even do it?"

"You said you didn't want to," she said playing along in the same tone.

"I said you needn't bother to do it."

"Ohhhh," she exclaimed smiling sideways. "Well... If you want to," she added resignedly. "Only if Bob gives you permission," she said to the others, "they're his cakes."

And then they all looked at Bob, and he gave his approval. They ate the cake they didn't decorate and watched a film of Bob's choice, and then Yelena walked Fanny one last time and they went to bed, because it was still a working day and they had got up early that morning.

The next morning they woke up early as usual, even if they didn't have their alarms set. Their bodies were used to waking up at a certain time, but this way they could take the opportunity to go to the beach early and get a good spot on the shore. Everyone congratulated and hugged Bob on seeing him, Yelena took Fanny for a walk, and Alexei and Bucky went to buy alcohol and more snacks.

It was still early and the day was going to get better in ways he could only imagine in his wettest daydreams, but for the moment the best gift Bob got was the sight of _______ in her bikini. And then, as they settled into their chosen spot on the sand, she took off her bikini top to apply sunscreen to her breasts, as she intended to sunbathe but didn't want to get the bikini mark on her skin or get sunburnt. Part of him didn't want to look, or at least he didn't want to be noticed looking (particularly by her), but he couldn't stop even if he tried — if he didn't look at her bare breasts then his eyes went to her inner thighs. For better or worse John nudged him as he applied sunscreen as well, getting his attention — for a moment he thought he had been inadvertently hit as he rubbed the cream into his skin, but seeing his facial expression he realised it was a predetermined act. With the look he gave him, along with a little smirk, he didn't need telepathy to know what he was thinking. "Look carefully, man." Bucky caught his eye too, he looked the same as John, but he offered him a pair of sunglasses. He knew he wasn't just offering them so the sun wouldn't bother him.

"Thank you," he whispered, embarrassed and blushing as he took them and put them on.

"Aren't you guys going to put sunscreen on?" Ava asked as she put some on as well, looking at Alexei and Bob.

"I want to get a tan," Alexei replied as Ava asked John to help her put it on her back.

"What you're going to do is get burned," Yelena said as she approached him with her jar of cream in hand. "You can also get tanned by putting cream on your back. That's what we do."

While Yelena helped her father cream his back and John did the same with Ava, and correctly assuming that it was only a matter of seconds before ______ asked someone to help her cream her back, Bucky went to the shore with the excuse of testing the water temperature so that the only option at that moment was Bob. He also assumed correctly that even if they didn't know he had done it on purpose they would be grateful with him.

"Can you help me, please?" she said looking at Bob, offering him the cream.

"Uh- Yeah, sure," he replied approaching her, taking the jar in his hand as she turned her back to him.

He poured a good dollop of cream into the palm of his dominant hand, and for a moment he didn't know what to do, or rather where to touch first. If it were up to him he would pull her closer to him, hug her from behind and put his hands on her breasts while spreading her thighs with his leg, but he had to settle for rubbing the cream gently over her back. Good thing he was wearing his sunglasses, and especially good thing she he was on her back, because he couldn't stop staring at how well his hand was gliding down her bare back, from her shoulders to dangerously close to where the only article of clothing she wore was.

"What about you?" asked ______, wondering why he didn't intend to cream himself. "What's your excuse?"

"I have the feeling that the sun can't burn me anymore," he answered.

"But what if it does?" Ava asked.

"The burns are very uncomfortable and painful," said John, "being from Florida you should know better."

"And I'm sure Valentina won't discharge you two for it," said Yelena, including her father.

"You don't lose anything by putting cream on you," said John, "let ______ help you putting it on your back."

Now it was time for them both to be grateful to them, and it was also time for her to rub cream on his back, so when he said he had finished (unfortunately for him, for if it had been up to him he would have been touching her for longer) he handed her back the cream and they changed positions. Even if it was only on his back he loved the feel of her hands on him, and she loved sliding them over his muscles even more.

"It's cold," Bucky warned as he climbed out of the water when he saw Bob approaching the shore.

"Just what I need," he replied as he mindlessly waded into the ocean.

"Yeah," said Bucky, laughing, "it's too hot."

"Thank you again," he said as he turned to watch him walk away to where the others were, and he held up the fist and thumb of his flesh hand.

They spent most of the day there, drinking beers and eating snacks and pizzas from the day before, which they heated up in a moment in the house's oven and microwave. It was in the middle of the afternoon that they went back inside, to wash up and get ready for dinner at a nearby burger restaurant, since that was Bob's favourite food (and if they ordered it out, it was impossible for it to arrive hot and for them to reheat it themselves).

They would have dessert at home, which was the cake that was decorated with a heart and his name, and on it two candles in the shape of the numbers of the years he was celebrating, stuck like the arrow shot by Cupid that he had in his.

Being sung Happy Birthday made him a little nervous, but to him and everyone else because what are you supposed to do during it? Besides all the attention, but at least it was genuine attention from people who did love and care about him, and he was very grateful to have them in his life. He loved them all dearly, but he had a favourite.

"Don't forget to make a wish!" she reminded him, grinning from ear to ear as she recorded it on her mobile phone. He looked at her smiling, then blew out the candles as everyone cheered and clapped.

When everyone went to get their presents he was surprised to see her appear with a pile of presents in her arms, she could hardly fit them and was careful not to drop any of them on the floor.

"Why did you buy me so many?" he asked as he watched her leave them on the table where he was sitting, also confused.

"Oh and wait," said Alexei, "there's more on the first floor."

"I don't know," she laughed nervously and blushed slightly as she unstacked the pile on the table, "I felt there weren't enough of them and I didn't really know what to get you, so I felt that the more I got you the more chances you'd like one of them. Hold on a second," she said holding up the index finger of her dominant hand, "I'll be right back," she said as she turned to head for the stairs to get the remaining ones.

"We're going to be here for half an hour," Ava said half jokingly and half seriously after Bob had opened everyone else's presents first, when it was time to open ______'s presents. Already the table and floor was littered with torn wrapping paper.

"Sorry," she said embarrassed, "you don't need to be here if you don't want to be, so take your drinks out to the swimming pool."

They may not have realised that the other was reciprocating their feelings, but everyone else knew it — it was obvious to the outside eye and they knew that they would rather be alone if possible, even if it was for something like opening presents. Still they all looked confusedly at each other and at Bob, seeking his approval.

"Yeah, no problem guys," he replied.

"Okay," Yelena replied.

And he opened each gift with her sitting next to him, telling her in detail why she had bought him that particular gift, why she thought he would like it or find it useful. He listened delightedly, marvelling at how well she knew him and enjoying her attention and affection.

"It's amazing- You're amazing, I don't know how I can ever repay you for all this."

"Oh don't worry," she said shyly, ducking her eyes to take a quick glance at the two small gifts on her thighs.

Among all the gifts, torn paper and the tablecloth had been easy to hide. She wanted those gifts to be the last ones because they were the most personal. It was a letter and some friendship bracelets that she had made herself, and surprisingly she was more embarrassed to give him the bracelet than the letter, because even though she had written him a cheesy letter it wasn't a romantic declaration of love (although she thought about it, but she didn't feel quite sure and didn't want to steal his protagonism on his birthday).

"Okay, the one I'm going to give you now is the penultimate one... It's stupid, you don't have to wear it if you don't want to for some reason, it's silly, but..." she shrugged, and he obviously realised how nervous she was and wanted to calm her down.

"Don't worry, I'm sure I'll love it," she smiled apologetically as well as warmly, and then took his bracelet and raised both fists, making him have to choose. He touched her left fist with the index finger of his right hand and opened it, revealing an empty palm. Then she hid her hands again and did the same a couple more times, not opening her hand even if he got it right. "Oh come on," he laughed.

"Okay, okay," she laughed. "Here you go," she said opening her fist where she had his bracelet, also taking hers on her thighs with her free hand at the same time. "They're friendship bracelets," she said as he took the one she offered him and as she showed him hers.

"Ohhh! It's so cool!" he said as he looked at his, and he wasn't lying or exaggerating. "Let's see yours?" and she held it up to him so he could get a better look. They were both beaded bracelets of various shapes and colours, but Bob's had his name in beads of various shades of yellow and blue and hers had her name in other colours. "What if... I wear yours and you wear mine? I think that makes more sense," he said shyly as he shrugged his shoulders, "so we'll always be there for each other."

"Oh," she said without thinking as the proposition took her by surprise, but she loved the fact that he wanted to wear a bracelet with her name on it and she wanted to wear one with his on it, "yeah, of course," she replied enthusiastically, and they exchanged bracelets and put them on. Bob's was a little big on her, and his was a little small on her, but it was bearable.

"I've never had anything like this done to me before," he confessed with a touch of tenderness as he looked at the bracelet on his wrist.

"I'm glad I'm the first," she said with a smile on her face as she looked at him.

"Really, thank you so much," he thanked her now as he looked at her in the same way he looked at the bracelet on hia wrist, "for everything- Wait- You said it was the second to last one."

"Yeah... It's another cheesy one," she said as she took the envelope on her thighs and handed it to him. "But I don't want you to open this now," she said as he took it.

"Oh come on," he said slightly annoyed again and disappointed as he was looking forward to seeing what it was.

"It's embarrassing," she replied.

"Well... Okay."

"Come on," she said as she stood up and picked up the wrapping paper lying around to roll it into a ball and throw it in the bin, "let's go to the swimming pool with these."

"Well, all right," he said resignedly, and helped her pack up. They took his gifts up to his bedroom, put on their swimming costumes and went downstairs with the others. "Look what ______ made me," he said showing off the bracelet as they approached the others, sitting on sofas and armchairs in the courtyard.

"Ohhh," exclaimed Yelena, "it's very cute."

"In theory he was supposed to wear one with his name on it," she said showing the one she was wearing, "but he thought of swapping them," which surprised no one.

"Probably my favourite- of her presents," the birthday boy quickly clarified, not wanting to make them feel bad, "I still have one left to open."

The swimming pool was bright thanks to the lights and warm from all the sunlight that had hit it throughout the day, but even so, since it wasn't so hot anymore because it was night time, the swim wasn't so pleasant, so between that and the fact that they felt like drinking again, they didn't last long in there. When they had dried off with their towels they sat down again on the sofas and armchairs, this time all of them, and started drinking and chatting. But there comes a point when you run out of topics of conversation, especially considering that they literally do everything together as co-workers and housemates, so they started to play drinking games, asking each other personal questions. At this point it was John's turn to ask Bob.

"Mmm... I don't know," he said as he tried to think of a question. "I don't know," he said with a shrug, "body count?" he said not particularly interested in the answer, it was obviously the first thing that popped into his mind and he settled for it.

"Um... I don't keep count..." he answered shyly, and completely gained everyone's attention, but especially ______'s, who jealously clutched the cup she was holding in her hand tighter without realising it.

"Really?" asked Bucky in surprise.

"Are you a fuckboy?" asked Alexei as ______ raised the cup in her hand to her lips. "And when?" he asked in surprise as they used to keep Bob under control in every way and he didn't get out of the tower much. They didn't generally visualise him being obsessed with girls.

"Wait, fuckboy?" asked the birthday boy in confusion. "I thought you meant assassinations on missions," he said looking at his blond male friend.

"What? No!" said John, "I meant how many people you've fucked."

"Oh, well... None, or at least that I remember," he replied, surprisingly calmer than when he said he didn't keep track (of the murders), but still a bit shy about telling something so sexually intimate (in front of the girl he was in love with), and then, hearing that answer, ______ couldn't help but cough and spit some drink out of her mouth, stealing the attention from Bob and deciding to spit the drink into the soil of a flowerpot she was standing next to.

"I'm sorry," she said, looking totally embarrassed, "it went the other way," and she wasn't partly lying.

They spent some more time there but went to bed early, or at least to lock themselves in their bedrooms. Bob was anxious to open the envelope ______ had given him, and he opened it sitting on his bed by the light of one of the little lamps on the bedside tables beside. When he saw that it was a letter (quite long) he lay down to read it quietly.

By the middle of the letter his eyes were watering, and by the end tears were running down his sides and into his ears, and he wept with joy as he read how much she appreciated him. He read it three times, and even if it wasn't a romantic love letter (although it was rather ambiguous), it was in fact a love letter through and through. He couldn't believe his luck, that day and in general. He had (almost) everything he wanted, and he couldn't wait to express his gratitude, so he put the letter aside and reached for his mobile phone under his pillow.

Bob: You're probably asleep and you'll see this tomorrow

Bob: But I just read your letter

Bob: And I want to thank you

Bob: Right now

Bob: I'm speechless

Bob: If I loved you less maybe I could talk about it more

Bob: I mean

Bob: I'm not implying that you love me less for all that you've written me

Bob: On the contrary!

Bob: Look, I don't know

Bob: You know me

Bob: And I'm really glad you're in my life too

Bob: I wish I could hug you right now

Bob: I love you too

Bob: I love you very much

Bob: Although I feel that those three words alone are not enough to express how much I love you

Bob: Maybe I should write you a letter too

And then he thought that maybe he was already saying too much — he was too emotional and like everyone else he let his guard down emotionally at night (but he couldn't blame it on the alcohol he had drunk earlier, because thanks to the serum it didn't affect him anymore). He wanted to delete the last two messages, but unfortunately it was not possible in that app. And to make matters worse, he saw the "Seen". Instantly he dropped the phone as if it was burning in his hands, leaving it on the mattress and putting his hands to his mouth as he did when he saw John fall down the lift shaft the day he met them. When he saw "Typing..." he quickly removed his hands from his mouth to exit their chat room at the same speed, seeing the messages in the notification bar.

______: I'm glad you liked it

______: 🥹🥹🥹🥹

______: I want my hug 😤

______: Right now!!!!

______: I'm going to your room

______: Give me 30 seconds

He wasn't expecting that, but he wouldn't complain either because it was just what he wanted: to see her, to hug her, to feel her. He quickly wiped his tears and got out of bed and headed for the door, trying to calm down and act as if nothing had happened, and just as she had indicated in the message, in thirty seconds she was there, tapping twice on the door. He opened it and there she was, wearing only a huge shirt (with clearly nothing underneath holding her breasts in place) and a huge smile that infected him. Then she took a few steps forward into the room and closer to him, standing on her tiptoes as he curled up to embrace her once and for all.

"I love you so much," he whispered in her ear, trying not to sound too romantic or desperate, though it didn't really help the way he was holding her: wrapping his arms around her as if his life was at stake, gently yet tightly.

"I love you too," she said tenderly, hugging his bare chest in the same way. He was only wearing a swimming costume because it was clearly hot, but instead of the balcony being open, it was all closed up and the ceiling fan was on full blast.

"Did I wake you up?" he asked worriedly when they parted.

"No, I had my mobile on silent mode and it's impossible for me to fall asleep so quickly, besides I'm not sleepy yet."

"Me too, actually."

And the same idea came up in both of their minds, only she was quicker to formulate it.

"Can I stay here for a while?"

"Sure," he replied as he stepped aside to let her pass, and as she went into the room he closed the door.

"Did you have a good time today?" she asked as she climbed into bed, taking the liberty of lying on her side.

He couldn't help noticing how the pose emphasised her curves and the folds of her shirt.

"Isn't it obvious?" he asked as she did the same in the same position.

"I want to hear it coming out of your mouth," she answered with a smile, and as usual she spread it to him.

"I had a great time today, thank you very much."

"Cool. Thanks to you."

"Thanks to me for what?" he asked with a laugh.

"For existing, I don't know," she replied shyly as she laughed and shrugged her shoulders.

He knew that at that particular moment she wasn't thanking him for not killing himself in the past, but he knew that in general she was, and that made him happy. Looking at her with tenderness and with his eyes starting to water again another idea popped into his mind, and he dared to formulate it.

"Can you hug me again?"

"Sure," she replied, "come here," she said as she stood up a little to make herself comfortable. Seeing that he didn't really know how to stand she decided to help him with directions. "Put your head on my arm," she said, referring to the arm she (and seconds later he) was using as a pillow. He did as she instructed, bending his right arm and resting his hand on her arm, and shyly placing his left hand on her waist. "Come closer," she said as she did as she had just indicated him, pulling her neck closer to his face and entwining their legs a little.

"Aren't you hot?" he asked, mingling concern with confusion, unintentionally tickling her neck with his voice. That question caused one of her eyebrows and the corners of her lips to rise.

"What do you mean?" she asked now with a small smirk on her lips.

"Because I'm too hot."

"Don't worry," she said as she began to run her fingers through the strands of his hair with the hand on the arm she was using as their pillow, causing the birthday boy to relax, closing his eyes and feeling even happier and calmer.

It wasn't awkward or uncomfortable, few things were between them. They were great friends and she was generally a loving person in every way, she hugged him often and they had no problem telling each other that they loved each other despite being in love with each other, but this was the first time they had cuddled like this, late at night and almost naked.

"Bob," she said after a few minutes in comfortable silence.

"Mm?"

"I have... one last present for you," he broke away from her, so that she could see his confused expression and look at her as she spoke. "You can refuse if you don't want to."

"What is it?" he asked, getting more and more confused.

"Sex," she replied. The idea had been on her mind for a little while, but she hadn't had enough alcohol to show complete bravery or make the idea seem crazy the next morning, so her nerves got the better of her as she was brought back to her senses by her friend's surprised facial expression. "I mean- For a moment I thought it would be a good idea because I assumed you'd want to lose it for good and that you'd feel more comfortable doing it with a friend, but seriously," she said nervously, "if you don't want to, it's fine and I understand, no hard feelings."

"Are you sure?" he asked surprised and confused. He was happy too, but it seemed like he was living a dream, and if he really was, he'd rather not wake up.

"Yeah."

"But do you really want to fuck me?"

"Uh- Yeah Bob," she answered, blushing and holding back a nervous laugh.

"Why?"

"Because you're really hot, honestly," or not quite, because she still didn't dare to confess that it was also because she was in love with him, and this wouldn't be a good time to do it if she dared. At that moment she could make the excuse that she just wanted to help a friend having sex with him without having to risk her feelings not being reciprocated, which was partly true, but not entirely. "And because I want to help you and make you happy."

"You don't mind that I'm inexperienced?"

"Of course not," she said confidently, placing the palm of her right hand on his cheek. "In fact," she said, smiling and blushing, "I'm glad to have the chance to be the first," she said stroking his cheek with her thumb. "It means you won't forget me."

"I'm going to need your help...." He said, and instantly felt her rub her knee against his cock, which began to harden as he cuddled with her. "A-And.... I don't know if I can last long..." He said nervously and ridiculously excited, it was already showing in his voice and breathing.

"It's okay honey," she said smiling warmly as she brushed his hair out of his face, "don't worry."

You could say that kissing was like signing the agreement, getting down to business. It was she who moved closer to him, leaning in and breaking what little space there was between them. She didn't know if she was his first kiss too, but she liked to think she was, it made her feel even more special. She took pity on him kissing him slowly, and he played along until they started to get hotter and hotter. Although he moaned as much or maybe even more than she did to her surprise he wasn't a bad kisser, maybe it was beginner's luck.

"Do you want to do it with the light off or on?" She asked with bated breath as they broke apart for lack of air.

"On, I want to see you," he dared to answer in the same state, which brought a smile to her face.

Then she told him to sit on the edge of the bed, getting up to take off her panties and then her shirt in front of him, who watched her in astonishment.

"Aren't you going to undress?" she said pointing to his swimming costume with a clear erection as she approached him, raising an eyebrow and smiling playfully.

"Oh, right," he said nervously as he stood up and pulled down his swimming costume, dropping it to the floor and releasing his erection. Now the only thing they had on were their bracelets, and obviously he felt her eyes on his crotch, her eyes went there as his eyes went to hers and her breasts again.

"Good size."

"Really?"

"Yeah, it's perfect," she said to flatter and soothe him (but she wasn't lying) as she moved closer to him, standing on tiptoe and putting her hand back on his cheek and the other on his shoulder, motioning for him to lean in for another kiss, this time more sweetly than passionately. "And all for me," she said before kissing him.

Then she motioned for him to sit on the edge of the bed with his legs spread, and he complied, resting his hands behind him. He assumed she would sit on top of his cock, but he shuddered all the same as he felt her sit on his right thigh as they settled in, feeling her wet lips on his skin and her thigh rubbing against his cock in the same way her hard nipples rubbed against his muscular torso. And then, as if that wasn't enough, she began to rub herself against him as she gave him a hickey on his neck and brought her hand to his cock. He tensed unconsciously as he felt her hand wrap around it, and she slowly but firmly stroked up and down and then down and up.

"Oh God-," he moaned without thinking, his breath hitching and his voice trembling. After a pause to try to get used to the sensation he asked, "W-What do I do?"

"Nothing right now, just relax, okay? Let me know if you feel like you're going to cum," she said as she moved to his lips to kiss him again, this time more passionately than before.

He whimpered as his voice choked in a sloppy, hungry kiss. His desperation was palpable, his cock was hot and throbbing. He whimpered at the slightest caress on it and on his thigh, adding some nonsense when their lips were parted, apart from watching hypnotised how her hand move.

Her left hand clung to his right shoulder and wrapped around his back like a normal hug, and he also wrapped his right arm around her waist. Her breath hitched as he did as she slid more and more easily up his thigh as she became wetter and wetter. Also, as she kissed him, she increased the speed of her hand even more as their arousal grew, until he groaned and told her he was close.

"That was... incredible," he said, his breath coming in ragged gasps, resting his forehead against hers.

"Well, it's only just begun," she replied, laughing softly as she stroked his chin with her fingers. "Tell me something you've always wanted to do, some kink you have, I'll fulfill it."

"Uh- I don't know..." He said hesitantly as he pulled away from her, resting his hands shyly on her waist.

"Oh come on, everyone has kinks, and it probably doesn't scare me," she said in an attempt to calm him down. "I don't judge either."

"I'm a little ashamed to say it..." he said shyly.

"I'm not afraid to do a footjo-"

"What!?" he asked confused and surprised, but laughing at the same time. "No, it's not that! Why do you think it's that!?"

"Fuck, isn't it?" she asked surprised but also holding back her laughter as she put her hand to her mouth to cover it.

"No, why do you think that?" he asked again, now desperate to know the answer as he laughed.

"It's like- the most common weird fetish among men," she replied as she shrugged, still with her hand in front of her mouth trying to hide her laughter. "But don't change the subject and tell me, come ooon," she said putting her hands on his shoulders and trying to shake him.

"Okay," he said trying to sound more serious, "but please don't laugh."

"Okay," she replied, and when she was silent she made direct eye contact with him, but her lips were trembling as she tried to hold in her laughter. It felt like when at school the teacher said that the next person who laughed would be punished, you tried to be serious but you'd look at your friend holding in your laughter and it was all fucked up, but this time Bob was both the teacher and friend. "If I laugh it's not because of that!" She hastened to add in her defence as she laughed, her laughter rubbing off on him as he dropped his back onto the mattress. At least thanks to that moment he was already calmer, both emotionally and sexually.

He stretched out an arm to grab a pillow and put it over part of his face. She could see him giggling, but as the smile faded, she, still sitting on his thigh, knew he was getting ready to confess what he wanted to do to her, or rather, what he wanted her to do to him.

"I want you to sit on my face and ride it."

"Oh," she exclaimed, trying to hide her astonishment as she hadn't expected that, but she didn't dislike the idea either, "interesting. Is that why you put the pillow over your face?" She dared to joke, "To get used?"

"Have mercy on me, please," he said as he laughed, half joking and half serious.

"I will," she said more seriously now as she settled herself, sitting on his waist and leaning forward to pull the pillow away from his face, "no problem," she said resting her hands on his shoulders, nodding and with an encouraging smile that she wanted him to see. "And it's nothing to be ashamed of or weird, a lot of men like that too," she said quietly.

"I'm beginning to worry that you know so much about men's kinks," he said again half joking and half serious.

"I had some curious experiences, yeah... But who hasn't?" she asked without thinking.

He. He didn't have any, and when she realised what she had said, which fortunately was quick, she put her hand quickly to her mouth again.

"Fuck- Sorry," she said embarrassed.

"It's all right," he said laughing resignedly as he rubbed his forehead with his fingers.

"So... Are you sure you want to?"

"Yeah, I'm sure."

"You're going to find it hard to breathe..." she warned.

"It's not like you can kill me."

"That's fair," she said smiling sideways, "all right then," she said leaning down to give him a short but sweet kiss on the lips. "But warn me if you need to stop, okay?" she said as she pulled away from him to change positions, and he nodded.

She was honestly embarrassed to find herself putting her knees to the side of his head and settling down to bring her pussy closer to his face, it was the first time she had ever done such a thing, but she was glad to experience what she was experiencing and to be able to say that in a way he had been her first time too.

But she didn't want to sit down dropping her weight — she was afraid of hurting him with her weight, though she knew that (as well as choking him) was impossible. She made eye contact with his pleading eyes, eyes that were so kind to her that they soothed her, and at the same time also excited her. And all he could see was her, but mostly he only had eyes for her.

