#ava x reader | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

idiomaticpunk · 2 years ago

Text

You are the reason - Lilith, Warrior Nun.

Sister Lilith x reader (she/her), no names used. request by @loaksmuntxa fluff, some spoilers but it does not follow perfectly the plot. 1,7K words.

english isnt my first language!!

The bond you shared with Lilith was special.

Yes, she was clearly rude at first, and she still was, even with how close the two of you were. Both of you were “legacies”. Her family being the halo bearer for 6 generations before Ava took over, and yours being known to be the mighty-protector, the one who taught everything to the halo bearer. It may sound a little bit dumb, considering that they were the one bearing the halo, but it takes a lot: mentally and physically. But your little spanish family was known to have a pure heart. And all the women in your family were amazing at archery, so that did help. Naturally, both of your family were very close. You balanced Lilith’s family’s harsh nature, while she balanced with your too soft family. But being legacies had its problems. The pressure from both of your family was extremely intense and that may have contributed to Lilith’s downfall with Adriel. But anyways, you both bonded on that pressure, especially after Ava took over Lilith’s role and Beatrice kinda took over yours.

Don’t get it wrong, Lilith and you still had that bond before the incident, when Shannon was still the Warrior Nun. She was training all day, all night, and you can’t count on your fingers all the times you had to stop her from throwing an umpteenth knife around 3 am. Your hands softly touching her shoulder, before resting on it, while she nearly jumped from the contact of your hot skin against her cold one. You coaxing her to go to bed with pleading eyes, desperately trying to make eye-contact with her. Because that “damm fucking bond”, made her unable to resist to your sleepy eyes begging her to go to sleep. But every time, you would make eye contact, because that’s what you were good at, and she would end up cuddled against you in bed. Lilith would never admit that she was cuddling with you. It was more of her fulfilling her legacy-halo-bearer-duty, of course. She would never admit that she liked those soft touches, your fingers tracing the contour of her face-bones, that would always lull her to sleep. Or that she loved counting the moles and soft marks on your face when she thought you were asleep.

The bond you shared with Lilith was special, unique, soft, and intimate.

It all changed when she changed sides, obviously. You couldn’t deny it, it was hurting to see that woman whom you shared so many intimates and soft moments, trying to kill Ava. She had grown wings. And God, they were beautiful and you couldn’t stop looking at it when you saw them. It was impossible to hurt her, or even to try to hurt her. You were an amazing fighter, and you helped Lilith with her training for years. But throwing a knife or an arrow at her felt wrong. Maybe it was your mother speaking into your head. “God, I hate her mother, but please don’t embarrass us more by killing the one you were supposed to help.” Or maybe it was that bond, telling you this wasn’t YOUR Lilith. That she needed help. Killing Adriel was the only way. And you knew she needed help and wanted it. With those new powers, new abilities, she had the opportunity to kill you, more than one. But weirdly enough, her knives, her arrows, and everything that could hurt you always ended up a foot away from you. The bond was speaking, even in her corrupted mind.

Then, she disappeared for a while, but you didn’t stop fighting. You had your place next to Ava, Beatrice and that weird guy they found, Miguel. Your family had been fighting for years against devils, and killing Adriel would definitely bring back the honor in your family. So here you were, next to the portal, bow in your hand, and with the most cold face you could have put on. Facing Adriel and Lilith, the girl whom you shared soft kisses, shyly, in the dark, after a rough day. Lilith, who looked more and more unrecognizable, suddenly pulled Miguel’s heart, who was actually Michael or whatever, out of his chest, destroying the divinium bomb plan. Rising your bow, you throw a first arrow at Adriel, and you pray for you, and Lilith, as the fight begins. Everything is such a blur. Camila crying in Adriel mind’s, as she tells you, Beatrice protecting Ava from Lilith, you end up limping, bleeding nearly everywhere, a hand holding your left flank, stumbling every now and there, near the arch, your other hand bearing a sword, trying to stab as better as you could Adriel. His laugh resonates inside your ringing ears. “Miserable human…Fighting to protect the life of such an unknown person…Ava does not deserve this…Look at you, poor creature, putting your life at risk for her. You nuns are really mad.” Swallowing the blood in your mouth, you raise the sword once again, and God knows how, you actually touch him. And with the coolest smirk, that was so much like Lilith’s, you answered him weakly. “I am not doing this for Ava. I’m not saving Ava, but Lilith! I’ll try for centuries if she needs me to!”

He catches the end of your sword and throws it across the room, the shining weapon ending up into a wall. That ugly laugh gets to your ears again, and as you see him talk, Adriel raises his leg, and God, he’s going to push you in that fucking weird dimension. And God you were swearing like Lilith. Speaking of, a black ball comes towards you at lightning speed, and you realize it’s Lilith, who dropped Ava in the corner, coming towards you like a fury. When you lose your balance, your hair flies out of place, your hand leaves your side, and you turn your head, trying to make eye-contact one last time with your Lilith. Now questioning every bit of your sanity, you try to understand why you’re not dead yet, as Lilith’s burned arm holds you, just a little bit above the floor, as her other arm throws a kick at her “master”, punching him a few feet back. God, when has she become this muscular? Her arms weren’t this strong around your waist before. You didn’t know if you were hallucinating, dead, or alive, but you can hear the confusion in Adriel’s voice, and feel the stares of your sisters. “"Lilith, the supposed halo-bearer choosing that human over me, Adriel, when I have shown you the true world! I have given you wings, power, everything you needed to avenge yourself! You have shown your true colors and weakness by choosing love over loyalty. You will regret this betrayal as much as you will regret ever crossing me. I will make sure that you suffer for your treachery and that you never forget the price of betrayal."

Now, you were clearly hallucinating, your head spinning, ears ringing like there were bells in your head, vision becoming more and more blurry, but all you can do is focus on Lilith’s beautiful face, counting her eyelashes one last time as her arms hold your bleeding figure tighter. “You were about to take away the only person that I loved! The only person who loved me for who I was before you turned me into a monster! She means the world to me, miserable human or not! And me alive, you will not hurt her!” Rage echoes in her voice, and soft and cold tears falling on your cheeks are the last thing you can remember.

Everything's a blur, foamy memory. Everything but the pain that rushes to your nervous system when you move an inch of your body. A strangle moan leaves your body, and the door flies open. You want to scream, to run, to hide or even to fight. But you make eye-contact. With her. And she walks, not flies to you in a scared manner;like you were about to run away or even to disappear if she blinked too slowly. A smile falls on your face, and Lilith’s smile mirrors yours, and she sits on the chair next to the hospital bed. “Do you really think, after all this, I want you to sit next to me? I’m not made of sugar. I know, we are in public, and things have changed… You take a deep breath, eyes filling with tears as she abruptly stands up to wipe them as they only start to fall. Damm her and fast reflexes, and damn the way she so easily reads into you. Lilith's dark pink lips shushes you, but you nod softly, too scared to move your neck as you continue speaking. And if you knew better, you’d think her eyes were watery too. But right now, I just need you to hold me. How you want, where you want. I know this isn’t usual, but God it was so scary Lilith! I thought I lost you!”

And Lilith shushes you again, because she knew. She now knew what it felt like to nearly lose your most-loved one, and how scary it is. She settles to the edge of the bed, her long dark hair framing her face perfectly, and the nearly angel looking girl that she was, holds your hand as the other cups your face lovingly. Loving you was easy, you made it look like the easiest thing ever. She was ready to love you. It would take time for her to heal, for the both of you. Especially with the holy-war that was coming. But she would protect you. It was her legacy. Loving you never felt so easy when she realized. Bearing the halo or avenging herself were not her only reasons to live. You were the reason.

#lilith x reader #warrior nun x reader #warrior nun lilith x reader #lesbian x reader #lesbian!reader #warriornun!lilith x reader #ava x reader #punkie is love deprived

101 notes · View notes

romerona · 3 months ago

Text

The Cook and The Teacher!

Let's pretend The Bear and Abbot Elementary are in the same city.

Another cute interaction between Carmen (Carmy) Berzatto x Abbot Teacher Femreader! Sunshinereader!

You sat at the table, doing your best to appear interested as your date droned on about his latest work achievements. Something about managing accounts, sealing big deals, and being “essential” to the success of his company. You’d lost track of the details five minutes in, your polite smile starting to feel like a workout for your face.

“…but you wouldn’t get that,” he said, waving his hand dismissively, like you were a child. “Teaching kids and all. It’s like... coloring books and snack time, right?”

Your smile faltered, and you tightened your grip on the stem of your wine glass, fighting the urge to roll your eyes. “Not quite. It’s actually pretty challenging—teaching is about shaping young minds, not just... crayons.”

“Sure, sure,” he said, nodding like he wasn’t really listening. “But you have to admit, it’s not exactly high stakes.” He leaned back in his chair, a smug grin stretching across his face. “I mean, no offense.”

“None taken,” you replied tightly, though the bile creeping up your neck said otherwise. You took a slow sip of your wine, hoping the glass might serve as a buffer between his words and your patience. Spoiler: it wasn’t working.

Inwardly, you cursed yourself for agreeing to this. What had Ava said when she pitched the idea? “Girl, you’re way too cute to be single and wasting away in that apartment of yours. You need to get out there. Shake things up. And this guy? Total catch—tall, successful, and probably rich. You’re welcome.”

At the time, it had seemed like a good idea. Ava’s relentless confidence had rubbed off on you, and the idea of putting yourself out there sounded... productive, if not promising. After all, your secret crush on your cute neighbor wasn’t going anywhere.

Carmy.

You couldn’t help but think about him as Ben prattled on about his “huge network.” Carmy was quiet, focused, and sweet in a way you didn’t think he realized. But he was also impossible to read. Sure, you’d had a few conversations here and there, shared a laugh or two, but he’d never made a move. You hadn’t either—paralyzed by the thought of misinterpreting things and embarrassing yourself.

Which is how you’d ended up here, with Ben. Wonderful, condescending Ben, who clearly thought your life’s work was a joke.

“And this place,” Ben said, gesturing around the restaurant with a smug grin. “Pretty great, right? Super exclusive. I know a guy who knows the chef here. Heard he’s like, a genius or something. Figured we’d go all out.”

You glanced around the dimly lit space, suddenly more aware of the upscale decor—the polished wood tables, the soft amber glow of the overhead lights, and the quiet hum of conversation that seemed to fill the air like music. It was... fancier than you’d expected.

The Bear.

You’d heard of it, of course—who hadn’t? It was one of those places people raved about, where getting a reservation was an accomplishment in itself. The kind of place where you know the food would be incredible, but the bill would make you question your life choices. Nice, but you were pretty sure you could only afford, like, a cup of water here.

Ben leaned in closer, grinning smugly. “This chef guy? Supposedly some kind of prodigy. I don’t know the details, but people say he’s a big deal. Good thing I’ve got connections, huh?”

“Mhm,” you hummed, noncommittal, as you glanced toward the bustling kitchen. A wave of heat and light spilled out from behind the pass, where you could just make out the shadowed figures of chefs moving in synchronized chaos.

As you sipped from your wine glass, trying to find something redeemable about Ben’s endless self-promotion, you wondered if maybe Ava had oversold this whole “dating adventure” thing.

Carmy spotted you the second you walked in.

He’d been at the pass, focused on plating an intricate dish—a delicate arrangement of seared scallops and edible flowers—when his gaze drifted toward the dining room. His hands paused mid-motion, a faint crease forming between his brows as he recognized you.

You were hard to miss, sitting near the window in a corner booth, your posture poised but just slightly tense. Dressed in something a little sleeker than usual, you looked... different. Not in a bad way—never in a bad way— Not that you ever looked anything less than beautiful, but tonight, something about you seemed… striking, enough that he found himself staring longer than he should’ve.

His eyes flicked to the guy sitting across from you. The guy who was laughing too loud, leaning back in his chair like he owned the place, gesturing with wild hands as he talked. You, on the other hand, wore a polite smile that didn’t quite light up the room as it usually did.

Carmy’s jaw tightened. He wasn’t sure why the sight of you with someone else tugged at his chest the way it did, but it lingered, heavy and unwelcome.

It’s none of your business, he told himself, forcing his focus back to the dish in front of him. You weren’t his to worry about.

You weren’t his at all.

Still, his gaze flicked back toward your table, almost involuntarily, catching the way your date seemed oblivious to your discomfort. Carmy’s stomach twisted at the thought. He didn’t know what he expected—maybe for the guy to notice the way you played with your napkin or to tone down his boisterous tone—but it wasn’t this.

“Chef?” Sydney’s voice broke his focus, sharp but professional.

“Yeah,” he muttered, snapping back to reality. His eyes returned to the plate in front of him, the arrangement now slightly skewed from his distraction. He adjusted it quickly, his movements precise but tighter than usual. “Thanks, Chef.”

As Sydney moved on, Carmy risked one last glance at you. The corner booth, the dim lighting, the guy who couldn’t seem to shut up—it all felt wrong. But he pushed it down, buried it under the quiet rhythm of the kitchen, telling himself it wasn’t his place to care.

And yet, he did.

He cared enough to, like some kind of creep, step out of the kitchen and hover near the hallway that led to the restrooms. It wasn’t a plan—not really. He told himself he just needed a breather, a moment to clear his head and shake off the knot in his chest. But he wasn’t fooling anyone, least of all himself.

The low hum of the restaurant buzzed in his ears as he leaned against the wall, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. He didn’t even know what he’d say if you saw him. Maybe he’d play it off, and act like he just happened to be there. But then, what were the odds you’d even notice him? You were here with someone else, after all.

It was ridiculous, he knew that—irrational even— he should go back, really what the fuck was he thinking--

But the sound of heels clicking softly against the floor pulled him from his spiralling thoughts. His breath hitched as you turned the corner, and your expression turned to one of shock when you spotted him.

“Carmy?” you said, stopping mid-step. Your voice carried a note of surprise, but there was something else there too—curiosity, maybe, or even relief at seeing a familiar face in such an unfamiliar situation.

“Hey,” he said, standing a little straighter, as if he hadn’t just been loitering near the hallway like a guilty teenager. He cleared his throat, trying to play it cool. “Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

You blinked, your eyes flicking over his clothes—the crisp white uniform. The realization dawned on you, and your brows lifted in surprise.

“You work here?”

“Yeah,” he said, shifting his weight slightly. “I, uh... I own it.”

Your eyes widened, and you couldn’t help the soft laugh that escaped you. “You own it?”

“Yeah,” he said again, a bit softer this time. His lips twitched into a faint, almost sheepish smile. “I started it a while back. Kind of… a long story.”

You took a moment to process this revelation, glancing around the restaurant as if seeing it in a new light. The warm lighting, the carefully plated dishes you’d glimpsed on their way to other tables—it all made sense now. Of course, this was Carmy’s place. It was thoughtful, deliberate, but somehow unpretentious.

“Wow,” you said, meeting his gaze again. “That’s... impressive.”

Carmy shrugged, his hands slipping into his pockets. “It’s just work. Nothing fancy.”

“Nothing fancy?” you repeated, a small laugh escaping as you gestured toward the elegant decor. “Carmy, this place is gorgeous. You’re way too modest.”

"Thanks," His lips twitched into a faint smile, but his eyes lingered on you, searching before he added, “You didn’t look like you were having a great time out there.”

You blinked at the sudden change in topic, your surprise melting into something closer to embarrassment.

“Oh,” you said, glancing toward the dining room before meeting his gaze again. “Yeah, it’s... it’s a date.”

Carmy’s jaw tightened imperceptibly, though his expression didn’t waver.

“Figured,” he muttered, his voice steady but low.

“Not a great one,” you admitted, your lips quirking into a dry smile. “Blind date, courtesy of Ava. It’s... fine, I guess. He’s just... not my type.”

Carmy raised an eyebrow, his curiosity getting the better of him. “What’s your type, then?”

The question caught you off guard, your breath hitching slightly as his words hung in the air. You laughed softly, deflecting. “I don’t know. Someone who doesn’t treat teaching like it’s a hobby or call it a job anyone can do.”

His lips twitched into a faint smirk, and he shook his head in disbelief. “He did not say that.”

You groaned dramatically, closing your eyes as if the memory physically pained you. “Oh, but he did. Word for word, and I quote: ‘Teaching is important, I guess. But it’s gotta be, like… easy, right? Summers off, finger painting, all that?’ And then—then!—he laughed. Like he’d just unlocked the secret to stand-up comedy.”

Carmy blinked, his smirk fading into something closer to incredulity. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish I were,” you said, sighing dramatically. “You’d think he was trying out his Type Five for open mic night. And the pièce de résistance? He throws in the classic ‘no offense.’ Like that’s a verbal Ctrl+Z or something.”

That earned a real laugh from Carmy this time, his shoulders shaking slightly as he shook his head. “What the hell? So, this is what you’re dealing with?”

“Oh, but I’m thriving,” you replied, your tone dripping with sarcasm waving your hand dismissively. “Peak romantic energy. Nothing like being told my career is a glorified arts-and-crafts workshop to really get the sparks flying.”

Carmy leaned slightly against the wall, crossing his arms as he listened. His expression was unreadable, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—irritation, maybe, or quiet disbelief. “And you’re still out there?”

“Excellent question, Chef Carmy,” you said, pointing at him with mock gravity. “I think it’s a mix of morbid curiosity, sheer stubbornness, and maybe a touch of guilt. I mean, he did spring for the wine. Even if he did refer to it as a ‘top-shelf pour.’”

That made Carmy snort, his head dropping slightly as he tried to compose himself. “Top-shelf pour, huh? Sounds like a real charmer.”