He swallowed, taking a deep breath as she slowly sat on his face, slowly adding more and more weight until she was completely on top of him. He began to fuck her with his tongue, straining to move his tongue quickly and do his best. The instant she felt that along with the tip of his nose against her already sensitive clit she moaned and clutched at his scalp, partly for stability as she began to rub herself against him.

The moans of one excited the other, although his could barely be heard as he was crushing the lower half of her face with her pussy. Nothing but the moans of both and the sounds of his tongue licking inside him filled the bedroom (along with the ceiling fan, the only witness in there to what they were doing and which was doing nothing to quench the heat they were feeling). That made her move harder and faster against him, and the more she rubbed his nose against her clit. She felt a little guilty because she knew he couldn't breathe, but she also knew she had nothing to worry about thanks to his powers. And she was close, feeling hotter and hotter inside her, and she desperately rolled her hips on him, showing him no mercy in that regard.

With her head thrown back, her lips parted as she moaned, she arched her back and clenched her toes as the heat building in her belly surged down her body, and she unconsciously tried to pull away from him through the spasms of pleasure she felt in her clitoris. Bob held her thighs tightly in his hands, large palms that shyly and slowly slid to her buttocks, squeezing them needily when they reached them.

When she pulled away from him he felt her orgasm slide down her entrance and drip into his mouth, and then she lay defeated beside him as he wiped his face with his right arm.

"So did I do well?" He asked anxiously for the answer, turning his neck to watch her catch her breath at the same time he did, but with his eyes closed. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah yeah," she moaned, still with her eyes closed, not noticing that his eyes were fixed on her breasts. "And you? Are you all right?" She asked as she opened them and craned her neck, moving her arm towards him for physical contact.

"Oh yeah," he replied with bated breath, nodding his head. "Better than ever, thank you," he said laughing nervously and blushing.

"You're welcome," she replied also laughing. She had to laugh, the situation was surreal but she was loving it.

"Um- Can I touch your tits...?" he asked shyly, trying to look her in the eyes and trying to avoid looking at them, but failing in the attempt.

"Touch anywhere you want honey, I'm all yours," she said smirking. "Come here," she indicated with her index finger, and he obeyed putting his knees at her sides and sitting on her, careful not to drop his full weight so as not to hurt her. Trembling he brought his hands to them, at last touching what he had wanted to touch all day and for months.

"Oh God," he said in awe, his breath hitching as he squeezed them, "they're so soft... And so beautiful..." he said mesmerised as he leaned down to get much closer to them, and as an idea popped into his mind he looked up, "Can I suck them...?"

She didn't even answer, she just grabbed him by the back of the head with her dominant hand and put his face in them. He rubbed his face against them and in the cleavage, and then, while squeezing one he did everything with the nipple of the other: kissing, biting and pulling, licking and sucking... — not necessarily in that order, he just did what he felt without thinking, moving from one action to another when he got tired of one, and the same from one tit to the other. Now that he had the chance to touch her exactly where he wanted to he wasn't going to waste it.

"Bob..." she moaned as she lifted his chin, wanting to get his attention and make him look at her. Their hungry gazes connected, even though his hair was falling messily down his face and saliva was running down his chin. "Kiss me," and as usual he obeyed, and their lips met again, as did their saliva and tongues. "What else do you want me to do?" She asked when they broke apart for lack of air.

"Fuck me, ride me," he begged, "please," he said as he pulled back from her and lay down on the bed.

He watched nervously but anxiously as she settled down on top of him and took hold of his cock to finally push it slowly inside her. Bob really wanted to see his cock disappear inside her, he had daydreamed about it many times, but the instant he felt its tip enter her wet entrance he had to throw his head back, whimpering and clutching at the mattress as if his life depended on it, clutching even tighter and panting with every inch he entered her.

"Are you okay my love?" She asked as she sat fully on top of him, not because of the weight but because of his condition. Bob's was a little big on her, and she was a little small on her, but it was bearable. She knew he could handle it, but she wanted to make sure.

"Yeah-" he moaned, loosening his grip on the mattress.

"Yeah," she said smirking, "you look very good..." she said as she scanned his muscular abdomen, the same one she'd longed to touch in the morning as she placed her hands on his lower half.

"Oh fuck-!" he moaned as he felt her start to move, and even if it was slow he gripped the mattress tightly again as she held the index finger of her dominant hand in front of her lips where she had a playful smile, meaning that it was better if the others didn't hear them. "Fuck- Sorry- But you feel- God-"

"Don't be sorry," she said still smiling in the same way, "I love to hear you like this," she said as she grabbed his hands and put them on her waist. "Touch me like you're creaming me again," and he obeyed trying to do his best while trying to stay sane and silent, watching in front of him her tits with his saliva traces and his hands sliding up and down and up and down, from her tits to her buttocks.

"Fuck- You feel so good-" he moaned, trying to keep it to a whisper. "Both inside and out... I-I don't think I'm going to last long..."

"Not yet honey, come on," she moaned, "you can do it, I know you can. Do it for me, okay?" she pouted as she wiggled. "Be a good boy and cum when I tell you to."

"P-Please..." he whimpered, tightening his grip on her buttocks. It was definitely going to leave marks, but she wouldn't complain and would wear every bruise and scratch like badges of honour.

"Wait, I assure you, it's better to cum at the same time."

Surprisingly he obeyed again. She thought that by picking up the pace he would cum instantly, but he endured it well, and clearly let him know it by saying that he was taking her very good. Luckily for him she didn't have long to go before she was at the same point as he was — it seemed like his cock was made for her, and to be honest, it was making her too hot to see how he was on the verge of tears as he felt so much pleasure thanks to her.

Hearing her moan his name between compliments as they made eye contact while bouncing on top of him was the last straw, literally. He closed his eyes and bit his lip, thinking it would stop the sobbing, the moaning, and above all the orgasm coming out of him, but it was no use. He didn't have time to warn her, but neither did she. The sensation of her wet walls pulsing around him, just as his cock throbbed inside her as he filled her was too much. Unconsciously, as he felt both his body and hers go into spasms he gripped her waist tightly again as when she was on top of his face.

There was no turning back now, she could proclaim his virginity and what was the best orgasm of his life. Although he knew it would feel better than using his hand he didn't imagine it would feel that good. He was thankful he was lying down, because he ended up exhausted (although he guessed correctly that he would soon recover all his energy, also thanks to the serum). And he wasn't the only one, but she still slowly rocked her hips back and forth, wanting to enjoy him until the last few seconds before she was separated from him.

"God," he sighed, "that was... wonderful," he said as he let go of her hips and she stood up, pulling away from him, "thank you so much. Uh- Did you have fun?" he said as he craned his neck to watch her, watching as she sat in the gap between his legs and let out his semen mingled with other fluids.

"Bob, I've cum twice," she said pointing to her entrance, and as he heard her answer and saw all that came out of her he blushed, but most of all he felt happy and proud of himself, "what do you think?" she asked smirking, a smile that infected him.

"I wanted to make sure," he answered as she approached him awkwardly, her knees giving out from riding him so much one way or the other.

"But you didn't cum when I told you to," she said as she dropped down beside him, laying on her side as she was at first.

"Did you? I think you were more busy cumming on my cock," he said as he got into the same position as her, and the instant she heard that she gasped and had to hold a laugh at the same time.

"How dare you...!?" she asked totally surprised. "I'll have to punish you for double," she said playing along.

"Whenever you want," he said, and they both leaned in for a kiss, short but sweet as their smiles relaxed. "Can I ask you a question?"

"You already are."

He would take that as a "Yes".

"Um... Your letter is very romantic, and always but especially this weekend you've been very... attentive and affectionate with me," seeing where he was going the young woman's face became more serious, "and I was wondering if... you're in love with me, because sometimes I get that feeling but sometimes I also think I'm delusional..."

"What makes you doubt that? Apart from the obvious," she said referring to his low self-esteem due to his depression and traumas.

"I remember a few months ago I said I liked short skirts and soon you started wearing a lot of them, but it could also be because it was getting hot," he said smiling nervously but hopefully, and now he was the one who spread the smile to her.

"It was because of you," she laughed defeatedly, nodding slightly with her eyes closed. She could no longer escape or deny it, but after what they had done she felt hopeful and it wasn't a bad time to confess it once and for all. "It's all because of you, Bob," she said as she opened them, looking up at him with a tender gaze.

"You make me the happiest man in the world," he said grinning from ear to ear as he rose to get on top of her, kissing her face full of kisses as she giggled with a blush. "I love you."

"I love you too," she said as she laughed and placed her hands on his cheeks before kissing him again.

"I can't believe the candles' wish came true so fast," she said as she put her hands on his shoulders.

"Was it me?" she asked surprised but happy.

"Yeah, you — to have you all to myself once for all."

post credit scene:

"Hey, now that I think about it, what kinks do you have?" Bob asked when the room was quiet and dark after taking a cold shower, trying to sleep once and for all.

"Good night my love," she replied with a laugh.

429 notes · View notes

brookghaib-blog · 20 hours ago

Text

The quiet things that remain - II

Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x reader

Summary: Bob and Y/N used to be the best of friends, he went to Malaysia to be better, only to leave her just with a ghost in the past and unresponded messages and calls. And return, but never to her. Never to the love she didn't had the courage to announce.

Word count: 10,1k

Warning: angst, depreesive thoughts, unrequited love, stalking, drug addiction

chapter I

The room in the Watchtower was quiet. Not the kind of quiet that brought peace — no, it was the other kind. The kind that echoed. That clawed at your ears and made every breath feel too loud, too alive. Bob sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, palms over his face, trying to hold in thoughts that had long since stopped asking permission to haunt him.

His thumb brushed something in his pocket, and his heart sank the way it always did when he remembered it was still there. He pulled it out — crumpled a little at the edges now, creased right through the middle from being folded and unfolded too many times.

It was a picture.

Their picture.

Prom night.

God, she looked beautiful. Not in the way people tossed that word around casually. Not like the glittering girls who bought their dresses a year early and posted rehearsed photos. No, her beauty was the quiet kind — the kind that struck him like lightning when she smiled, like she didn’t know she was doing it, like it just slipped out of her without warning. That night she wore this soft blue dress that barely fit right because they had bought it from a second-hand store, and her hair had been curled by her neighbor’s niece for free. But she was his.

And he — he was the guy in the too-big suit with a tie that Y/N had to fix twice. The guy who had dropped out months before, barely scraping by on gigs, sleeping in someone else’s garage most nights. He hadn’t been invited to prom, not really. He wasn’t part of that world anymore. But he had asked her. Not because she wouldn’t get an invitation — although, he knew she probably wouldn’t. Not because he pitied her, not even for a second.

But because he had wanted to. Before anyone else could see what he saw. Before someone could try to swoop in and act like they knew how to treat her better. He asked before it all changed. Before the Void got stronger. Before he started unraveling.

He remembered the way they danced — stiff, awkward, swaying in place while others moved around them with practiced ease. He had stepped on her toes so many times she just laughed and kicked his shin in retaliation. And he laughed, too. And for those few hours, he felt worthy.

But that was a long time ago. A lifetime ago.

When he went to Malaysia, it wasn’t because he had an adventurous spirit or some soul-searching excuse to make it noble. He went because he was a coward. Because every day in the States was a mirror to everything he had destroyed. Especially her.

She had held him through the worst nights. Nights when he was vomiting into buckets, shaking, crying, begging something he couldn’t name to just end it. She had held his face in her hands and whispered, “You’re not a monster, Bob. You’re sick, not broken.”

But he was broken.

And she wasted everything. Thousands of dollars in bail money. Rent money she didn’t have. Grocery runs that somehow always included his favorite cereal, even if it meant she’d only eat canned soup for the week. She gave him her bed when he had nowhere to crash. Washed blood out of his shirts when he’d get in fights. Hid his stash when he said he wanted to get clean. And when he failed, she still made him tea and said maybe tomorrow would be better.

He remembered one night, when she had worked a double shift and still came home to find him passed out in the hallway outside her apartment door. She dragged his half-conscious body inside and cried while she bandaged the new cuts on his knuckles.

That was love. That was her. And he let her drown.

No — worse. He pulled her under with him.

And still, she had smiled for the prom photo. Still, she had leaned her head on his shoulder like he was someone worth leaning on.

He wiped a thumb gently across the image of her face.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispered to the picture, to the room, to the version of her that existed in the only place he could still hold her — memory.

Bob leaned back against the wall, eyes stinging, his chest tight with something unspoken. She could have had everything. College. A home. A future. But instead, she got him. And all he gave her in return was pain, fear, and an apology that never seemed enough.

The world saw the Sentry — a glowing god with impossible strength. But Bob? Bob saw a coward in a chicken suit who used to spin signs for cash and couldn’t even dance. A boy who ran to another continent because he was too ashamed to be seen by the only person who ever really looked at him.

And now he lived in a tower in the sky, surrounded by people who respected his power but would never understand his shame.

All he wanted — more than redemption, more than recognition — was to go back to that night. To that version of himself that hadn’t yet failed her. To hear the music again. To dance — even if badly — and know she was in his arms.

Because he hadn’t asked her to prom to fix her. He asked her because for one night, he didn’t want to feel like a mistake. And she had made that possible.

She had always made the impossible feel possible.

And he had walked away.

And now all he had left was a worn-out photo and the haunting question he would never stop asking himself:

What if I’d stayed?

God, he loved her. He loved her like a man dying of thirst in a desert, stumbling toward a mirage he knew wasn’t real but couldn’t stop chasing. He had always loved her. From the first time she rolled her eyes at his terrible attempt to fix a coffee machine, to the night she fell asleep on his shoulder during a movie marathon they couldn’t afford snacks for. She’d been his anchor when everything else in his life had slipped away, a lighthouse in the middle of a violent, black sea.

But he left.

Because loving her was easy.

Staying was the hard part.

He hadn’t run because he stopped loving her — he ran because he did. Because the deeper that love grew, the more the truth screamed inside him: she deserved a life that wasn’t spent waiting outside police stations or hospitals. She deserved a partner, not a project. She deserved poetry, not paranoia. A home, not hiding spots for narcotics.

And now? Now the drugs were gone, the sickness replaced by something far worse — power. The kind that shattered bones with a flick of the wrist, melted steel with a scream, erased cities in a blink.

He had nearly destroyed a building last week because of a nightmare. He didn’t even remember doing it until they showed him the damage. And he had thought addiction was the scariest part of him. Now he had to live every second fearing the thing inside him, this thing that wanted to hurt, to unravel, to destroy.

What if she had been there?

What if she had whispered to him in his sleep like she used to, trying to soothe him from a nightmare, and he’d woken in fear, in power, and — God.

The images haunted him. Her broken body in his arms. Blood he couldn’t heal. Screams he couldn’t undo.

He couldn’t even risk it.

Bob squeezed the photo tighter, fingers trembling as tears finally broke through the wall he tried so hard to keep up. He bowed his head, forehead resting on his knuckles, as if praying to a god he didn’t believe in anymore.

She was too good. Too kind. Too alive. And he was a man half-alive, stitched together by trauma and chemicals and cosmic radiation, held together only because people were too afraid to let him fall apart.

He wanted her.

He wanted her laugh in the kitchen again. Her sleepy voice asking him to turn off the lights. Her hair in his hands. Her nose wrinkling at his burnt eggs. He wanted the sound of her humming while folding laundry, the way her lip twitched when she was concentrating on a book.

He wanted to dance with her again. Properly. Without stepping on her toes. Maybe in the living room, barefoot, no music, just the sound of her breath close to his ear.

But what did he have to offer her now? A room in a tower that he wasn’t allowed to leave? A body that pulsed with danger? A mind that barely held itself together?

She didn’t love him like he loved her — he had always known that.

He would’ve taken her love at the slightest sign. God, he would’ve fallen to his knees for it. But love like that, love he wanted from her — it didn’t come out of guilt or pity. It came from freedom. And he had never given her that.

So he mourned.

Mourned a life that never got to bloom.

Mourned all the ordinary things he’d never have with her: birthdays, burnt dinners, arguments about dumb things, the feel of her hand in his during a movie neither of them liked. A child, maybe. A home. A Sunday morning.

He had loved her when he was nothing. Loved her as he became something terrifying. And now, as he stood on the edge of being unrecognizable even to himself, he still loved her.

But he couldn’t reach for her.

Because loving her meant letting her go.

Even if it destroyed him.

Even if every day he had to wake up in this tower, look down at the world that held her, and remind himself:

She is safer without me.

Even if it was a lie he barely believed anymore.

He hadn’t meant to walk that far.

It had started as a simple attempt to stretch his legs, to escape the suffocating stillness of his reality — the Watchtower walls too clean, too sterile, too artificial to hold any version of peace. So he slipped into the streets of New York, a hoodie pulled low over his brow, sunglasses covering the burden of his eyes. No one knew him, not like this. Not without the cape. Not without the glow.

He walked slowly, headphones in, music pouring soundscapes over his thoughts. The playlist hadn’t changed in years — songs she once liked, songs she might’ve liked. Tracks with lyrics that spelled out everything he couldn’t say to her, and never had the right to.

He thought about her every day.

In the quiet, between missions. During briefings. While shaving. While trying and failing to sleep. Her voice was a ghost he welcomed, a hallucination he refused to fight. She lived in the melody of certain words. In the shape of his pillow. In the steam from his mug. In every peaceful thing he encountered, she was there. And in every violent thing, she was the reason he hesitated.

That morning, the wind had that strange, biting softness of early spring — too cold for comfort, but gentle enough to pretend. She used to love days like that, he remembered. Said they felt like a promise. Like the world trying again.

He turned a corner, not really paying attention. Passed bakeries, coffee carts, flower shops. All things she loved. All things he remembered seeing through her eyes.

Books. Coffee. Birds.

She once told him that birds were proof life could be both messy and beautiful. That they shat everywhere but still carried the sky. That’s why she liked them. That’s why he liked her.

And then he saw it.

The bookstore.

It was unassuming. Brick walls faded by weather, a neon sign that flickered “Open,” its ‘O’ stubbornly dim. The display window was filled with paperbacks stacked in uneven rows, a handwritten note on the glass: Buy 2, escape twice. He almost smiled. It sounded like something she would say.

Maybe he’d buy one. She always said reading gave you extra lives. And God knew he needed another one.

He approached the window.

And that’s when he saw her.

She was standing on a wooden stool inside, rearranging a top shelf, her fingers running lightly over the spines of books like they were sacred. Her hair was tucked behind her ear the way it always did when she was focused. Her mouth moved slightly as she read titles to herself, and when one fell, she caught it with a flustered laugh, looking around to see if anyone had noticed.

Y/N.

Bob’s heart stopped. His breath caught. The world tilted.

He reached out before he even realized it, fingers brushing against the cool glass between them.

It was her.

Not a memory. Not a dream. Not a hallucination conjured by grief or the Void’s twisted games.

Her. In the flesh. In her world. Moving on. Living. Smiling. Alive.

He almost collapsed.

His knees buckled under the weight of it all. His fingers curled against his chest, against the photo tucked always in his jacket. The same face. The same girl.

He wanted to run inside. God, he wanted to run. Grab her. Bury himself in her arms and sob like the wreck of a man he was. Tell her everything. That he never stopped loving her. That he missed her so much it ached every moment of his cursed existence. That he was sorry. So sorry.

He wanted to say he still remembered the way her voice cracked when she tried to sing along to love songs. That he still carried the tissue she once wrote a grocery list on, with her doodles in the margins. That every moment he lived, she lived in it.

He wanted to scream, “Please. Just look up.”

But he didn’t move.

Because in that second, the world reminded him of the one unshakable truth: he did not belong to her anymore.

He didn’t belong to anything.

Not the streets of New York. Not the weight of a future. Not even to himself.

He was a ghost. A ticking bomb wrapped in skin. And she was... safe.

She looked so at peace. Like she had found a place in the world. A place he could never, ever risk stepping into. She looked home. And if he entered that bookstore, that sacred little world she had carved out for herself, he would bring chaos. He would ruin it. Just like he always did.

So he turned.

And he walked.

Every step away from that window was like slicing open his own chest.

He didn’t look back.

He couldn’t.

But a part of him, the part that still dared to dream, smiled through the pain.

She did always look like a pretty girl who’d work at a bookstore. That had been his fantasy for years — her behind a counter, coffee on her desk, recommending books to strangers, changing their lives with a sentence. She used to say that stories could save people. That if you spent just an hour in a fantasy world, maybe you could make it through reality.

And now she lived inside one.

He hoped she believed it. He hoped it saved her.

Because no matter how much he loved her, and oh — he loved her beyond reason — he could not be the reason her life unraveled again.

So he walked until his legs burned. Until the city blurred behind him. Until the only sound was his own heartbeat whispering her name.

Y/N.

His home. His ghost.

The Watchtower was quiet. Too quiet.

A sanctuary of glass and steel floating above the world, above cities he no longer felt he belonged to, above streets where real life happened — the Watchtower was cold. Polished. Functional. Beautiful in that sterile, untouchable way. It had everything he could need, yet it felt like nothing at all.

He wandered its halls like a ghost in a mansion too big for him, surrounded by everything and still lacking the only thing that mattered. It wasn’t that he hated it. No — Bob Reynolds understood what this place meant. What he meant. The world needed him to be here. Needed Sentry to show up to the galas, the photo ops, the charity balls with champagne flutes and polite clapping. They needed the godlike figure in golden light, the tragic redemption arc in spandex. A symbol. A story they could control.

And for once, Bob didn’t resent it. Not really. Because he had a room with a bed that was always made. He had clean clothes. He had the luxury of silence, of warm food, of people who at least pretended to care. He had friends now — of sorts. People who texted sometimes. Who invited him to rooftop dinners with wine bottles and awkward laughter. He had space.

He wasn’t locked in a cell or passed out in some alley. He wasn’t high. He wasn’t screaming at the Void inside his skull. He was safe.

And for a long time, he thought that would be enough.

But Bob learned something in that safety: The difference between being alone and being lonely.

Alone was what he craved when the world overwhelmed him. Alone was where he hid when he felt the darkness clawing behind his ribs. Alone was silence and choice.

Lonely? Lonely was after. Lonely was standing in a room full of people who only knew the surface of you. It was going home to nothing. It was the silence you didn't ask for. The kind that whispered her name.

He had time now — too much of it. And with time came thoughts, and with thoughts came her.

So he started walking. Every day, every chance he got. He’d vanish from the Watchtower, put on a hoodie and a cap and sunglasses, and disappear into the city. Into her world.

He told himself it was just to pass time. That the city soothed him. That walking helped clear his head.

But the truth was simple. Ugly. Raw.

He walked because she was there. Somewhere. And part of him was still trying to be close to her, even if she didn’t know it.

After all, he had found out where she worked.

A bookstore.

He wasn’t surprised. Not really. It made too much sense. She always smelled like paperbacks and cinnamon, always carried books in her purse, always talked about fiction like it was real and reality like it was negotiable. She had dreamed of quiet things. Soft lives. And now she was living one.

He’d walk by and see her sometimes through the window — standing behind the counter with her hair pulled back, cat hair on her sweater, a mug that said “books over bros” in her hand. She would laugh with customers, bend down to hand a little girl a picture book, roll her eyes at an old man flirting near the mystery section. He’d stare through the glass like it was a screen and he was watching the life they never got to have.

Other days, he’d see her at the park.

She had a routine, it seemed. Mornings or late afternoons, always with coffee in hand. She’d sit on a specific bench, the one they used to nap on during summer breaks. She’d sketch. Crochet. Read. Talk to an old woman who fed pigeons. And beside her — a cat. Dusty, he’d overheard someone say. A fluffball with attitude who’d perch in her lap like royalty.

He watched it all from a distance. Sat across the street, behind trees, across café windows. He never got too close. Never dared. But he learned her life like scripture. Memorized the way her hair curled in humidity. The way she tucked her feet under herself when she sat.

And she looked... peaceful.

Painfully so.

She looked like someone who had finally found her rhythm. Someone who had survived. Who had let go.

And God — he should’ve been happy about that. And he was. Part of him was.

Because he wanted her to be okay. Of all people in this world, she deserved a life that didn’t hurt. She had given so much, bled for him, cried herself sick, thrown away her dreams trying to pull him out of the fire again and again.

She had saved him, over and over. And what did he do?

He dragged her down with him. Burned her. Broke her. Left her.

So yes. She deserved this peace.

But watching her smile at strangers, or hum softly while threading yarn, or lean into a warm coat with that soft, familiar sigh — it felt like a knife in his chest.

Because she looked like someone who didn’t miss him. At all.

And that? That shattered something inside him.

It wasn’t fair. He knew it wasn’t fair. He had no right to want anything from her. He had given up that right the moment he left, the moment he decided she was better off without the burden of loving him. And she was. Objectively.

But it still tore him apart to see her world thriving without him.

He used to be her world. He used to be the reason her eyes lit up. Now, she didn’t even flinch when he passed by her block. Didn’t even glance at the door like maybe he’d walk through it.