You laughed softly, though there was a bite of bitterness in it. “Oh, totally. It’s been a real dream date. Honestly, if he makes one more crack about teaching being ‘easy,’ I might just—” You mimed strangling someone, your hands curling dramatically as you added a mock growl for effect.

Carmy chuckled, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “I’d pay to see that.”

“Don’t tempt me,” you shot back, your grin sharpening. “It might get me out of this date, but I’m pretty sure assault charges aren’t a great look for me.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Fair point.”

Your playful energy dimmed slightly as you glanced toward the dining room. “Anyway, I should probably get back out there before he starts mansplaining the wine list to the waitress. Again.”

Carmy’s lips twitched as if he wanted to laugh, but instead, he straightened up quickly, the weight of his role as head chef settling back onto his shoulders. “Yeah, I should... head back to the kitchen too. Got a lot to wrap up tonight.”

You turned back to him, your expression softening. “Thanks, by the way,” you said, holding his gaze. “For... checking in, I guess. You didn’t have to do that.”

He shrugged a gesture that looked casual but felt like it carried more weight. His voice dropped slightly as he replied, “Yeah, I did.”

The words hung there for a beat, his meaning lingering just beneath the surface as the two of you locked eyes. The air between you felt heavy, almost tangible, like a thread being pulled taut. You wanted to say something—anything. Maybe a joke to break the tension, or maybe the truth: that you liked him, that you wished it was him sitting across from you tonight, making you laugh instead of testing your patience.

Unbeknownst to you, Carmy’s thoughts ran dangerously close to yours. He’d been replaying every interaction with you since the day you moved in next door, every laugh, every casual smile. The thought of you with someone else—someone who didn’t seem to notice the little things about you the way he did—made his chest tighten in ways he couldn’t explain.

But before either of you could give voice to the thoughts swirling in your heads, the faint sound of your date’s voice carried through the hallway, breaking the moment like a needle scratching across a record. You winced slightly, the weight of reality pulling you back.

“Ugh. That’s my cue,” you said, shooting Carmy an exaggerated grimace. “Duty calls.”

Carmy nodded, his expression carefully neutral, though the flicker in his eyes betrayed the emotions he was trying to keep in check. “Good luck out there.”

“Thanks,” you said with a wry grin. “I’ll need it.”

Despite his words, his gaze lingered on yours, as if searching for something unspoken. For a moment, you thought maybe—maybe—he’d say something more, but instead, he stepped back, the faintest of smiles tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“See you around,” he said, his voice quieter now.

“Yeah,” you replied softly, your heart squeezing as you turned to head back toward the dining room. “See you around.”

As you walked away, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were leaving something unfinished behind. And Carmy, watching you go, felt much the same, his hands flexing at his sides as he fought the urge to call after you.

When he finally turned back toward the kitchen, his jaw tightened, the moment still playing over in his mind. He rubbed the back of his neck, willing himself to focus as he pushed open the swinging door. The familiar clatter and hum of the kitchen greeted him, but it did little to drown out the thoughts circling his head.

He barely made it three steps before Richie appeared, leaning casually against the counter with his signature smirk firmly in place.

“Well, well, look who finally decided to grace us with his presence,” Richie drawled, crossing his arms. “What’s the matter, Cousin? Lose track of time out there? Or were you too busy making googly eyes at the customer? Can't blame you thought, she's gorgeous.”

Carmy’s jaw ticked, his shoulders stiffening. “Shut up, Richie.”

--------

Your date’s voice droned on, a monotonous background noise to your growing sense of regret. Why had you agreed to this? Why hadn’t you just stayed home with a glass of wine and a good book?

Just as you were contemplating an excuse to leave—feigning a sudden headache, maybe, or an urgent call from a friend—a waiter approached your table. It wasn’t the same one who had been serving you throughout the evening, but an older guy with an easy smile and a glimmering of mischief in his eyes carrying a small plate in hand. The plate held an assortment of beautifully arranged pastries, each one delicate and intricate, like a tiny work of art.

“Oh, I didn’t order this,” you said, your brow furrowing as you looked up at him.

“It’s from the chef,” the waiter replied, his tone polite but with a glimmer of something knowing in his eyes.

Your eyes widened slightly, your breath catching as you glanced instinctively toward the kitchen pass. Sure enough, Carmy was there, leaning slightly against the counter, his arms crossed. His expression was unreadable, but there was a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, and his gaze was fixed squarely on you.

Your heart gave a little jolt, heat creeping up your neck as you turned back to the table.

Your date, meanwhile, was entirely oblivious to the silent exchange. He grinned widely, puffing out his chest a little as he gestured to the plate. “See? Told you this place was top-notch. They must’ve recognized me. Perks of being a regular.”

It took everything in you not to burst out laughing. Instead, you bit back your amusement, your lips twitching into a barely restrained smile as you reached for one of the pastries.

“Right,” you said lightly, turning the pastry over in your hand. “Must be your VIP status.”

As you took a bite, the pastry practically melted in your mouth, a perfect blend of buttery richness and delicate sweetness. It was so good it almost made you forget the company you were keeping—almost.

“You know, this kind of attention doesn’t happen just anywhere. It’s all about knowing the right people.”

“Mmm,” you murmured, taking a bite of one of the delicate confections. It melted in your mouth, rich and buttery, with just the right amount of sweetness.

When you glanced back toward the pass, Carmy was already gone, disappearing back into the kitchen as seamlessly as he’d appeared. But his gesture lingered, wrapping around you like a quiet reassurance, a small thread of comfort in an otherwise unbearable evening.

And for the first time that night, your smile wasn’t forced.

A/N: Heyyy I hope you enjoyed it. Thank you to all those people who comment, like and reblog. Like fr you all make my week. Always looking for some ideas so please feel free to ask.

Also, please tell me if you want to be tagged. Be safe out there, please the world is too crazy at the moment. <3

Tags:

@hiitsmebbygrl16 @urthem00n @svzwriting29 @tyferbebe

@akornsworld @khxna @ruthyalva96 @beingalive1

@darkestbeforethedawn16 @turtle-cant-communicate spideybv28 veryberryjelly @daisy-the-quake

Next part 7

#carmen berzatto x reader #carmy berzatto x reader #the bear fanfiction #carmy berzatto fanfiction #carmen berzatto #carmy berzatto x reader smut #carmy berzatto smut #carmy berzatto x you #carmen berzatto x you #reader-insert #reader insert #the bear #abbott elementary #abbott elementary x reader #ava coleman

1K notes · View notes

sweetbcgs · 5 months ago

Text

sevika who keeps your face in the sheets while going at it because you pissed her off, cumming so much on her strap its all over the bed. shes gripping your hips so hard, she's not slowing down and you're sobbing

sevika who then scoffs as your sobs and flips you onto your back, starting to mock your sobs and pleads as she destroys you🤤🤤🤤

#ava yapping #sevika x reader #sevika

1K notes · View notes

kwonkissed · 5 months ago

Text

college!wonwoo who gets sick on campus one time and immediately develops a crush on the student nurse that assisted him at the health clinic.

you’re sweet and kind (like all nurses should be), but you’re also really chatty. talking about your humanities course and the readings you have that week. and wonwoo, being so whipped, just nods along thinking, “maybe I should read up on this sartre guy…”

when he leaves, he already misses the conversation. but he shakes it off. they’re cute and they’ve done your job, he thinks. now it’s time for him to get over it. except he doesn’t. because a few days later he finds himself back in the health clinic with an “earache”.

and he prays that you’re the one that attends to him that day, because if not, this would be really embarrassing. but it is you who opens the door to his room, a bit shocked that this cute boy has returned.

“hello, i’m— oh, it’s you. back so soon,” you quip, sanitizing your hands and walking over to him. “still having symptoms of your cold?”

“uh, no actually. something different. it’s,” he clears his throat. he’s never been a good liar. “um, it’s my ear this time.”

“hm, alright then,” you say with a smile. “i’ll get your vitals and check your chart, and then the doctor should be in shortly.” wonwoo nodded. you put the blood pressure cuff on his arm. your fingers dance across his bicep as you fit it around him, and he tries to will his racing heart to stop beating so hard — it’s going to give him away.

“everything looks good on my end,” you say as you flip through his paperwork. “it might be a minute, but a doctor will be in here. holler if you need me.” you give him a warm smile and turn to exit the room. ah, screw it.

“hey, I don’t know if this is too forward, but could i take you out sometime? or walk to you home? something?” wonwoo’s words spill out of him like a dam’s been broken. your eyebrows have shot you up your forehead, and wonwoo braces for this inevitable rejection.

you giggle. you’re giggling at him. wonwoo doesn’t know if this is worse than there being no response at all.

“aw, you’re cute,” you say, taking a step toward him. you bite your lip and look down at your watch. “i get off at two,” you whisper. a heat creeps up wonwoo’s face and it only makes you giggle more. god, he’d love to hear that sound forever.

“it’s a date then,” he says grinning. you beam back at him and close the door.

wonwoo’s so excited about seeing you later that when the doctor comes in for his appointment, he forgets which ear was supposed to be hurting.

#also he’s definitely a computer science major #i said what i said #is this self indulgent because I’m a nursing major #well yes!#wonwoo x reader #jeon wonwoo #seventeen x reader #svt #svt fluff #wonwoo fluff #ficlet #ava writes!!

759 notes · View notes

newrochellechallenger2019 · 7 days ago

Note

line cook!art who makes you hold his cigarette while he's fucking you because it's 'easier'... hmmm........ hm....................

ava i could kiss you right now...thank you...

a ticket.

"your place or mine?" scrawled on the back of table 49's order in his familiar handwriting. you'd been wondering when this 'invitation' would appear, ever since you'd caught art's eye as he leaned on the doorframe of the kitchen, his arm muscles flexed. you'd heard the rumours, the warnings from other servers when you'd started, "don't ever sleep with the line cooks!" "are you crazy? it'll fuck up the whole job!" but art was different from the other line cooks, he wasn't some constantly hungover teenager or the 50yr old man who you were 99% sure sold drugs on the side. so, you started rolling up your skirts just a little higher, leaning over the counter just enough that your boobs pushed up in the right way and it worked. art noticed, and he reciprocated, leaving you leftover fries or hashbrowns on the side of the kitchen, for which you were incredibly grateful.

"yours" you scribble back hastily with a smile on your face, walking back to the kitchen, making some excuse about forgotten items on the ticket to the other servers eyeing you suspiciously as you pass by, handing the order back to art, who just offers a small, innocuous nod in response.

art's waiting for you when you clock out, leaning against a car that must be older than either of you, arms folded across his chest in a way that makes the muscles bulge yet again and you fight the urge to giggle like a schoolgirl at the sight. your eyes drift back to the car to distract yourself, noting the dented wing mirror and scratched doors.

'grandma's.' he offers as a curt response to his old car before you even open your mouth to ask.

you nod awkwardly, 'how is she?' you say out of bumbling politeness.

'she died.' he shrugs, though you note the flicker of grief in his eyes when he says it.

'i'm sorry.' you mumble sympathetically, holding his gentle gaze.

art looks away from you at that, running his hand through his unkempt hair and opening the passenger door. you take the hint and scurry over, slipping into the seat and he winks at you as he shuts the door, back to the art you knew.

he walked round and got in the driver's seat, the car spluttered to life and he put his arm round your headrest to see if he could pull out safely and you blush, unbeknownst to you he spots the pink dusting your cheeks and smirks.

the journey to his place is fairly silent and outside your window the bustling city centre is slowly fading into downtown, the streets getting quieter and more deprived. art's humming beside you, tapping his calloused fingers against the steering wheel in tune to some rock band cd you don't know.

pulling into a backstreet, an apartment building slowly comes into view as art parks deftly, car creaking slightly as he does. he gets out the car and comes round to open your door, and you step out, his arm going round your waist protectively as he ushers you into the building.

'elevator broke weeks ago' he mutters, shaking his head in disappointment as you glance at the taped up silver doors and back at the steep staircase. art seemed to realise your fear and nudged you playfully, 'don't worry baby, i'm only on the first floor.'

baby. that pet name sent shivers down you spine and you struggled to keep your composure as you nodded in acknowledgement before the two of you climbed the stairs, his arm encircling your waist even tighter.

'welcome...' art grins as he turns his jangling keys in the lock, '...to Casa Donaldson' he jokes, stepping inside the apartment with his arms outstretched.

it was crappy, no other way to describe it. a dimly lit studio apartment with a few standard kitchen counters on your left, a minuscule bathroom to your right and just beyond the kitchen island is his bed, the bed. you're surprised it even has a bedframe based on how bare the rest of the place is.

art steps back towards you, cutting the impromptu judgemental tour in your head short. he's taller but not by much, just enough for him to tilt your chin to face him, a flirtatious smirk on his face as he looks you up and down. 'now...where were we?' he leans down, blue-green eyes closing as he press his lips to your supple ones.

you gasp into the kiss, melting into the feeling as he pulls you closer, your bodies moulding into one. at some point the kisses grow hungry, tongues colliding between parted mouths, and your back hits the door as art cages you in. 'you're so hot baby' he murmurs between hot kisses, fingers unbuttoning your white work blouse. 'c'mon doll show me those pretty tits of yours' he growls against your neck, his hands snaking down to your bra and pushing your chest up and you whine. 'you like showing these off huh? tryna get my attention that badly?' he taunts as he unclips your bra, 'mmph...yes...' you pant, your hands roaming all over his body desperately.

'well...you've got it' he grunts, his hands slipping under your thighs and lifting you so you have no choice but to wrap your legs around his waist, feeling the bulge in his trousers start to grow. he drops you unceremoniously on the bed, lifting your hips to slide your work skirt off and reveal your lacy panties. 'wearing these for me too?' he teases with a devilish smirk, finger slowly running up the fabric and you squirm, 'art-'. wordlessly, he slides the panties off your legs and tosses them onto the wooden floors of his apartment, his own trousers and boxers following suit. he leans back down and captures your lips in a ravenous sloppy kiss, before pulling away. 'c'mere doll' he says, crooking a finger and you sit up, surprised. 'here.' he repeats, patting his lap, his cock standing to attention.

you shuffle over towards his lap under his watchful eye, and he grips your hips, lifting you onto his cock. you feel the tip start to penetrate you and you squeak, 'that's it...' he purrs encouragingly as you sick down on his cock. it's big and you can feel it stretching your walls and you moan, 'ngh- oh-' until you bottom out and art groans, throwing his head back, 'fuck...yep...good girl...' he says through gritted teeth. your brain short circuits at 'good girl' but you remember something about coconut so you slowly start to move on his lap and art's breath comes in short pants, hands gripping your hips so hard you know they'll be marks left there tomorrow.

however, it doesn't take long before art starts to get bored, your movements not creating any stimulation for him. he reaches down and grabs a cigarette from the jacket crumpled on the floor beside the bed and you still, 'did i-?' 'one sec baby' he interrupts you, thumb flicking at a lighter as the cigarette catches flame, he takes a long drag and breathes out a plume of smoke whilst you stare at him in shock. 'could you hold this for me doll?' he smirks, slipping the cigarette between your teeth and you cough in surprise, smoke spluttering from your mouth. 'thank you' he pats your cheek mockingly before his hands return to your hips, 'now...baby...may i help? he croons and you nod dumbly.

art starts to lift his hips up into you and you gasp, his tip hitting your gspot roughly, 'mm-ngh-' comes art's moans as you flop around like a ragdoll in his lap as he repeatedly rams into that spot that makes you see stars from below. 'oh! oh!' you shriek, as art leans in and takes the cigarette from your mouth with his own, inhaling smoke with pleasure. you clench around him and he moans, 'oh baby-hughh- that's- yeah-' as he feels himself nearing release. his lifting hips become more erratic as he continues to pump into you, 'i'm- uh- fuck- i'm gonna-' is all he can manage before he's shooting his load into your tight pussy and you gasp, eyes wide as you feel his seed fill you and that action is enough to cause you to clench around him, 'art please- please-' you burble as you cum on his cock, draining ever last drop from him as your juices swirl with his own. you rest your head on his shoulder as you come down from the high, both of you panting in unision. 'please tell me you're on birth control' he pants and you nod meekly, 'oh thank god' he murmurs, slowly helping you off his cock and into the bathroom, seeing your own slick coating your thighs and smirking with pride.

you're awoken the next morning by an empty space beside you and the sound of cooking. you open one bleary eye and see art stood at the kitchen island. he winks at you 'and here i thought i'd killed you with my mega cock' he laughs and you groan, turning your face away and hiding in the sheets in shame. there's a creak as he sits down on the bed beside you and holds out a plate, 'grilled cheese?'.

tags: @blastzachilles @s0ftcobra @femme-lusts @glennussy @cha11engers @stanart4clearskin

#reader is not a virgin but is sexually inexperienced #first server job give her a break #thanks again ava!!!#merry writes 𓋼𓍊 #barely proofread idc #art donaldson #art donaldson x reader #art donaldson smut #art donaldson x you #challengers movie #challengers smut #challengers #challengers 2024 #line cook!art #line cook!art donaldson #merry's inbox 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩

349 notes · View notes

its-avalon-08 · 5 months ago

Note

Omg you recent lando fic has me smiling like crazy no joke.

I was hoping I could request something similar ish. Where reader is Max.V. Sister and Lando wants it to be secre, bu the reade thinks he only wants to keep it secret because he's going to break up with her soon. (Dating for a while), and when the reader tells Carlos this, he tells Lando, who decides to let the whole world know by running up to her and kissing her just before the race.

secrets and shushed voices (ln4)

✦ pairing - lando norris x female!reader

✦ genre - angst, tears, comfort

The buzz of conversation in the Red Bull hospitality was overwhelming, but Y/N Verstappen had mastered the art of tuning it out. She adjusted her team polo, flipping through her notes for Max's debrief, when she felt a presence near her. Without looking up, she muttered, “Unless you have coffee for me, I’m not interested.”