He used to be her Monday lunches, her midnight phone calls, her “let me show you this funny thing.” Now?

He was a ghost.

A man watching the love of his life become a stranger with a smile. A story he didn’t get to finish. A home he could no longer walk into.

He walked miles every week just to see her for five minutes. Just to remember that she was real. Just to remind himself that once — for a flicker of time — she had been his.

And every time he turned around and walked away again, he left a piece of himself behind. Until he wasn’t sure how much of him was even left anymore.

They never asked about her.

Not directly.

Maybe out of respect. Maybe fear. Maybe because they already knew.

They all knew that somewhere, buried beneath Bob's shattered psyche and the nuclear firepower of the Sentry, there was someone he couldn’t let go of. A name that never left his mouth, but lived in his silence. In the way he flinched when certain songs came on. In the way he sat at the edge of team dinners, eyes somewhere far away. In the way he would sometimes disappear from the Watchtower, returning hollow-eyed and quiet, the smell of old bookstores or street coffee still clinging to his clothes.

They didn’t need to ask. The Void had shown them.

It was during the final confrontation — when the entity burrowed into each of their minds like a serpent, peeling back their worst fears, their lowest moments. It knew them. It was them. It didn’t just attack with brute strength — it weaponized memory, shame, the things they hid from even themselves.

But Bob?

Bob got the worst of it.

The Void lived in him. Knew every crack in his soul. Every scarred-over memory he tried to forget. And when the battle turned mental — turned personal — it didn’t use monsters or fire or screams. No. It showed her.

Y/N.

On the bathroom floor.

Her knees bruised from the tiles. Her shirt stained with something brown and sharp-smelling — coffee, maybe, or old blood. Her hands trembling, but still gentle, as they wiped vomit from his face, cradling his unconscious body like something precious.

His limbs were limp. His lips blue-tinged. An overdose — or the edge of one.

And she didn’t cry loud. No, that wasn’t her. Her sobs were quiet. Desperate. The kind of crying that comes when you don’t want to wake someone, even if you’re terrified they might never wake again.

She whispered to him in broken, soothing words, rocking him just slightly, whispering apologies to him, as if he were the one in pain.

She wiped his face. Changed his shirt. Brushed back his matted hair.

“You didn’t mean it,” she whispered. “It’s okay. You’re still here. I’m still here.”

And the worst part?

She looked so tired.

Not just physically — but soul-deep tired. The kind of exhaustion you don’t come back from. And still, still, she didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t curse him. She didn’t scream or throw things or leave.

She just held him.

And loved him.

When no one else could. When no one else should.

And the Void made them all watch.

Every teammate. Every soldier. Every person who had seen Bob level cities or snap metal in his hands like candy. They watched as the strongest being on Earth was reduced to a twitching body on a bathroom floor, and the only thing keeping him tethered to life was a woman — too soft for this world — whispering that he mattered, even when he didn’t believe it.

When the battle ended, and they staggered out of that hellscape, blinking in daylight and breathing like they’d been underwater too long — no one mentioned it. No one said her name.

But they all remembered her.

And days later, when the question finally came — in a rare moment of honesty, maybe over whiskey or after a nightmare — it was Bucky who asked.

Just a quiet, low, “You loved her, didn’t you?”

Bob didn’t even look up.

He just sat on the floor, back against the wall of the common room, hands hanging loosely between his knees. There was blood still under his fingernails from the mission. A tear in his shirt. He looked like something that had survived an execution.

“She was…” he started, and then stopped. His throat tightened, jaw working around a sentence that would never do her justice.

“She was the only thing I ever did right.”

The silence that followed was sharp. No one interrupted. Not even Alexei, who always had something to say. Not even Walker, whose tolerance for emotion was about as deep as a puddle. Not even Yelena, who had seen the worst kinds of pain, but still flinched when she remembered the image of that girl on the floor.

“She was the one who pulled me out,” Bob said softly. “Again and again. When I got too deep. When the Void got too loud. When I couldn’t remember who I was anymore. She… she made me feel like I was a person. Not a god. Not a monster. Just a man. Her best friend.”

He smiled, but it broke halfway through. Twisted into something hollow.

“I told her I loved her, in a message, I never even told her in her face, I still want to be able to fantasize that she did love me back. But I wasn’t a man when I said it. I was still broken. Still sick. Still—too much. And I left.”

No one moved. No one breathed.

“I told myself it was to protect her. That if I stayed, I’d destroy everything.”

He swallowed hard. His voice cracked.

“She forgave me for everything. Every relapse. Every blackout. Every time I disappeared for days and came back bleeding or high or worse. She’d cry, but she’d still hold me. She’d whisper that I was still in there. That she saw me.”

He clenched his hands. His shoulders shook.

“And I still left.”

For a long time, no one said a word.

Finally, Bucky asked, “Why are you telling us this now?”

Bob looked up at him. And for once, it wasn’t Sentry who answered. It wasn’t the calm, press-ready voice. It wasn’t the controlled, trained tone of a soldier.

It was just Bob.

His eyes were glassy. His mouth trembled.

He stood slowly. Wavered. Like the weight of all those memories was still dragging at his spine.

“She was the one thing that made me feel alive.”

He turned his face toward the window. Watched the city skyline like maybe she was out there somewhere, reading a book, sipping coffee, living a life where she didn’t have to remember him.

“And I will spend the rest of my life paying for what I did to her.”

He stayed across the street — or sometimes on the opposite sidewalk, tucked in behind a delivery van or under the shadow of a lamppost. Hands shoved deep into the pockets of a worn jacket, the same one she used to hang by her front door whenever he passed out on her couch.

He came to see her.

Sometimes she was restocking books in the front window. Sometimes she was sweeping the leaves off the front steps. Sometimes she was just reading, perched behind the register with a soft, furrowed expression — brows knitted in thought, nose crinkled just slightly like she did when a sentence made her feel too much.

He loved watching her read. She was the kind of person who felt books — who mourned endings and fell in love with characters and whispered “no” out loud when something bad happened on the page. Her face gave everything away. No armor. No filters.

God, she's beautiful.

Even now — even after everything.

He remembered the first time he saw her again, properly, in the park. He hadn’t been trying to find her that day. He was just… wandering. Trying to walk off the pressure in his chest. The static in his head. And then he saw her.

Sitting alone on a bench, no coffee, no cat, no old lady from the neighborhood chatting her ear off. Just her. Her knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them. Crying.

Not sobbing. Not theatrically.

Just… quiet, crumbling tears.

Like her chest had caved in and she didn’t know how to fix it. Like the world had knocked the wind out of her and left her to fold in on herself without a word.

She looked thinner. Not unhealthy, but not like before. Her style had changed a little — different colors, less softness, a longer coat like she was hiding from something. But her face… her face hadn’t changed.

Still that same quiet grace. That same storm of kindness behind her eyes. Like she could still save people if she tried hard enough — even when she couldn’t save herself.

He’d almost gone to her. Almost crossed the grass. Almost knelt beside her and put a hand on her knee and said her name.

But then he remembered who he was.

What he’d done.

He stayed frozen, half-behind a tree like a ghost in someone else’s story. A man without a place in the only life he wanted.

She wiped her face eventually. Stood. Pulled her coat tighter. Walked away.

And he watched. Did nothing.

But the guilt from that day didn’t leave. It never left.

He started coming around more. Just to check. Just to make sure she was okay.

That’s when the plan started to take shape.

He knew he couldn’t do it himself. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But he knew someone who could — someone she might not push away. Someone big enough to take the hit if she got mad, but kind enough to genuinely want to help.

Alexei.

Bob waited for the right moment to ask. When the team wasn’t dealing with a crisis. When they were sitting in the Watchtower kitchen late one night, drinking tea instead of whiskey because Bob couldn’t handle the burn anymore.

“She’s not okay,” Bob said, out of nowhere.

Alexei looked up from his mug. “Who?”

“You know who.”

Alexei said nothing for a beat. Just nodded. Quiet. Respectful.

“I saw her crying,” Bob whispered, his voice barely audible. “She was alone. No one… no one should cry like that alone.”

“You didn’t go to her?”

“I couldn’t.”

Alexei sighed. “Why not?”

“She would want me there even if I'm still dangerous.”

Bob let the silence hang, heavy and pulsing. Then he looked up, eyes glassy, haunted.

“But I can’t… I can’t just not do anything.”

Alexei set his mug down. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

So Bob told him. About the bookstore. The bench. Her eyes. Her loneliness.

“I don’t want her to know it’s from me. Not yet. I just… I want her to have something good. Something stable. Something that isn’t pain or loss or… me.”

Alexei nodded slowly. Thought about it.

“Book club,” he said eventually. “She works in one, yes?”

Bob nodded. “Yeah. Tuesdays. I saw the flyer in the window.”

Alexei smiled. “Then I suppose I have some reading to do.”

Bob’s breath hitched.

“Thank you. I will help you with that.”

Alexei leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. “I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing it because she deserves someone to show up for her.”

“I know.”

“But I’ll keep you updated. And I’ll be subtle.”

Bob smiled, watery. “As subtle as you can be?”

Alexei chuckled. “As subtle as a brick, but I’ll try.”

And so it began.

Alexei would show up to the bookstore every so often. Chat with her. Talk about books he didn’t really understand. Laugh too loudly. Always brief, always respectful, never pushing. Just… being there.

And eventually, she’d invited him to book club.

The plan was working.

And Bob?

Bob stayed where he was — on the edges, in the shadows, watching from far away. Letting Alexei become his eyes and ears. His quiet penance.

At first, it was simple.

Alexei joined the club to spend more time with her — to talk, to listen, to make sure she was still putting one foot in front of the other. That was the arrangement. A quiet mission with no glory. No weapons. No enemies to punch or gods to fight. Just a lonely girl who used to know a man that was already half-dead inside.

Bob didn’t expect more than that. A brief update. A kind word. The knowledge that she was still smiling. Still breathing.

But then Alexei came back from that first meeting with a glimmer in his eye — not joy, but something softer. Protective. He told Bob how she spoke about stories like they were sacred. How she laughed at a joke in Pride and Prejudice that no one else caught. How she paused in the middle of reading aloud because a single line made her voice catch, and she had to turn away so no one would see.

“She’s... she’s still her,” Alexei had said, like it was a miracle.

And Bob had cried when he heard it.

Because he didn’t know. He hadn’t known. If she was still her — still the girl who made mix CDs for rainy days and hugged people like she could stitch them back together — then maybe the world hadn’t ruined her completely. Maybe he hadn’t ruined her completely.

That’s when the idea started.

It was stupid. Pointless, maybe. But it gave Bob something to wake up for.

Books.

Not just any books — his books. The ones he read in the quietest hours of the night, when his mind wasn’t screaming and the Void wasn’t clawing at the walls. The ones he’d never admit to reading aloud, just to imagine what it might sound like if she was there beside him.

He began highlighting passages. Dog-earing pages. Scribbling notes in the margins like she used to in college, back when she made a game of arguing with the authors in ink.

He would hand them to Alexei with no explanation. Just a book. A quiet nod.

“Give her this one next.”

And Alexei would. Without question.

Week after week, a new title. A new story. Always something with meaning. A message buried in the pages. A secret only she might understand, if she read between the lines. If she knew how Bob’s mind worked the way she used to.

“I would have followed you anywhere.”

“I think I started dying the moment you left the room.”

“I loved you before I knew what it meant.”

They weren’t written outright. Never a full confession. Just sentences, thoughts, little crumbs of devotion scattered through prose.

Bob would stay up all night before each session, rereading and re-noting the pages. Sometimes he’d circle the same line six times. Sometimes he’d write “This is how I see you” beside a character’s monologue, and then cross it out until the paper tore.

He knew she never said anything to Alexei about it. Never mentioned the ink, or the handwriting, or the way every book felt like someone was whispering to her from another life.

But that didn’t matter.

Because he knew.

He knew she was holding something he touched. Reading the words he bled into the paper. Feeling something he could no longer say out loud.

In that tiny room above the bookstore, while Alexei sat in a too-small chair and cracked jokes to cover the silences, Bob was there too.

He was in the pages. In the sentences. In every comma and breath and pause.

And maybe that was enough.

Maybe that was all he had left.

He’d debated confessing before. So many times. Long before he became the Sentry. Long before he became a weapon. Back when he was just Bob, and she was just the girl who always picked out the marshmallows from her cereal and let him sleep on her floor when he was too drunk to remember where he lived.

But he never did. Because he knew — he knew — she didn’t feel the same way.

Not because she didn’t care. She cared too much. That was the problem.

She saw him as something worth saving. Something broken, but fixable.

Not someone you fall in love with.

Not someone you keep.

He could have handled that. He would have swallowed it whole just to have her in his life. But then the powers came. The weight. The blackness behind his eyes that pulsed like a second heartbeat.

And everything changed.

He wasn’t just a man who loved her anymore. He was a threat to her. A danger. A possible end.

To confess now would be cruel.

So he didn’t.

He gave her books.

He gave her himself.

And in the stillness between chapters, when no one was looking, he let himself pretend.

Pretend that maybe she read a line and smiled. That maybe she knew. That maybe she looked up from the page and whispered, “I miss you too.”

He would die a thousand times just to hear her say it once.

The despair came in waves.

Some days, Bob could float in it, numb, like a body in cold water—arms limp, eyes unfocused, just waiting for it to take him under. Other days, it crashed into him so hard he thought he’d drown before morning. He would lie on the floor of the Watchtower, fists clenched, the ceiling spinning above him as his mind screamed with every face he couldn’t forget. But it was always her face that brought the deepest ache.

Y/N.

He had built a life around her absence. That was the truth of it. A fragile routine of restraint and silence. He watched from a distance. He wrote messages in books. He let Alexei carry little pieces of him to her like a smuggler moving contraband across a border he could never cross.

It was the only way he could be near her—and the closest he dared to come.

But it wasn’t enough.

God, it wasn’t enough.

He missed her. And not just the memory of her. Not just the idea. He missed her voice in the morning when it was still hoarse. The sound of her laugh when she was trying not to. The weight of her hand on his arm when he said something reckless. He missed the smell of her shampoo, the warmth of her sweaters, the way she hummed when she didn’t know he was listening.

His body remembered it all.

And it was killing him.

He was touch-starved in a way no one could fix. Not just for warmth, or comfort, or sex. He was starving for her. For the way her presence once made the world seem a little less heavy. For the way she looked at him like he was still in there, like maybe he wasn’t all lost, not yet. That kind of belief—that kind of grace—was more dangerous than the Void itself.

Because it made him hope.

And hope, for Bob, was a curse dressed like mercy.

Every time he let himself think, Maybe I could just see her. Just once. Just for a moment, his mind betrayed him. Because it wasn’t just Bob anymore. It was Sentry. It was Void. It was the monster and the hero and the broken man trapped in between.

And what if they took over?

What if she smiled at him—and Sentry ripped the sky open behind her?

What if she said his name—and Void answered?

What if, by standing too close to her, by breathing the same air, he doomed her?

He couldn’t bear it.

So he stayed away.

But he was so tired.

Tired of living on crumbs. Tired of writing love letters she didn’t know were letters. Tired of watching Alexei carry his heart in paperback covers while he sat alone, drinking coffee that always went cold, with no one to tell.

He thought about ending it. Not his life—not exactly. But the visits. The watching. The books. All of it.

He thought about telling Alexei, It’s over. Don’t go anymore. Don’t mention her. Don’t bring her up. Let her go. Let her be.

Maybe if he stopped seeing her face from afar, his heart would quiet. Maybe if he stopped imagining what she looked like crying, or laughing, or reading his underlined notes, he could be free of this need.

Maybe.

But then the selfishness crept in.

It always did.

Because this—this pathetic, distant, hollow little routine—it was all he had.

He had no family. No home. No future. He had fists and firepower and a mind that split into two monsters depending on the day.

But this—this was still hers.

The bookstore. The book club. The books.

The way she once tucked a note into his coat pocket when he was dope-sick and barely breathing. The way she never turned away from him, even when she should have.

That love. That impossible, unspoken love that never got to breathe? It was still alive inside him. Mummified maybe, but still intact. And giving it up felt like murdering the only beautiful thing he’d ever been allowed to feel.

So he kept the books coming.

He kept watching her from across the street like a ghost with a heartbeat.

He kept dying for her in private.

He told himself it wasn’t love. That it was guilt. Or nostalgia. Or some warped savior complex. But he knew better.

He loved her.

He always had.

He loved her from the moment she laughed at his shitty joke in chemistry class and offered to share her lunch with him because she thought he looked hungry.

He loved her through every detox, every lie, every time he screamed and she didn’t flinch.

He loved her the day she fell asleep sitting against his door because he refused to let her in, but she still didn’t leave.

And he loved her now, more than ever.

But what good was that?

What good was a love you had to hide like a weapon?

What good was a heart full of devotion if it could level buildings when it broke?

Bob wanted her arms. He wanted her voice telling him he was okay. He wanted her fingers to touch his temple and whisper, “You’re still you, somewhere in there.”

But he couldn’t have that. He couldn’t ever have that.

So he took what he could.

He underlined another sentence. Highlighted another confession. Dog-eared another page.

He gave her pieces of his soul, one book at a time, and prayed she never figured it out.

Because if she did—if she knew it was him—it might give her hope.

And he didn’t want that for her. Hope was what killed people like him.

And she was never meant to die loving a ghost.

The Watchtower was quiet that night. Quieter than usual.

Bob was sitting by the window in his room, legs pulled to his chest like a child who hadn’t yet figured out how to stop shaking. He’d been staring at the stars for hours, pretending they were blinking just for him—pretending they meant something. Sometimes the silence helped. Sometimes it pressed down so hard he couldn’t breathe.

Tonight, it was both.

He almost didn’t hear Alexei come in.

His footsteps were heavier than usual, but not in the theatrical, attention-seeking way. No, this was something different. There was weight in them. Real weight. Emotional weight.

Bob didn’t turn to look at him.

“Tea and cookies,” Alexei said quietly, easing himself into the old chair across from Bob, setting down a book neither of them would read.

Bob blinked, not understanding. “What?”

“She made tea. There were these little shortbread cookies. She always brings some to the club. But tonight she invited me to stay after.”

Bob felt it instantly. That subtle shift in his chest—recognition, fear, hope. A name curled on his tongue like a prayer.

“Y/N.”

Alexei nodded.

Silence passed between them like static.

“I wasn’t going to stay,” Alexei said. “Didn’t feel right, you know? She looked tired. But she offered. Said she didn’t want to be alone. So I sat. And for a while, it was nothing. Just two people eating cookies and being quiet.”

Bob’s throat tightened. He could picture it too clearly—her small, chipped mug, her socks pulled up too high, maybe a blanket draped around her shoulders. She always had trouble sitting still when she was anxious. She’d shift, fidget, adjust the books near her elbows, touch her hair.

“And then?” Bob whispered.

Alexei looked at him. Really looked. Not like a soldier. Not like a friend. Like someone about to hand you your own soul.

“She asked me if I’d ever loved someone enough to ruin myself for them.”

Bob stopped breathing.

“I told her… yeah. I did. A long time ago. And that it hurt. That sometimes love isn’t enough. That you can want someone more than anything in the world and still have to walk away.”

He didn’t elaborate. Didn’t have to. Bob knew there was more in that silence than Alexei could ever say. But the words weren’t the part that undid him.

It was what came next.

“She started crying.”

Bob’s heart cracked so loud in his chest he thought it might split the room in two.

“She didn’t even try to stop it. She just let it happen. Tears down her cheeks, her hands shaking around that stupid little mug. And she said…” Alexei’s voice softened. “She said she was still waiting for someone.”

Bob gripped the windowsill so tightly his knuckles turned white.

“She said there was a man who left. And he never came back. And she knows he was broken—knows he had problems, things she might never understand. But she loved him anyway. Or maybe she didn’t even know she did. Not until it was too late. And even now, even after all the pain, some pathetic part of her—those were her words, not mine—still wanted him. Still waited.”

The tears came without warning.

Bob didn’t cry pretty. It was never cinematic. It was raw. Silent. Heaving. His face contorted as the sobs tore through him like glass down his throat.

She was waiting for him.

After everything. After all the ways he’d failed her. After the vomit and the relapses. After the bruised knuckles and broken promises. After disappearing without a goodbye, like a coward.

She was still waiting.

“Alexei—” he tried, but his voice shattered.

Alexei stood and walked over, putting a firm hand on Bob’s shoulder. “She misses you, man.”

“She shouldn’t,” Bob rasped. “She deserves better.”

“Maybe. But she doesn’t want better. She wants you.”

Bob bent forward, forehead pressed to his knees, shoulders trembling like the ceiling might cave in on him.

He could see her now—eyes red, voice cracking, wrapped in that old cardigan she used to wear when she felt small. Crying not because she was weak, but because something inside her had finally broken under the weight of everything she’d been carrying.

His name. His ghost. The ache that never left her chest.

“She said she never got to tell him,” Alexei added quietly. “That she was proud of him, even when he thought there was nothing left to be proud of.”

Bob shook his head violently, tears soaking through his sleeves.

“I don’t deserve her,” he choked. “I don’t deserve one second of her kindness. I left her. I left her.”

“But you never stopped loving her.”

Bob lifted his eyes, watery and wild.

Alexei knelt down in front of him, squeezing his shoulder. “That counts for something.”

Bob wanted to believe that. He needed to. But the guilt was too thick, too rooted. He’d buried his love like a landmine—sooner or later, someone was always going to get hurt.

But tonight… for the first time in weeks, in months, maybe in years… he had something to hold on to.

Hope.

Alexei wasn’t the kind of man who usually gave pep talks. He broke bones, not hearts. But that night, something in the room shifted. The weight in the air was different. Bob sat hunched on the floor again, as he often did when his thoughts got too loud, too dangerous. His hands were clenched in his hair, tears drying on his face in the silence. It wasn’t a silence of peace. It was one of surrender.

“I can’t go,” Bob whispered. “I can’t.”

Alexei sat in the chair beside him, eyes fixed on the floor. “Yes. You can.”

“You don’t know what I’m capable of,” Bob snapped, voice raw and thick. “You’ve seen the surface—what the Void lets you see. But I know what I’ve done. What I’ve almost done. I could’ve killed her. Just because I wanted to be loved.”

Alexei was quiet for a moment. Then he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his voice like gravel and mercy.

“Do you think love is safe?” he asked. “Do you think any of us walk into it without risk? I have done worse things, Bob. To people who trusted me. To people I loved. You think I sleep easy at night? No. I just… don’t run from it anymore.”

“I never stopped running,” Bob muttered, choking on the words. “Even when I had her. Especially then. She tried so hard. God, Alexei, she tried so hard for me.”

Bob pressed the heel of his palm into his eye until stars burst behind the lid.

“Do you think…” he asked in a hoarse whisper, “that my love can undo what I’ve done? Do you think that’s enough? That just because I love her, it makes the nights she cried worth it? That it fixes the way I shattered her, again and again?”

“No,” Alexei said bluntly. “Love isn’t enough. Not on its own. But it’s a start. It’s a reason to try. And Bob—she hasn’t stopped trying either.”

Bob shook his head, lips trembling. “She doesn’t know what she’s waiting for. She thinks I’m someone worth saving.”

Alexei reached into his coat pocket.

“Then maybe you should read this.”

He held out a single, folded post-it.

It was pale yellow, edges a little crumpled. Familiar. Too familiar.

Bob stared.

He didn’t reach for it at first. Didn’t trust his hands not to crumble it in disbelief. But Alexei held steady, offering it like an answer.

Bob finally took it.

He didn’t even have to open it. He knew the handwriting. Slanted, careful but with bursts of impatience in the curls of the letters.

And he knew the words.

“I’ll come back. For you. Always.”

And he remembered it again—the worst nights. The ones he could barely piece together through the fog. The clatter of the bathroom door, the stench of vomit, her hands trembling as she wiped his face with a warm cloth, whispering things he couldn’t hear but felt in his bones. No disgust. No anger. Just… tired love. Quiet devotion.

And the guilt that came after—so thick, it coated his skin. He stopped opening the door. Stopped letting her see him like that. She’d still come, knock softly, wait longer than she should’ve. And when he said nothing, did nothing—she’d slide a little post-it under the door.

“I’ll come back. For you. Always.”

His breath hitched.

“This—this is—” He stared at the note like it was the most sacred thing in the world. Like it could breathe.

“She gave it to me tonight,” Alexei said softly. “Slipped it into my book. Didn’t say anything. Just smiled. I think… I think she wanted you to know that she’s still there. Still waiting.”

Bob folded in half, pressing the note to his chest like it could stop the bleeding.

“But how—how would she know—?”

Alexei chuckled under his breath, and it wasn’t unkind.

“She’s not stupid, Bob. She knew from the beginning. From the first book.”

Bob lifted his head, dazed.

“She told me tonight. She recognized me right away. She remembered me from the photos. And the first time I brought a book with your handwriting in it? She didn’t say a word. But her whole face changed. Like a light she didn’t expect. Like a ghost she thought she’d never see again.”