A soft chuckle answered her. “What if I said I could charm you into being interested?”

Her head snapped up, eyes narrowing at the source. Lando Norris leaned casually against the table, his grin infuriatingly perfect.

“Charm me?” she repeated with a raised eyebrow. “Bold of you to assume that’s possible.”

“Bold is my middle name,” he shot back, undeterred.

“Funny,” she quipped, turning back to her notes. “I thought it was ‘Overtakes on Softs.’”

His laugh was genuine, and she hated that it made her chest flutter. “Touché, Verstappen. Touché.”

Over the next few months, their paths crossed often—media days, driver briefings, paddock run-ins. Lando made it his mission to tease her relentlessly, and to her dismay, she found herself looking forward to it.

One afternoon, she’d been ranting about how Max ignored her race notes.

“I bet he ignores them because you write, like, an essay for every corner,” Lando teased, plopping down beside her in the lounge.

“You’ve never even seen my notes!”

“I don’t need to. You scream ‘overachiever.’”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide her grin. “And you scream ‘class clown.’”

“Ah, but clowns are memorable.”

“Annoying, more like.”

“Annoyingly charming,” he corrected with a wink, making her laugh despite herself.

Their playful banter became a staple in the paddock, much to the amusement of their teams. Max often shot her knowing looks, while Carlos liked to poke Lando with, “Mate, just ask her out already.”

But Lando enjoyed the chase. Every lingering glance, every sarcastic comment, every moment they shared—it all felt electric.

One night after a particularly chaotic post-race party, they found themselves on a quiet balcony overlooking the marina.

“You’re surprisingly tolerable when you’re not trying to be funny,” Y/N remarked, leaning against the railing.

“And you’re surprisingly fun when you’re not intimidating,” Lando countered, nudging her playfully.

She looked at him, the usual walls in her eyes softening. “You don’t actually think I’m intimidating, do you?”

“Only in the best way,” he said, his voice quieter now. “You’re... different, Y/N. In a good way.”

Her breath hitched slightly, but she covered it with a smirk. “You’re such a flirt, Norris.”

“Only with you.”

It was after a rainy qualifying in Silverstone when everything changed. Y/N had stayed late in the garage, waiting for Max, when Lando appeared, soaked and grinning.

“What are you still doing here?” she asked, handing him a towel.

“Trying to decide if I should do something really stupid,” he said, his voice unusually serious.

“What kind of stupid?”

“This kind.”

Before she could process his words, he leaned in, his lips brushing hers softly. The world seemed to blur as she kissed him back, a hundred unspoken moments between them finally falling into place.

Dating Lando was like stepping into a secret world. Behind closed doors, he was thoughtful, goofy, and overwhelmingly sweet. But in the paddock, he insisted they keep their relationship under wraps.

“It’s not that I’m ashamed,” he’d said one evening, his hand brushing her hair back as they lounged on the couch. “I just want us to have this—our thing—without the world tearing it apart.”

She had nodded, understanding his reasoning, but over time, doubt began to creep in. What if he wasn’t ready to commit? What if this secrecy was his way of keeping an exit strategy?

As Lando hugged her tightly after another stolen moment in the shadows of the McLaren motorhome, her thoughts spiraled.

He’s holding on so tight, but for how long? Am I just a phase he’s going to grow out of?

His voice broke through her haze. “You okay?”

She forced a smile, burying her face in his shoulder. “Yeah. Just tired.”

But as he held her, all she could think was, How much longer until he decides to let go?

Y/N sat in the McLaren hospitality, her hands gripping a lukewarm cup of tea she wasn’t drinking. She’d just watched Lando breeze past her in the paddock—no glance, no smile, not even a quick touch on the arm. He’d turned the charm on for the cameras as if she didn’t exist, leaving her to stew in the weight of their secrecy.

She set the cup down with a loud clink and stormed out. A short walk later, she was in the Ferrari hospitality, where Carlos and Rebecca sat chatting.

“Carlos,” she blurted, her voice trembling. “He’s going to break up with me.”

Carlos frowned, sitting up straighter. “¿Qué? Who’s breaking up with you?”

“Lando!” she exclaimed, collapsing onto the couch beside Rebecca, her emotions spilling over. “He doesn’t want this anymore—I know it!”

Rebecca placed a calming hand on Y/N’s knee. “Slow down, cariño. What happened?”

Y/N sniffled, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her jacket. “It’s everything. He didn’t even look at me this morning. No hug, no kiss. Nothing. He just… walked past me like I wasn’t even there. And it’s not just today—it’s been months of hiding. He insists on keeping this a secret. I thought it was romantic at first, like we had something private, but now—” Her voice cracked as tears streamed down her cheeks.

“Now you think it’s because he’s trying to find an easy way out,” Carlos finished, his tone heavy with disapproval.

Y/N nodded, sobbing into her hands. “He says it’s to protect us, but I don’t feel protected, Carlos. I feel like I’m not good enough for him to want people to know.”

Rebecca pulled Y/N into a hug, rubbing her back soothingly. “Oh, sweetheart, you’re more than good enough. If anything, it’s him who’s too blind to see what he’s doing to you.”

Carlos crossed his arms, his brow furrowed in thought. “Has he given you any reason to believe he doesn’t care about you anymore? Other than the secrecy?”

Y/N hesitated, her voice muffled against Rebecca’s shoulder. “It’s all the little things. He’s so different when we’re alone—he’s kind and loving and makes me feel like I’m the only person in the world. But the second we step into the paddock, it’s like I don’t exist. I just… I can’t do this anymore.”

Carlos’s face hardened, his protective side kicking in. “He needs to hear this, Y/N. But not from you—no, not while you’re like this.” He stood abruptly. “I’ll talk to him.”

“No!” Y/N sat up, her eyes wide. “You’ll just make things worse!”

“I won’t,” Carlos said firmly. “But he’s my friend, and I’m not going to sit here and watch him break your heart because he’s too much of an idiot to see what he’s doing. He needs a reality check.”

Rebecca nodded in agreement. “Carlos is right. He knows Lando better than anyone—you should let him handle it.”

Y/N sniffled again, her resolve softening under Rebecca’s calming presence. “You’re sure you won’t tell him I sent you?”

Carlos crouched in front of her, his expression softer now. “I’ll make it about what I’ve noticed. He’ll never know you said anything.”

Y/N nodded reluctantly. “Okay.”

Rebecca gave Y/N a comforting squeeze before Carlos kissed her on the forehead. “I’ll fix this, amiga. Trust me.”

As Carlos left, Y/N leaned into Rebecca’s side, her tears slowing but her heart still heavy. “What if he really does want to break up with me?”

Rebecca stroked her hair gently. “Then he’s the biggest fool on the planet, and we’ll make sure he knows it.”

Carlos leaned back in his chair in the McLaren hospitality, casually sipping on a bottle of water as Lando scrolled through his phone. They had been talking about summer break plans, with Lando suggesting a group trip to Ibiza.

“Ibiza would be fun,” Carlos said, setting his bottle down. “But only if you bring your girlfriend.”

Lando choked slightly, quickly glancing around to see if anyone overheard. “Shh, man!” he hissed, leaning closer. “What if someone hears you?”

Carlos rolled his eyes. “This is exactly what I wanted to talk to you about.”

Lando frowned, confused. “What do you mean?”

Carlos straightened, his tone turning serious. “Y/N came to see me today. She’s convinced you’re going to break up with her.”

“What?!” Lando’s voice rose before he quickly lowered it, glancing around again. “Why would she think that?”

“Because, mate, you’re treating her like some big secret, like she’s something you’re ashamed of,” Carlos said bluntly. “Every time you refuse to acknowledge her in public, every time you say no to posting a picture or holding her hand, she feels like she’s not enough for you.”

Lando’s face paled, his phone slipping from his hand. “That’s not… I don’t—” He stopped, his mind racing. “I’ve never said I’m ashamed of her. I thought she understood why I wanted to keep it private.”

Carlos leaned forward, his eyes hard. “She might have understood at first, but it’s been ten months, Lando. She’s tired. And frankly, I don’t blame her.”

Lando opened his mouth to argue but stopped as Carlos’s words sank in. His mind spiraled into a series of flashbacks.

-flashback-

He remembered the first time she’d asked if she could post a picture of them on her story. It was a harmless shot—just their intertwined hands on a table.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he’d said quickly. “You know how people can be.”

Her smile faltered, but she nodded. “Yeah. I get it.”

-flashback-

After a race in Monaco, Y/N had waited for him by the McLaren motorhome. When she tried to hug him, he’d gently pushed her into the shadows.

“Not here,” he’d whispered, glancing around nervously.

Her shoulders had slumped, and she took a step back. “Right. Sorry.”

-flashback-

At a post-race party, Rebecca had taken a picture of them laughing together. Y/N had been so happy, showing it to him with a hopeful smile.

“Becca sent this to me. Can I share it?”

Lando had hesitated. “Maybe not. It’s just… better if we keep it private.”

The light in her eyes had dimmed, though she tried to mask it with a nod. “Okay.”

present day

Lando’s chest tightened as the memories hit him. He hadn’t realized how often he’d dismissed her feelings or how much his need for secrecy had chipped away at her confidence.

“She thinks I want to break up with her?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Carlos nodded, his expression softening. “She’s scared, Lando. She loves you, but she’s scared that you don’t feel the same way.”

Lando ran a hand through his hair, his heart aching. “I’m such an idiot.”

Carlos smirked faintly. “You said it, not me.”

Lando ignored the jab, his mind already working. He couldn’t let her think he didn’t care. He couldn’t let her feel like she wasn’t enough.

“I need to fix this,” he said firmly, standing up so fast that his chair scraped against the floor.

Carlos leaned back with a satisfied grin. “About time.”

Lando’s mind raced with ideas, his determination growing. He’d spent months hiding their relationship from the world—now, he’d show everyone exactly how much she meant to him.

The pre-race chaos was in full swing. Mechanics bustled about, drivers made their final rounds with engineers, and the paddock buzzed with energy. Y/N stood to the side near the McLaren garage, watching quietly as Lando spoke with his team. Her arms were crossed, her heart heavy from the morning’s events.

She had seen him arrive, head down, moving past her like she didn’t exist. Again. The weight of the past few months pressed down on her chest, making it hard to breathe.

Rebecca’s words from earlier played in her head: “If he doesn’t see what he’s doing to you, then he doesn’t deserve you.”

Maybe he doesn’t.

Suddenly, she noticed Carlos walking toward Lando, giving him a nudge and pointing in her direction. Lando froze, his head snapping up. Their eyes met briefly before Y/N turned away, unable to handle the hurt.

But before she could step back into the crowd, she heard his voice calling her name.

“Y/N!”

Her heart jumped. She turned to see Lando jogging toward her, his race suit partially unzipped and flapping as he moved. She frowned, confused. What is he doing?

As he reached her, he stopped, slightly out of breath. “I need to talk to you.”

“Now? You’re about to race,” she said, her tone wary.

“Now,” he insisted, his blue eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made her stomach flip. “I’ve been an idiot, and I need to fix this.”

“Lando, what are you—”

He didn’t let her finish. Instead, he stepped forward, cupping her face gently with his hands. “I’m sorry,” he said softly, his voice breaking slightly. “I’m so sorry for making you feel like you’re not enough, for hiding what we have, for… everything.”

Her breath caught in her throat. “Lando…”

“I was scared,” he admitted, his forehead resting against hers. “Not of being with you, but of the world ruining what we have. I thought I was protecting us, but all I did was hurt you, and I hate myself for it.”

Tears welled in her eyes, but she blinked them back. “I thought you didn’t want me anymore,” she whispered.

His eyes widened in shock. “No. God, no. I want you, Y/N. I love you. I’ve loved you since the day we met, and I’m done pretending I don’t.”

Before she could process his words, he pulled her into a kiss—deep and unapologetic, right there in the middle of the paddock.

The world around them seemed to pause. For a moment, there was only him—his lips on hers, his arms wrapped tightly around her, as if he was afraid to let go.

When they finally broke apart, she noticed the stunned silence around them. Cameras clicked furiously, and the hum of murmured voices grew louder.

“Lando…” she started, her cheeks flushed.

He grinned, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead. “Let them talk. I don’t care anymore.”

“But the team, the media—”

“Let them say what they want,” he interrupted, his voice firm. “I’m not hiding you anymore, Y/N. You’re my girlfriend, and the whole damn world is going to know it.”

Y/N stared at him, her heart pounding. His words, his actions—it was all so overwhelming.

“Say something,” he said nervously, his grin faltering.

She threw her arms around his neck, holding him tightly. “I love you too,” she whispered, her voice cracking with emotion.

Cheers erupted around them, and Carlos’s loud, teasing whistle cut through the noise. “¡Eso es, chico! About time!”

Lando laughed, resting his chin on her shoulder. “You good now?”

Y/N nodded, her tears finally spilling over—but this time, they were happy ones. “Yeah. I’m good.”

“Good,” he said, pulling back just enough to look at her. “Because I’m not going anywhere, and I’m making sure everyone knows it.”

She smiled through her tears, and he kissed her again, sealing the promise with every ounce of love he felt.

616 notes · View notes

greenorangevioletgrass · 11 months ago

Text

tuesday in the park (a.d.)

pairing: divorced!art x reader

synopsis: your alone time at the park takes an interesting turn when a little girl breaks the quiet, but maybe... her dad is a good company.

warnings: language, smoking, mention of divorce, lily is an adorable lil oblivious cupid, sooo much tension tho, maybe smut in future parts? idk

notes: i am back and pathetic bitch boy art has officially given me a brainrot. this is also very self-indulgent and heavily based on my irl experience (except the fact that it's art, sadly) soooo... enjoy!

✨I do not have a taglist. Please follow @ficsbygreenorangevioletgrass and turn on the notification to get the latest update on my fics✨

City parks are fucking depressing. Especially the industrial type that’s square, and covered in concrete and has, like, four trees. They’re all well-manicured and hung with string lights, but there’s still barely enough greens to call it a park. And to add insult to injury, a Tiffany’s installation art currently sits at the head of the park—a giant diamond ring in a lush velvet box the size of a Range Rover. It’s gaudy as shit, and the massive Aston Martin billboard overhead is an assault to the eyes. You honestly have no idea why you’re sitting here.

Oh, right. It’s like 2PM on a Tuesday afternoon in some downtown office area, so there’s nobody else there. You can just sit and smoke and watch the water spout from the ground in pretty patterns. The steady rhythm of the fountain jets quiets the chaos in your mind.

Inhale. Exhale. As the fountain hisses and ceases, hisses and ceases…

And then suddenly… another pattern.

A pitter-patter. Like little footsteps. Quick moving, and then it stops. Right to your left.

You turn your head and see a little girl sitting right next to you. Her white sneakers look so small next to yours. She pushes a lock of dark ringlets off of her face as she watches the floor fountain in quiet curiosity and awe.

It takes you a moment to realize you still had a cigarette in your hand. You quickly stub it out as far from her as you can. “Uh… hello.” You frown at your own words, but how the fuck do you talk to kids in this situation?!

But the kid looks up and smiles at you politely. “Hello.” she nods and then returns her gaze to the water bursting in canon.

You’re even more confused. She doesn’t even seem deterred by sitting next to a stranger—willingly, at that. “Well, are you… are you alone?”

“No. With my dad,” she answers, light as a feather.

“Oh, good. Good.” You sigh in relief and look around for any sign of a parent, adult, anyone looking for a missing child. “Where’s your—”

“Lily! There you are!” A man’s voice cuts through the dull noise of the city. You turn around to see him rushing over to the little girl, grimacing apologetically at you. “Sorry. I’m not a negligent father, I swear. I just… turned around and this little monkey’s run off.”

The little girl—Lily, apparently— giggles as her dad throws her a look, gentle but firm. “You said we could watch the water fountains, Daddy!”

“Yeah, but don’t run off like that…” He rolls his eyes, though you notice his sharp jaw twitching with a hidden smile. And then, leaning into Lily’s ear but still loud enough within your earshot, “And you certainly weren’t supposed to invade this nice lady’s personal space—”

“It’s no trouble. I was just sitting here,” you quickly wave him off.

“Daddy, can I play over there?” Lily points at the streaming water at the center of the park.

The man pulls a face. “I don’t know, Lil—”

“Come on, Daddy…”

“No way.”

“Just for five minutes. Please?” She bats her eyelashes, and you can immediately tell it’s her father’s Achilles heel. Because as much as you try to stay out of the conversation, you can hear the audible sigh coming from him, followed by,

“Fine. Five minutes, okay?”

The little girl bolts off to the fountains, tiny hands reaching out to the jet streams, testing out how strong it is. Figuring out the fountain pattern and stepping on each jet right as it shuts off, one foot after the other. It makes you wish it was socially acceptable for adults to do that, too.

“You’re free to sit and watch her from here, if you want.”

He looks at you, like really looks at you for the first time. At your rolled-up button-down, the chain around your neck with a pendant he can’t see under your collar. But mostly at your kind eyes—weathered, witnessed, but somehow not judging.

He pushes his short blond hair out of his face the same way the little girl does, and the similarity almost makes you laugh… if you weren’t so worried about making a fool of yourself in front of this handsome man. “You sure? I… didn’t want to intrude.”

You shake your head softly and scoot over on the steps, allowing him just enough space to sit down.

He notices the stubbed cigarette between your forefinger and middle finger. “You got another one on you?”

It takes you a beat to realize what he’s talking about. “Oh!” You reach for your pack of Camel, and offer it to him, one cigarette stick already pushed out for easier access.

He takes it with a polite smile, but then pauses upon realizing he has no lighter either. “Um, do you mind if I borrow—”

You lean in as he puts it between his lips, one hand cupping the light from the breeze, and his heart stops at how close you are. Close enough to notice the gloss on your lips. Close enough to get a faint whiff of your floral perfume.

(And unbeknownst to him, your heart stutters a little, too, and you hope he doesn’t notice the way you fumble lighting your own cigarette.)

“Thanks, um…” he trails off.

You tell him your name, and he repeats it almost thoughtfully. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, like he’s chasing the taste of your name as it leaves his mouth.

He nods. “I’m Art.”

He does look like it. The navy blue sweater hangs just right on his broad shoulders, understated but high-quality. The sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, showing a sleek black Piguet around his wrist. A simplicity to complement his refined features. His bone structure is cut like the gods, but the permanent frown etched between his brows, casting a shadow over his deep-set eyes, tells you that he is facing the troubles of man. And the awkward way he’s holding his cigarette makes him look like a boy. Of course, you can’t say any of that to him, so you settle with,

“Nice to meet you, Art.”

He can’t remember the last time somebody said that to him and meant it. And right now, sitting in this concrete park alone, he can see no pretense coming from you. No ass-kissing, no sizing-up, just a genuine kind gesture of a stranger. And it makes him so fucking relieved.

“So what brings you out here?”

“Work, actually. A meeting,” Art replies somewhat vaguely. He’s not really keen on divulging the details of sponsorship and endorsement deals. Not when you don’t seem to know who he is. “Lily saw the park from the window and insisted we check it out when we’re done.”

“Ah, does she normally tag along with you to work meetings?” You ask with a playful glint, although the unspoken question of his whole situation is well heard. “She should. She looks like a great negotiator. Just saying.”

He chuckles. “Maybe she should. My, uh…” Art stops himself before he could say ‘wife’ because Tashi isn’t that anymore. Not his wife because they aren’t married anymore; not his coach either, because he doesn’t play tennis anymore. “Lily’s mom and I take turns every other week.”

And there it is. Your lips pull up into a soft line, not quite a smile but a gesture of understanding. “Must be tough.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s a lot of changes. But she’s doing okay, I think…” Art pauses, “I hope.”

You follow his gaze and look at Lily, who must be playing some kind of Indiana Jones fantasy scenario with the water fountains. Not an ounce of care in the world. “She looks like a tough kid.”

“She is.” Art smiles bittersweetly. “Anyway, you didn’t come here to listen to my sob story. What brings you to this park?”

The air that pulls both of you in releases, and you lean back on your elbows against the concrete. “Oh, I just finished work and I… needed some air.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m an interpreter.”

His eyebrows shoot up in interest. “Like the Nicole Kidman movie?”

“Exactly.” You point your half-cigarette at him, and share a tentative smile with him.

“Do you do, like… high-profile, UN-related assassination investigations, too?”

You chuckle, shaking your head. “It’s not nearly as cool in real life. Most of it’s pretty boring, like contract negotiations and focus group discussions…”

“But the stories you must’ve heard, right? Or do you just… zone out at some point?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes you end up shutting off your brain and go on autopilot.”

“But not today?”

You smile ruefully at him, and he knows the answer. You take a thoughtful puff of your cigarette. “It’s… a bit hard when they’re talking about… how they had to jump off of the ship and swim across the channel in the dead of night, because they would rather die in the open water—a couple of them did— than die working in the fishing vessel…”

“Fuck.”

“And I know it’s not really meant for me—they’re talking to my client sitting next to me. But when they look you in the eyes and speak to you…” you trail off, taking a long drag of your cigarette.

Art takes it as a cue for his cigarette, too, although he notices you tapping the ashes off one, two, three times. “Must be tough.”

You roll your eyes playfully at him for quoting your own words back to you. “Ah well, it pays the bills. Besides, I get to clock out at 2PM on a Tuesday and enjoy this…” you inhale through your teeth disdainfully, “beautiful, brutalist… Soviet-core park.”

He laughs, the real kind of laughter that throws his head back, and it warms your heart enough to laugh, too. “It’s bullshit, isn’t it?”

“It’s bullshit! And what the fuck is that horrendous giant ring doing here?” The two of you cackle over the installation art across the park. “And that billboard… it’s ridiculous.”

Art’s laughter dies down on his lips as he looks up at the billboard in question. The Aston Martin “Game Changers” campaign from last year. Fuck. Even when he’s completely separated from Tashi, her presence still looms over like a panopticon.

You turn to him with a smile still etched on your face, completely oblivious to the storm in his head. “What?”

But he looks ahead, too caught up in the hurricane to hear you. He just… looks up at the billboard, his face darkens.

Oh.

You feel silly for not putting two and two together—you’ve been staring at the billboard mindlessly for a good fifteen minutes, goddammit— so you tread very carefully. “That, uh… Lily’s mom?”

Art looks down on his lap, as if not daring to look at Tashi’s picture. Or at Lily, or at you. “Yeah.”

There’s no right word for it. There’s no coming back from this, nothing he can say can make this better, and he can’t help but kick himself for fucking up. What he is fucking up, he’s not entirely sure. But he’s not ready to end this conversation with you, not on such a weird note.

“I can’t imagine what it must be like…” because you can’t. Losing a spouse is hard enough, but to have it out there in the open…

“It’s tough,” he nods in confirmation, and you smile feebly at his attempt at a callback to your little inside joke. To the moment where things are fine, all things considered.

If the air ebbed and flowed earlier, it must’ve just… froze now. You don’t even remember the cigarette in your hand until the ash falls onto your hand and you gasp at the sudden heat, putting it out on the ground.

“I’m sorry. I should get out of your hair—”

“Do you wanna get a drink some time?”

The question catches both of you off-guard, eyes blinking at each other in shock. He didn’t think he heard you right, and your mouth seems to work faster than the filter in your brain.

Your face runs hot, and you chuckle sheepishly. “Sorry. You probably don’t wanna hear that—”

“I do.” He’s not sure which question he’s answering. Maybe both? Definitely both.

“Oh! Um…”

And right in that moment, Lily comes padding over with squelching steps in her shoes, completely drenched but over the moon. “Daddy, Daddy, that was so much fun! Can we come back here? I see lights on the floor, and I think the fountain lights up at night!”

Art puts out his cigarette under his shoe, chuckling at his daughter, “Baby, you’re soaked! Did you try to take a shower there or something?” immediately wringing water out of her hair.

“I’ll take a real shower when we get home.”

“Well, duh. But I don’t want you to catch a cold… come here.” He crosses his arm to grab the hem of his sweater and tug it over his head to put it on his daughter.

The girl looks thoroughly unamused as the clothing item falls halfway down her calves and the sleeves nearly touch the ground. “Daddy, this is ridiculous.”

You grin, and you can’t help but wonder how much of that sass came from Art. “Looks pretty chic to me.”

He nods at you, glad that you’re backing him up. “Thank you.” He then turns to Lily pointedly.

Lily half-smiles at you. “Thank you,” although she still isn’t quite convinced.

“I’m sorry, we really gotta go. But how do I, um…” he trails off. Gosh, he was hoping to do this out of Lily’s sight. Lily’s sight means Tashi’s sight, and he’s not ready for that talk just yet.

“Take my card.” You whip out a neat stainless steel case, and slides out a white-and-blue business card. Your name is printed in a sleek black font, right above ‘Interpreter’ in a smaller case. Your email and phone number follows.

His fingers brush against yours as he takes it, and he prays to God or whoever is up there that he doesn’t give anything away to you or Lily. Not a quirk, not a peep. Just two strangers connecting by chance.

“Thank you.” He nods evenly as he pockets the card, trying to contain the butterflies in his stomach—he’s always thought he was too old for that by now, but maybe… just maybe… “You have a nice day.”

“You, too.” You squint up at him under the sun, and then smile and wave at the little girl. “Bye, Lily.”

She waves at you as Art sweeps her up into his arms, and you don’t let yourself turn all the way around to watch them leave. Instead, with one final look at Art’s “Game Changers” billboard ad in the distance, you grab your pack of Camel and light another cigarette between your lips.

#art donaldson #divorced!art donaldson #art donaldson x reader #divorced!art x reader #art donaldson fluff #eeeeeeeee im so h-word physically and emotionally for him #ava writes #challengers fic

2K notes · View notes

tacobacoyeet · 16 days ago

Note

Patrick x reader where it’s kinda grumpy x sunshine where at first Patrick is so annoyed by reader because reader is a bundle of joy but as time goes on he starts to fall in love with her and then maybe something happens but they end up living happily ever after anyways

sunrise | patrick zweig x reader

a/n: patrick zweig my shayla :( thank you this was such a lovely request!!!!

warnings: ??? alcohol mention? one or two curse words? not proofread!

Patrick Zweig is not doing well.

Everyone knows it. The commentators circle around it like vultures, calling it a "rough patch" or a "mental hurdle," like saying it gently makes it less humiliating. But the truth is, Patrick is spiraling.

He's been crashing ever since the season turned sour and never stopped. No wins. No headlines that didn’t sting. No place to call his own for more than a week. Motel rooms and borrowed couches. A bag that holds too much grief and not enough clean clothes. Sometimes he wakes up and has to remind himself what city he’s even in.

There’s no control left. Not in his grip, not in his breath, not in the way he wakes up every morning with the same memory looped behind his eyes: Tashi kicking him out, Art not looking back, his name echoing in an empty room.

He hates himself for still caring. Hates how much space they both take up in his chest. He thought anger would save him. It doesn’t. It just keeps him awake at night.

He doesn’t want to be known as the guy who used to be good. The kid who won the juniors and became a failure. The guy who let it all slip. And yet, every time he steps onto the court, he feels smaller. Shrinking under the weight of what he used to be.

He hasn’t won a match in weeks.

He hasn’t looked anyone in the eye in just as long.

But then...

It starts with your laugh.

Not the first time he hears it, no. That time, you’re across the coffee shop with your back turned to him, mid-conversation with someone who doesn’t matter—because all he notices is the way your laugh cuts through the room like sunlight through a fogged-up window. Sharp. Warm. Relentless.

Patrick looks up from his phone and hates the sound of it. Hates how it slices through the air like it’s got permission to reach the parts of him he’s tried to deaden. It’s the kind of laugh that reminds him what it was like to feel light—careless, once. And God, does he hate that it still lands. That it finds its way in.

By the time he meets you officially, he's already decided you're too much. Too loud, too bright, too everything. You talk too fast, you smile too easily, you compliment strangers in line and tip too much and bring your own reusable straw. He loathes people who try too hard to be liked, and you do it effortlessly.

But you keep showing up.

You're always in his space somehow. In line ahead of him, sitting at the corner table he likes, talking to his coach’s assistant like you’ve known him for years. Laughing too loud during his interviews. Leaving your water bottle on his side of the bench, like it's yours just as much as it's his.

Eventually, someone introduces you. A bright-eyed, bushy-tailed new hire. In town for the season, touring with the ATP media team, apparently.

You say something about capturing "emotion in motion" and Patrick already wants to scream.

You call him “champ” the first time you bump into him outside the venue. He raises an eyebrow. “Bit generous, don’t you think?”

You just shrug. “Fake it till we make it.”

The next time he sees you, it’s raining.

You’re sitting under the patio awning of that café across from the practice courts—the one with the crooked yellow chairs and chipped espresso mugs—and you’re talking to someone with your whole face. Patrick doesn’t understand how people do that. All that smiling. All that eye contact.

You spot him. Of course you do. You wave him over like you’ve been waiting for him all day.

He pretends he doesn’t see you. He keeps walking. But the next morning, there’s a cappuccino waiting for him on the counter of the media lounge, his last name spelled right, foam in the shape of a little leaf.

No note. No explanation.

He drinks it anyway.

He tells himself it’s just coffee, despite the fact that the next day, when it's there again, he forgets to be annoyed.

But he doesn’t walk away. Not then. Not when he should.

And when he sees you again—alone this time, sitting on the floor of the media lounge with your back against the vending machine and a lollipop in your mouth—he finally speaks.

“Why do you keep doing that?”

You look up like you knew he’d ask eventually. “Doing what?”

“That,” he says, gesturing vaguely. “The coffee. The... cheerleader act.”

You blink at him. “Would you prefer I told you you suck and the whole world hates you?”

He stares.

You shrug. “I can do that too. You suck. The whole world hates you. Also, you smell like yesterday’s socks.”

He snorts before he can stop himself. It comes out sharp and unwilling.

Your grin widens. “There he is.”

“I didn’t ask for your help.”

“No,” you say, “but I think you need it anyway.”

The next morning, he finds you outside the practice courts with your shoes off and your ankles up on the railing like you're sunbathing on a damn yacht. You're eating a croissant with your fingers, like it's the most normal thing in the world.

"You know you're not allowed to sit here, right?" he says, more annoyed than curious.

You squint up at him, then take a deliberately slow bite. "Then call security."

He should. He really should. Instead, he rolls his eyes and keeps walking. You call after him: "Cappuccino with cinnamon again today, yeah?"

He mutters something unintelligible. You take it as a yes.

Later, when you drop it off beside him at the locker room door, you don’t say a word. Just tap twice on the frame, leave the cup, and go.

He drinks it while it’s still hot.

And when someone asks why he’s smiling that afternoon—barely, faintly, a twitch more than anything—he lies. Says he isn’t.

---

He expects you to get bored of him eventually. Everyone does. That’s the pattern—he pushes, they pull away. He says too little or too much, and they leave.

But you don’t.

You start bringing him snacks—random things. Trail mix. A banana taped with a sticky note that says “eat me or perish.” A protein bar you claim tastes like cardboard but is “great for mood regulation.”

He doesn’t laugh. Not at first. But he stops throwing them out.

You start sitting beside him during press conferences, off to the side, scribbling something in a notebook he can never quite see. One time he leans over and asks what you’re writing.

You blink at him. “A poem.”

He snorts. “What, about me?”

You tilt your head. “Would that be so crazy?”

He doesn’t answer. But he spends the rest of the afternoon wondering what rhymes with asshole.

He thinks you’ll grow tired of playing games with someone who never plays back. But every time he shows up, you’re already there. Smiling like he’s worth it.

You start keeping a mental tally of how many times he glares at you in a day. Three is average. Five is a personal best. Once he glares at you for a full five seconds without blinking, and you clap like he’s just landed a dismount.

He mutters, “You’re insufferable.”

You beam. “I’ve been called worse.”

He doesn’t understand you. Doesn’t understand how someone so full of light hasn’t been snuffed out by the world yet. You wear joy like armor, and it pisses him off. Not because it’s fake, but because it isn’t.

He sees you talking to a player who just lost a brutal match. You’re crouched beside him, one hand on his knee, saying something Patrick can’t hear—but he sees the way the guy breathes easier after. He sees the way you absorb the sadness and never show the strain.

You are not sunshine. You are the damn sun. And it’s blinding.

“Do you ever turn off?” he asks one day, mid-warmup, sweat already clinging to his back.

You glance at him over your shoulder. “Wouldn’t you miss me if I did?”

You start teasing him just to get a reaction.

When he scowls at his locker: "You know, if you smile too hard, your face might crack."

When he swears at a bad call during practice: "Wow, the ball has feelings too, you know."

When he winces mid-match: "Should I kiss it better or call a medic?"

He rolls his eyes so hard you’re surprised he hasn’t given himself a migraine. But the thing is—he stops snapping. Stops shutting down. Starts sighing instead, muttering under his breath, giving you just enough to keep going.

One day, he actually asks you something. Not snide. Not sarcastic. Just quiet:

"How do you stay so... not miserable?"

You blink at him, surprised.

"I don’t know. I guess I just decided a long time ago that if I was going to survive the world, I might as well like being alive in it."

He stares at you like you’ve said something in a different language.

Later that night, he lies awake and thinks about how you looked when you said it. How your voice didn’t tremble. How you didn’t look like you were trying to prove anything.

He doesn’t get it. But he’s starting to want to.

It happens slowly. Stupidly. A slow leak of resistance until he's letting you in without realizing he left the door unlocked.

One morning, he shows up early. The sun’s not even up, dew still clinging to the bleachers, and you’re already there—hood up, legs crossed, sipping iced coffee like it’s not fifty degrees outside.

He sits beside you without a word. You don’t look surprised.

“You’re early,” you murmur.

“You’re always here.”

You shrug. “Sometimes the world is quiet enough to hear yourself think at this hour.”

He huffs a dry laugh. “That sounds horrifying.”

You smile at your coffee lid. “Maybe. But sometimes I like what I hear.”

He doesn’t respond. But his knee brushes yours and he doesn’t move it.

That night, you send him a photo you took—just the two of your shadows on the concrete, stretched out and long from the low sun. No caption.

He stares at it for ten full minutes.

Then saves it to his phone.

It builds after that. Little things. Invisible stitches he can’t remember letting you thread through him. Moments that shouldn’t matter but linger like fingerprints on glass—smudged and undeniable. You’re everywhere now. In his routines. In his quiet. In his goddamn bloodstream.

You fix the tag on his shirt one morning without asking. He flinches, but you don’t pull away.

He brings you a coffee once. Doesn’t say a word when he hands it to you, but it’s your order down to the extra shot and oat milk.

One afternoon, it rains hard enough to cancel practice. You find him loitering in the hallway, staring out the window like it’s offended him. You offer to drive him to his shitty motel—just a casual thing, a favor.

He says yes, because he can't afford gas right now, anyway. That's the only reason.

In the car, the silence stretches but doesn’t strain. You play some ridiculous radio station, nothing but boybands and bubble pop, and you sing like you mean it. He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t join in. But he doesn’t tell you to stop, either.