Bob’s lips parted. “But she never said—”

“She didn’t have to. She knew you were talking to her. And she answered. She let it happen until she was ready.”

Bob’s mouth quivered.

“Every time she brought a specific book to the club. That was for you.”

He was silent.

“She chose them for you, Bob. You weren’t the only one using me to speak. She was doing it too.”

Bob broke.

"You know what Bob, I've had many experiences in life, but seeing two people love each other while thinking the same unrequited love bullshit it's the most frustating thing I've lived through."

The book club had ended hours ago.

The chairs were stacked, the lights dimmed except for one hanging low over the back counter where the tea kettle still hummed. The scent of old paper, lavender, and stale sugar cookies lingered in the air.

Alexei lingered too.

He never stayed this late, usually offering a polite farewell and a practiced smile before retreating into the night like he had somewhere else to be. But tonight, he hesitated, eyes trailing to the table where Y/N stood quietly, tidying up a few leftover napkins like she wasn’t just waiting for something—like she wasn’t bracing herself for it.

“I should go,” Alexei said, half-hearted.

She didn’t look up right away. “One second,” she murmured.

And then she turned to him, slowly. In her hand was a tiny yellow square of paper, slightly curled at the edges like it had been held too many times. There was no name on it. Just handwriting—familiar and aching and soft in its certainty.

“I’ll come back. For you. Always.”

Alexei froze.

His blood stopped.

He hadn’t seen one of those in years. Not since—

Y/N stepped forward and gently pressed the post-it into his hand.

“Please give this to Bob.”

Silence.

Alexei’s mouth opened, then closed. His eyes searched hers, stunned, confused—exposed. He thought he had been careful. Thought the quiet drop-ins, the vague discussions, the books marked with gentle nuance and wordless confessions had been subtle enough. He thought he’d played the messenger without giving himself—or Bob—away.

But she had known.

She had always known.

“...You knew?” he asked softly, barely breathing.

Y/N gave a tired smile, the kind that looked like it hurt to wear.

“Since the first book,” she said. “The underlined sentences. The margin notes. The way you looked at me when I laughed, like someone had told you a joke days ago and you were just now getting it.”

Alexei blinked, overwhelmed. “You never said anything.”

“I didn’t need to.” She let out a breath, bitter and sweet all at once. “It was the only way I could hear him again. I didn’t want to break it.”

She stepped away then, folding her arms as if trying to hold herself together. Her shoulders trembled.

“But tonight… I just needed him to know,” she whispered.

Alexei’s grip tightened on the post-it.

He didn’t know what to say. How to tell her that Bob had read every word she spoke, that he lived in the seconds she laughed, that he measured time by the days she showed up with her hair down or a new sweater or a different tea. That Bob was starving just to be near her. That every night he watched from the shadows was both punishment and penance.

But he couldn't say those things.

Because they weren’t his to give.

So he just stood there, useless in his stillness.

And then she broke.

“Why didn’t he come back?” she asked, voice crumbling like wet paper. “I waited. I waited, Alexei.”

Tears slipped down her cheeks in slow, silent rivers. Her hands trembled at her sides.

“I was angry. So angry when he left. I hated him. I told myself I did. But then I’d go to the places we used to go. I’d drink the same coffee. Sit on the same benches. And every time the door opened, I thought it might be him.”

Alexei swallowed hard, chest tightening.

“I’m not asking for an apology,” she continued, voice rising with the dam of grief. “I just want to know why. Was I not enough? Was I… was I too much?”

“No,” Alexei whispered, pained. “Y/N, no.”

“Then why did he leave me like that?” Her voice broke. “Why didn’t he come back like I always did for him?”

She sank into the chair beside her, covering her face with one hand, wiping at tears that kept falling no matter how hard she tried to stop them.

Alexei stepped forward but hesitated.

He couldn’t tell her everything. He couldn’t say that Bob had been dragged through every layer of his own personal hell—had been broken, drugged, used like a weapon, haunted by the very love he didn’t think he deserved. That every time he thought about her, it wasn’t with joy, but with agony, because he believed he’d poisoned every beautiful thing in his life.

He couldn’t say that Bob cried in his sleep.

He couldn’t say that he never went more than three days without watching her from afar, just to be sure she was alive.

He couldn’t say any of that.

Because those words were Bob’s to give.

But his voice was soft as he spoke.

“He never stopped thinking about you.”

Y/N let out a small, helpless sound, somewhere between a sob and a breath.

“I just want it to be over,” she whispered. “The waiting. The not-knowing. I took the first step. Again.”

Alexei knelt beside her, gently placing the post-it in his coat pocket.

“I hope,” she said through tears, “I hope this is the last time I have to.”

And then she wept.

Not quietly. Not daintily.

She cried like someone who had carried too many sleepless nights in her chest. Like someone who had waited at every metaphorical door, only to find them locked. Like someone who knew she had loved without boundaries and had bled for it.

Alexei didn’t say anything else.

He just sat beside her, listening to the sound of her heart breaking again—for someone who had never stopped holding it.

And in the quiet, somewhere between sorrow and forgiveness, the post-it in his pocket burned like a lighthouse finally being lit after years of storm.

He would give it to Bob.

And for the first time in years, Bob would understand:

He could hide, protect her all he wanted, run away from her from years on end. She will always find a way to make him come back. Even if it made her rot from the inside out.

"If I had someone fight for me this hard and I still made them doubt the value of their presence while living with that thought day after day Bob. Maybe that's why you will never be happy. No family, no friends, no hope, for years its was just her. What even made you think you could stay away when you're just as miserable as her?"

Bob looked up to Alexei.

Part of him confused, she wasn't miserable she was living, he saw her.

But...if that was the truth for her, what has she been thinking all this time seeing him.

It was kinda funny. How could two people who only had one another no so little of each other's mind.

Both seemed happy. Both were dying for each other.

340 notes · View notes

strawberryys-stuff · 2 days ago

Text

A SECRET | OP81

Red bull!Oscar Piastri x fem!reader

previous part

INSTAGRAM

lando I📍Barcelona

❤️95k 💬 246 🔃 705

tagged yourusername

lando her forever #1

view comments

yourusername debatable

yourusername you stole candies from me

lando that was ages ago!

username do I smell jealousy? 👀

username be so for real

username more like betrayal

username imagine your best friend is dating your enemy

arthur_leclerc 🤨

username what is Arthur doing here 😭

yourusername you're stalking me

arthur_leclerc am not

yourusername you SO are

oscarpiastri commented

iMessages

Fav human 🥐

what the hell was that?

What?

idk maybe THE COMMENT??

What about it?

OSCAR JACK PIASTRI

YOU'RE GONNA LOSE YOUR SEAT

Because.. of a comment?

...

you commented "confident much?"

Yeah, I know what I wrote.

oh Oscar..

you're gonna bring Christian to the grave

10 YEARS EARLIER

I'm sure he'll survive, love.

don't 'love' me 😠 this is a serious matter

Look, sweetheart, I know you're upset, but you can't ask me to act like I'm not utterly smitten with you.

you have to. For your seat, Oscar

Christian scolded us once for

not being careful enough

Fuck Christian and his stupid rules. You are mine and the world will hear.

Lose that McLaren badge. You're getting a new one.

yourusername posted a new story!

❤️286k 💬 370 🔃 1,238

f1 OSCAR WINS IN BARCELONA

view comments

username WOOOO

username FINALLY

username HE DID IT

redbullsimracing congrats osc! 👏

username the way he straight up walked up to yourusername 😭 that man knew where to go

username THE HUG KILLED MEE 😭

username samee 😭

mclaren definitely deserved!

redbullracing

❤️96k 💬 423 🔃 540

redbullracing FIRST EVER F1 WIN @.oscarpiastri 🎉

view comments

TWITTER

username @.username • 1 Jun 24

I CANNOT 😭

💬 4,852 🔃 9,603 ❤️ 286k 🖇️

username @.username • 1 Jun 24

Replying to @.username

HE DIDN'T EVEN GLANCE AT THE TEAM AND WENT STRAIGHT FOR HER 😭😭

username @.username

Replying to @.username

she started sobbing so much when he crossed the finish line

💬 4,852 🔃 9,603 ❤️ 286k 🖇️

username @.username • 1 Jun 24

Replying to @.username

and let's not forget this moment as well

💬 4,852 🔃 9,603 ❤️ 286k 🖇️

username @.username

Replying to @.username

OMG YES I SCREAMED AT MY TV WHEN I SAW IT

💬 4,852 🔃 9,603 ❤️ 286k 🖇️

yourusername |📍Barcelona

❤️573k 💬3,538 🔃 2,081

yourusername my fav human just won a Grand Prix. no big deal. MY LOVE JUST WON A GRAND PRIX!

AND LANDITO IN P3!!

Couldn't be prouder.

view comments

username THEY'VE BEEN FRIENDS THIS WHOLE TIME?!?

username what else did you expect? 😂 them to hate each other?

arthur_leclerc ahh I can finally BREATHE IN YOUR COMMENT SECTION 😁

yourusername ARTHUR 😭

arthur_leclerc I've been waiting for this since f3

username COME AGAIN??

username HOW LONG??

lando congrats mate! 😁

danielricciardo and the Australian genes live on

❤️ by yourusername

oscarpiastri it's the accent

danielricciardo sure is

username just a question @.yourusername how long have you been together?

yourusername for 7 years

#f1 #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #lando norris #lando norris x reader #lando x reader #lando x you #f1 fic #lando x y/n #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri #oscar piastri instagram au

324 notes · View notes

deansbeer · 2 days ago

Text

a quickie with simon in the laundry room <3

♡ ⋮ minors do not interact.

you’re sorting through what feels like the millionth tiny sock when simon comes up behind you, large hands settling on your hips. “kids are occupied,” he murmurs against your neck, and you can hear the suggestion in his voice.

“si, i have to get this done,” you protest weakly, but you’re already leaning back into him. wash day waits for no one with three kids, and you're drowning in tiny clothes. “and they won’t stay distracted for long.

“exactly why we should be quick about it.” his hands slide around to your stomach, pulling you flush against him. you can feel he’s already hard, and your resolve wavers. “been thinking about you all morning, love. watching you bend over sorting laundry...”

“you’re terrible,” you breathe, but you’re already turning in his arms. five years of marriage and three kids later, and he still looks at you like he wants to devour you. “we have maybe ten minutes before someone needs something.”

“Can work with that.” he’s already lifting you onto the washing machine, hands pushing up your—his—sweatshirt. “fuck, no panties? you trying to kill me?”

“it’s wash day, baby,” you remind him, wrapping your legs around his waist. “everything’s in the dirty hamper.” but your explanation dissolves into a moan as his fingers find you already wet.

“Fuckin’ convenient,” he growls, working you open with practiced efficiency. there’s no time for slow and sweet — not with three kids in the house. “always so ready for me, aren’t you?”

you bite your lip to keep quiet as he replaces his fingers with his cock, pushing in with one smooth thrust. “simon,” you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt. “fuck, we have to be quiet.”

“then you’d better keep that pretty mouth shut,” he says, setting a punishing pace immediately. the washing machine rocks with the force of it, and you have to brace yourself against the wall. “can’t have the little ones hearing what daddy does to mummy.”

the filthy words in his rough accent make you clench around him. he notices, of course he does, and grins against your neck. “like that, do you? knowing i’m fucking you while our babies play down the hall?”

before you can respond, there's a loud bang on the door. “mommy! mommy, open!” your five-year-old’s voice cuts through your haze of pleasure. “need you!”

simon doesn’t stop, if anything going harder. “mummy’s busy, swee’eart," he calls out, voice impressively steady for someone currently railing you against major appliances. “go play with yer sister.”

“but mommy!” another bang. “Emma took my doll!”

you try to answer but simon chooses that moment to hit that perfect spot inside you, and all that comes out is a strangled sound. he covers your mouth with his hand, eyes dark with amusement and lust.

“mummy's folding clothes,” he lies smoothly. “she’ll be out in a minute. go tell emma t’share.”

“don’t want to!” your daughter whines, and you can hear her stomping her little feet. “want mummy now!”

“hazel.” simon’s voice drops into what you call his lieutenant voice — gentle but brooking no argument. “go play. we’ll be out soon.”

there’s a moment of silence, then you hear her stomp away muttering about simon being unfair. the second she’s gone, simon removes his hand from your mouth.

“such a good girl,” he praises, but you’re not sure if he means you or hazel. “keeping quiet while i fuck you senseless. though i bet you wanted to scream, didn’t you?”

“simon, please,” you gasp, feeling your orgasm building embarrassingly fast. the combination of his cock and the thrill of almost getting caught has you on edge. “i’m gonna—“

“i know, love. she’s squeezing me.” his thumb finds your clit, rubbing tight circles. “c’mon then. come on my cock before another one starts banging on the door.”

as if on cue, you hear your two-year-old calling from somewhere in the house. “where mama?”

“bloody hell,” simon curses, speeding up. “better hurry up, mrs. riley.”

the use of your married name plus the perfect pressure on your clit sends you over. you bite his shoulder to muffle your cry as you come all over his cock, whole body shaking with the force of it. he follows right after, groaning low in your ear as he fills you.

“mama!” your toddler’s voice is getting closer.

“shit,” simon pants, pulling out and quickly fixing his clothes. he helps you down, steadying you when your legs wobble. “you good?”

“just peachy,” you breathe, smoothing down his sweatshirt. you can feel his cum starting to leak and clench your thighs together. “though i’m going to need to shower before i finish this laundry.”

he grins, that satisfied male look that makes you want to smack him and kiss him in equal measure. “could always join you later. after bedtime.”

“unbelievable,” you mutter, but you’re smiling as you unlock the door. your two-year-old is standing there, clutching his stuffed bear and looking pathetic.

“mama!” he reaches up for you immediately. “missed you.”

“missed you too, baby boy,” you coo, scooping him up despite your shaky legs. simon’s hand on your lower back steadies you, and you shoot him a grateful look.

“Dada!” your son notices simon and reaches for him instead. “play?”

“‘course, mate.”simon takes him easily, throwing him up in the air just to hear him giggle. “let’s go see what your sisters are up to, yeah? mummy needs to finish the washing.”

he gives you a heated look over your son’s head. “all the washing. very thoroughly.”

“go,” you laugh, shooing them away. “before i put you on laundry duty.”

“love you too,” he calls back, and you can hear the smirk in his voice.

you turn back to the washing machine, legs still trembling slightly. the laundry still needs to be done, you’re going to need that shower sooner rather than later, and you can already hear what sounds like an argument brewing in the playroom. but simon’s looking at you like that again from the doorway, your son babbling happily in his arms, and you wouldn’t change a thing.

well. maybe a lock on the laundry room door.

#‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ִ ‎ ݀ ̫ ܸ scribbles! ִ ❞#i wrote this during my lunch break and isn’t proofread 😭#simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon ‘ghost’ riley #simon riley fanfiction #simon riley x female reader #simon riley fanfic #simon riley x reader #simon riley ghost #simon riley call of duty #simon riley smut #simon riley cod #simon cod smut #simon cod

389 notes · View notes

crown-prince-zuko · 3 hours ago

Text

I feel this halfway because even if it’s a bit sore I have never been less bendy than I was as a kid.

I can literally touch the floor with my palms flat. I can put my leg behind my head?? I did do ballet for 2 years as a kid and my instructor did really love my flexibility so idk maybe because she hammered that in I just unlocked a skill point in bendiness.

hey did you know??? that if you stop stretching and maintaining mobility in your body then it goes away?? things get tight and you can't move the way that you used to??? and when you decide to try getting a stretch routine going that the first week fucking sucks because you keep going 'damn i used to be able to do this no problem' and then you have to switch gears and be kind to yourself and just focus on getting better from here instead of berating yourself for dropping the good habits in the first place??? and your body never stops aging so you gotta keep taking care of it and sometimes you gotta take care of it extra in certain areas because of things that happened when you were younger and it's boring and sometimes hurts but it's so necessary???

i am yelling this at myself right now i am going through An Experience (trying to get into a routine of body maintenance again for my physical and mental health)

#rambling #Finz speaks #random shit

135K notes · View notes

bucketsorbueckers · 1 day ago

Text

Trouble - Chapter 1

Age gap Paige X Azzi

Warnings: Language

Word count: 6.3K

a/n: someone dropped this idea in my inbox. i became obsessed. stayed up way too late and woke up way too early to write this bc i actually can't stop thinking about it. IDK how often this will be updated bc i clearly didn't write ahead but yeah. anyways anon, whoever you are, i love you sm thank you for this

also pls let me know if you like this one i know its diffff

Summary:

Paige Bueckers has spent five years as the WNBA’s golden girl—stoic, unstoppable, and famously unbothered.

But she’s also never met Azzi Fudd.

Until the Lynx trade up to draft her.

Azzi’s twenty-three. Number one pick. Gorgeous. Talented. And, not that long ago, was reposting thirst edits of Paige Bueckers like it was her part-time job.

Now they’re teammates. Sharing a locker room. And, if Azzi has her way, a slow-burn love story in the making.

Paige isn’t interested. Azzi isn’t subtle.

And neither of them is remotely prepared.

Azzi POV| 5:07 PM | Night before the draft

Azzi was halfway through her post-shower routine at the hotel, hair wrapped in a towel, legs still damp, wearing the old Chicago Sky t-shirt she’d thrifted freshman year—ripped at the hem and barely hanging on—when her phone rang.

On the screen: Marcus.

Her agent. Her very recently seen agent. They’d met earlier that day to go over everything—schedule, logistics, media. The plan.

Azzi was going number one. That wasn’t new. Wasn’t surprising.

Two-time national champion. National Player of the Year her senior season. Best guard in the class. She’d been headlining mock drafts since before she could legally vote.

Chicago had the pick. Chicago needed a star. She already had the jersey, practically.

So, there was no reason for Marcus to be calling.

She answered the call with the kind of slow, suspicious grace typically reserved for the moment everything goes wrong.

“Hello?”

“You sitting down?” he asked, and her stomach dropped before he even said the rest.

She sat. Not because he told her to. Because her knees went loose all at once, and the edge of the bed caught her before the floor did.

“There was a trade,” he said. “It’s still you at number one. But it’s not Chicago anymore.”

She blinked. He waited.

She blinked again. “Then who—”

“Minnesota.”

Silence.

“Minnesota?” she repeated, like maybe that was a city she’d never heard of. “As in—”

“Yup,” Marcus said. “Lynx traded up. Desperate move. One of their guards tore her ACL in practice yesterday. Front office went all in. It’s a good opportunity, Azzi.”

But Azzi wasn’t listening. Because her brain had stopped at Minnesota and detoured immediately to Paige Bueckers.

“No. No, wait. Like… Paige Bueckers Minnesota?”

There was a pause. Then: “Well, I believe their facilities are technically in Minneapolis,” Marcus said, flat. “But yes. Pretty much the same thing.”

Azzi didn’t respond. She was too busy recalibrating the trajectory of her entire adult life.

Paige Bueckers. Paige fucking Bueckers. The woman who made midrange fadeaways look like foreplay. Who never smiled in post-game interviews and somehow made that hot was going to be her teammate.

Azzi looked down at her shirt. Chicago blue—which now felt traitorous. She pulled it off immediately. Now standing in the mirror in just her bra and underwear, she stared at herself.

Oh god.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. She was supposed to be drafted by Chicago, do the polite press thing, and flirt with Paige Bueckers lightly on Instagram after proving herself in the league.

She was not supposed to get launched straight into the orbit of her actual dream girl. This was not a drill. This was not a cool moment. This was Defcon horny.

“I have to go,” she said suddenly.

“Azzi, I think we should—”

She hung up before Marcus could finish. Rushed to her suitcase. Dug beneath the carefully folded outfits. Ripped through socks and slides and backup lashes until she found it.

The hoodie.

Faded gray. Slightly oversized. The same one Paige had been photographed in years ago after some summer league game—hood up, headphones in, looking so good Azzi had nearly choked.

Azzi had seen the picture on Twitter and ordered the hoodie that day. No hesitation.

She pulled it on now. Like maybe it would protect her from the very obvious, very embarrassing crush she still hadn’t grown out of.

It did not.

If anything, it made things worse. Because now she looked like a girl who knew what she was walking into. And was already in way too deep.

She checked the mirror. Pouted. Tilted her head.

“Shit,” she muttered to her reflection. “You’re absolutely gonna ruin everything.”

Group Chat: baby goats🐐🐐🐐

Azzi:

THEY TRADED THE PICK

I’M GOING TO MINNESOTA

MINNE-FUCKING-SOTA

WHY WOULD GOD DO THIS TO ME

Jana ??? girl congrats???

Caroline: wait like BUECKERS minnesota????

Azzi: SHE’S THERE

SHE’S GONNA SEE ME

SHE’S GONNA KNOW

Caroline:what is she gonna know??

Azzi: THAT I��M DOWN BAD

that i’ve been reposting her since sophomore year

Jana i’m sorry didn’t you tweet “paige bueckers if you’re reading this i’m free on thursday. and also every day for the rest of my life" once

Caroline:

oh you’re cooked

Azzi: she’s gonna think i’m a fan

she’s gonna know i’m a fan

i’m gonna get benched for being horny

Jana: can they even put that in the contract?

Azzi: they’re gonna invent a new clause for me

—-----------

Azzi woke up the next morning with two purposes:

Look unbelievably good.

Don’t make a complete fool of herself in front of Paige Bueckers.

She had a better chance of walking on water than pulling off both.

Her room was already full of people by the time she brushed her teeth. Makeup team. Hair. Stylist. Publicist. A girl holding a tiny steamer and the biggest coffee Azzi had ever seen.

She let them pull her into the chair while they moved around her in practiced formation. Clipped her hair back. Adjusted the lighting. Began.

“Morning,” her stylist said, already unzipping garment bags like they were revealing state secrets. “We’ve got two looks—one for tehs stage, one for the afterparty. You’re gonna like both, but you’re gonna love one.”

Azzi smiled, soft but sure. “Knew I could trust you.”

She sat still as they worked—moisturizer, concealer, quiet chatter filling the gaps. She knew the drill. Sit. Breathe. Let the professionals do their thing while she tried not to overthink hers.

The carpet dress was black silk, ankle-length, with a halter neckline and a slit that would photograph well but not scream trying too hard. Her makeup stayed close to natural, but her eyes were lined sharp exactly how she liked it.

She looked at herself in the mirror when they finished. She looked good. And not just ‘for a rookie,’ not just ‘draft night ready.’ She looked like someone who belonged—who had trained her whole life for this and was getting what she deserved.

Still, she adjusted the strap at her shoulder. Smoothed the fabric at her waist. Picked up her phone like it might ground her.

Jana: You breathe yet?

Azzi: No but at least I’ll look sexy while dying

Jana: Post a thirst trap. Establish dominance.

Azzi: You think I won’t??

She didn’t. She posted a mirror selfie mid-makeup with the caption: draft day bts. She half hoped maybe Paige would see it. But Paige didn’t even follow her so the thought was desperate and mortifying in a way she didn’t want to admit.

The crowd in the room slowly thinned out until it was just her.

Makeup brushes packed away. Dresses zipped back into garment bags. Someone murmured something about call times and press schedules, but Azzi only half-heard it. She nodded, smiled, stayed seated.

She looked back at the mirror. Tucked a curl behind her ear. Took a breath inhaling the slight taste of hairspray and perfume.

Tonight was about a lot of things. Her future. Her game. Her name being called first. She knew that. She could feel the weight of it behind her ribs, the stretch of everything about to change.

But still, she couldn’t stop imagining Paige seeing her like this.

Not on TV. Not through a tagged post or a highlight clip. Here. In the same room. Breathing the same air.

She didn’t even know if Paige would be there. Maybe she’d be watching from home. Maybe she wouldn’t be watching at all. Maybe this was Azzi being ridiculous—letting a decade-old crush sneak in the side door of the biggest night of her life.

But the thought lingered.

She grabbed her phone again.

Azzi: if i trip on stage it’s not nerves it’s gay panic. tell my story right.

She sent the text and immediately threw her phone onto the bed like it was hot. Not because it was dramatic. Okay—maybe a little because it was dramatic.

She stood. Smoothed her dress again, even though it didn’t need it. The fabric was fine. The fit was perfect. It was her hands that needed something to do.

Her heart was doing that weird, too-hard, too-loud thing it did before tip-off. Only this time, there were no sneakers. No court. Just cameras and lights and the unbearable possibility of her dreams coming true in front of the woman of her dreams.

Poetry, or something like that.

She turned to the mirror. Looked at herself for a long second. The girl in the reflection looked ready. She didn’t feel that way.

“Let’s go,” she said, quietly. To no one. To herself. To the version of her that still didn’t totally believe this was real.

She adjusted her earrings. Lifted her chin. Took one last breath, like it might hold her together.

And then she stepped out of the room—into the hallway, into the chaos, into the version of her life she hadn’t dared to imagine too clearly. Not out loud. Not until now.

—--

The moment she stepped onto the orange carpet, everything sharpened.

The lights. The voices. The flashbulbs that went off three at a time. It was like stepping onto another planet—one where the air smelled like hairspray and nerves and the smiles came too fast to be real.

Azzi squared her shoulders, tilted her chin half an inch higher, and kept walking.

She’d been to big events before. Red carpets in college, press days for awards., hell even NYC fashion week. But this was different. This was the night. The one she’d been working toward since she could barely dribble with her left hand.

She moved through the chaos like she’d practiced it—because she had. Step, stop, pose. Give the camera a little shoulder. Smile, but not too big. Enough to say I’m happy to be here, not I can’t feel my face.

“Azzi! Over here!”

She turned toward the voice, one arm resting at her side, the other lightly bent at the elbow. Every pose intentional. Controlled. Like her body wasn’t buzzing with the kind of nervous energy that felt suspiciously like hope.

Hope that maybe Paige was already inside. Hope that maybe she’d notice.

“Who are you wearing tonight?” someone shouted.

Azzi named the designer, barely heard herself say it. She could feel her heart under her collarbone, steady but too loud. A camera shutter clicked. Then another.

“She’s stunning,” someone near the ropes whispered. Azzi didn’t look to see who said it. Didn’t want to ruin it by knowing.

Instead, she kept moving. She made it to the midway point of the carpet before she caught sight of a familiar face.

“Yo,” someone hissed near a row of photographers. “Tell me I’m not sweating through my dress.”

Azzi turned—smiling, grateful—and found Kiara Johnson fanning herself with her hands. Her dress was fire engine red and absolutely unfair.

“You look beautiful,” Azzi said smiling.

Kiara rolled her eyes. “Thanks. You look unbothered. Hate that for me.”

Azzi laughed, and for a moment, the cameras blurred out. The nerves, too.

Behind her, Simone was already deep into an interview, talking with her hands like the cameras might miss her otherwise. Somewhere to the left, Delaney was yanking at the top of her strapless dress like it might betray her at any second.

They were all here—lined up, glossed up, trying to look chill while buzzing out of their skin. No one said it, but everyone was thinking it: getting drafted was one thing. Making a roster? Whole different story. And the lights were hot. The makeup was sweating. The stakes were higher than any of them wanted to admit.

Azzi took a breath. Smiled. Tried to look like she belonged.

“See you on the other side,” Kiara said, brushing past her with a wink, already headed toward the interview line.

The moment slipped by, and Azzi moved with it—fielding a few more questions, posing for photos, laughing at something one of her old teammates said. She nodded, waved, kept walking.

But finally, she made it through. The final stretch of the carpet calmer. Fewer cameras. Less shouting. Just the hum of anticipation and the low thrum of music from inside the venue.

Azzi slowed her pace. Let the moment sit.

People always said draft night moved fast—that it blurred. She didn’t feel that. If anything, everything felt too sharp. The air too cool on her shoulders. The lights too bright. Her skin too tight across her ribs.

She’d done this before. Interviews. Spotlights. Moments where people clapped just because she walked into a room. But this time was different. This time, it felt like something was about to begin, and she didn’t know who she’d be on the other side of it.

She reached the end of the carpet and stepped out of frame. But then she paused.

She glanced back—over her shoulder, slow and searching. Just in case. Just in case maybe Paige was there. Standing off to the side. Looking at her like…

She didn’t even know. She just wanted to know. But there was no one.

Just a few photographers packing up. A tech guy adjusting a boom mic. The kind of silence that hums when it’s supposed to be loud.

Azzi lingered for half a second too long. Then turned back. And stepped into her future.

Paige’s POV

Paige dropped onto the couch and handed Courtney a beer.

“Thanks,” Courtney said, cracking it open with the corner of her hoodie sleeve like they weren’t sitting ten feet from the kitchen.

It was draft night. The kind of thing you watched because you had to, not because you wanted to.

Paige had made it through exactly half a press request before deciding she didn’t want to be there in person. She hadn’t said why. Just texted her agent staying home. thanks though.

But she knew she needed to watch. So, here she was.

Tori had torn her ACL three days ago—awkward landing in a non-contact drill. She’d crumpled before she even hit the paint. Paige had watched it happen. Hadn’t said much.

Now, the front office had scrambled, like they always did. Moves made over phones and closed doors, things shuffled before most people knew there was a gap.

Enter Azzi Fudd.

Number one pick. Two-time national champion. National Player of the Year. Flashy handle. Clean jumper.

Apparently league-ready, though Paige found all rookies questionable on principle. Even the good ones. Especially the ones who came in shiny and hyped and smiling too much.

She took another sip. Let the beer go warm in her mouth before swallowing. Tapped her fingers once against the bottle in her hand. And then Azzi Fudd appeared on the screen.

“Didn’t she cross up that French guard at Worlds?” Courtney asked, squinting toward the TV.

“Probably,” Paige said.

Azzi stepped onto the orange carpet in a black silk dress.

Sleek. Minimal. The kind of dress that clung just enough and moved when she walked. High neckline. Open back. Legs for days. Not showy, but precise. Every detail meant to look like it hadn’t been thought about at all—which meant it had been thought about a lot.

She posed like she’d done it before. Hand at her waist. Chin tilted just slightly. Confident. Camera-ready.

The kind of look that worked hard to seem effortless. And mostly got away with it.

Paige watched her for a second longer than she meant to. Not because she cared. She didn’t.

She just hadn’t expected her to walk like that. Like she owned the carpet. Like she knew how she looked. Like she knew people were watching and wasn’t interested in pretending otherwise.

She wasn't sure why she was surprised.

Azzi was good-looking. Everyone could probably admit that. But the confidence -

“She’s good-looking,” Courtney said, casually. Like she was reading Paige’s mind and calling her out on it before Paige could pretend otherwise.

Paige didn’t flinch. “She looks like a kid.”

Too fast. Too automatic.

Courtney turned her head. Just slightly. “That is not a kid.”

Paige brought the bottle to her lips. Didn’t drink. Her eyes drifted back to the screen, where Azzi was still smiling like the world had already said yes. And the thing was—no. She didn’t look like a kid.

Not in that dress. Not with that walk. Not with the way she tilted her chin at the camera like she already knew every eye was on her.

She looked like someone who knew exactly what she was doing. And was probably used to getting away with it.

Trouble.

But Paige didn’t say that. Didn’t even think it, not officially.

“She’s confident,” Courtney added.

“She’s twenty-three,” Paige said. “They’re all confident.”

It wasn’t a slight. It was just math.

Her phone buzzed, screen lighting up beside her. She glanced at it. Her agent.

Need to post a ‘welcome to Minnesota’ tonight, P. It’s a good look.

Paige rolled her eyes. Clicked the screen off without replying. She wasn’t in the mood to perform a warm reception.

She set the phone facedown on the coffee table. Picked her beer back up. The draft coverage rolled on in the background—names, stats, dresses, practiced smiles.

She didn’t watch. She already knew what she needed to know. The Lynx had a new rookie. And Paige had a season to win.

The volume was still muted when they called Azzi’s name. But the words still crossed the screen:

“First overall pick in the 2025 WNBA Draft…the Minnesota Lynx select Azzi Fudd.”

Courtney leaned forward. “There it is.”

Paige didn’t move. Just watched as the camera panned to Azzi—already on her feet, hugging the people at her table. Composed. Moving slow. Like she’d been waiting for this moment her entire life and had no plans to let anyone else touch it.

She moved through the crowd like she belonged to it. Dress sleek, smile soft but deliberate. No stumble. No nerves showing.

“Clean,” Courtney murmured. “I’ll give her that.”

Paige made a quiet sound in her throat. Not agreement. Not disagreement either.

Azzi reached the stage, hugged the commissioner, held up the jersey with the right amount of polish. Flashes went off around her. People cheered.

Paige took another sip of her beer.

“She’s gonna be on your left,” Courtney said.

Paige shrugged. “If she earns it.”

On screen, Azzi waved at the crowd. Her smile cracked a little wider, just for a second. Genuine. Then the screen faded to black.

Paige shifted on the couch. Let the silence settle for a second. Ran through her mental list of shit she needed to get done.

And then the music kicked back in—cinematic, dramatic, over the top. The draft coverage returned with one of those slow-motion montages ESPN couldn’t resist. Azzi crossing someone up at Worlds. Azzi pulling up from the logo with zero hesitation. Azzi grinning, scissors in hand, cutting the net.

“Azzi, huge congrats. First overall—how does it feel, and what are you most looking forward to as a member of the Lynx?”

Azzi smiled. “I mean… everything, really. It’s a great team, great coaching staff. I’ve grown up watching this league, so to be part of it—especially with this franchise—feels surreal. I’m ready to learn, to work—just excited to be part of the culture.”

“She’s media trained to hell,” Courtney muttered from the far end of the couch, one leg tucked under her.

Paige didn’t respond.

Azzi was answering all the usual questions—grateful, humbled, excited to learn. She hit every note perfectly. Not too eager. Not too rehearsed. Just enough to come off smooth. And then the reporter smiled, a little too wide. A little too pointed.

“You’ll be joining a team with some serious veteran talent. I’ve gotta ask—are you excited to play with someone like Paige Bueckers?”

Paige blinked.

Courtney groaned. “Here we fucking go.”

Azzi hesitated. Barely. But enough to see it. The pause. The shift in her shoulders, like she was resetting.

She smiled again, quick and reflexive. “Yeah, of course. I mean—she’s Paige Bueckers.”

Paige closed her eyes for a second. Inhaled. Forced herself not to look over at Courtney, who she knew—without question—was sitting there with that annoying-ass grin, just waiting. Exhaled. Opened her eyes. Azzi was no longer on the screen.

Slowly, she turned her head.

“Don’t,” she warned.

Courtney held it together for maybe half a second. Then lost it—low and sharp and immediate.

“She said it like one of your fan girls.”

“She said it like someone answering a forced question on live TV.”

Courtney raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, a forced question that made her whole spine go stiff.”

Paige didn’t bite. Just kept her eyes on the screen, now back to showing some other prospect hugging their family.

Courtney leaned back, grinning. “I’m just saying—if she goes all shy and stuttery every time you walk in the room? I’m not gonna survive.”

“She’ll be fine.”

Courtney snorted. “You sure? 'Cause right now she’s out here sounding like she still got your jersey saved in her closet.”

Paige stared ahead, expression flat. “You done?”

“For now.”

Paige sighed. “She’s a kid, Court. It’s draft night. She was nervous.”

“Nervous about playing with the Paige Bueckers,” Courtney squealed, lifting her hands like she was presenting a prize on a game show.

Paige clenched her jaw, “Why the fuck did I invite you over again?”

Courtney shrugged. “Because I’m one of the few people who still put up with your ass.”

Paige scoffed. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yeah,” Courtney said, cracking open another drink. “But I’m right.”

Paige didn’t argue.

—----------

Later that night, after the noise had faded and the apartment had gone still, Paige crawled into bed and stared at the text from her agent. She didn’t roll her eyes, but the instinct was there.

She knew she should do it. She’d known since before the draft even started. Since the trade went through. Since someone in PR mentioned “messaging alignment” and how nice it would be if she tapped in as a vet.

A simple post. A “Welcome to Minnesota.” A teammate move. The kind of thing that looked good. That people noticed.

She remembered her own draft night. The nerves that crept in after the cameras cut. The way everything felt bigger than she was, even if she didn’t show it.

And she remembered what it meant—seeing a name she recognized in her notifications. A vet she respected saying something as small as can’t wait to hoop.

She hadn’t known, at the time, if she belonged yet. If she’d be accepted. That one message hadn’t fixed it, but it had helped.

Paige sighed, unlocked her phone, and started typing.

She didn’t follow Azzi yet. She hadn’t thought about it. Not really her thing to follow people before they showed up. Rookies came and went. Most of them weren’t worth tracking until they were in the gym.

But Azzi was going to be her teammate. Number one picks don't go anywhere.

And so, Paige typed “azzi” into the search bar. First result. Blue check. Profile picture of her in a UCLA uniform.

She tapped follow. Found a photo of her holding the jersey on stage. Shared it to her story.

Typed:

Welcome to Minnesota. Let’s work. Tagged her. Posted it.

Then she locked her phone, flipped it face down on the nightstand, and turned out the light.

Azzi’s POV

The afterparty was loud, gold-lit, and dripping in free liquor. Azzi was still wearing her heels—even though she swore she wouldn’t be that girl—but the champagne buzz made it easier to lie to her calves.

She was mid-laugh when Caroline grabbed her by the wrist, yanked her away from the circle of girls around the DJ booth, and shoved her phone into Azzi’s face like it was breaking news.

“AZZI.”

Azzi turned, grinning. “Jesus. What?”

Caroline didn’t speak. Just shoved her phone forward again like it was a bomb. “Look.”

Azzi squinted. Read what was on the screen. Blinked once. And then fully screamed.

Because there it was. Paige Bueckers’ Instagram story.

Welcome to Minnesota. Let’s work, @/azzifudd. Tagged. Plain as day.

Azzi clapped a hand over her mouth. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No, no, no.”

“Yes, bitch!”

Azzi grabbed Caroline’s phone like it might vanish. Stared at the story. The caption. Her name. Her face. Paige fucking Bueckers had posted her.

“Did she follow me?” Azzi asked, voice already an octave too high.

“Yes.”

“She tagged me?”

“YES.”

Azzi shrieked again. Someone turned and looked. She didn’t care. She was pacing in tiny drunk circles, heels clacking against marble, one hand still holding her drink like a lifeline, the other pressed flat to her chest.

“I’m gonna throw up,” she said.

Caroline looked delighted. “No, you’re gonna cry. Then you’re gonna DM her. And then you’re gonna marry her.”

Azzi stopped mid-circle. “Do I DM her?”

Caroline blinked, like she couldn't believe Azzi took that seriously. “Are you insane?”

“Yes?”

Azzi fumbled for her own phone. Opened Instagram. Her hands were sweaty. Her brain was screaming. But there it was. Paige Bueckers. Blue check. Following you.

She screamed. Again.

Caroline absolutely cackled. “You’re gonna combust,” she wheezed, clutching her stomach.

Azzi didn’t answer. Just leaned back against the wall, head tipped toward the ceiling like if she moved even a little, the alcohol and adrenaline sloshing around inside her might actually spill out.

“She posted me,” she whispered.

“Yup.”

“She knows I exist.”

“She definitely does.”

Azzi dropped her phone. Caroline caught it mid-air.

“I peaked,” Azzi said, eyes glassy. “It’s all downhill from here.”

Caroline laughed so hard she snorted. “This is the gayest moment of your life.”

“So far,” Azzi shot back, managing a wink.

Caroline cracked up again, and Azzi just sat there—grinning like a dumbass and letting herself have it. The moment. The buzz. The quiet shock of it actually happening.

And yeah, sure—maybe the woman she’d been casually obsessed with since she was eighteen had just acknowledged her existence...publicly. And maybe her brain had short-circuited a little. But this wasn’t just about Paige.

This was hers.

Her name. Her number. Her jersey. The dream she’d chased across a thousand late nights and long practices, now finally unfolding—loud and real and hers.

—-

Her and Caroline ended up in bed together.

Not like that. Just sideways across the hotel mattress, still in their dresses, makeup smudged, Azzi’s heels abandoned somewhere under the desk. The lights were off, save for the glow of Caroline’s phone screen and the pale halo of the city bleeding through the window. Azzi was lying dramatically on her back, one arm flung over her face.

“She posted me,” she whispered for the third time that hour.

“Yes, Azzi.” Caroline’s voice was dry. “She posted you. We know. We have analyzed every font, every pixel, every breath of it.”

Azzi lifted her phone off her stomach and tilted it toward her face again. Paige’s story was still up. Still tagged. Still maddeningly casual.

“Do you think she picked that picture on purpose?” she asked.

“I think the options were limited.”

“But it's a good photo.”

Caroline rolled onto her side. “You looked hot. She noticed. Congrats.”

Azzi groaned, half-smiling. “She didn’t notice.”

“She did.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“I’m saying that because it’s true.”

They were quiet for a second. Just the sound of distant traffic, the soft hum of the hotel AC, and the fizz of Azzi’s brain trying not to read too much into something that probably wasn’t anything.

Probably.

“I should repost it,” Azzi said finally.

“Yes,” Caroline said, without hesitation.

Azzi stared at her screen.

“What do I say?”

“Don’t overthink it.”

“I am overthinking it.”

“I know.”

Azzi hovered over the repost button for a full minute. Then tapped it. Drafted three different captions. Deleted all of them. Groaned into the pillow. Caroline waited, patient like the best friends always are when you’re being slightly insane but they loved you anyway.

Finally, Azzi typed:

Let’s. Then added a basketball emoji. A wolf. A white heart. Paused. And hit post.

The story blinked up on her screen. Her name and Paige’s, together. Not side by side, exactly, but close enough. She exhaled, dropping the phone on the mattress between them.

Caroline nudged her knee. “Proud of you.”

Azzi smiled. Soft. Sleepy. “She’s probably not even thinking about it.”

Caroline shrugged. “Maybe not.”

They let the silence settle again. The good kind. The kind that means everything is still, and sweet, and safe. Eventually, Caroline fell asleep. Azzi didn’t. Not right away.

Instead, she lay there blinking up at the ceiling, heart still doing that stupid flutter thing every time she thought Paige knows who I am.

Her phone kept buzzing. Someone replied to her story with fire emojis. Another repost. Another tag. Her mentions were chaos, but she didn’t check them.

Instead, she opened her own profile. Scrolled. Paused on a selfie with a suggestive caption from last summer. Deleted.

Another one—captioned something like wife me—gone.

A photo in Paige’s college jersey, posted years ago with an “accidental” crop that still showed the number? Archive.

She kept going. Just in case. Not because she cared what Paige thought. She didn’t. Not really.

She just wanted to seem…cool. Chill. Like she hadn’t been watching Paige play since she was young and realized just how good Paige was. Like she hadn’t watched her interview clips on YouTube, or bought that hoodie the second Paige wore it in a tunnel fit.

Azzi groaned quietly into her pillow. This was so dumb. She was a professional now. A grown-ass adult. Still, she archived one more post, just to be safe.

Then finally, she turned off her screen, slid the phone under her pillow, and rolled onto her side. Caroline was snoring softly behind her.

Paige Bueckers had tagged her. And now, they were teammates.

God help her.

—---

Training camp came quicker than she was prepared for.

One minute, she was still drunk off adrenaline and nice champagne, doing half-coherent interviews in a silk dress. The next, she was alone in her car with her duffel bag in the passenger seat and her knees shaking like it was the first day of high school.

The Lynx practice facility rose ahead, sleek and intimidating, like it was designed specifically to make rookies question their entire life.

Azzi stared out the window. Tried to breathe like a normal person.

She could do this. She had done this—first days, new teams, pressure so thick it pressed against her chest like a physical weight. She knew how to show up. Knew how to play.

Still, her legs wobbled when she stepped out. Maybe it was the cold. Maybe it was Paige Bueckers.

(Probably Paige Bueckers.)

She pulled her hoodie tighter around her neck, shifted her bag over her shoulder, and walked toward the doors like they weren’t the gateway to her actual childhood dream.

The glass reflected her face back at her—tired eyes, lips pressed into something that was almost a smile. She squared her shoulders.

This was fine. She was fine. Totally, absolutely, one-hundred-percent fine.

She stepped inside.

The air was cool and smelled like disinfectant and money—cleaner than any gym she’d ever trained in. The kind of place built for greatness. The kind of place that didn’t just expect banners and trophies but demanded them.

Azzi paused just past the entrance, eyes catching on the wall to her right. Photos stretched down the hallway—players frozen mid-crossover, mid-celebration, mid-legacy. Maya Moore. Seimone Augustus. Napheesa Collier.

And then...

Paige Bueckers.

Azzi’s eyes caught on that one. Briefly. Too briefly. She looked away fast enough to give herself whiplash, like if she didn’t acknowledge it, it wouldn’t register.

It was a good photo though. Intense. A little smug. Paige had her hands on her hips, chin tipped like she already knew she’d won — because she probably had. That kind of quiet confidence you couldn’t teach, just had to be born with.

And yeah. Maybe Azzi had once saved that exact photo to her phone. For, you know. Motivation. But she had deleted it last week like any normal person would.

Azzi adjusted the strap on her duffel and kept walking. Kept ignoring the creeping thoughts threatening to topple her.

She didn’t need to stare at a wall of greatness and spiral about where she fit in. Or worse: imagine what her photo would look like up there one day.

What if I never make it?

Nope. Not today.

Today, she had one job: walk in like she belonged. Even if her stomach was flipping and her palms were clammy and her brain was already shouting don’t say anything weird to Paige Bueckers.

One step at a time, she forced herself to think.

She pushed open the locker room door and stepped in, trying to look chill. She wasn’t.

The place was already alive. Bass pulsing through the speakers, someone laughing from the far corner, the sharp rip of a duffel unzipping. It smelled like eucalyptus and someone’s overpriced lotion, warm and floral and a little too strong.

Heads turned.

“Look who finally showed up,” Bridget said, lounging in a sports bra and sweats, socked feet kicked up. “Miss Number One.”

A few others laughed, and Courtney gave her a nod from across the room. “Go ‘head and find a seat, rookie.”

Azzi smiled because what else could she do? She gave a small wave, muttered, “Nice to meet y’all,” and found the open locker with her name on it.

A few players came over to introduce themselves. A little side hug from Alanna. Another grin from Courtney as she passed with a protein shake in one hand and her phone in the other.

“Welcome to the league,” she said, tossing it over her shoulder like it wasn’t the coolest thing anyone had ever said to her.

Azzi smiled again, this time a little tighter. She was trying not to scan the room too obviously, but the longer she stood there, the more obvious it felt.

No Paige.

The absence settled over her like static. Not loud, but present.

She didn’t say anything. Just peeled off her hoodie, folding it with too much care—like it was the most important thing she'd do all day. She stuffed it into her duffel and wiped her palms on her leggings, fingers twitching.

Eyes darted around again.

Still no Paige.

“You good?” Alanna asked, passing by again.

“Yeah,” Azzi said quickly. “Just… taking it in.”

“I get it,” She said with a small smile. “But you got drafted for a reason. So, remember that.”

Azzi nodded and tried to keep breathing.

She reached for the hem of her shirt and yanked it up, halfway over her head, arms caught for a second, shoulder twisting awkwardly.

Of course, that’s when the door swung open behind her. Because timing was a cruel, heartless bitch.

She stilled. The fabric still clinging to one arm.

And then, the room shifted in that subtle, almost imperceptible way that happens when someone important walks in. Energy coiling. Conversations dipping.

She yanked the shirt off with a violent twist, hair static-y and sticking to her face, and turned around and almost died.

Paige Bueckers. In the flesh. Black hoodie. Basketball shorts. Tall. Blonde. Looking like a deleted scene from a Nike commercial. Like she hadn’t just walked into Azzi’s most persistent daydream.

Azzi stood there, caught mid-breath, shirt clutched in her hands like she was preparing to wave it as a white flag.

Paige’s eyes flicked to her. Not in a weird way. Just in a normal, I-am-acknowledging-you-as-a-human-being way.

And then she nodded.

Just a nod. A small, neutral nod. Like good morning, or I see you exist, or I didn’t just walk in on you shirtless, don't make it a thing.

Azzi nodded back. A simple gesture. Easy. Universal.

Except—no. Not the way she did it. Too fast. Too eager. Like a bobblehead with something to prove.

Cool, she thought. Real chill. Definitely nailed the nod. But then came the panic spiral.

Was it too sharp? Too aggressive? Had she nodded up or down? Was it more of a chin lift? What if Paige thought she was challenging her? What if it looked like a salute? Oh god—what if it looked like a bow?

She didn’t dare glance back to check.

Instead, she turned to her locker, opened it with forced purpose, and stared into the abyss of the empty space like it held the meaning of life.

She could feel Paige’s presence behind her. That quiet, steady energy. The kind that didn’t need to fill space because it already owned it.

Azzi, meanwhile, was contemplating the physics of spontaneous combustion.

She took out her water bottle. Put it back. Took it out again. Her hand was shaking slightly, which was fun and normal. And then, because apparently her body was still committed to ruining her life, she nodded again.

At no one. To herself. As if to say: Yes. Good. Great. You are the nodding champ!

She blinked at the wood shelf in front of her and whispered under her breath, “Kill me.”

Then she slapped the locker shut and sat down like everything was fine.

(It wasn't.)

Paige’s POV

Paige pushed open the locker room door, hoodie sleeves shoved up, headphones still around her neck. Familiar voices bounced around the space—Courtney arguing with Bridget about something dumb, someone laughing near the back. Normal. Comfortable.

She stepped inside.

Azzi Fudd was halfway out of her shirt, arms stuck, shoulder twisted awkwardly like her body had forgotten the mechanics of sleeves. Paige barely registered it, just enough to slow her pace, glance once.

Azzi finally yanked the shirt off. Hair clinging to her face, cheeks already pink. She turned around like she’d been summoned. And froze.