You’re at a red light when it happens.

You turn to say something—something dumb, probably—and you catch him looking at you.

Really looking.

His expression doesn’t shift. He’s still. Still and dark and unreadable. But the air gets heavier.

"Patrick?" you whisper, like if you say his name too loud, you'll blow him way.

He leans forward a little—just a little—and then pulls back like he’s touched something hot.

“Light’s green,” he mutters.

You drive.

Neither of you says anything the rest of the way.

It shifts after that.

Not immediately, but enough for you to notice. He starts showing up a little later. Stops meeting your eyes as easily. The coffees stop. So do the texts. That photo of your shadows? Still saved. Still unopened.

You try to ask. Only once. Lightly. Carefully. You say, "You good?"

He says, "I'm fine."

You know he’s lying. But he’s always been good at that.

What you don’t expect is for him to snap a week later. You find him after another loss, shoulders tense, expression carved from stone. You hand him a towel. He throws it.

"I don’t need a fucking babysitter," he says, voice low and mean.

You blink, stunned. "I didn’t—"

"You think if you smile at me long enough, I’ll magically stop sucking? Newsflash! I’ve always been like this. I’ve always been this. You just didn’t see it."

You open your mouth. Close it.

He shakes his head and looks away, like he's disgusted with himself. Or with you. You can’t tell.

"Just... stop," he mutters.

So you do.

No more coffees. No more morning greetings. No more lollipops or playlists or sticky notes.

You don’t stop caring. You just stop making it easy to see.

He notices in the silence.

In the way his mornings stretch too long now, too quiet. In the empty side of the bench where your coffee used to sit. In the lack of your humming echoing through the halls. No more sticky notes. No jokes mid-interview. No shadow stretching next to his.

It’s pathetic, how fast the absence takes up space.

He loses another match. And this time, no one meets him at the locker room door.

No you.

Just the echo of everything he didn’t say when he had the chance.

That night, he drinks alone. His phone burns a hole in his pocket. He scrolls through your messages—there aren’t many—but each one is a goddamn spark. Each one a moment he didn’t deserve.

He almost texts. Doesn’t.

Almost calls. Doesn’t.

Instead, he goes back to the hotel, looks in the mirror, and says, out loud, "You fucking idiot."

Because he is.

And for the first time in weeks, he wants to stop being one.

His breaking point comes the next day.

He wakes up late. Misses breakfast. Loses a set in practice to a player ten years younger who doesn’t even break a sweat. His racquet slips on match point. He hears someone snicker in the stands. He doesn’t know if it’s about him, but it doesn’t matter. He feels flayed open, raw and rotten underneath.

He goes back to the locker room and punches the wall. Doesn’t break anything except his pride.

His coach tells him to take the rest of the day off. Patrick doesn't argue. He leaves, heart thudding too hard, jaw locked like it'll shatter if he lets it go.

He ends up at your apartment without thinking. He doesn’t remember driving there. Doesn’t remember deciding to show up at all.

But then he’s standing at your door. Knuckles raised. Breathing uneven.

When you open it, you're in an oversized tee and no shoes, eyes wide like you were mid-laugh before the knock interrupted.

You don’t say anything.

He looks at you like he’s run out of ways to pretend he doesn’t care.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

You blink. It’s the first time you’ve ever heard him say those words.

“For what?”

He swallows hard. “For being cruel when I was scared. For pushing you away because I didn’t know how not to need you.”

A long pause.

You tilt your head. “And now?”

His voice breaks a little. Just a little.

"I need you anyway."

You don’t move. Not at first.

You just look at him—really look. At the way his shoulders are hunched like he’s bracing for impact. At the quiet panic under his words. At the boy beneath the fury.

Then you step aside.

“Come in.”

He does.

You close the door behind him and the silence settles like dust. He doesn’t sit. Just stands in the middle of your apartment like he’s not sure he belongs in rooms like this anymore. Rooms that are warm. Lived in. Safe.

You walk past him, head to the kitchen, and flick the kettle on without saying a word.

He watches your back. The curve of your shoulders. The ease of your movements. He thinks he might cry.

When you hand him the mug a few minutes later, hands brushing like you can somehow transfer your warmth to him. He doesn’t thank you. But he holds it like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the moment.

You lean against the counter. “Why now?”

He swallows. “Because I lost everything that ever mattered to me. And I thought that meant I didn’t deserve anything good.”

“And now?”

He looks up. Meets your eyes.

"It doesn't feel good. Especially when it's my fault."

You set your mug down and cross the space between you without hesitation.

Your arms wrap around his middle like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He stiffens at first, because of course he does, but then you feel it: the slow, painful melt. The way his hands come up like he doesn’t trust them, one resting on your back, the other tangling gently in your shirt.

He buries his face in your neck. Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to.

You hold him for a long time.

When you finally pull back, his eyes are glassy, rimmed in something quiet and cracking.

“I’m not good at this,” he murmurs.

“You don’t have to be,” you reply. “You just have to try.”

---

It’s two weeks before his next match.

You don’t say anything about it. You just show up to practice like you always used to, dragging a lawn chair to the edge of the court, sipping coffee like you never stopped.

He doesn’t say anything either. But the first time your eyes meet across the net, he doesn’t look away.

The win doesn’t come easy. Three sets. A tiebreaker. Sweat and grit and every bone in his body screaming. But he wins.

And the second the match point lands—his chest heaving, the roar of the crowd crashing like surf in his ears—his gaze tears away from the blur of court and racket and sweat. Instinct cuts through exhaustion, and he searches. Not for the scoreboard. Not for a camera. Not even for air.

He looks for you.

And there you are. Leaning over the railing. Laughing.

That laugh. The sound of it cuts straight through the roar, through the lights, through the ache in his bones. You're not sunshine, he thinks. You're the sun—steady and searing, ever-present. And for once, he’s not afraid of burning.

Later, you find each other outside the stadium, tucked away behind a row of vendor tents, where the buzz of the crowd fades to a low, distant hum.

He’s still in his kit, sweat drying against his skin, hair damp and curling at the edges. His hands are shaking slightly. He doesn’t know if it’s adrenaline or something else.

You don’t say anything at first.

Just step in. Press your forehead to his. Let your fingers curl into the hem of his shirt.

He exhales, slow and shaky. “Did you see me?”

You nod. “Every second.”

He closes his eyes.

“Feels different,” he whispers. “Winning. With you there.”

You tilt his chin up with one hand. “Good different?”

His smile is small. Soft. “Best I’ve ever felt.”

And then you kiss him.

It’s not fireworks. Not at first. It’s grounding. Steady. A homecoming. A sigh through the chest. And when he kisses you back, it’s with everything he didn’t know how to give until now.

When you finally pull away, he presses his lips to your temple.

“Don’t leave,” he says.

You smile. “Only if you promise to buy my coffee.”

He laughs into your skin. “Deal.”

-----

tagging: @kimmyneutron @kharwreck @babyspiderling @queensunshinee @hanneh69 @jamespotteraliveversion @glennussy @awaywithtime @artstennisracket @artdonaldsonbabygirl

#a writes #ava's asks #patrick zweig #challengers #challengers fic #patrick zweig x reader #patrick zweig x you #patrick zweig fluff #patrick zweig angst #patrick zweig fic #tashi duncan #art donaldson #grumpy x sunshine

248 notes · View notes

schemmentigfs · 1 month ago

Text

Under Her Nose. (part 1.)

Summary: Melissa and you are on a situationship for weeks, but none of you dare to share this secret with anyone. The problem is? Ava Coleman, your sister would disapprove your relationship with the fiery redhead.

WC: 5.59k.

tags: @lifeismomentsyoucannotunderstand @lisaannwaltersbra @italianaidiota @kukikatt @dopenightmaretyphoon @schmentisgf @pitstopsapphic @jeridandridge @aliensuperst4rr

Warnings: mentions of sex.

big shout-out to the beautiful @cowboykya for helping me to keep this idea. 🩷

Fate was treacherous, unpredictable, playing tricks on anyone. But you never expected to feel this way about Melissa Schemmenti.

When you started teaching at Abbott Elementary, after your sister practically got you the job, insisting that you should work at her school and not Addington Elementary because, according to her, you were too cool for their rich, systematic bunch in those better, private conditions. She seemed like the last person you would get close to. Her practical attitude, her sarcasm, the way she always seemed a little irritated. All of that made her seem untouchable. Even intimidating, at times. But there was something about her that drew you in. Maybe it was her humor, sharp and quick, or the way she cared so deeply for her students and close colleagues, even though she acted like she didn’t care at all.

The redheaded woman had always been a difficult person to describe, especially when compared to most of the staff.

While the other teachers were full of enthusiasm and wanted to save the world with a daily dose of positivity to avoid a nervous breakdown, the second-grade teacher was more concerned with making sure things worked at the most basic level. She wasn’t there to give fake smiles or be the favorite of her little eagles– she was there because she believed that, even in the broken public education system, she could make a real difference for the few students who could look beyond her tough exterior and see who she really was.

Unlike Janine Teagues, who had a dreamy approach and always tried to make every moment a teaching opportunity filled with possibilities, her grade partner was practical, almost merciless at times, but genuine. She wasn’t interested in miraculous transformations. Her constant sarcasm, her straightforward way of speaking, and her fight or fight mantra were a defense mechanism, but also a way to cut through everyone’s BS. When she spoke, it was with an unmistakable tone of authority, and it wasn’t hard to tell she was used to being the one who stands firm, even when everyone around her is vulnerable or desperately trying to please.

Melissa was also, by far, the most annoying and least emotional of the bunch, which, somehow, only made her presence more powerful. She wasn’t afraid to openly criticize someone if she thought they were wasting time or, worse, being ineffective— something she certainly hated. But behind her tough facade, there was an unwavering loyalty to those who were really on her side, something that wasn’t easy to earn.

She wasn’t there to make friends, but she wasn’t willing to distance herself from those who truly mattered either. The words “compassion” and “care” weren’t used lightly by her, but when she cared, you felt it. She was the type of person who would do the unthinkable to protect those who, in some way, were in her orbit. That made her more unique, harder to understand – and, for that reason, more fascinating.

Compared to the others, she was a storm, full of intense and unsettling energy, something much more complicated than any of the cheerier or more inspiring facets of the other team members. And, paradoxically, it was this complexity that made someone like you feel drawn to her.

It had started as simple curiosity. You’d heard plenty of stories about her from Ava, most of them exaggerated, of course. She loved to poke fun at Melissa Schemmenti, often calling her Ms. Tough Guy or The Abbott Enforcer, always with a mischievous grin. And that grew even more often with their newfound friendship after the small heist at the visit to Girard Creek Golf Course, maybe they weren't so different at all. But when you actually started working alongside your current situationship, you realized that those stories didn’t do her justice at all. Never did.

There was a depth to her that your older sister never mentioned. The way she’d stay late to make sure her classroom was perfect for the next day. The way she’d show up after a Philadelphia Eagles win. The way she’d give the students in her class little pep talks when she thought no one was listening. The way she’d call out nonsense in staff meetings but somehow still manage to sound extremely professional.

At first, you only admired her from afar. She was just some random colleague — sure, one you couldn’t stop thinking about, but still, a colleague. Part of the reason you always kept some distance was Ava. Your older sister had an imposing presence, and her overly protective stance made it impossible for anything to escape her radar. To her, you were the helpless little sister, the one the world kept trying to bring down — even though, most of the time, you insisted you could take care of yourself.

Ava never hesitated to push away anyone she considered a threat to you. When you were younger, that meant crashing parties to get you out if she thought the environment wasn’t safe. Later, it meant monitoring your relationships, intimidating any suitor with her sharp gaze, and even showing up at your old job to “check on how things were going.” You knew that, behind all that chaotic energy, there was an unconditional love. But you also knew she’d never stand by if she suspected someone was breaking your heart.

Maybe that’s why you never got too close to the other teachers. Jacob was too friendly, always trying to start conversations about some obscure documentary you wouldn’t watch even if paid. Janine, with her overflowing energy, made you feel even more out of place, as if every interaction required an excessive effort. Gregory was polite but distant — and you knew Ava had a sixth sense for spotting “awkward guys,” as she called them. As for Barbara… well, she was a legend, and you never wanted to risk looking foolish in front of her.

So, you contented yourself with staying in the shadows, doing your job without drawing much attention. At least until Melissa Schemmenti.

The green-eyed woman was different. And, no matter how hard you tried to ignore it, there was something about her that pulled you closer. That blunt attitude, the raspy laugh that echoed down the hallways, the intense glances she’d throw over her various pairs of glasses when someone said something particularly stupid. It was impossible not to notice. And worse, it was impossible not to want more.

But, of course, there was Principal Coleman. And just the thought of what your sister would do if she found out you were interested in the most feared teacher at the school was enough to keep you in line. Or at least, that’s what you told yourself. It was during that staff meeting that everything changed.

In the long development week, being the lovely and helpful principal that she was, Ava was monotonously talking about another poorly executed initiative, her excited voice echoing off the walls in that sing-song tone she used when she knew no one was listening. Janine sat at the edge of her chair, forcing a polite smile and nodding enthusiastically in an attempt to seem engaged, even though her big eyes occasionally darted toward the door. Jacob was fiddling with his pen, aimlessly doodling on the margins of his notebook, clearly trying to stay awake. Barb reclined with her arms crossed, her expression exuding mild disapproval and resignation, while Gregory kept glancing at the clock, letting out a subtle sigh every few seconds, his boredom clearly etched on his face.

The other staff members just remained silent.

“Ava,” Janine said after a while, running her hand through her curls. “Look, your proposal is reasonable. But we can’t afford this!”

“Shut up,” your older sister huffed, walking over to the projector to make a PowerPoint presentation about her planning for new posts on Instagram.

“God bless that O’shon, poor kid,” Mr. Johnson muttered to himself, looking at the cameras. “Or that Crystal Rilley.”

The mention of the rival made Ava freeze.

“Mr. J, how dare you mention that bitch’s name? We shouldn’t even speak it! It’s like any Christian wouldn’t dare mention Satan’s name.”

Mrs. Howard jumped out of her seat in an instant, looking offended. “Excuse me?”

“Uh. Sorry?” The principal shot back.

You were sitting on the other side of the room from the redhaired woman, half paying attention, when you caught her rolling her beautiful green eyes. Without thinking, you stared at her and murmured.

“This is a waste of time, don't you think?”

Her plump lips curled into a shy smile before she quickly averted her gaze, not bothering to give you a single response, but at that moment, something clicked. It was as if you'd unlocked a secret part of her, a part she didn't show everyone. After that, you couldn’t stop noticing her, or the way Melissa Schemmenti started noticing you back.

At first, it was in the little things. The way she lingered just a second longer in the hall if you were there. The way her sharp responses softened when they were directed at you, the edges of her voice rounded with something you couldn’t name. The way her eyes would find yours during faculty meetings, as if she were looking for an ally in the sea of chaos that Ava always seemed to create.

“Another motivational poster initiative?” you asked quietly one afternoon, glancing at the second-grade teacher across the room during a PTA meeting. “What's next, a dance competition to inspire better test scores?”

Melissa turned her head slightly, pretending to adjust the papers in front of her. “Careful, rookie,”she whispered loud enough for you to hear. “Your sister might actually pick up that idea and run with it.”

You suppressed a laugh, her green eyes sparkling with amusement as she caught your reaction. It felt like a game that only the two of you were playing, a quiet rebellion against the absurdity of the daily grind that seemed to infect that building.

The first time you really had a conversation alone with her was after school one day. You were staying late to reorganize your classroom, frustrated with the mess your students had managed to create. Melissa walked in, probably looking for something—likely her stapler, which seemed to disappear weekly.

“You’re still here, Y/N?” she asked, leaning against the door with her arms crossed.

“Apparently, my fourth graders are aspiring tornadoes,” you replied, holding up a crumpled worksheet you found shoved inside a desk. “This is my life now.”

The older woman laughed, walking in. “Fourth grade, huh? You’ve got the sweet spot. Too old to be clingy, too young to be chatty.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You think that's the sweet spot? Yesterday, a kid tried to trade homework for a pack of gum.”

Her laughter came easily this time, and the sound sent a shiver down your spine. “Okay, fair enough. But at least they’re creative. My second-graders think spelling their names correctly deserves a gold star.”

You smiled. “I’d trade you any day.”

Melissa tilted her head, her gaze lingering just a moment longer. “Careful what you wish for, rookie. You might not survive a day with my kids.”

The friendship between you two grew slowly, like a secret entrusted to the wind. There wasn’t a specific moment when you realized she had become an essential part of your life—it was like the golden light streaming through the blinds in the morning, coming without warning but filling everything with warmth.

At first, the older woman was just the stubborn colleague who always knew how to have the last word. You argued more than you talked, each of you determined to prove your point, until one day, laughter won. It was during yet another endless school meeting, when you made a whispered joke about the broken coffee machine, and Melissa, without even trying to hide it, let out a laugh—a rough, authentic sound, as if it had come from a place she didn’t open up to often. From there, everything changed.

The green eyed woman started stopping by your classroom after hours, sometimes just to complain about the school’s awful coffee, other times to share some hallway gossip. You found a rhythm in your interactions, a silent dance of teasing and camaraderie. And then, without realizing it, you became her safe place.

The first time she really spoke about herself was on a gray day, the smell of rain still hanging in the air. You were sitting in the parking lot, on the concrete steps, sharing a cigarette she pulled from her pocket as if offering a secret. The smoke rose between you two, creating an ephemeral veil that made everything feel more intimate.

“Ma used to say cigarettes were for weak men,” Melissa said, with a half-smile that was bitter. “But after Joseph left home, well... Weak or not, here I am.”

It was the first time she mentioned the divorce. The word hung in the air, heavy and inevitable. She didn’t cry. The second-grade teacher was never one for easy tears. But the way her shoulders dropped slightly revealed the weight she carried. She talked about the marriage, how Joe’s laughter had become rarer, until the silent house became unbearable. She spoke of the muffled arguments behind closed doors and the nights when sleep wouldn’t come, even after another cigarette smoked to the filter.

“Teresa?” your coworker continued, taking a deep drag. “Oh, she loved being right. She said if I’d listened to my famiglia, I wouldn’t have ended up like this.”

There was bitterness in her voice, but also a kind of acceptance. You didn’t interrupt. You just listened. And that’s how she went on, unraveling the knots of her own story—the childhood surrounded by traditions that allowed no room for deviation, the prayers murmured in Italian in the kitchen, the smell of tomato sauce that always seemed to linger in the air. The older Schemmenti grew up with Catholic faith as a tight cord around her chest, learning far too early to confuse guilt with devotion.

“Not that I go to church much anymore,” she confessed, blowing out the smoke with a sigh. “But sometimes, I light a candle. I think candles understand us more than priests.”

And then, as if needing to lift the weight of the moment, Melissa laughed. That half-smile laugh you’d come to know so well.

“Oh, and there’s another faith I take seriously. The firefighters from South Philly. Those arms? Those pants? My Holy Mother.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And you say this... from personal experience?”

Melissa leaned back on the step, a cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth, narrowing her eyes as if she was about to share a forbidden secret. “Listen, I’ve had sex with a lot of beautiful women in my life, but this firefighter… Madonna mia. She looked like Halle Berry.”

She made an exaggerated gesture with her hands, as if she had to draw the perfection.

“Yeah?”

“Mmm. Dark skin, soft as hell, you know? Like silk. Short curly hair, and those eyes…” Melissa sighed, tilting her head as if reliving the scene. “Brown, deep, like dark honey under the light. And the body?” She laughed, shaking her head. “The definition of hot. Strong arms, thighs that could crush a man without effort, and that posture of someone who knows she can carry you if she wants.”

She took a deep drag and released the smoke slowly, a lazy smile on her lips.

“She was in uniform that night, straight off her shift. The tight tank top, the pants low on her hips… Jesus Christ. I saw that woman and thought: ‘If I die in a fire, I hope I get to ride on that strap first.”

You couldn’t help but feel a hint of jealousy, and your cheeks warmed with her words.

The redhead laughed again, mischievous, and shot you a suggestive look. “And let me tell you... She knew how to use those hands for much more than just holding a hose.”

You laughed with her, the kind of laugh that understood. Because that's how Melissa was, intense, contradictory, absurdly alive. She spoke with the same passion about family traumas and about her most mundane pleasures. And when she mentioned her unwavering love for Real Housewives, gesturing with fervor to defend her favorite cast members, you realized how much you loved that about her.

She was never someone easily surprised. But when the name Chappell Roan first came up in casual conversation, something in her expression changed. She was sitting on the couch, a beer in hand and a slight look of disdain, until Pink Pony Club echoed from the TV. Suddenly, the way she adjusted herself, how her gaze focused on the screen, how her fingers gripped the bottle just a little tighter, made it clear: here was a genuine passion.

Being her friend was like holding a lit match. She burned with anger, with desire, with sharp humor and still, you couldn't pull away. Because, even with all the ashes, she was warmth. She was presence. And now, she was your one of your best friends.

The flirting between you started unnamed, with no declared intention, like a fire born from discreet sparks. At first, it was just the lingering glances that were too long to be casual, a touch of fingers that lasted a second longer than necessary when passing papers to each other.

But then came the provocations. The biting comments disguised as jokes, the way the redhead smiled crookedly after making some sharp remark, just to see if you'd react in kind. And you did.

You challenged each other in small things, exchanged veiled insinuations in the middle of common conversations, until the air between you became thick, heavy with something unspoken but undeniably present. And when she leaned against your shoulder while laughing, or when her voice dropped to a lower, almost conspiratorial tone, your whole body seemed to recognize what your mind was still pretending not to know: you were dangerously close to crossing a line.

The first time she kissed you, it was as if gravity had shifted, as if the world’s axis tilted just to remind you that, until that moment, you hadn't known what it truly meant to be alive.

Willard R Abbott was empty at that hour, the hallways bathed in pale light flickering from the old lamps, humming in a near-complicit silence. You and Melissa had been there for a while, discussing something trivial — maybe a detail about the fundraiser, but at that moment, none of the words seemed to matter. Everything dissolved when you noticed the way she looked at you, her green eyes less intense than usual, softer, as if she hesitated to hide something that was already beyond control.

Then, without warning, without space for you to anticipate, her lips touched yours. It was a moment of heat and dizziness, a contained hurricane in the narrow space between your two bodies. Your situationship pulled away too quickly, and in the startled gleam of her gaze, there was surprise, there was fear — but, above all, there was an undeniable desire to not undo what had just happened. And you felt the same. No regrets. No doubts.

The first time you both gave in to desire after the kiss, it was as if the whole world disappeared, as if everything around you became a blur, irrelevant in the face of the intensity of what was happening. There was no rush. Nothing seemed urgent. On the contrary, each second was lived with an unsettling calm, as if the universe knew that this moment was unique.

You were at her place, on a warm summer night. The air was thick, scented with earth and streetlights filtering through the window, casting a soft glow. The atmosphere was tense, laden with a silent expectation that filled the space between you. The leather couch in the corner of the room seemed to be the only safe place in that moment, as words began to fade, replaced by ragged breathing and gazes loaded with desire.

She touched your face with a softness that contrasted with the intensity of the moment. Your bodies were so close that the fine line between friendship and something more seemed to disappear. She was the one to break the silence first, her hands searching for yours, and when your fingers intertwined, it was as if the rest of the world stopped spinning.

The kiss was different this time, deeper, more urgent, as if all the promises made in that previous exchange of lips now needed to be fulfilled. Melissa Schemmenti’s taste was stronger, more urgent. Something between the cigarette and the perfume she wore, and you lost yourself in it, in that kiss that seemed to consume both of you. Her hands traveled across your body, exploring carefully and yet with the certainty of someone who knew what they wanted.

The moment was hot, unhurried, but also without shame. When your bodies finally fused together, there was something unusual in the way you felt with her, as if, in that act, you were more exposed than just physically. She, with her gentle touches, seemed to know exactly where to touch, how to make you feel desired, and you, in turn, knew how to give yourself up without fear. The sex wasn't just physical, it was a silent conversation between the two of you, a dialogue without words, where everything was said through gestures and sighs.

The encounters between you, now, were casual, but always tinged with a palpable tension, as if you were getting to know each other in every gesture, in every look. There was no commitment — at least, not on the surface. They appeared out of nowhere, a phone call to grab coffee, a trip to the movies, or even a nighttime walk through Center City Philadelphia. Each of these encounters felt like a small escape from reality, a space where the rules of the outside world didn't apply.

Weeks passed, but the weight of that secret only seemed to grow. Every exchange of glances with Melissa was a careful dance, a game of disguises where the smallest slip could expose what you were trying to hide. You found yourself caught in the details — the way she moistens her lips before speaking, the way her fingers nervously drummed against the wood of the table when she was lost in thought. Everything about her was an invitation to daydream. And still, fear loomed over you both like a storm waiting to strike.

Ava Coleman wasn’t stupid. Your sister had a nearly cruel talent for sniffing out secrets. She would throw jabs disguised as jokes, each comment laced with suspicion.

“You and Schemmenti have been... coincidentally spending a lot of time together, don't you think?”she once said, with a sly smile, as if she were just having fun.

You giggled, a fragile and empty sound. But the truth was, every word of hers pierced your chest. The fear of being discovered clung to your skin, like a second layer of guilt.

That Wednesday, the restlessness was unbearable. The empty classroom seemed smaller with each step you took, the creaking of the old floorboards accompanying your impatience. Your situationship hadn’t sought you out all day. No furtive glances in the hallways, no hidden touches. The emptiness of her absence was almost physical.

You knew you shouldn't expect anything. You understood the weight she carried, the walls she’d built to protect herself. But it was hard. Hard to hold back the desire for more from her, more stolen moments, more honesty. You wanted her in her entirety, not just in the shadows.

When you finally saw her, the twilight had already tinged the sky with copper hues. She came out of the building with quick steps, her head down, as if the very air around her was a risk. You called out to her.

“Babe,” you sighed heavily.

She didn’t respond. She didn't slow her pace, didn't look back. And that indifference, even if perhaps feigned, cut deep.

Later, back at your small apartment complex, silence became your only companion. The cold light from your laptop screen illuminated your face as you tried to correct papers. But the students’s words were just disconnected scribbles. Your mind was far away, trapped in the memory of Melissa Schemmenti. The sound of her laugh echoed in the most secret corners of your memory, along with the sensation of her touch on your skin.

You wondered what she was doing at that moment. If she was thinking of you too. Or if, perhaps, she was trying to forget.

A message. It was the least you could do. Something simple, discreet, without revealing the turmoil inside you.

You: I hope you’re doing well.

The response didn’t come. The screen remained dark and silent, as if the universe itself conspired to prolong your anxiety.

Each minute without a reply was a blow. The emptiness screamed louder than any word. You hated yourself for it. For depending so much on her. For wanting something you weren’t sure you could have.

When the phone finally vibrated, the subtle sound reverberated through the apartment. Your heart skipped, as if that small tremor was a whisper of hope. Your hands trembled as you picked up the device, the reflection of the illuminated screen dancing in your eyes.

And there it was. A message.

Red: Can we talk? Tomorrow after work? At your place? Jacob is bringing that Elijah over and I don’t wanna hear him on my roof again.

With trembling fingers, you typed out a response.

Of course. See you then.

You set the phone aside, leaned back on the couch, and closed your eyes. Tomorrow. You would talk tomorrow. Maybe then, you’d finally figure out where this was going, or if it was even going anywhere.

But this wasn’t easy for Melissa either.

Behind the sharp words and crooked smiles, Melissa Ann Catarina Schemmenti hid a soul accustomed to control. She was the kind of woman who balanced the chaos of a second-grade classroom with the finesse of someone who knew exactly how to tame storms. The friend who always had a quick response, ready to defend those she loved. The woman who never let others see when she was trembling inside. But with you, everything felt different. You were the anomaly, the exception.

She wasn’t proud of the way she'd avoided you today. How her steps quickened the moment she spotted you in the hallway, how she sought refuge by the vending machine, pretending to study the options just to make sure you were gone. Every glance dodged, every hurried step away only made the ache in her chest grow stronger. Running wasn't her style. But there she was — running from what she wanted most.

And the worst part? It was you. Ava Coleman's younger sister. Ava, who thrived in chaos as though it were an endless source of energy. The principal who turned every conversation into a grand performance and every secret into a scandal fit for a soap opera. Melissa couldn't even begin to imagine the storm that would follow if her boss ever found out about the two of you. It would be an inferno of unimaginable proportions.

Still, every time the green eyed woman tried to convince you to end it — to stop before it was too late — something held her back. Because you weren't just her boss’s sister. You were you. She hated how much she thought about you. The sound of your laughter lingered in her mind long after you'd left. The way your eyes held hers, as if you could see the very things she tried so hard to hide. She hated the insatiable urge to tell you everything, to tear down the walls she'd built over the years. But what if you saw too much? What if you uncovered the parts of her that no one else knew and decided she wasn't worth staying for?

The fear was always there, lurking beneath the surface. Fear of not being enough. Fear of being too much. Fear of opening the door and finding only emptiness on the other side. Uncertainty was unfamiliar ground for her, and you were a whirlwind, daring her to lose herself in the eye of the storm.

The Sicilian had never been friends with uncertainty. She liked things as they were: organized, predictable, manageable. She sought solidity, a clear structure amid the chaos. But you? You were fire in its purest form — untamed, insatiable. A spark that set everything ablaze and made her forget how dangerous it was to get too close. And yet, she did. Every time. Because there was nothing about you that could be ignored.

No, this wasn't easy for her. Not even close.

When Melissa crossed the threshold of her home, a heavy sigh escaped her lips. The air inside was still, as if the very walls could sense the weight she carried. Her bag slipped from her shoulder and hit the floor with a dull thud. But even without its small burden, the true weight remained, stubborn and unrelenting. She needed to talk, to unload the turmoil that swirled within her. And who else, besides Jacob, could listen without judgment?

He was the only one who could know. The only one who could understood.

Barbara? No. The memory of last time still stung. That CPR class had been a cruel reminder that keeping secrets from her best friend was like betraying a part of herself. But now, Melissa felt she had no other choice. This was too big, too absurd. How could she explain something so irrational without sounding like a woman lost in her own feelings?

The living room was cloaked in a soft, dim glow, with only the bluish light of the television pulsing against the walls. One Punch Man played in the background, as it often did during Jacob’s quiet evenings. He was there, sunk into the worn plastic-covered couch, eyes lazily scanning his phone. Probably reading another history article. The comfort of old words seemed to be his way of escaping the world.

The redhead woman envied him for a fleeting moment. He could lose himself in the noise, let the endless stream of information carry him away. But her? She never knew how to do that. Even in silence, her mind never found peace.

“Hey, man,” she greeted her roommate, trying to sound casual, even though her heart was pounding.

Jacob looked up from his smartphone, raising an eyebrow. “Mel. Didn’t see you at the lounge today. Long day?”

“You have no idea,” she muttered, sliding onto the plastic couch beside him. She rubbed her temples, trying to calm her racing thoughts.

“So... I’m guessing it’s not just the usual school stress you’re dealing with?” the young boy asked, his voice gentle but laced with concern. He had a way of reading his work mom, seeing right through the tough exterior she worked so hard to maintain. And for some reason, she trusted him with things she couldn’t trust anyone else with.

She chuckled bitterly. “You could say that.”

Jacob turned his body to face her fully, setting his phone down and giving her his undivided attention. Melissa could feel the weight of his stare, like he was waiting for her to spill everything.

“I’m seeing someone,” she said quietly, biting her nails.

He blinked in surprise. “Wait. Who? Another firefighter or the guy from the hot tub?”

Melissa let out a frustrated breath, sinking into the couch. “No! We don’t talk about those mistakes on this house! Y/N.”

Jacob’s eyes widened in disbelief. “You’re... seeing Y/N. The same who is the fourth grade teacher and Ava’s sister? The one you’ve been saying is a rookie for the past year?” He let out a small laugh, clearly trying to process what she’d just said. “This is... something else, Mel Mel. You sure about this? I didn’t know you were into women!”

The green eyed woman rubbed her hands over her face. “I am bisexual, you prick. And for the record, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. It’s just...everything’s different when I’m with her. But it’s complicated. We can’t tell no one, J. If anyone finds out, it’ll be a disaster. Coleman will kill me. And I don’t know what to do with all of this. It feels like I’m walking on a damn tightrope.”

“I never saw you so scared about a relationship,” he bites the inside of his cheek. “It looks like you are about to crack.”

Melissa rolled her eyes, trying to sound confident, though she wasn’t sure she believed it herself.

“I’m not gonna crack. But it’s just... I don’t know. It feels like one wrong move, and everything could blow up. She’s younger. I can’t—”

“I get it,” Jacob interrupted, putting a hand on her shoulder. “I get it, Mel. But just... don’t lose yourself in it, okay? Don’t let it become something you regret. Whatever happens, just promise me you’ll think it through. And if you need to talk, you know where I am.”

She looked at him, her heart heavy with gratitude. “Thanks, J. Really.”

“Anytime,” he said with a wink, picking his phone back up as he added. “Just try not to get caught, alright?”

“I’m working on it.”

Touching his golden curls, the thirty year old prompted. “So, does Barb know?”

“No.”

“Shit!”

#melissa schemmenti x reader #melissa schemmenti x you #melissa schemmenti x y/n #melissa schemmenti #lisa ann walter #abbott elementary #abbott elementary fanfiction #ava coleman x reader #ava coleman #give our girl some luv!

149 notes · View notes

fandomnerd9602 · 2 years ago

Note

I don’t know if you know about the tv show warrior nun. But may I request a Ava Silva x male ghost rider reader

Ava slices thru a demon as Y/N kills another with his chain whip…

Ava: that was so hot

Y/N: the move or my chains?

Ava: pick one.

Y/N: you’re terrible

Ava: you’ll have to set me straight back at base (winks)

A demon tries to attack only for both Ava and Y/N to kill it…

Ava: I had it

Y/N: and I had you last night

Ava playfully smacks Y/N for that…

#crossover #warrior nun #ava silva #Ava x Reader #ava Silva x reader #ghost rider #ghost rider reader #marvel #netflix

72 notes · View notes

nickeverdeen · 3 months ago

Text

Breaking Lesbians | Ava Silva x fem!reader

Pairings: Ava x reader (one sided crush), Beatrice x reader (sisters)

Type of fic: Comedy

Warnings: None

Summary: Ava is completely unaware of what you are going through when she adjusts to the heat of the room (nothing sexual you freaks) and let’s just say she might have broken you

——————————

It was one of those oppressive summer days where the heat seemed to seep into every corner of the world. You, Ava, Beatrice, and Mary were tasked with organizing an old library archive. Of course, the task wasn’t thrilling, but it was necessary, and the space offered at least a little reprieve from the relentless sun.

You’d warned Ava before leaving the house. “It’s going to be scorching today, Ava. Maybe skip the jacket?”

But Ava, being Ava, had waved you off. “I’ll be fine! Jackets are my thing. It’s like… my superhero look.”

Now, as the hours dragged on, even Ava couldn’t ignore the heat. She let out an exaggerated groan, unzipping her jacket and shrugging it off.