They made direct eye contact. Azzi’s eyes blowing wide. Paige blinked, looked around the room for a beat, wondering if she’d missed something—spilled drink, surprise visitor, fire alarm. But no. Just Azzi. Still staring. Still mid-panic.

So Paige nodded. Simple. Casual. Nothing loaded. Just Hey.

Azzi nodded back. If you could call it that. It was more like a full-body twitch. Quick. Panicked. Slight unhinged. And maybe even painful.

Paige arched a brow before continuing to walk. But from the corner of her eye, she saw it: Azzi staring into her locker like it was a portal to another dimension. Pulling out a water bottle. Putting it back. Pulling it out again.

Then, unbelievably, nodding. Again. At no one.

Beside her, Courtney let out a low snort, knocking their shoulders together on instinct. Paige didn’t look over. Just rolled her eyes, pulled her headphones off, tucked them into her locker.

Didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. But in her head, one word rang clear and smug:

Trouble.

#paige x azzi #pazzi fic #pazzi fics #azzi x paige

330 notes · View notes

calebsdog · 2 days ago

Text

Random Caleb hc's I don't feel like writing for

Caleb is the number one hater of cilantro. But whenever there's an option to choose cilantro in his dishes he takes it. Only so he can plop the cilantro into your dish the moment you sit down. His intentions are somewhat pure, wanting to make sure you eat your veggies. But it's also because he loves to get on your nerves.

If you say "ow!" convincingly enough while Caleb is tickling you he'll stop every time. You just have to make sure you're a good actor and don't smile halfway through.

Caleb gets jealous of men and women equally. Doesn't matter what your sexuality is or what gender you prefer. Of course, you're allowed to have friends! He's not that crazy... Not usually. Just make sure none of them take his title of best friend, okay?

Caleb was the one who read Mc bedtime stories when they were kids. Since he was enrolled in school first he would sneak home any kids book he thinks you would enjoy but could not yet read. Years later, after the explosion, Mc shyly hands Caleb a book after a bad day. When she thought he was dead she spent so many restless nights wishing he was there to read her to sleep like he did so many years ago. She's already tearing up by the time he finishes the first paragraph.

Caleb thinks of Mc every time it's storming. Was it raining down in Linkon too? Would your power go out? You always hid away whenever there was bad thunder and lightning. But you never wanted to be alone. He hates knowing he can't be there for you whenever you're afraid. Sometimes, all he can do is reach out and hope it's enough.

One day, Caleb comes down with a horrible fever. Something not even he can power through. Even though his throat was so hoarse he could barely speak he still begs her to leave. He doesn't want her to see him like this. But Mc is insistent and stays with him. Wanting to repay the debt from years ago, she offers up her hand, shoving it into Caleb's mouth so he doesn't bite his tongue. Mc had bit down on his hand without hesitation when she was a kid. But Caleb refuses to bring Mc harm like that. He locks his jaw determinedly, refusing to sink his teeth into your fragile skin.

Mc buys Caleb absurdly sour candy for holidays. Candy that isn't meant to be enjoyable but meant to be taken as a challenge. Caleb's gums are bloody by the end of it.

Mc's first date is in a cute, homely diner close to where she lives. The food was good, as long as you ordered from the breakfast menu. And maybe don't order the sausage. But it was cheap enough for middle school and high schoolers to afford a meal on a budget. Caleb's been taking you there for years, chipping away his allowance so you can get as many pancakes as your heart desires. You two went there to study, for late night cravings, and cozy weekend mornings when you had nothing to do. He is sick to his stomach when you bring another person there for a first date. It was your place. Yours and his. This stranger, an insignificant chapter of your life, didn't deserve to be there with you. He can't bring himself to eat for the rest of the day, totally losing his appetite.

Caleb despises when the toring chip activates when Mc is around to see. He can only imagine how she feels watching the man she loves become a blank, emotionless slate. The more he fights against it, the worse it gets. It must be scary, huh? Not only is it scary, it's pathetic. How can he protect her if he's this helpless against his own mind? During those times, all she can do is hold Caleb. She knows what it feels like to get so emotional that it feels like her brain shuts down, even if it was a little different from Caleb's specific situation. How can you fault him for something he can't control?

Caleb shows up to dates still in his Colonel uniform sometimes. He never, ever wants to be late for something so important. So, unfortunately, he has to cut corners with his appearance at times. Many waitresses have lost their tables because the customers were terrified sitting next to the Farspace Fleet's Colonel.

Mc still drags Caleb outside whenever she hears the cheerful jingle of an ice cream truck approaching. Caleb tags along even if he's not in the mood for his own cone. Just like he used to, he fishes in his pocket for spare change to pay for your ice cold treat.

318 notes · View notes

luvkimi · 2 days ago

Text

if jealousy was a contest, satoru gojo would place first every time.

ever since his first year at jujutsu high—the year he found himself falling hopelessly in love with you—he's been the most jealous person around. even when you barely knew of his existence, he was jealous about everything.

that guy he saw helping you with your books for class? satoru would do better and carry you to class. that person who made you laugh earlier? satoru could make you laugh all the time if you would just notice him.

it irritated him in a way. of course, he never really made an attempt to get you to notice him, but he was the strongest! shouldn't that be enough to catch your attention?

sooner or later with the help of shoko and suguru, he learned that it was, in fact, not enough to catch your attention.

"why won't she notice me?" satoru's words were drawled out in a whine as he leaned against the tree he was sitting near, and somewhat in front of him was you. the only girl who had managed to catch his eye. you were sitting at a table with your friends—laughing at whatever joke one of them had made. he swore he felt his heart skip a beat the longer he watched the scene. "maybe because you're not giving her much to notice..." shoko mumbled as she placed a cigarette between her lips, and satoru could only frown at her words. "what do you mean by that!?" "shoko means that since you do nothing but stare at your little crush all day, she doesn't notice you." suguru's voice caught satoru's attention as he looked away from you to scoff at the man, "i don't just stare at her!" "you're right," shoko remarked as she lit up her cigarette, "you stare at her and threaten to use blue on anyone who even glances at her." "ONLY BECAUSE THEY CLEARLY WANT HER! WHO WOULDN'T WANT HER!?" satoru's shouts only made suguru chuckle as he fidgeted with the bottle in his hand, and he tilted his head. "if you're so worried about other people wanting her, then why don't you talk to her before they can ask her out?" "fine, i will—" satoru stated before he could even comprehend what he was saying, and suguru only hummed. "prove it."

and so, satoru did prove it—or, tried to.

it seemed like the world was against him when it came to him talking to you.

he would try to find you in the hallways, but when he finally did, someone was already walking with you. he would try to talk to you at lunch, but his attempts to call out to you were muffled by your friend's shouts and jokes. he would try to ask for a pencil, but every time you turned around to face him so he could ask, someone so happened to hand him one before you could.

it could've been a sign for him to just give up and accept that maybe you two weren't meant to be, but he would rather be blind than notice that sign.

but eventually, his luck turned around.

slowly, you started looking at him in the hallways. you both would share a smile or a wave before parting. every time you passed him, he would throw his arms up in celebration.

did he get a few weird looks? yes.

did he care? no, because you smiled at him.

eventually, you started talking to him. you'd give him a pencil before class and ask how his day was, and satoru started purposefully hiding his pencils just so he could get one of yours and hear you talk to him.

this went on for a bit until satoru had the courage to ask you out, and as soon as you said yes, you'd think that his jealousy would go away now that you were his.

you're funny for thinking that.

anytime someone looked at you for a little too long, he'd wrap an arm around your waist or grab your hand while swinging it back and forth. if someone was talking to you, he'd just go up behind you and stare at them.

and it's been like that ever since.

despite the fact you're both now happily married, he's never given up on his jealousy. when you ask why out of genuine curiosity, he just shrugs.

but in his head, he's saying how it's because you're the most beautiful thing to ever walk the earth and he wants everyone to know that you are his.

just like how he is yours.

"HELLO MY BEAUTIFUL, LOVING, SWEET WIFE WHOM I LOVE WITH ALL MY HEART AND LOVES ME JUST THE SAME!" the sentence was one you've become used to. you laughed as you felt satoru's arms wrap around your waist, and soft kisses were pressed against the back of your neck. "hi, toru..." you spoke before a quick kiss was placed on your lips, and you could feel a cheeky grin form on his face until he pulled away. "whatcha doinnnn'? who's your friend? your pal? your buddy? your chum—" you watched as satoru pointed to the friend in front of you—who was currently holding back laughter at every term satoru listed that referred to them as a friend. "this is my coworker, toru. we were just talking about their wedding plans." your statement earned a hum from him, but you could tell his jealousy had faded as he grinned at your coworker. he remained behind you until your coworker eventually left, and when they did, you turned your head so you could face satoru. "did you need something?" at your question, he nodded. "just my lovely wife." and that's all he'll ever need—you.

comments & reblogs are appreciated !!

#@𝐥𝐮𝐯𝐤𝐢𝐦𝐢 #jujutsu kaisen #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jjk #jjk x reader #satoru gojo #satoru gojo x reader #gojo #gojo x reader

346 notes · View notes

whumpster-fire · 2 days ago

Text

Buckle up, this whole article's a train wreck.

In Disney's new live-action Lilo & Stitch movie, the chief antagonist from the original 2002 animated film, Captain Gantu, is nowhere to be found. Instead the climax has been revised to make Jumba (played by Zach Galifianakis) the villain, as he seeks to recapture his experiment as part of his own plot for galactic domination. It is Jumba who kidnaps both Lilo (Maia Kealoha) and Stitch (voiced by Chris Sanders), as opposed to Captain Gantu, and who Stitch must escape from before helping to rescue Lilo. It's a big change from the original movie, but director Dean Fleischer Camp explains that it was necessary to maintain the more realistic parameters of live action. "Something that live-action films do by virtue of taking place in reality is that they are already more grounded," Fleischer Camp tells Entertainment Weekly. "If you have a story like Lilo & Stitch that does actually have this pretty terrestrial drama between the sisters and staying together, you can actually do them a greater service in a live-action movie. You can make those relationships deeper, hopefully more emotionally resonant."

Why did they hire somebody who didn't want to make a sci fi movie with aliens to make a sci fi movie with aliens?

There's also the fact that live action can heighten or change the stakes of storytelling, which was a factor here. "You end up thinking about how it is a very different experience to see an actual 6-year-old girl potentially being threatened with being torn from her caregiver sister after grieving the loss of their parents," Fleischer Camp says. "That is a very different kind of responsibility from a filmmaking perspective than what you can get away with in an animated film."

There's nothing I can possibly say here other than this jackass does not like or respect animation as a medium, and also HOW THE FUCK CAN YOU NOT FEEL THE FULL FORCE OF THAT IN THE ORIGINAL? DID YOU WATCH THE MOVIE?

That realization also led the filmmaking team to divide the character of Cobra Bubbles, Lilo's social worker in the animated film, into a CIA agent of the same name (Courtney B. Vance) and the new role of Mrs. Kekoa (Tia Carrere). "If the dramatic stakes of Lilo is that she's going to get separated from her sister, then you need a person who actually services those stakes in a credible way," Fleischer Camp says. "You can get away with that being Cobra Bubbles in an animated film — a 6-foot-5 huge dude with 'Cobra' tattooed on his knuckles is somehow a social worker in that world."

Fleischer Camp didn't technically say the word "Black," but come on, dude, you got your dog whistle mixed up with a foghorn by accident, saying Cobra's appearance and mannerisms "don't fit" with him being a social worker is 100% racism.

He adds, "To create real estate for all that emotional stuff and the deepening that we did, you have to get rid of stuff. And so Gantu was a casualty of that, but one that I felt pretty confident about from a storytelling perspective."

Bitch what deepening? You fucking DELETED Jumba's entire character arc, which was about learning to see Stitch as a person and not as an object and extension of himself. One of the few flaws of the original film is the awkward pacing and lack of focus given to this arc and Jumba's abrupt change of heart. There WAS room to deepen this. Also I'd argue Jumba's arc is about seeing the real consequences of his actions and how they're causing people to suffer, which is a mirror of Stitch's.

That made Jumba the natural choice, particularly because it would allow the film to further amplify its themes of family and community. "Jumba is a father figure," Eirich notes. "A terrible delinquent father figure, but father figure nonetheless to Stitch. So, it did feel like, 'Oh, maybe that could actually give even more resonance to the third act.' We started down the path with no Gantu, just seeing where it was going to lead. If it didn't lead anywhere, we would've probably come back and put it back in the movie, but it did feel really fertile from a story perspective."

YOU DELETED JUMBA'S CHARACTER ARC. HIS CHARACTER ARC THAT IS ABOUT HIM BECOMING A BETTER FATHER FIGURE TO STITCH. A lot of this is in the sequels and TV show or just hinted at in the ending montage, but again that's something you could have expanded on. You're making a remake, you could have borrowed plot elements from the sequels.

Anyway: I just saw a post on my dash earlier today about the intentional parallels between the humans' storyline and the aliens' storyline in Lilo & Stitch. Now here's why Gantu is important:

THE VILLAIN OF LILO & STITCH IS THE CARCERAL STATE.

The primary antagonistic force of this film, for both the human and the alien side, is a justice system that is focused on punishing people instead of helping them. Cobra and the Grand Councilwoman are both people who are trying to be compassionate and do the right thing while working within a flawed system, and in the resolution of the plot they both very literally work together to find a loophole that lets them not have to tear a family apart. Jumba has his own redemption arc as I said above.

Gantu is important not just as an antagonist for Stitch (and Jumba) to show their character growth by facing, but as a foil to Cobra and the GCW. He is an agent of State power who abuses that power, and clearly enjoys having an excuse to use his authority to commit violence. He's cruel, petty, vindictive, and doesn't care about the safety of innocent bystanders (Lilo). He is very much representative of one of the themes of the film: he represents punitive justice at its worst, a bigoted cop who wants Stitch dead. It is not just about "bad guy who shows up and shoots some lasers." If anything making Jumba the villain as a criminal who wants to take over the galaxy is more "Bad Guy Who Shoots Lasers" than the original. It is actually important to the themes of the story that Gantu is a fucking cop.

Accordingly: I'm going a little bit out on a limb here, but if I was forced to be in charge of making a live-action adaptation of Lilo & Stitch, and I wanted to deepen the themes, I wouldn't remove Gantu, I would give him a human counterpart, someone who's actively gunning for the Pelekais based on prejudice or personal dislike, or is going after the alien "invasion" and tries to get Nani and/or Lilo in trouble for "harboring" Stitch.

(I saw a post saying Myrtle was the human parallel to Gantu, but, like, Myrtle is a small child. She's in a position of racial, economic, and social privilege over Lilo but she's not in a position of power over her the way Gantu is. Maybe if the film made Myrtle's rich daddy start pulling strings and fucking with Nani's employment prospects because Lilo kicked his daughter's ass, that would be one thing, but in the movie as things stand, Myrtle is an annoyance and not a genuine threat)

Anyway: I'm beginning to think that the problem with Disney live action remakes isn't just the executives micromanaging creative decisions for the sake of profit, it's that they hire directors who have a specific artistic vision, but those directors are mean-spirited hacks who don't understand, respect, or even like the movies they're remaking, so their artistic vision ends up being either incoherent garbage or a "fuck you" to the original.

Everything I hear about the Lilo & Stitch revival somehow makes me angrier. Like,

Hey. Hey, Director Dean Fleischer Camp. Why is a large black man with tattoos having a job as a social worker something you consider so ridiculous that it could only exist in animation? Why are you carefully sidestepping the fact that he is the only black character in the original film? Is it somehow more realistic to turn him into a figure who only interacts with the family through the lens of government defense against extraterrestrials? Or does the idea of a scary looking black man caring about the well-being of people's families confuse you, you racist piece of shit?

#fiction discourse #Lilo & Stitch #Disney's goddawful live action remakes

7K notes · View notes

chanelrolls · 17 hours ago

Text

cw: pure smut !

two years into a relationship with zayne, you've practically grown fluent to his language of love, most of the time reaching extents you wouldn't even believe yourself he'd have the will to do - spanking you with a paddle everytime you poke him too much, tying your hands together to overstimulate your clit until you're basically seeing stars, covering your thigh in nothing but hickeys - the ones that aren't wrapped in pretty words, but always arrive, somehow.

’til now, you’re trying, with every ounce of practiced composure, not to break in front of your family. it’s nothing new, really. these dinners have always been a thing, ever since you were kids. your parents, zayne’s, and caleb’s have always been all tightly knit, bound by years of friendship, tradition, and shared holidays that turned into rituals. so of course, the three of you grew up side by side, tangled in the same photo albums and family vacation stories.

speaking of caleb, he’s been different ever since you got together with zayne. he used to be the best kind of gege, always one step ahead of what you needed before you even asked. the kind who’d walk you home even when you insisted you were fine, who knew your favorite takeout order by heart, who never forgot your exam dates or bad days.

but ever since you've decided to choose zayne? he barely looks at you, he barely speaks. and when he does, it comes out as merely for the sake of being polite, like you’re just another guest at his parents’ table, like you're just a family friend all this time.

you don’t say anything, though it eats at the edges of your mind. you try not to let it show, because zayne is your priority now. he's your person, and if caleb has chosen distance, then maybe it’s only fair you learn to stop reaching.

even when you're right here, sat between them.

but anyway, going back! you might be wondering as to why you're trying your very best not to unravel your composure - well, it's because your boyfriend, zayne, have decided to show you another bizarre method of affection tonight.

you’re trying to focus on your plate, really, you are. but zayne’s hand is warm and maddening where it lingers beneath the table, fingers grazing slow, lazy circles against your inner thigh like he has all the time in the world and none of the shame. your fork pauses halfway to your mouth when “-so, how’s school been treating you lately?” one of your aunts asks, eyes fixed on you like she’s waiting to read between your words.

you swallow the food, the fluster, the heat crawling up your neck, and force a smile. “it’s been… good,” you manage, voice just a little too high, a little too bright. “busy, but manageable!” zayne’s fingers teasingly make their way upper, specifically just about where your pussy's throbbing under the fabric of your panty! a silent dare. this makes you shift in your seat with a low, imperceptible "hmn-" as you press your thighs tigher.

and when your aunt leans in to ask you once more, right while zayne's fingers are working you up, caleb looks up. his lashes lift lazily, gaze dragging across the table like smoke and landing on you, almost bored, if not for the way his jaw ticks the moment he catches that look on your face. his eyes stay on you for a heartbeat too long, burning with the kind of quiet clarity that says he's seeing more than that.

and then, like he’s decided you're not his business anymore, he looks away. he picks up his glass, takes a sip, with lips brushing the rim like he has all the time in the world too. maybe you should be more careful of what you show to your gege...

but even still, this goes unnoticed by zayne. your boyfriend presses just a bit harder, enough to remind you he’s there, that he owns the heat blooming across your skin, and when he brings his drink to his lips, he lets two fingers glide along your folds in an absentminded motion, a lazy swirl. “mm? stocks are dropping again,” he says breezily to one of your uncles, “but nothing too fatal, not if you know where to look.”

he increases the pace faster, and you nearly choke on your food. your aunt doesn’t seem to notice. “you alright, sweetheart?” she asks, peering at you.

you clear your throat, forcing a polite smile. “y-yeah, just… the rice went down wrong.” zayne just keeps talking like he isn’t setting your libido on fire, dropping little dry jokes here and there that make the table laugh, as if his hand isn't currently misbehaving under the linen cloth, as if his fingers aren't the reason why you're technically dripping wet now.

his knee bumps yours, and then he tilts his head, finally glancing your way mid-sentence. a flick of his eyes, and just like that, he’s back to his conversation - so damn good at acting clueless you almost believed it yourself.

you shouldn't be this breathless and pink-faced, not when you're seated this primly, not when you're infront of the food and a family. you really try to focus on your plate, on chewing your food - but the fingers pressing into your sex are not making it easy. it's warm, and it feels too good.

and it's moving.

you steal a glance sideways, and there’s zayne, all charmingly stoic but casual, both hands on the table now. one's holding a fork, the other's wrapped around his glass as he lifts it to his lips like a little prince.

wait. wait, both hands? then who's - ?

you see it when you look down. the hand, tucked beneath the linen drape of the tablecloth, fingers resting between your thighs. and it’s not zayne’s. your gaze lingers, the world narrowing to a blur around the details: the familiar curve of his knuckles, the telltale silver ring on his index finger, and the loose leather bracelet wrapped twice around his wrist - the one caleb’s worn since forever.

you know that hand.

your head tilts up slowly, carefully, like you’re afraid looking too fast will snap something in you. and there he is, caleb, listening to your uncle talk about land prices, like he's just another dinner guest, like his hand isn’t up your skirt. his lips twitch, not quite a smile, just the faintest curve - as if he’s so interested in the conversation. he then swirled his fingers inside you, almost tender. his touch lingered along the entrance, then slipped deeper, tracing the curve with lazy circles.

you grab his wrist, but you weren't sure whether you were dragging his hand away or pushing it deeper. maybe the answer could be seen in the way your thighs are parting. "kudos to the chef tonight, the steak's cooked so well!" one of the uncles suddenly beamed, and caleb smiled boyishly in response. "mhm, i like it soft and juicy, i'm glad you do too."

then, he pushes two fingers in until the tips are practically brushing against your g-spot, curling his fingers for a bit, before pistoning them inside you in lightspeed. "ah!" you accidentally moan, gripping the edge of the table. now everyone in the table had their eyes on you, including your boyfriend, who's now placing his hand back on your thigh, tracing slow circles along the skin, as if to soothe you. your breath caught. caleb looks at you worriedly, "you okay, pipsqueak?" that's the first time in two years he's used that nickname on you. but that's not what's important right now!

"s-sorry, i bit my tongue..."

"silly girl," your mother said, earning a few chuckles from the table as they go back into their rhythm like nothing fucking happened. you swallow, trying to chase your breathing when your gege does it again - he squishes his fingers into your sex with a squelch and pulls out and pushes in and pulls out again! and, all the while feeling zayne's hand gripping around your thigh that it might leave a red mark!

gods, help you. it was almost as if zayne was telling you to keep it low and let caleb take his time with you.

all of a sudden, the phone in your pocket vibrates against your hip. your breath instantly faltered, slowly taking it out with trembling fingers, and they trembled even more after reading the notification on your lock screen.

"my bedroom later ;)"

you shuddered, glancing and peering at caleb beside you. he had his phone on his other hand.

then, another notif.

"yes, ur boyfriend's gonna come too."

n. yes, there will be a part 2 !

#caleb links #lnds #lnds x reader #love and deepspace #lads headcanon #love and deepspace caleb #lnds caleb #lads caleb #caleb #caleb x reader #caleb x you #caleb x mc #caleb x y/n #caleb smut #caleb fic #caleb drabble #caleb brainrot #mdni please #minors dni

231 notes · View notes

sunday-bug · 3 days ago

Text

I'm With The Band Bucky

Pairing: Grumpy!Congressman!Bucky Barnes x Sunshine!Girlfriend!Reader

Word Count: 2.5k

Content: age gap (reader is 15 years younger than Bucky), jealousy, public sex, Bucky being possessive/marking his territory

18+ Minors DNI (NSFW)

Synopsis: After your bestie can’t come to a concert with you, your boyfriend reluctantly agrees to join you. Jealousy and good times ensue.

A/N: not beta’d // based off this request from an amazing anon - thank you for the inspo! Also thank you to the stunning, intelligent, hilarious @soelstress for the smutty inspo for this 🥵

You look down at your phone screen dejectedly. Bucky walks into the living room at that moment and sees your downcast expression.

“What’s wrong, baby girl?” He asks, taking a swig of water.

“Mel just called. She can’t come to the concert tonight. She got called into work.”

“Oh, love. I’m sorry. I know you were looking forward to that. Can you call your sister and ask if she’d want to go tonight?” He suggests thoughtfully.

“I would, but she’s in San Diego for a work conference,” you say, tapping your fingers on the back of your phone. “Buck?” You look up at him with puppy dog eyes.

“No.”

“Bucky Barnes, please,” you beg, standing up from the couch and walking to him.

“Absolutely not. I love you, but no, baby. I can’t sit through an entire concert of them.”

“Why?” You plead, fisting your hands into his shirt.

“Their music isn’t for me, honey. Please.”

“Bucky, I don’t have anyone else to go with me,” you say sincerely as your eyes start to well up with tears. Alex Xela was your absolute favorite boy band growing up. You had posters of them plastered around your bedroom as a tween. This was their last tour for maybe ever, and you and Mel had been planning to go for months. You had your outfits coordinated and planned. You even made a cheesy sign with glitter letters for your favorite band member. Bucky hugs you gently and you let a few tears escape and stain his shirt.

“Love? Are you crying?” He asks, bringing your head into his hands and searching your face. “Baby, is it that important to you?”

You nod, nuzzling into him further.

“Okay, I’ll go with you,” he whispers into your hair.

“You’ll go with me?!” You ask, jumping back from his embrace, feeling like you could rocket to the moon at that moment.