“Finally,” Mary muttered, rolling her eyes.

Ava tossed the jacket over the back of a chair, revealing that she’d decided to wear a sleeveless shirt underneath. It wasn’t particularly flashy, just a simple tank top, but it was the first time you’d ever seen her arms so… uncovered. And there they were: Ava Silva’s surprisingly toned, muscular arms.

You blinked. Then blinked again.

When did that happen?

The way her muscles flexed when she bent down to grab a box, or how the light glinted off her skin, made it hard for you to focus on anything else. You felt your face heat up, your brain going into immediate panic mode.

“You okay, Y/N?” Ava asked, glancing at you as she hefted a stack of books.

“Huh? Yeah! Totally!” you squeaked, quickly looking away before she could notice the way your cheeks were practically on fire. You cleared your throat. “I, uh… I need to step outside. Get some air. Yeah. Air. Be right back!”

You bolted out of the room, leaving Ava staring after you with a confused expression.

The door had barely shut behind you when Beatrice sighed, setting down the book she was cataloging. “You broke her, Ava.”

Ava blinked. “What?”

“You heard me,” Beatrice said, her tone somewhere between exasperation and amused. “You broke my sister.”

Mary, who had been leaning against the table watching the exchange, raised an eyebrow at Ava. “To be fair, I didn’t know you were hiding those either,” she said, motioning toward Ava’s arms.

Ava glanced down at herself, confused. “What? My arms?”

“Yes, your arms,” Mary deadpanned. “Who knew you were walking around with biceps like that? I thought you were all about dodging and flipping, not…” She mimed lifting weights.

“I mean, I do a lot of flipping and dodging,” Ava said, flexing experimentally. “And punching demons is a workout…” She trailed off, realizing both Beatrice and Mary were giving her knowing looks.

“What?”

Beatrice raised an eyebrow. “She stared at you like you’d just descended from the heavens. Blushing, stammering—she was flustered, Ava.”

Ava’s eyes widened. “No way.”

“Yes way,” Mary chimed in. “Pretty sure she saw those arms and her brain short-circuited.”

For a moment, Ava just stood there, processing. Then, a slow, mischievous grin spread across her face. “Wait. Are you telling me… I made her blush?”

Beatrice pinched the bridge of her nose. “Ava, please don’t make this worse.”

Ava ignored her, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet. “This is amazing. I mean, I do work out a lot, but I didn’t think she’d—”

“She’s going to come back in here, and if you say anything, you’ll regret it,” Beatrice warned, her tone icy enough to make Ava pause.

“Fine,” Ava said, raising her hands in surrender, though her grin didn’t falter.

When you finally returned, you avoided Ava’s gaze like your life depended on it. Your face was still a little pink, and your steps were hesitant as you crossed the room.

“Hey, you okay?” Ava asked, her tone casual but her eyes sparkling with curiosity.

“Yep! All good!” you said quickly, sitting down and pretending to be very engrossed in sorting through a pile of old papers.

Beatrice shot Ava a warning look, and Ava barely managed to suppress a laugh. Still, she couldn’t resist leaning over as she passed you, flexing her arm just slightly as she reached for a book.

You caught the movement out of the corner of your eye, and the blush that spread across your face was instant.

You were screwed.

#imagine #ava silva #ava warrior nun #warrior nun #wlw #one sided love #gay panic #ava silva x reader #ava x reader

9 notes · View notes

brights-place · 3 months ago

Note

Hi! It’s me again :3

If request are still open can I request another part of that My inner demons but Nsfw/ smut hc’s.

I love angst with all my heart but fluff and Nsfw are close second. And I may have become obsessed when reading it 👁️

[My Inner demons ] Daemos x Reader (seperate)

Warnings: NSFW, SMUT, MINORS DO NTO INTERACT

A/N: Sorry for being late to write this anyways! funfact about me I'm a person who is obssessed with zoology and fantasy... so I wanted to add courting rituals from creatures and connect them to the daemos guys TEEHEE. I’d also like to state if you are a minor and continue reading and Im getting blamed for it I am NOT your babysitter I cannot control what you do

Summary: My inner demons but Nsfw/ smut hc’s and small scenes ideas Plus your lovely writer to rambling

A General headcannon I have is that well daemos are kinda like faes. Faery marriage is about unity of consciousnesses into one being. Full of romance and adventure and passionate love. So obviously they'd do the normal courting before you guys ya know Here's the thing though they are freaky they only thought it was to create heirs but here you were showing them you could do it without having to do procreation and they LOVE it DAEMOS MEN ARE FREAK IN THE SHEETS

Asch Smut Headcannons

- Your not royalty you aren't suppose to be with a prince but god how addicted he is to you - royal or not he loves you even if he's shit at talking to you - It's already known if you TOUCH their horns they all get defensive plus you shouldn't touch your partners horns in public... So UHM IMAGINE THAT

- Literally Is trying to understand how to ya know make you feel nice cause all he know is that it's for procreation and to create a heir - But the way you told him it isn't needed for procreation - he was happy to know you'd show him how to do it but still had his scowl - The moment he tried out he was trying not to show his flustered face as he was heaving - Asch is favorite part on your body is either your ass or your thighs - He likes being able to grope it and hold your shaking thighs during sex - He whimpers like he’ll bury his face in your neck while holding you in a mating press and whimpers in your ear - Does his best to keep it down when needed absently compliments your body as if talking to himself - Oh how he loves when your back laid into his chest as he shoves his fingers into your cunt panting into your neck - Loves when at times you push your fingers into his fisting his cock as you stretched him so well

Rhys Smut Headcannons

- Would you believe me if he's good with his fingers? because he IS - Rhys is a softer dom meaning he is sometimes rough and controlling but he won't hurt you or degrade you... though he does enjoy having power over you - He likes leaving hickeys on less visible spots like your inner thighs, breasts and stomach - He loves your stomach for some reason he enjoys it so much how he can feel himself and see himself inside you - Whenever Rhys sees your body covered in hickeys and love bites while you two are together to study do experiments etc. Rhys would instantly get turned on - He doesn't really have a type but people who are bigger or chubbier and shorter than him interest him more than others but everybody is shorter to daemos - This man when he he's busy would have you on his lap or his thigh riding him/dry humping him

- His favorite position is doggy style obviously though sometimes he loves seeing you sprawled out below him with your tongue out and eyes rolled back in pleasure as he hits that spot inside you every time he thrusts his hips - Would be surprised if you touch his horns when you two are kissing and making out - He doesn't like being sloppy or messy but holy shit when he's stressed you'll be in heaven and also hell because you aren't going to feel anything anymore

Pierce Smut Headcannons

- You like hair pulling? You got it. You like spanking? You also got it. Like choking? Guess what, you got it. He likes being rough but at the same time he's worried he'll hurt you - He likes fucking you doggy style, and choking you from behind the noises you make when he does it drives him wild for some reason - Though he tries not to hurt you...much - man doesn't moan he grunts and if he is close to making a noise he'd bite into your neck - He enjoys bondage the first time he tried it with you he was quick to use his sord but explained it all to him and was awkward to try it out but gave a small thumbs but

- He is awkward at first but he enjoys how you both seem to find comfort in doing this together trysting eachother though his nails did dig deep into your hips - When he tried it on you enjoyed seeing you in it especially when their tied around your chest the way it makes them stand out more with red rope - WHEN YOU PUT IT ON HIM HE WAS CONFUSED but how he saw you were drooling at how his chest was popping and breaking the rope scared you but heyyyyy you guys now have to make sure to get stronger ones... he may or may not flexed when you asked if he still can move slighty and uhm the rope snapped loudly gave you whiplash - He's big... Very big... - Grip his horns and use them as you wish he’d wince in pleasure

- Of course after care is head pats and small kisses though he is concerned if he hurt you but at the same time he enjoyed how you were sniffling still as he watched your thighs have something drip between them as you panted - of COURSE he doesn't admit nor talk about it but he is majorly into size kink, he keeps thinking about manhandling you with his larger frame as he makes you go up and down on his cock

Leif Smut Headcannons

- He likes to bite, and because of his pointed teeth he will normally leave marks. They heal very quickly but he likes the look of them peppered across your skin. - Leafs favourite position is cowgirl you showed him what it was and he enjoyed the fact of you riding him - Leif drools at how your walls clench and unclench around him - Blood play is a thing for him - He likes seeing the pleasure of your face as you slide down onto him, the first experimental thrust and the moment you feel your orgasm claim you. - He likes to watch you touching yourself, especially from the shadows such a sweet assassin that seems to.. enjoy the way you look and react until you see him - He bites down on your roughly more when you touch his horns when you need to grab on something as he curses in his native tongue - You find out the leif is abit more... possessive during sex if he hasn’t killed anything in awhile bloodlust is soemthing he enjoys - His appetite for blood is huge but heres a thing he loves biting yes flashing his shark like teeth but his favourite part to bite is your tummy whether you're chubby or not he loves how soft it is, how soft you are in general. - Which means he also loves your thighs often laying his head on your thighs or stomach THIS INCLUDES EATING YOU OUT/SUCKING YOU OFF - Man will enjoy overstimulating you leaving marks and grinning like a maniac - Aftercare? whats that when you tell him he grumbled and cuddles you before he goes take care of you in the human way - when he's lazy though? nah just use magic though he enjoys when you kiss his cheek after and his horns too right after which makes him grin again... yeah no your fucked

Noi Smut headcannons

- "Noi is submissive noi is sweet" YEAH SURE BUT AT THE SAME TIME NAH I BET YOU THAT HE'D PAMPER YOU BEFORE AND ASK IF IT'S ALRIGHT BUT RIGHT AFTER HE GETS SO INTO IT THAT YOUR IN BLISS - I don't care if everyone babies him yes he's a good and complex character but OH SHIT HOW HE DOES EVERYTHING CORRECTLY - He'd be stiff at first not getting how to do human courting - Once he gets the hand of it he's kissing you pampering you and teasing your entrance with two of his slender fingers. - He would finger fuck you slow and would grin at how your face shifts, and when you start making noises he would speed up - Loves how your eyes roll back and drooling Fav position that you showed him? well he loved missionary it's basic but thats the one he learnt first

- He would grab both your legs over his shoulders to start with while he looks at your fucked up face - Fav body parts is probs your man tits/boobs - The fact that they fit just right inside his hands is just perfect to him

- Aftercare he'd do it properly and smile at you happily thanking you for accepting his courting and being with him

179 notes · View notes

romerona · 1 month ago

Text

The Cook and The Teacher!

Let's pretend The Bear and Abbot Elementary are in the same city.

Another cute interaction between Carmen (Carmy) Berzatto x Abbot Teacher Femreader! Sunshinereader!

Warnings: None

You glanced at the clock again, sighing like it had personally offended you. Your fingers tugged at the edge of your sleeve, mostly for dramatic flair at this point. The hands hadn’t moved much since the last time you looked—which was approximately forty-seven seconds ago, but who’s counting?

Not that you were nervous. No, no. Nervous is for people who don’t have an emergency backup plan involving a pigeon wearing a tiny tie and a PowerPoint presentation about apples.

You were just… mildly concerned.

Okay, maybe “low-key spiraling” was a more accurate term.

He said he’d come. Offered, even. You hadn’t begged, bribed, or emotionally blackmailed him (which you were fully capable of, for the record). He’d volunteered. That was important. Crucial, even.

It had all started with your now-iconic meltdown earlier in the week—Career Day Eve, if you will—when the zookeeper cancelled via email and emoji. An elephant emoji, to be exact and you, of course, had reacted in a calm, measured way.

By ranting to your handsome neighbour while pacing your living room in mismatched socks and clutching a mug of tea that had gone cold hours ago.

“I told them they were gonna see someone who works with LIONS, Carmy. Actual, roar-in-your-face, majestic-ass lions.” You groaned, flopping onto the couch like your spirit had physically left your body. “Ugh, I knew it. You can never trust someone with an exotic job and a man bun. That’s, like, a statistically proven red flag.”

From his seat at the far end of the couch, Carmy raised an eyebrow, expression maddeningly calm as he absently played with one of your throw pillows—the one you embroidered with little sunflowers during your short-lived cottage-core phase. He didn’t say anything. He just let you spiral.

You shot up, posture suddenly straight, eyes wild with new inspiration. “It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s all fine. I’ll just… bring in Gus. Yeah. Kids love Gus. Boom. Problem solved.”

Carmy blinked. “You’re not seriously—”

“Oh, I’m dead serious,” you interrupted one hand over your heart. “I’ll dress him up. Tiny tie, maybe a little badge. ‘Hello, my name is Gus. I’m a bird with a superiority complex and a cracker addiction.’ They’ll eat it up.”

That was when he said it, without looking up, like he was offering to pass the salt instead of volunteering for chaos. “I could come.”

You paused mid-rant, mouth half-open. “Come where? The pity party? Too late, I already RSVP’d with tears and dramatic flopping.”

“Career Day,” he said, glancing over at you finally. “I could do it. Talk to the kids. If you want.”

You blinked. Then blinked again, slower this time, like your brain needed an extra second to process the words.

“Carmy. Be serious. You run a whole kitchen. You work, like, twenty hours a day and sleep in four-minute intervals. I’m not about to let you donate one of your free mornings to a classroom of sugar-high fourth graders who will, at some point, absolutely ask if you ever had a rat under your hat."

He shrugged, unfazed. “I don’t mind.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but he cut in before you could unleash another dramatic protest.

“If it helps you,” he said, his tone easy but sincere, “I can handle being asked about Ratatouille.”

You gawked at him. “You're serious?”

He nodded, resting his arm along the back of the couch like this was a totally normal Tuesday. “Sure.”

“Carmy,” you said slowly, voice pitched somewhere between disbelief and exasperated fondness. “You do understand this is unpaid, right? Like, full-on volunteer mode. Zero dollars. No tips. Just you, a room of small humans, and probably a glitter explosion.”

He looked at you, completely unbothered. “Still don’t mind.”

You knew Carmy well enough by now to understand there were layers—deep, complicated, messy layers—hiding beneath that simple, “I could come.” Because yeah, sure, Carmy loved to cook, but he didn’t glamorize it. Not even a little. The passion was real, but so was the damage. Even though he hadn’t laid it all out for you—hadn’t sat you down and unpacked every scar—you could see it. You felt it.

You’d seen it.

In the way, his shoulders tensed at the mention of certain names, in the haunted, faraway look he got when he talked about past kitchens, the way his eyes darkened when work crept too far into the personal, the way silence filled in for stories he couldn’t bring himself to tell. The job had nearly eaten him alive more than once. You could tell. It had taken from him—family, sleep, health, peace. Years of his life he was still fighting to claw back, one broken, beautiful piece at a time.

So the idea of standing in front of a room full of wide-eyed, hopeful fourth graders and telling them, “Follow your passion!” like that passion hadn’t nearly swallowed him whole?

Yeah. That wasn’t a small ask.

And yet—he’d offered. Unprompted. Just a soft, casual, “I could come.”

For you.

And god, wasn’t that the part that ruined you a little?

Still, you'd waited a full twenty-four hours before giving him the green light. For his sake. For yours. For that part of you—the newer, softer, protective part—that had started to believe in shielding him from things, even when he didn’t ask to be shielded.

Because Carmy Berzatto may have survived a thousand kitchens, but that didn’t mean he needed to walk into this one unless he truly, truly wanted to.

And the crazy thing was? He did.

Now here you were, pacing between tiny desks like a caffeinated motivational speaker who didn’t have a Plan B involving a pigeon. You were totally calm. Totally fine. Totally not spiralling internally while your brain whispered charming thoughts like, 'he’s not coming', and 'Congrats, you’re about to host a cooking segment with no chef, no plan, and possibly a breakdown'.

“Miss!” one of your students called out, yanking you out of your mental spiral like a life preserver made of glitter glue. “When’s the chef getting here?”

You spun on your heel, smile locked in place like the unbothered queen you absolutely were not.

“Soon!” you beamed, while glancing at the cameras. “He’s probably just fighting with a soufflé or locked in a passionate debate with a garlic clove. You know—chef stuff.”

They laughed. You did too, though yours was the manic sort that said everything’s on fire, but at least we’re warm.

You had told them a real chef was coming. A famous one, even. But you’d kept that part tucked away. Just in case. You didn’t want them disappointed if he didn’t show.

You didn’t want to be disappointed if he didn’t show.

Because while you were currently dazzling these kids with your best “unbothered teacher queen” routine, inside? Yeah, your soul had filed an early resignation.

You glanced at the clock again.

Cool cool cool.

It was fine. Everything was fine. You were totally not about to fake a PowerPoint on “Why apples are the real MVP of fruits” while sobbing internally.

You gave your class a cheerful clap of your hands, channeling the kind of positivity that could sell overpriced candles on Etsy. “Alright! While we wait, why don’t we write down what questions we might want to ask our guest, hmm? Think big. Think bold. Think ‘What’s your favorite sauce?’ but, like, deeper.”

"Writting?" A collective groan rose from the class, dramatic and loud, as if you’d just asked them to handwrite the Constitution.

You raised your eyebrows, completely unfazed. “Yes, writing. The horror. Grab your pencils, Hemingways.”

And just as a few reluctant pens started to scratch against paper, the door swung open—abrupt, theatrical.

You were just about to exhale a tiny breath of relief when the classroom door swung open—and not in the chef arrives like a movie moment with the wind blowing his coat kind of way.

Nope.

It was Ava.

Your best friend. Your favorite menace. And the one person on Earth with zero chill.

Ava stepped in like she owned the place—which, to be fair, she kind of did, at least spiritually with phone in hand, eyes scanning the room like she was about to announce lottery numbers.