“Yes, if it’s that big of a deal to my girl, I’ll go with you.”

“Okay, but there’s something you should know about the tickets,” you start as Bucky’s brow furrows in confusion. “They are VIP tickets so we get to go backstage before the show to do a meet and greet with the band and take photos.”

“You’re meeting them?” He asks with an annoyed tone.

“I’ve always wanted to, and now is my chance.”

Bucky wears a black t-shirt and dark wash blue jeans with boots. You look ever his opposite in a sequined lilac dress and high top Chucks. Your concert look is complete with body glitter and space buns.

“You look very cute and sparkly, baby girl,” he says as you walk out in your fun outfit and space buns. “I like the glitter.”

“And you look as stoic and handsome as ever,” you reply with a giggle and kiss to his cheek.

The drive to the venue is quick and quiet. Bucky’s hand never leaves your bare thigh and he walks extra close to you through the concert crowd pouring into the arena. He’s outnumbered - countless Gen Z and millennial women are here tonight to see their favorite band and to hopefully get an up close look at their favorite band members. You don your VIP lanyard and hand Bucky his. Instead of wearing it, he shoves it in his back pocket. You walk by a concession stand and see his eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets.

“What?” You inquire.

“Beer is fourteen dollars?!” He huffs. “That’s highway robbery.” You giggle and pull him by the arm to the VIP line. You take out your phone and start checking your hair and makeup, taking some lip gloss out of your small purse and swiping it across your mouth.

“Ah, don’t put that one on. So sticky,” he grumbles. You ignore him and keep fluffing your hair.

“You look gorgeous, honey. What’s with all the fuss?” Bucky asks.

A woman in line next to you giggles and looks at Bucky, “She’s about to meet Alex Xela. That’s what all the fuss is about.”

Bucky swallows and looks confused. The line keeps moving up until you are up next. Your hands start to shake with excitement.

“Baby girl, relax. Why are you so worked up?” He asks again, brushing his knuckles down your arm.

“Next up, this way,” the guard ushers them through to a small back area before they are brought to a cozy room with three men that look only slightly younger than Bucky himself.

“Ohmygod,” you whisper under your breath, doing your best to stay cool and failing completely.

“Hey there,” Alex says, “What’s your name?”

You give him your name and feel a blush start to creep into your cheeks.

“It’s nice to meet you,” he says, opening his arm to wrap around you in a hug and posing for the photographer. “Thanks for coming out tonight.” You feel like you could pass out. It’s been your dream since age twelve to hug Alex Lordes, and now it’s finally happening. You turn to look at Bucky and see a stern expression clouding his face. Another member of the band extends his hand to shake Bucky’s and he begrudgingly offers his, shaking it firmly.

“Thanks for coming. I hope you enjoy the show,” he says to Bucky, trying to be friendly.

“Just along for the ride,” Bucky explains, nodding toward you.

“Hey, man, that’s great,” Jesse says with a smile. “I love seeing fathers bring their daughters to our shows. I hope I can do that with my little girl someday!” Your eyes widen and you snort, looking at Bucky’s pissed off expression that’s slowly turning into a smirk.

“That’s right. Gotta keep our little girls happy, don’t we? Good luck tonight,” he says as he shakes the other band members’ hands and walks out of the room behind you. You walk ahead of him a bit faster, nervous about the dark glint in his eye.

“Baby girl, where are you off to in such a hurry? Let your old man catch up.” He chuckles as he says the last part and you turn around. He opens his arms and picks you up, spinning you around. “You have a little crush on Alex, huh?”

“I did… when I was a teenager. I don’t anymore. I just wanted to meet them. I’ve always wanted to.” You swallow, looking up at him under your lashes. “I swear, Daddy.” You crack a smile at the last part. It wasn’t a nickname you’d ever used for him, but the earlier interaction made you both laugh. Bucky was a decade and some change older than you, but neither of you ever minded. Technically, he was several decades older than you, but on the outside no one had to know.

“I don’t believe you, love.” He takes a step toward you so your chests are touching. The first chords of the opening act echo through the arena. “Let’s go find our seats.”

“Yes, sir,” you agree, taking his hand and letting him lead the way. He starts walking in what you think is the wrong direction.

“Bucky, I think we’re actually supposed to go that way,” you say, turning around with his hand still in yours.

“No, don’t think so, sweet pea,” he growls, dragging you behind him up a small side staircase.

“Where are we-” you start, but he cuts you off.

“I upgraded us,” he says simply, leading you up the last few steps to a private room. It’s up high in the arena, but the view is still amazing. You walk into the small room and look around - there’s a bottle of champagne on ice, a TV screen that’s focused on the stage, a plush sofa, a mini fridge with snacks and water, and just the two of you.

“How did you manage this?” You ask, taking in the fancy private room.

“I’m a Congressman. Comes with certain perks.”

“Bucky, thank you,” you say, running across the tiny room and jumping into his arms. He catches you with a hmph and wraps his arms around you.

“You still have your seats in the crowd if you want to be among the people,” he jokes. “I’ll go with you. It’s just nice to have this space if it gets to be a bit much down there.” He looks at the mass of screaming fans - mostly women - and shudders.

The opening act - a band you’ve never heard of, but are vibing with - finishes up their last song.

“Almost time for your boyfriend to go on,” Bucky grumbles from the couch, an overpriced beer in his hand.

“Yep, you’re right,” you play into his grumpiness. “Do I look good for him?” His eyes darken as you ask the question and twirl in your dress.

“For him, huh?” He huffs, rolling his eyes, taking a long swig of his beer.

“I’m just teasing you, bub. Jeez, lighten up,” you assure him as you offer your hand to him to get off the couch. He groans and stands up, walking over to the window to watch the main act start. He stands behind you, boxing you in against the bar table between his arms and kisses your neck, whispering softly.

“You look good… for me. No one else. Got it?” he growls with a nip to the hollow of your throat.

“Yes, sir,” you sigh contentedly, resting your head against his broad shoulder. His cologne fills your head and you feel your knees wobble. Your eyes catch three familiar figures walking across the stage and you gasp in excitement. “It’s time, babe! Can we go down to our floor seats for a little bit? Please?” You beg.

“Are you going to behave?” He whispers, bringing your face up to meet his stern gaze.

“Maybe,” you tease, rushing out of the private booth down the side stairs.

“You little-” you hear Bucky start to say, but can’t hear the rest as you run down the hallway to the arena stairs. He catches up to you quickly and heaves you over his shoulder, making sure your dress covers your butt. “Let’s go. You can sit on my shoulders for a better view, princess.”

The crowd is on their feet by the third song and every voice in the arena is singing along to one of their most beloved songs. Bucky envelopes you from behind, wrapping his arms around yours and swaying to the music with you as you shout out the lyrics you know by heart. You’re close to the stage and track Alex with your eyes as he struts up and down, microphone in hand.. He sings the bridge and makes eye contact with you and winks. Winks? Oh… fuck. He must have recognized you from the meet and greet, but you brush it off quickly. He’s simply working the crowd. Bucky tightens his grip around your arms and leans down to whisper in your ear so you can hear over the music.

“Don’t think I didn’t see that. I’m not blind.”

You turn around to face him and pull him out of the crowd to the side. “Take me to our booth. It’s getting hot and overwhelming down here.” He nods and takes your hand in his, leading the way back to your suite. The set of his shoulders is all you need to see how pissed off he is. That wink - yikes.

“Baby?” You ask as you get up to the booth and he shuts the door behind you, clicking the lock that you didn’t notice before. “Uh, are you okay?”

“M’Fine,” he grunts, uncorking the champagne and taking a sip directly from the bottle and avoiding your gaze.

“Bucky, you’re mad,” you breathe out, taking a step toward him. His eyes flit to yours and they are full of fire. “Don’t be upset. It was nothing. He’s just working the crowd.”

“You liked it. I could feel your heart racing through your chest. Champagne?” He asks, setting a glass on the bartop with a clink.

“Sure,” you whisper. “Thank you.” He pours the bubbly into a glass and hands it to you, looking out at the stage and not at you.

“Are you jealous? Because there’s no-” you start, but stop when his dark eyes snap to yours.

“What if I am?” He asks suddenly.

“I’d tell you that there’s no reason to be,” you say as you walk softly to him. “That I’d never ever do anything to betray your trust. That I only have eyes for you. That everything I am… is yours… my heart, my soul, my mouth,” you stand on your tiptoes to whisper in his ear, “and my pussy.”

“Oh, I know you’re mine. All of you,” he assures you with a swat to your butt. Suddenly you hear the familiar chords of your favorite song begin and your eyes light up.

“This sounds familiar. You’ve played it around the house before. It’s your favorite, huh?” He asks, walking over to the window with you to watch the performance.

“Yeah, it is,” you say, bringing his arms around yours and swaying to the music again. He moves a hand down to rest over your ass, testing the waters. You press your backside into his hand and invite whatever he’s about to do into the booth with you both. He groans and bends you over the bartop, swiping your underwear to the side and teasing your entrance with his thumb.

You sigh and arch your back, pressing his thumb inside you and rocking your hips.

“Feels so good,” you mutter, eyelids fluttering as you watch the stage. You hear the sound of his belt unbuckling and your thighs tense as you feel the head of his cock against you. He pulls his thumb out and replaces it with his dick quickly with a grunt.

“Suck,” he instructs you, putting his slicked thumb in between your lips. You do as you’re told and bite gently, smiling.

“Gonna fuck you to your favorite song, baby girl. Remind you who you belong to.”

“Yes, James, fuck,” you whimper, feeling his hands wrap around your hips. The song continues and you know this is going to be a quickie by the way Bucky is thrusting desperately. He whimpers into your neck and that noise alone is your undoing. You cum as the song crescendos into the final few lyrics.

“Fuck, baby girl. On your knees,” he yelps. You drop to kneel before him and open your mouth, sticking your tongue out. He holds the back of your head in one hand and finishes himself off with the other, tapping his tip onto your tongue twice to signal that he’s done. You close your mouth and swallow with a smile.

“We can go back down there for the rest of the concert,” he sighs, handing you a water bottle as he zips his pants back up. “That cheeky fuck can wink at you all he wants. We both know whose cum is in your tummy.”

Tag list: @ruexj283 @sebastianstan0813

#bucky barnes #winter soldier #james buchanan barnes #congressman barnes #bucky barnes x reader #thunderbolts #bucky barnes fanfiction #sebastian stan #congressman bucky #grumpy!bucky #sunshine!reader #boyfriend!bucky #girlfriend!reader #bucky x female reader #bucky smut

248 notes · View notes

nana-gumi · 2 days ago

Text

multo g. satoru

pairings: gojo satoru x fem! reader

cw: heavy angst, good ending ig, arranged marriage, breaking up, betrayal, reader is a zenin, emotional trauma, physical abuse, manipulation, gaslighting, depictions of violence, bruising, and physical injuries.

a/n: HI GUYS LET ME JUST LEAVE THIS ONE HERE. my sister borrowed my laptop (i'm praying she doesn't see this tumblr acc ToT) and the gojo fic series drafts was there, that's why i still couldn't finish it. i'ma leave this one shot for now.. HAPPY READING MWEHEHE AND THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR 800 FOLLOWERS OMG ILY'ALL!! maybe part 2 also? idk

you were a zenin, raised to obey, sent to spy on gojo satoru — but somewhere along the way, you made the one mistake your clan never prepared you for: you fell in love. and when he found out your intentions, he didn’t just walk away — he broke, and so did you. years passed. silence stretched. and now, fate ties you together again in an arranged marriage meant to bind broken clans. but how do you stand beside the man you love, knowing he might still hate you for the way you betrayed him?

the dress fits perfectly.

it's heavy with lace and tradition, stitched together by hands that never asked her what she wanted.

outside, the sky is blindingly blue. too bright. too loud. too cheerful for a day like this.

he stands at the altar like he’s waiting for execution. his posture is straight, chin high, eyes empty behind those white lashes. he doesn’t look at her. not once.

she walks toward him slowly, her hands cold despite the heat under the fabric. the veil blurs her vision, but it doesn’t matter. she could walk this path blindfolded. she’s been walking toward this moment ever since she let him go all those years ago.

they exchange vows, hollow words carved into centuries of clan expectations. peace, alliance, legacy — all signed in blood and silence.

he slides the ring on her finger without meeting her gaze. her hands tremble.

she wants to say something. anything. but her lips stay closed. she doesn’t deserve the chance to speak.

“you may now kiss the bride,” someone says.

he leans in and he kissed her like she’s a stranger. like he’s doing a job. like she isn’t the girl he once held in his arms under the stars, whispering promises he swore he’d never break.

her eyes burn, but she doesn’t cry. not here. not now. not when the war is already over and she’s the only casualty left standing.

when the kiss ends, he pulls away like it cost him something. maybe it did.

the crowd claps. the clans nod in approval.

the world keeps turning.

and she stands beside him, the wife of a man who no longer loves her.

you weren’t supposed to be here.

no cursed energy. no technique. no power. just a name — zenin — and the weight it carried like a curse of its own. they didn’t ask if you wanted this. they never ask.

“you’ll watch him." "you’ll report everything,” they said.

you were sixteen, terrified, and smart enough not to ask what they really meant.

the car that dropped you off at jujutsu high didn’t wait. the gates loomed tall, too tall, like they were made to keep people like you out. you stepped in anyway.

you felt like a fraud, walking among sorcerers.

you couldn’t even see curses without a tool in your hand.

but you knew how to lie. how to bow. how to hide.

you were good at being invisible.

until him.

“yo,” a voice — too loud, too bright — cut through the courtyard like sunlight after a storm.

you turned, and there he was. gojo satoru.

snow-white hair that didn’t obey gravity, dark glasses across his eyes, hands in his pockets like he owned the world. and maybe he did. you’d heard the stories. the six eyes. the limitless. the prodigy.

you expected him to be cold. arrogant. untouchable. you weren’t prepared for the grin.

“you new?” he asked, tilting his head.

you nodded. “yeah.”

“cool. i’m satoru. gojo satoru. remember it — what’s your name?”

you gave only your first. no clan, no past. he didn’t question it. just threw an arm around your shoulder like you were old friends.

“c’mon. you look lost. i’ll show you around.”

and just like that, the boy you were supposed to spy on pulled you into his orbit.

you knew better than to get close.

you knew better than to care.

but your heart — stupid, rebellious thing — beat a little faster anyway.

that night, when you wrote your first report to the zenin clan, your hands shook.

you stared at the paper for a long time before hiding it inside the cabinet.

it was just the start.

—

you thought it would be easy to keep your distance.

you thought wrong.

gojo satoru made it impossible.

he found you in the mornings before class. dragged you into his friend group like it was nothing. introduced you to suguru, shoko, and the quiet stillness that lived between their chaos.

“we’re the best there is,” he said, throwing an arm around your shoulders like he always did. “you’re lucky we’re letting you sit with us.” he joked.

you rolled your eyes. “what makes you think i want to?”

“you laughed at my joke earlier. it’s too late. you’re already attached.”

you hadn’t laughed. not really. but he made it hard not to smile.

you started walking beside him more than anyone else. not because you meant to, but because he always found you — after lectures, during training, when the halls were too quiet and your thoughts were too loud.

he always found you.

once, during a sparring exercise, you took a hit you shouldn’t have. your weapon clattered to the floor. the curse lunged for you, and before you could blink, it was gone.

he stood between you and the wreckage, his infinity humming like static.

“you okay?” he asked, still facing forward.

you nodded, but your knees betrayed you. he caught you before you hit the ground.

you were never meant to be on the front lines. born without cursed energy and with a body too fragile for combat, you were trained out of obligation, not talent.

the zenin clan tried to mold you into something useful, but even their harshest instructors couldn’t change what you were—delicate.

during missions, you were always accompanied by a classmate, not for teamwork, but to make sure you made it back alive. and maybe that was what hurt most—you felt like you didn’t belong. not with the strong. not even with the weak. just somewhere in between, constantly trying and always failing.

but then there was gojo satoru.

you didn’t understand him. he mocked the weak. he laughed at failure. he was arrogant, untouchable. and yet, he was kind to you. always. he never once made you feel small—not the way the others did. sometimes, you wondered if it was pity. if he looked at you and saw something pitiful enough to spare. but then he’d sit next to you at lunch. walk beside you on campus. talk to you like you mattered.

and for the first time in your life, you felt like maybe you did.

later that day, you sat beside him under a tree near the old school wall. shoko gave you something bitter for the pain. suguru offered you a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

gojo handed you a popsicle. “blue raspberry,” he said. “the best one.”

“i didn’t ask for it,” you murmured.

he shrugged. “you didn’t have to.”

you watched him from the corner of your eye as he leaned back in the grass, eyeglass pushed up so you could see his eyes. too blue. too bright.

“you’ve got good instincts,” he said. “but you hesitate.”

you looked away. “i’m not like you.”

“good. the world doesn’t need more me.”

but maybe it did.

when you reported to the zenin clan that night, your words were short.

you didn’t know how to explain it. how his kindness made the guilt worse.

because you weren’t just watching him anymore.

you were watching yourself fall.

and you didn’t mean for it to happen. but it happened anyway.

it started in the quiet places — rooftops at dusk, abandoned hallways between classes, the way his fingers would graze yours just long enough to make you forget why you were even here.

the reports got shorter. colder.

you stopped describing his power.

you started describing his laugh.

and they noticed.

"don’t forget your purpose," the letter said. "you are not his equal." "you are not his friend." "you are not in love."

but you were.

and gojo satoru was catching on.

—

“you always look like you're hiding something,” he said one night, the two of you sitting shoulder to shoulder on the roof above the dorms.

the air smelled like rain. the city below flickered like a dying star.

you didn’t look at him. “maybe i am.”

he leaned closer, voice softer. “you don’t trust me?”

you did. more than anyone. and that terrified you.

“you ever think about running away?” you asked, instead of answering. “just… leaving everything behind.”

he was quiet for a second. then, “every day.”

you turned to him. he was already watching you.

there was something fragile in the air. something breaking.

“what’s stopping you?” you asked.

“you,” he said.

you blinked and as if he realized what he said..

“i mean,” he added quickly, trying to laugh, “you and suguru and shoko. and this dumb school. and nanami's frown. and haibara's smile. and the way you—”

he cut himself off.

“the way i what?” you asked. oblivious.

he swallowed before relaxing his tense body.

“the way you make it all feel like it matters.” he mumbled, voice soft that it almost hurt you.

silence.

he looked like he was going to say something else, but didn’t. instead, he moved — slow, hesitant, like someone unused to asking for what they want.

his hand found yours.

his fingers were warm, careful. you didn’t pull away.

“you scare me,” he said.

you laughed, too soft. “you’re the strongest sorcerer in the world. what could i possibly do to scare you?”

“you make me want things i shouldn’t want.”

you knew he meant it. you knew this was the line — the edge of something you couldn’t come back from.

“me too,” you whispered.

and then he kissed you. just once. soft, trembling, the kind of kiss that tasted like youth and bad decisions.

you kissed him back anyway.

that night, your report was a blank page.

you stared at it for hours.

then burned it.

—

you started to forget what you were.

not completely. never completely. the guilt stayed. it curled beneath your ribs, whispering reminders.

but it got quieter when he was near.

you shared everything now. snacks between missions. rooftops at midnight. secrets. kisses.

you started waking up to the sound of his knocking.

“get up, i brought breakfast,” he’d say, even though it was just vending machine coffee and a half-eaten pastry.

“we’re late,” you’d mumble, and he’d grin like that made him proud.

he was unbearable. smug. loud.

he made you feel safe.

suguru noticed first.

“so… you and satoru?” he asked one afternoon, leaning against the wall while you bandaged your arm.

you looked up. “what about us?”

he raised an eyebrow. “i’m not judging. just wondering if you know what you’re getting into.” suguru said, as if he knew you were hiding something.

you did. and that was the problem.

“he’s not what people think he is,” you said quietly.

“i know,” suguru replied. “but you’re not what he thinks you are either, are you?” he said with doubt.

your hands stilled. you didn’t answer.

—

those days passed like dreams. warm and unreal.

shoko fell asleep in the library again. haibara talked too much in the mornings. nanami scowled when satoru put his feet on the table. suguru rolled his eyes at every joke and laughed at them anyway.

you started to believe this could last.

gojo touched you like you were real. like you weren’t the weapon your clan forged from silence. like you weren’t a lie.

when he kissed you, it felt like hope.

when he held your hand, it felt like home.

one night, while the others were gone, he pulled you into his arms and said, “i love you, you know.”

you froze. he waited.

you buried your face in his chest and whispered, “i know.”

because you did.

you just didn’t know how to say i love you too without it tasting like betrayal.

but you loved him. more than you feared the consequences, and in some twisted way, that was worse.

—

you knew something was wrong before anyone said it.

suguru started missing meals. missions. he spoke less, and when he did, it was sharp — tired in a way that didn’t come from the body. his eyes never stopped moving. like he was searching for something none of you could give him.

satoru didn’t notice at first. or maybe he did, but didn’t want to admit it. you watched him try. asking suguru to hang out, dragging him into conversations, making jokes he didn’t laugh at anymore.

it wasn’t working.

then one day, suguru was just… gone.

no explanation. no goodbye. no body.

satoru came back from a mission alone. jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might shatter.

you were the first one to find him.

“don’t,” he said, before you could open your mouth.

you stood there, helpless. he looked up at you — and god, you wished he hadn’t — because those blue eyes were empty. completely, terrifyingly empty.

“he’s not dead,” satoru said.

“then where is he?”

“gone.”

you reached for him, but he stepped back. “don’t.” his voice cracked.

so you didn’t touch him. you didn’t speak. you just stood there, watching the boy you loved unravel.

you wanted to tell him that you were still here. that you weren’t going anywhere. but even that was a lie, wasn’t it?

because the next letter came that night.

a new mission. from the clan.

you are to locate suguru geto. you are to assist him. you are to ensure his survival at any cost. we don’t care how.

and at the bottom, in neat, merciless writing:

if you don’t, we’ll make sure gojo doesn’t survive his grief either.

you couldn’t breathe.

you couldn’t scream.

you couldn’t sleep beside satoru that night without thinking of the knife your clan had placed in your hands.

so you stayed up, watching his chest rise and fall.

he looked peaceful in sleep — younger. like the boy you met on the first day. the one who grinned too wide and called you lucky to know him.

you didn’t kiss him goodbye.

you left before the sun came up.

—

you thought you could keep the truth buried.

that you could pretend it wasn’t tearing you apart. but it wasn’t long before satoru noticed.

the way you flinched when he reached for your hand. the way you stopped laughing at his jokes. the way your eyes darkened behind every smile.

“hey,” he said one night, voice quiet, the kind that always meant he was worried. “what’s wrong?”

you swallowed, heart pounding.

“nothing,” you lied.

he didn’t believe you. never did.

“you’re pulling away,” he said. "is someone hurting you?”

you wanted to scream that it was your clan. that they had you by the throat. that you were trying to save both of them — him and suguru — and losing yourself in the process. but words caught in your throat.

he reached for you again. this time, you didn’t pull away.

“i’m scared,” you whispered.

“of what?”

“losing you. losing myself.”

he pulled you close.

“we’ll find a way,” he said. “together.”

but you weren’t sure if you could believe him anymore.

because every night, you were slipping further away, helping suguru from the shadows, watching the man you loved crumble without knowing it was your hands breaking him.

and every day, satoru’s trust chipped a little more.

and soon, there’d be nothing left to hold onto.

—

he found the letter. the one you thought was hidden forever.

satoru’s eyes burned as he unfolded the cold words from your clan.

you are to assist suguru geto. you are to ensure his survival at any cost.

his gaze locked on you, wild with fury and pain.

“why didn’t you tell me?” his voice cracked, trembling. “why lie to me all this time?”

you opened your mouth to speak.

“i was trying to protect you. please, just listen—” he laughed— sharp and bitter. "satoru—"

"oh my god. you were leaking everything to suguru? is it true?" he asked and the only thing you could do was to look down on the ground as your hand started trembling. "answer me!" he yelled, loud enough to make the walls ring. but no words still came out.

“i was trying to protect you.." you mumbled, or maybe you were telling that to yourself.

he let out a laugh, but there was no joy in it.

it was sharp, hollow, and it cut straight through you.

“protect me?” he repeated, voice rising with disbelief. your lips parted, but no sound came out. “you were betraying the school,” he said, venom lacing each word. “you were betraying me.."

“satoru, please—"

“don’t.” his voice cracked like thunder. “don’t say my name like that. not when it’s coming from your mouth.”

your heart pounded in your ears. then—

his expression shifted. darker. colder.

and in that moment, it felt like the whole world shattered between you.

“was any of it real? were your feelings, your promises —all lies?” he asked, he wanted to know at least that some of it was real. and it was. everything was.

but your silence crushed the space between you.

he stared at you for a long, unbearable moment — eyes that once looked at you like you hung the stars now filled with a storm you couldn’t calm.

his voice came low. final.