You blinked at her. “Principal Coleman?”

She ignored you completely and addressed your students with dramatic flair. “Excuse me, tiny scholars. I have a very important update.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Ava.”

She turned to you, positively glowing with mischief. “Your hansome chef is here.”

You blinked. “My—what?”

“Girl,” she said, one eyebrow raised. “The one you told me about. With the tattoed arms and the trauma. He’s here. And I gotta say, you undersold it.”

The class erupted into giggles. You blinked harder.

You blinked, stunned, brain buffering like a broken Wi-Fi signal. “Ava, this is a classroom. A learning environment.”

“I learned something,” she said with a wink. “I learned you have a taste for emotionally complex kitchen men with cheekbones so sharp they could dice an onion.”

“Can you just send him in, please?” you asked, voice sweet but strained, like you were one Ava comment away from evaporating into glitter.

Ava raised her brows like okay, ma’am, then dramatically pivoted on one heel, mumbling something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like, “Don’t say I never brought you anything good.”

The door closed behind her with a dramatic little click, and you turned back to your students, who were all openly staring at you like you were the lead in a very juicy reality show.

“Miss,” one of them stage-whispered, eyes wide with scandal, “are you dating the chef?”

You blinked. “Excuse me—what? No. Absolutely not. We are just… two humans who happen to know each other and occasionally share oxygen in the same room.”

And with a dramatic little head shake and the world's weakest scoff, you muttered, “Kids and their imaginations.”

A second student raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “But Miss… your face is doing the same thing it did when that one dad brought you cupcakes for Valentine’s Day.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Blinked. Then pointed at the worksheet pile like it held the answers to life itself.

“Okay—first of all, pencils up, Cupid Patrol. Second, that wasn’t a dad, it was the very kind district representative who happened to believe in seasonal baked goods and workplace appreciation.”

The kids oooh’d like you’d just admitted to a full-blown scandal.

“And for the record,” you muttered, loud enough for the mic to catch, "Nothing happened. It was one cupcake. Vanilla. Calm down.”

The camera lingered.

You blinked. “Cut somewhere else.”

You were still glaring at the camera crew when the door creaked open again—this time quieter, less dramatic, almost hesitant.

You turned, mid-eye-roll, fully expecting Ava to have come back for one final round of public humiliation.

But it wasn’t Ava.

It was him.

Carmy stepped into the room, somehow looking both like a Michelin-starred chef and a man who was deeply unsure if he’d accidentally walked into a daycare. His white tee was freshly pressed, chef’s coat folded neatly over his arm, hair was slightly messy like he’d fought with it in the car, lost, and decided to just let fate take the wheel, carrying a large bag.

He stood there for a second, blinking at the sea of tiny faces—and you.

“Uh… hi,” Carmy said, voice low and hesitant.

Your brain, which had been barely clinging to function, promptly short-circuited.

“Hi,” you echoed, way too breathy for someone in charge of young minds, smiling like a fourth grader yourself.

“Miss! Is that him?” one student asked, already halfway out of their chair like they were witnessing a celebrity walk-in.

You blinked back into Teacher Modetm with the grace of someone internally screaming. “Yes. Yes, that’s him. Everyone—uh—remain seated.”

You gestured toward Carmy. “This is Chef Carmy, our very special guest for Career Day!”

The kids leaned forward like a chorus of curious meerkats, eyes wide, pencils ready.

“Can we all say, ‘Hi, Chef Carmy’?” you asked.

“Hiiii, Chef Carmyyyyy!” the room chorused in chaos, overlapping voices.

Carmy raised a hand in a small wave, his lips pulling into a sheepish smile. “Hey. Uh… thanks for having me.”

Then—of course—he glanced over at the camera crew like he just now realized they existed, eyes slightly wide before blinking quickly back to you. He stepped closer, leaning in just a bit, voice soft—just for you.

“Sorry I’m late,” he murmured. “Traffic was… hell.”

You grinned, shaking your head. “You’re fine. You made it. That’s what matters.”

He nodded, almost imperceptibly, still looking at you like you’d somehow made this less terrifying just by standing there.

And then, because this day was determined to destroy you emotionally, one of your students blurted out, “Miss, your face is doing the thing again!”

You didn’t even flinch as you turned to the children. “Okay! We are officially in session. Chef Carmy is here, so I hope you have your questions ready—and no, none of them can be about Ratatouille, or I will confiscate your recess.”

A hand shot up immediately. “Is it true chefs yell a lot?”

Carmy blinked, caught between answering and short-circuiting.

You sighed dramatically, shooting him a look. “And here we go.”

To his credit, Carmy recovered quickly. “Uh… yeah,” he said honestly, scratching the back of his neck. “Sometimes. But mostly just when things are on fire or… slicing off a thumb.”

A collective gasp filled the room.

“Wait, did you really cut your thumb off?” one kid asked, absolutely horrified and delighted.

Carmy hesitated. “No, but… close enough.”

“Cool,” the kid breathed.

You gave Carmy a look like sir, but he just gave you a little shrug back that said I’m trying here.

Still, you beamed. Progress. He was finding his rhythm.

And then, the spaghetti.

You’d cleared a small table for him earlier, just in case he brought something. But you had not expected him to go full cooking show.

With sleeves rolled, Carmy walked the kids through how to make fresh spaghetti from scratch.

“Alright, so—flour,” he said, pouring it out onto the surface. “Then you make a little well, like this.”

“Ooooh,” the kids chorused, some of them leaning forward like they were witnessing magic.

You stood off to the side, arms crossed, trying very hard to look composed and not like you were watching a rom-com scene play out in real time. Because Carmy? Flour dust on his hands, explaining things so gently, so patiently, even when the questions made zero sense? It was unfairly attractive.

“So the eggs go in the middle, and you start mixing with a fork—”

“What if you used a spoon?”

“Would it still work if it was peanut butter instead of eggs?”

“Could you make the dough into, like… animal shapes?”

“Do you have beef with Gordon Ramsay?”

Carmy was trying his best. “Okay, uh—no spoons, no peanut butter, yes to animal shapes, and… no comment on Gordon Ramsay.”

He cracked eggs into flour, mixed dough by hand, and passed around little pinches so the kids could feel it for themselves. He used terms like “emulsify” and “al dente,” then immediately explained them in fourth-grade-speak. He asked for volunteers to help him roll the dough out with a tiny pin you’d borrowed from the kithcen. He let one kid sprinkle flour on the surface with a flair that could only be described as “chef-in-training chaos.” Another student tried to twirl the noodles like he was doing a magic trick.

He was awkward, yes—but also patient, funny in that deadpan way that made the kids hang onto every word.

Somewhere around the rolling-out portion of the lesson, the door creaked open again—and in walked the kitchen staff from the cafeteria. Hairnets. Aprons. Pens and little spiral notebooks in hand.

“We heard there was a Michelin star in the building,” Shanae announced from the doorway, arms crossed over her cafeteria apron, clearly enjoying the scene unfolding. “We just wanted to, you know… take a peek.”

“If you need to boil it, Chef Carmy, you can use my pot,” Devin offered, already scribbling something in a little notepad like he was about to text his group chat immediately.

"Thank you, Chef," Carmy nodded at him with a polite smile, a little bashful now, and returned to cutting his dough.

As if that wasn’t enough, Mr. Johnson sauntered in not five minutes later, leaned against the back wall like he was in a speakeasy, and said, “You know, back in ‘92 I made lasagna so good the mayor cried. Just sayin’.”

He then turned and disappeared down the hall like a wizard of chaos, muttering something about gluten conspiracies.

You didn’t even blink. “Thank you, Mr. Johnson.”

Then, Melissa strolls in, coffee in hand and eyebrows already at maximum scepticism.

She paused in the doorway, scanning the flour-dusted counter, the students gathered around like Carmy was performing miracles, and Carmy himself—elbows deep in pasta dough.

She sipped her coffee as she stared at the pasta. “Wait, so… what’s your last name?”

Carmy glanced up, blinking like he’d been pulled out of a trance. He looked at Melissa, then at you, like he was checking to see if this was a trick question. “Uh… Berzatto.”

Melissa squinted. A beat passed.

“Huh,” she said, in a tone that somehow contained five different layers of meaning: vague suspicion, mild approval, distant familiarity, one raised red flag, and a complete personality assessment. “Makes sense.”

And just like that, she turned and walked off, heels clicking, coffee still steaming, not another word spoken.

Carmy blinked after her, then looked at you, deadpan. “Was that a threat?”

You shrugged. “Honestly? It’s better not to ask.”

“Right,” Carmy mumbled, brushing a bit of flour from his fingers before continuing like he hadn’t just been hit with a drive-by personality analysis from a woman with mob energy and perfect eyeliner.

He rolled back into the lesson with ease, walking the kids through shaping the dough into spaghetti strands.

“You want it thin, but not too thin,” he was saying, hands moving with a kind of gentle confidence that made even flour seem like it was cooperating out of respect. “If you can see through it, you’ve gone too far. Unless you’re making ravioli. But that’s… a whole different story.”

Meanwhile, you?

You couldn’t take your eyes off him.

Every time he explained something—how the gluten develops, why olive oil matters, the difference between done and perfect—you leaned in without realizing. Just a little. Drawn in, like the words were for you and only you.

And the worst part?

Sometimes he looked at you while he talked. Just little glances. Barely-there flickers. But each one lit you up like someone had turned on all the fairy lights inside your chest.

Your heart fluttered. Your cheeks hurt from smiling. Your brain? Fully composing a sonnet titled To the Man Making Spaghetti in My Classroom.

You were so, so doomed and just when your face was halfway to full heart-eyes emoji status, you remembered—

The cameras.

You blinked, snapped your head toward them, and straightened up like you hadn’t just been silently daydreaming about holding Carmy’s tattooed hand while wandering through a farmer’s market in the fall or about his hands elsewhere...

One cameraman raised an eyebrow.

You cleared your throat. Smiled. Gave a stiff little nod like everything is normal and fine and I am a professional adult woman.

The rest passed too quickly for your liking.

One second, he was explaining how flour and eggs became pasta, and the next he was handing off the fresh noodles to Devin who looked so starstruck you half-expected him to ask for an autograph, but instead, he just took the dough reverently, muttering, “I got you, Chef,”

While Devin handled the boiling, Carmy fielded more questions, bouncing between wide-eyed children and genuinely curious adults.

One kid asked if he ever cried over burnt toast.

“Only once,” Carmy replied. “It was a really good piece of bread.”

Another asked if he’d ever cooked for a king.

“Not officially,” he said, glancing at you with a quick smirk that made your heart do a cartwheel. “But I’ve cooked for people who matter.”

The kitchen staff and at least one substitute from down the hall— all threw out questions about risotto techniques, braising, and how he gets his red sauce just right.

He pulled out a small pan he’d brought, explaining how to build a sauce from scratch—olive oil, garlic, a little tomato, basil. Simple, but the room smelled like heaven. The adults were wide-eyed. The kids were openly drooling. You might’ve been, too.

He offered tiny sample spoons as he stirred, like it was the most natural thing in the world to casually do a cooking demo in a public school classroom. And when Devin returned with the perfectly cooked pasta—because of course it was perfect—Carmy tossed it with the sauce and started plating like it was no big deal.

Little paper bowls. Plastic forks. A sprinkle of cheese. And just like that, he was handing out servings of handmade pasta to a group of nine-year-olds and the adults like they were at some five-star tasting event.

You got a plate, too and the second you took a bite, you nearly sat down.

It was so good—like warm, rich, made-with-love kind of good. Like maybe he put his entire soul into the sauce and also possibly his feelings for you kind of good. You blinked up at him, genuinely speechless for the first time all day.

He raised an eyebrow. “Okay?”

You nodded, slow. “I hate you a little bit.”

He chuckled. “I’ll take that.”

And yeah, you were so, so gone.

The kids were still buzzing as they lined up to leave, chattering about pasta like it was the greatest invention since slime. A few waved wildly at Carmy on their way out, and others whispered to each other like they’d just met a celebrity—which, honestly, they kind of had to and Carmy gave them a small, slightly awkward wave back.

“Miss,” one whispered as they passed you, eyes wide with hope, “can Chef Carmy come back next week?”

You smiled, warm and fond. ��We’ll see.”

When the last of them filed out and the door finally clicked shut, the room fell into a warm, quiet hum—sunlight filtering through the windows, flour still dusted on the counter, the lingering scent of garlic and tomato hanging in the air like some kind of cozy spell.

You turned, and there he was.

Carmy stood at the table he’d used, wiping it down with a damp towel, sleeves still rolled to his forearms, curls a little wild after an hour of navigating the adorable storm that was your classroom. He looked… calm. Settled.

“Hey,” you said, a little sing-songy as you stopped beside him. “Chef of the Year. You did it.”

He glanced up, met your eyes with a crooked smile. “Hey.”

“I just wanted to say thank you,” you said, lowering your voice just a bit. “Like, really—you didn’t just show up, you… you were brilliant, Carmy.”

He let out a breath that was half-laugh, half something more complicated. “I was wingin’ it the whole time.”

“Well,” you said with a smile, “you wing things very charmingly.”

His eyes lingered on you for a beat longer than strictly necessary. “You made it easier.”

The words landed between you like something delicate and important. You swallowed, heart doing that tight, fluttery thing again—the one that always showed up whenever he looked at you like that.

You tried to recover, tossing the moment a wink and a grin just to keep yourself grounded. “So does that mean you’re open to a regular Thursday guest chef gig?”

He smirked, low and lopsided. Shook his head like he couldn’t believe you—but not in a bad way. “I don’t know if I’m built for the fourth grade attention span.”

“They were obsessed with you,” you said matter-of-factly, crossing your arms and stepping just a little closer.

“They were obsessed with the pasta.”

You tilted your head, eyes twinkling. “It wouldn’t be hard for it to be both.”

That made him pause. Just long enough for the tension to hum again, low and warm.

He looked at you like he was trying to read between your words. Like he wasn’t quite sure if you meant it the way it sounded—but hoping you did.

A beat passed. You held his gaze, smile softening just slightly. Just enough.

And then he looked down—at your shoes, the floor, literally anything else that wasn’t your face—and cleared his throat. “I should… probably get going.”

“Right. Yeah.” You brushed past him to grab a tray, your shoulder just barely bumping his as you passed. “See you around, Carmy Next Door.”

If he froze for half a second—well, that was between him and the classroom air that had suddenly grown suspiciously warmer.

You kept your back to him, pretending to busy yourself with stacking paper plates while absolutely listening for every move behind you.

A minute later, he was at the door, bag slung over one shoulder, hand on the knob.

“Yeah, see you around,” he said, almost too casually.

You turned toward him, giving him a smile that was part “Thank you, again.”

He nodded but didn’t move. Just stood there and after a pause he cleared his throat, glanced down, then back up at you—like he was in the middle of a conversation with himself and currently losing.

“Hey—” he started, then stopped, his jaw clenching just slightly. “Would it be weird if I…”

You raised your brows, trying not to let the hope leak into your smile. “If you what?”

He shifted his weight, ran a hand through his curls. “If I asked you to dinner.”

You tilted your head, giving him your best faux-casual sass. “Like a date?”

“Yeah. Like a date.” He gave the tiniest nod, just enough

You didn’t even hesitate. “Took you long enough.”

His mouth curved into the softest smile you’d seen from him all day—like it caught him off guard like it made something inside him loosen.

“So that’s a yes?” he asked, voice quiet.

“It’s a yes,” you said, and damn, you didn’t even try to hide your smile this time.

He opened the door, then turned back one last time. “I’ll text you.”

“You better,” you said. “You owe me pasta without a classroom audience.”

He laughed under his breath, then stepped out, the door clicking softly behind him.

You stood there for a moment, alone in the quiet hum of the classroom, heart fluttering like you were seventeen and just got asked to prom. Which, honestly… wasn’t that far off.

You let out a breath, tried to pull yourself together, and failed—because your face still hurt from smiling and your brain was very much replaying every single second in high-definition slow motion.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you spotted it, the cameras.

Still rolling.

“Told you it was a matter of time,” you said, voice smug and giddy. Then you added, dead serious: “Also—if you zoomed in on me blushing again, we’re fighting.”

Cut to black.

A/N: Helloooooo. How is everyone!?? Okay first I want to apolagize that it took me so long to publish this part, lots going on rn, second, I thank you all for the support, for those likes, commentsss and shares ❤️ Like its crazyyyy.

Be safe out there 🫶 Tell me if you would like to get tagged.

Tags:

@hiitsmebbygrl16 @urthem00n @svzwriting29 @tyferbebe @akornsworld @khxna @ruthyalva96 @beingalive1 @darkestbeforethedawn16 @turtle-cant-communicate spideybv28 veryberryjelly @daisy-the-quake leilanixx softpia cosmix-stxrs the-disaster-in-waiting memoriesat30 emerald-jade1 sabrina-carpenter-stan-account ateliefloresdaprimavera theflowerswillbloom blairfox04 nicksolemnlyswears stardream14 notme22sblog mattm1964 maddeningmentalmess isla-finke-blog literature-nerd-blossom starberryhorse hipsternerd9 landpiranha-blog miarabanana everywherenothere just-soft-things1 blue-4-raven rockyeatrock this--is--music lettucel0ver chayceschultz silas-aeiou alexxavicry

#carmen berzatto #carmen berzatto x reader #carmy berzatto fanfiction #abbott elementary #carmen berzatto x you #carmy berzatto smut #carmy berzatto x reader #carmy berzatto x reader smut #mikey berzatto #abbott elementary x reader #janine teagues #ava coleman #melissa schemmenti #barbara howard #gregory eddie

434 notes · View notes