“i don’t want to see you again.” your breath caught. “leave jujutsu.” he didn’t shout this time — he didn’t have to. “before i tell everyone you betrayed us.”

your throat burned.

he stepped back like you were something dirty, something unforgivable. eyes like ice as his hands clenched at his sides.

the bracelet — your bracelet — still on his wrist, the one you handmade for him in your second year. he looked at it, slowly, deliberately.

and with a flick of cursed energy, it cracked in two. the threads snapped. beads scattered like broken promises, hitting the floor one by one.

“i just…” he paused — bitter. broken. “i just wished i never met you.”

he turned his back to you, walking away as your vision blurred with unshed tears. your knees gave in before the door even closed behind him, leaving you alone in the ruins of a love you thought was real.

you didn’t chase him. you didn’t explain.

you left jujutsu that day, carrying the weight of his hatred like a wound that wouldn’t heal.

and deep inside, you wondered if maybe he was right.

maybe it had all been a lie.

years have passed.

you’ve grown into someone unrecognizable — a shadow of your former self.

no longer the girl who laughed on rooftops with satoru.

no longer the girl who believed in love.

you left jujutsu behind, but never left the pain.

it followed you like a ghost.

meanwhile, satoru changed, too. the boy who once smiled easily now hides behind sarcasm and walls.

his trust shattered beyond repair.

and yet — fate, or perhaps the merciless clans— have arranged your marriage.

a contract to bind your clans in uneasy peace.

you’re thrown back together after all these years.

but the air between you is thick with resentment, regret, and unspoken words.

he looks at you like you’re a stranger, or worse, an enemy.

you see the loathing in his eyes, but you hide your own pain beneath a mask. neither of you knows how to begin again.

the room was colder than you remembered.

you stood just inside the door, the silence thick and suffocating.

he sat across from you, calm but distant — the same familiar posture, but everything about him was different. hardened.

his blindfold hid the storm behind his eyes.

“you’re late,” he said, voice flat.

you swallowed.

“i had things to settle.”

he didn’t respond. just stared, the weight of years pressing down.

you tried to speak — to explain, to apologize — but the words wouldn’t come.

instead, you studied him.nthe way his jaw clenched. the slight twitch in his fingers. you saw the bitterness there. the cold walls he’d built.

“why did you come back?” he finally asked. “after everything.” you hesitated, voice barely above a whisper.

“because we have no choice.” he nodded, like he already knew.

“i don’t want this,” he said. “this marriage. this arrangement. i don’t want to pretend i ever trusted you.”

you wanted to tell him it was the same for you. that you didn't want the marriage either, or maybe because it's just what he wanted. and that you still felt the ache from the day he walked away.

but the words caught. instead, you just nodded.

“so what now?” he asked.

you looked down, swallowing the lump in your throat.

“i don't know."

and for the first time in years, you both sat in the same room — two broken pieces forced to fit together again.

—

the house felt strange — too quiet, too empty, and yet filled with memories you both tried to forget. living together wasn’t easy.

every room held echoes of the past. every corner reminded you of better days, and bitter ends.

you tried to keep your distance. he kept his guard up, eyes sharp and wary. meals were silent, conversations clipped.

he didn’t ask about your life. you didn’t ask about his.

but sometimes, when the night stretched too long, you caught glimpses. a flicker of something behind his blindfold — pain, regret, maybe even a shadow of the boy you once knew.

and sometimes, when you thought no one was looking, your eyes met. just for a moment. before the walls went back up.

you wondered if you could survive this. living with the man who still loathed you. the man you still love.

but for now, you both kept pretending. because neither of you were ready to face the truth.

—

you found him on the balcony, bathed in the pale glow of the city lights, arms folded over the railing like he’d been standing there for hours.

his blindfold was still on, but you could feel the weight of his stare when you stepped closer.

he didn’t turn. didn’t speak. you stood beside him anyway.

for a long while, neither of you said a thing. the silence was louder than any argument you’d ever had.

“i’m sorry,” you said quietly. not rehearsed. not dramatic. it was a sudden urge to tell him that, so you continued. “i’m sorry for everything. for lying. for hiding things. for not telling you when i should’ve.”

he didn’t move. he didn’t even flinch.

“i never wanted to hurt you,” you whispered. “i never stopped—”

“stop,” he cut in sharply. his voice was ice. “i don't want to hear it."

you froze, throat tight. he finally turned toward you.

“i can’t tell what’s real when it comes to you anymore,” he said. “maybe you loved me. maybe you didn’t. i don’t know. and that kills me.” his jaw clenched. “you kept secrets that destroyed everything we had. how am i supposed to look at you and not see all of that?”

you looked down at your hands, shaking slightly.

“i didn’t know how to fix it.”

“you can’t fix it,” he said. “you made a choice. and so did i.”

you nodded. once. not because you accepted it — but because you knew. he couldn’t forgive you. not now. maybe not ever.

so you turned and left him there, alone with the city lights and the silence,

while your apology sank into the night like a stone in deep water.

—

the days bled together. he avoided you without ever really avoiding you.

you were two strangers in a shared house — moving past each other like ghosts.

sometimes you’d catch the scent of his cologne in the hallway and it would paralyze you.

shoko noticed first. she invited herself over one evening, arms crossed, lips tight, eyes sharp as ever.

“you two look miserable,” she said. no sugarcoating. just brutal honesty.

“it’s fine,” satoru muttered, not looking up from his tea.

you didn’t answer. you couldn’t. your throat felt thick again.

“if this is how you’re going to live,” shoko said quietly, “you’ll end up destroying each other all over again.”

the silence after she was gone felt different.

that night, you sat across from him at the dinner table, barely touching your food.

—

he came home late. blood on his uniform. his blindfold missing — eyes dim, not glowing like they used to.

“satoru?” you stood from the couch, instinctive worry lacing your voice. he didn’t answer.

he walked past you, like you weren’t even there. but you saw the way his hands trembled.

“you’re hurt,” you said softly, stepping closer. “let me help—”

“don’t—” he said, pulling away from you and you froze. “don’t act like you care.” he turned then, eyes sharp, like broken glass.

his face twisted — exhaustion, grief, rage.

“you don’t get to act like that,” he said, stepping toward you. “not after everything you did.”

“i never wanted to—”

“you think any of this matters now?” he snapped. his voice rising. shaking.

“i hate this marriage. i fucking hate this house. i hate waking up every day knowing you’re here.” you flinched. it was as if his voice alone had wounded you. and he kept going.

“i hate looking at you and remembering how fucking stupid i was to believe any of it was real.”

you couldn’t breathe. he was shaking, fists clenched at his sides. and for once, he wasn’t trying to hold back.

“i should’ve never let you back into my life. i should’ve never loved you.”

those last words— they were the final crack in something you didn’t know was still standing.

you didn’t scream. you didn’t cry. you just looked at him, eyes hollow. something in you quietly snapped.

“i'm sorry..” you said, not even looking at him because of shame.

and that's it. just a simple sorry, and he didn’t expect it.

you turned around and walked away. and it was that silence that haunted him the most.

—

you didn’t cry after that night. not when he said he hated you. there were no tears left to shed.

not when he told you he regretted ever loving you. you just… left the room.

you didn’t rest. instead, you went to the one place you never wanted to return to.

the zenin estate.

you stood before them with a calm voice and a broken heart, asking for only one thing: a divorce.

they scoffed. laughed. like your pain was amusing.

but they didn’t say yes. instead, they gave you a challenge.

“you have to earn it. beat the cursed spirit in the basement.”

they told you it was a grade 3. maybe stronger.

you had no cursed energy. it had been 10 years since you fought curses, and you didn't know if you still could.

but you still said yes.

because if it would make satoru free— if it would make him stop looking at you like you ruined his life,

you’d fight it. you’d let it kill you, if that’s what it took.

the first few days were hell.

you came back home every night limping, blood soaking through your sleeves. your hands trembled just trying to unlock the door.

satoru never noticed — he was never there.

you’d hear the door open some nights. footsteps in the hall. the fridge closing. then silence. he never even checked the bedroom.

and still, you kept going. day after day. cut after cut. bruise after bruise. weeks passed, and one day, finally— you killed it.

you collapsed beside its twitching body, chest heaving.

but then — like some twisted video game — another one appeared. a grade 2 rose from its remains.

you didn’t scream. you just smiled, bitter and tired.

“heh, knew it,” you whispered before blacking out.

—

you woke up in your old room, limbs aching like they’d been torn apart.

maki was there, sitting at your bedside, arms crossed, jaw tight with worry.

“auntie,” she said quietly. “what the hell are you doing here?”

you blinked slowly. “training.” you shrugged as you sit up from the bed.

“training?” she echoed, disbelieving.

“you were beat to a pulp in the basement. i had to drag you up myself. does gojo-sensei even know you’re doing this?”

“yeah,” you whispered.

she narrowed her eyes. “why here? why not ask him to train you?”

“he’s busy.” your voice cracked. “don’t worry about me, maki.” she frowned, but didn’t push.

“i came to grab a few things. they didn’t even let me in. you sure you’re okay?” you nodded.

and after she left, you laid there for hours — body aching, soul aching worse.

but the next morning, you went back. because there was still the grade 2. maybe more. and if pain was the price of setting him free, you’d keep paying it. even if it killed you.

—

days passed again. then weeks.

your body was failing. you barely ate. barely slept. your muscles trembled just walking down the hall.

and one morning — after a brutal fight the night before — your body gave out. you didn’t make it to your bed. you passed out curled on the couch, sun bleeding through the curtains, casting gold over your bruised skin.

that was when he came home. he stepped into the living room quietly, looking for something — maybe a mission scroll, maybe a file.

he froze when he saw you. asleep. curled in on yourself like something small and breakable while the sunlight pooled around you.

he stared at you for a moment, and when he realized he was, he scoffed under his breath. “must be nice,” he muttered. “sleeping all day."

he didn’t know. he didn’t see the blood seeping from under your sleeve. he didn’t notice the healing welts down your back. he didn’t hear your shallow, pained breathing.

he doesn’t need to know.

—

maki hadn’t meant to return.

she just… couldn’t shake the feeling. something wasn’t right. you were hiding something, and it didn’t sit right with her so she went back to the zenin estate.

and what she found there… froze her in place.

you were stumbling out of the basement, limbs trembling, dried blood staining your clothes.

your eyes were unfocused, lips cracked. you looked like a walking corpse.

“auntie—?!” you didn’t even hear her. you collapsed forward, knees buckling.

maki caught you before your head hit the stone floor.

“shit—ijichi!” she barked into her phone, struggling to keep your body steady. “i need help. now.”

within the hour, you were back at the gojo estate.

shoko arrived immediately. her eyes hardened the second she saw you laid out on the couch, barely breathing.

maki paced behind her, arms crossed tight, panic masked behind frustration.

“i don’t know,” she muttered when shoko asked. “she said she was training. but why there? in the basement? in our old home? that's where they literally tortured us.” shoko didn’t respond right away.

her hands hovered over your ribs. she had to be careful. you had no cursed energy to stabilize you, and that made everything ten times harder for shoko.

“as far as i know,” maki continued, “she’s been there for over a month.”

shoko exhaled slowly, disbelief creasing her features.

“she’s human. how the hell did she survive that long?” maki didn’t answer. her chest ached.

you were the reason she ever left the zenin clan. you were the one who whispered late at night that there was a world beyond this, that people at jujutsu high would treat her like a person. you were the one who gave her the courage to fight back.

you gave her freedom. and now you were lying here, broken and battered, as if you'd never had a choice in your own. she bit her lip.

“i’m telling sensei.” but before she could move— your hand, heavy and shaking, reached out and grabbed her wrist.

strong. too strong, for someone so wounded.

“don’t…” you rasped, voice thick with pain. your eyes were barely open, but tears had begun slipping from the corners.

“(name)?” shoko crouched closer, voice gentle. “does everything hurt? tell me where—”

“don’t tell him…” your voice cracked.

“please…” then your grip loosened. your hand fell back against the sheets, and your eyes fluttered shut once again.

shoko’s brows furrowed while maki stood frozen, throat tight with something she didn’t want to name.

“…why not?” maki whispered. but you didn’t answer.

and deep down, you didn’t want him to know. because you were scared. scared of what he’d say. of what he’d do. what if it rejoiced him? what if it relieved him — knowing you wanted a divorce too?

you knew what you had with him had been broken for a long time now. you knew he didn’t love you anymore. but if he found out… and he was relieved… it would destroy you.

that’s why you were doing this quietly. because if he saw—if he really saw—how much you still loved him, how far you were willing to break yourself just to set him free… you were terrified he might hate you even more for it.

—

the house was quiet when he returned. it had been quiet for weeks. months, even.

he didn’t think much of it anymore. didn’t expect greetings or warm dinners or questions like how was your mission, satoru? — because that version of you didn’t exist anymore. not since everything between you shattered.

he exhaled long through his nose as he dropped his blindfold on the counter, rubbing the bridge of his nose. he was tired. his hands ached. his cursed energy buzzed too loud in his ears.

he made his way to the bedroom. and there you were. sleeping. again.

your back was facing him, shoulders drawn tight, legs curled in. you looked small. fragile. like a single breath might unravel you.

he clicked his tongue.

“of course,” he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his snow-white hair. “must be nice to sleep all day.”

he approached without thinking. quiet steps. muscle memory. his hand reached out — he wasn’t even sure why — and settled gently on your shoulder.

but the second his palm touched you, something in him froze. the way your body tensed. the way your skin felt… hot and strained. he pulled his hand back like he’d been burned.

“sorry…” you stirred, voice hoarse and quiet.

you turned your face further into the pillow, already slipping back into unconsciousness. satoru narrowed his eyes. something was wrong.

he leaned over you, squinting in the soft light — and that’s when he saw it. the bruise. dark and ugly, blooming across your jaw like rot.

his breath caught in his throat.

without thinking, his hands moved carefully. he turned you slowly, peeling your shoulder toward him. your body twitched in protest. a small sound slipped from your lips — pained. like breathing hurt.

his fingers lifted the edge of your shirt. what he found underneath made his chest tighten.

bruises. purple, black, angry. scattered across your sides. your ribs. your back. your skin was mottled with pain.

he pulled the blanket further down — and stopped breathing altogether.

you looked destroyed.

and the worst part was — you didn’t even stir. you were too far gone to feel his touch.

satoru stood there, unmoving. the room suddenly felt too quiet. too still. like it was holding its breath with him.

his mind screamed with a thousand questions.

what happened to you? who did this? why didn’t you say anything?

and the ugliest thought of all:

why didn’t i notice?

his throat tightened, guilt crawling up like a noose. he took a slow step back. his fingers twitched. his cursed energy coiled under his skin like fire, begging for something — someone — to destroy.

“just what the hell are you doing…?” he whispered, almost to himself, like the words alone could ground him.

he looked down at you — broken, bruised, and still reaching for him in your dreams.

and for the first time in months, satoru didn’t feel angry. he felt scared.

—

gojo was on the verge of exploding.

his footsteps echoed hard across the jujutsu high grounds, cursed energy simmering beneath his skin like a storm about to rupture. someone knew something. shoko, the higher-ups—hell, anyone. and he was going to find out.

he’d barely stepped past the school gates when a voice stopped him cold.

“gojo-sensei.” he turned, caught off guard. he hadn't noticed her there. maki stood at the entrance, arms crossed, posture rigid, face unreadable — but her eyes betrayed her.

there was something raw there. something trembling under the surface.

“what’s wrong?” gojo asked, instinctively guarded.

maki hesitated, then stepped forward. “i need to tell you something.”

gojo didn’t expect that. not from her. not like this.

“she’s been going back to the zenin estate,” maki said quietly. “she’s been training. every day. for weeks.”

gojo’s brows furrowed. “training?” he echoed. “why the hell would she—”

“i don’t know,” maki cut in. “she wouldn’t tell me the reason. she just said not to tell you. but i couldn’t keep it anymore.” gojo stared at her, stunned.

and maki took this a chance to continue as her voice softened — not with pity, but with pain.

“she’s the parent who stepped up for me. when no one else did. when my own family threw me away.” she swallowed. “we’re the same. no cursed energy. no future. at least, that’s what they made us believe. but she… she was the reason i even dared to dream beyond that.”

she looked down, fists tightening.

“i don’t want her to suffer anymore. not like this.” gojo stayed silent. his hands trembled in anger.

maki looked up again, gaze steady.

“she’s the reason i’m here, sensei. she’s the reason i ever believed this place could be something better.” her voice dropped, almost a whisper. “and when i came to jujutsu high, the first person she told me to look for was you.”

that did it. his heart cracked open.

“whatever is happening to her.." maki said. “please.. help her.”

—

the house was quieter than usual. like even the air had learned to tread carefully between the ghosts of words left unspoken.

you stirred after nearly two days of unconsciousness, body aching, but somehow lighter. shoko's treatment had soothed the worst of it, but not the root. the soreness was bone-deep, and the emotional bruises—those stayed longer.

you found yourself in the kitchen, trembling hands stirring a spoon in a mug of hot tea, the steam fogging up your vision. maybe it was the tea. or maybe it was the way everything hurt just a little less today. like your body finally realized it didn’t want to give up.

then—

“maki told me.” his voice cut through the silence like a blade.

your hand froze mid-stir. the spoon clinked against porcelain once, twice, then fell still. he didn't even show hesitation and said it right away.

“she told you what?” you asked, not turning around.

“you’ve been going back to the zenin estate.” his voice wasn’t angry. not quite. not yet. “what are you training for?”

you turned slowly and sat down, grasping the mug like it was the only solid thing keeping you tethered to the moment.

“nothing,” you said. “i just want to be strong.” but that was a lie, and you both knew it.

“you’re lying.”

you let out a breath, long and tired, massaging your temples like the pressure there might stop the world from spinning.

“why do you care?” you said softly. the words held no venom—only sorrow. “i’m doing this for you.”

there it was. the confession.

your voice wavered, but you kept going. “just do your thing, and this will be over soon.”

“why are you like this?” he asked, frustration bleeding into his voice. you looked up at him now, something in your eyes breaking open.

“like what, satoru? isn’t this what you wanted?” your voice cracked. “i’m doing you a favor already.”

his lips parted to speak, but no words came. the silence stretched before he found them.

“by what? by letting yourself get beat up?” your fingers tightened around your mug.

“it doesn’t matter,” you whispered. “it will end soon.” you didn't want to say it, but you had to.

“what will end soon?”

you looked up, and that was the first time he saw the tears.

“this marriage, satoru.”

suddenly, the world stopped moving.

“what?..” he breathed. you swallowed the lump in your throat.

“i had to,” you said. “i don’t have a choice, do i?”

his voice was quieter now. more strained.

“you could just file for divorce. why would you let them go this far?”

you shook your head, gaze falling to the tea you no longer wanted.

“i just hoped it was that easy.” your voice was thick with tears. “just do me a favor…” you whispered, “please, don’t show up. not until i figure everything out.”

he stayed true to your words. he didn’t show up. at least, not to you.

but he was there. always. slipping through shadows you no longer had the strength to notice. he watched every time you limped out of the zenin estate, drenched in sweat and pain, bones barely holding you up.

he watched and he waited. and it was eating him alive.

he told himself he was doing what you asked—giving you space. giving you time. but every time he saw another bruise on your face, another limp in your step, another piece of you stripped away—he realized this wasn’t space.

it was cowardice.

so one night, he snapped.

in a flash of cursed light and boiling fury, he cornered one of your clan members—young, trembling, nothing but a messenger boy for the elders.

satoru’s hand wrapped around the kid’s throat before he even realized he’d been moved.

“what is she doing there?”

the boy’s eyes widened in terror. “w-what—”

“what is she doing there?” satoru repeated, voice so cold it froze the air. “in the basement. why is she coming back bloody every night?”

the boy shook in his grasp. “i-it’s not my fault! it was a challenge from the clan head!”

satoru’s eyes sharpened. “what challenge?”

“you— you didn’t know?” the boy stammered, blinking in disbelief. “but… she told us you did—she said you wanted this!” his blood turned to ice.

“what challenge,” satoru said again, each word slower, heavier, more dangerous than the last.

the boy whimpered under the weight of his cursed energy, knees buckling.

“i-it’s— they said if she could beat the curse in the basement… with only a cursed tool— they’d let her file for divorce. she begged for it. said she wanted to free you!” the words struck him like a curse of their own.

“what?"

“she doesn’t have cursed energy… that’s why they’re doing it. they know she can’t win. they know it’ll kill her. they’re never going to give her that divorce. curse will continue to come at her.”

satoru’s hand slowly dropped from the boy’s throat. he couldn’t breathe.

you were doing this… for him?

fighting curses with no cursed energy. with a body already half-ruined. enduring the cruelty of the clan that despised you. dragging yourself down into that basement night after night just to give him a way out?

and you never told him. never once begged him to understand.

because in your mind, this was how you showed you loved him. by letting him go.

gojo satoru didn’t say another word and vanished.

—

the room was quiet when he came in.

you were sleeping again, just like all the other nights—collapsed from exhaustion, curled in on yourself like sleep was something that had to be earned.

satoru stood at the doorway, staring.

the guilt was unbearable now. it sat in his chest like a curse, hollowing him out from the inside.

he moved forward slowly, until his shadow reached across your bed.

your body tensed instantly. eyes flying open. breath catching. instinct bracing you for pain.

and somehow, just the sight of him made the storm inside you quiet.

your breathing slowed. your hands stopped trembling. it was as if everything in you finally understood.

you were safe now. safe, because even after everything—he still comes home.

but it was a fragile kind of comfort. because deep down, you knew—

it was only a matter of time before it ended. and maybe that was the saddest part of all. he was still coming home, but not for long.

“oh… it’s just you…” you mumbled, voice raspy, dragging yourself upright despite the ache. and when you finally managed to sit up, your eyes met his, confused, tired—

“what are you doing h—” but the words never came.

because the look on his face stopped you cold. and because he was already there, wrapping his arms around you like he was afraid you might slip through his fingers. pulling you against his chest like it was the only thing that could steady him.

“fuck…” he breathed, broken, and your heart dropped.

“satoru?” you asked, weak and confused, barely able to hold your head up.

and then— you felt it.

warm and wet on your shoulder. his tears.

you moved instinctively, reaching up to his chest, but your limbs felt was too numb. you couldn’t fight the hold he had on you. not that you wanted to.

“please,” he whispered, voice trembling. “please, stop this.”

your eyes widened. something sharp twisted behind your ribs.

“what are you talking about?” you asked, but your lips were already quivering—

your voice barely holding together, your breath catching because you already knew the answer before your mind could bear to hear it.

“i’m sorry,” he choked out, voice breaking. “i’m sorry for treating you that way. i was angry… i thought you chose to betray me. but i didn’t stop to think—I didn’t really see you. you were only doing what they told you to, weren’t you? you… you just wanted suguru back too, didn’t you?"

his words trembled under the weight of regret, heavy with the kind of sorrow that came far too late.

and there, your heart cracked clean down the middle.

tears welled up and spilled before you could stop them, soaking into his shirt as you nodded quickly, a soft, broken hum escaping your lips.

your voice came out a whisper, raw and broken. “i'm sorry.. i didn’t want to help them. but i was weak, satoru. and they used me against you. i was scared. i didn’t know what else to do.” your fingers fisted in his shirt, small and desperate. “i’m sorry… i know it’s too late now, but i really did love—”

he pulled back just enough to hold your face in his hands. his thumbs brushed at your tears, but they kept coming quietly.

“i know,” he breathed, voice barely holding together. “i know, honey.”

his hands trembled as they cradled your face, thumbs brushing away the tears that wouldn't stop coming—yours and his. and for the first time in years, there was no anger in his eyes. just grief. just guilt. just the overwhelming ache of knowing he’d almost lost you completely without ever hearing the truth.

“i’m sorry for pushing you away. i thought… i thought if i let myself love again, it would break me. that i’d lose everything. again. i didn’t mean to hurt you. i just didn’t know how else to protect myself.”

you let out a trembling sigh, the kind that comes from something long buried rising to the surface.

“i know the kind of man you are, satoru,” you whispered. “and that’s why i love you.”

he stared at you like he was seeing you for the first time.

and then, finally—

“i love you too,” he whispered. “so much that it hurts.”

you laughed through your tears—a small, breathless sound. cracked and beautiful.

“do you forgive me now?” you asked, leaning into his touch.

his hand ghosted over your cheek like you were something sacred.

“you did nothing wrong,” he murmured. “there’s nothing to forgive.”

he pressed a kiss to your forehead. it lingered—like a promise. like a beginning.

“let’s fix everything tomorrow,” he said quietly, gently lowering you back to the mattress. “but for now… let’s rest.”

you nodded, body giving in, sinking into him like you had nowhere else left to go.

and for the first time in weeks—

you both slept. not as strangers, not as ghosts of what you once were, but as two broken hearts still brave enough to try again.

#nana.gumi #gojo satoru #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru angst #gojo angst #satoru angst #satoru gojo #satoru gojo x reader #jjk #jjk angst #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen angst #satoru x reader

305 notes · View notes