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edenspoem · 3 months ago

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𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐝: 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠. (𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐦𝐞)

summary. | next chapter (tba). you're expecting—and ellie is sick in love. one thing inhibits her: she thinks it isn't requited.

reader discretion is advised. mdni. fluff. a punch of angst: one instance of abuse. mentions of previous. pregnant!reader. jackson!loser!ellie. damaged relationship with a man explicit (for the plot.) the pining creeps in. strangers to lovers (in the future). requited but assumed unrequited love. cheesy romance scenes. evident undertones of addiction: substance mention, cannabis, strained relationships (ellie and joel common occurence. reader and their scumbag bf too). a realistic motherhood. depression. apprehension. you get it. wc: 4.3k. series masterlist.

note.

based on this anon i got. shoutout to @serqphites fr. art in header creds to @nramv. thanks to @s-4pphics for proofreading this one for me! join the discord to see content such as this in creation.

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐬

It is the thought that stomachs you.

“Shit,” you curse and bite the mouth that does. Mindless thing. “He’s gonna murder you, damn idiot.”

Control is contraception. You kneel your head to the faucet, its trickle the thing that embraces your ears; if you could crawl out of one, you would. Here is said to be simple. Here is an embellished free port. These people, neighbours and founders—elders, to be exacting for spiteful whims, sold the idea that you would have support and homes to crash in outside your own if it did ever crumble to the ground. Bandages to bleed in. But the shameful wound is open, unclosing. No one wants to account for a burden that isn’t their consequence.

You had a dream in the palm of your hand.

But what is wanted—is not for sale. You just assume control over disorder. It happens to a girl at least once, right? That dreadful blue in the sound once you learn for sure that you lost to it: to nature.

You wash the vacant spot.

Fucking pregnant.

It felt possible the first run to the toilet. Then, too terrible to be a lie the third roundabout. Vomit litters the porcelain basin.

Cat figured something was up before you caught this nauseous spell. She mentioned and argued that your constant trips to the bathroom were irregular, and you made light and nodded in a sunlit direction. Capering under its false pretense. “Yeah, what about it?” you segued, but not without heel-stumbling. Frou-frou foxes in Midsummer fires, your all-differentiating, all-time repeat from the Cocteau Twins; the radio thrummed with its rounding lulls and ethereals around a crowded living room, a whirling concoction for your hapless intoxication. Bird without its wings.

So is it the alcohol, or the condition—hurling you over the toilet bowl?

Either consequence creeps up from intestinal serpentining, as you pull apart your own single-headed carelessness. Who to blame, other than the carrier, right? Shit, well, a condom was used. You made with that precaution. So, are you the luckless one percent, or is the old-world hiding something important about fucking contraception? Can one girl be—ill-fated to this? You cocoon against the cupboards, slipping down the hinges, the knobs and indents. “Shit,” repeats your stunned mouth, quieter this time.

The walls seem to listen; a disagreeing wind quivers the window.

Even if you weren’t a statistic: the abandoned alcohol, now advantaged and emptied, returned to its fine-china neighbors in your father’s parlor, is evidence. Chastisement waiting to scream. He hates parties—and with much less than a tolerant grunt, hates girls who attend them. It seems sensible; Cat is a regular host, and he chastises your friendship.

Not her. You, being her friend.

Cat sighed, mashing the butt of her cig into a bisected can. The nutritions label was faded. “You’re a damn wreck,” within amusement, she scolded. But it was not without a heartstopper. She laughed, “If you end up pregnant, ‘m not watching the little shit. Get enougha’ that out of daycare to take it home with me as well. Damn it.” and it tore your stomach open; the organ pummeled into your serpentine guts, and the deafening throb frightened itself higher. You could taste what wanted to come up.

You swallowed. “Pregnant?” Concentrated on the purple under sienna-brown eyes. Distraction meant the world, in that moment.

She nodded—and shrugged, an unsure note. “Just a hypothetical.”

Fuck you, psychic.

The guilt was beginning to make itself felt. You relapsed, in a heartfelt confession, to a state of adolescence this evening. “You’re so goddamn selfish!” It is one thing to be treated as innocent; Mateo could be condescending at times, but to be spoken at like a cruel, bird-brained and intentioned child, and with innocence, crushed you. He argued that wanting to keep this pregnancy—after you gave him the boot—was not your moral to preach while consequences were afoot. “Do you really think you have it in you to be a mother?”

Fetal termination exists, still, in the apocalypse. At life-threatening costs. That was reason enough to let nature take its pathological course.

One tremble. “Yes.” You are a child again.

You can see it in his lineaments. He flinches his person in disgust, hundred somethings held under his tongue. “If you want to believe that.” The air is too pure for him. He rifles the cartridges on his wardrobe for a lighter, joint in the opposite hand. He takes a drag, hides his face with the pungent result, and espies the resentment shining your under-eyes with less care than before; these are just crocodile tears to him. “Sure,” he shrugs.

Then his attention drops a little lower than your chest, a brief change of heart. You feel the need to crawl inside your arms. More than ever.

He points with the smoldering dog-end. Silence snaps. “Not mine.” Flicking it to enunciate himself. The discarded state of him, and his disclaim, leaves a bitter taste in your mouth—if not the entire esophageal hole. Your lungs: filled with his exhaust. “Go find some other dude to blame. M’sure you had a couple who..” The joint finds its purpose again. “Might happen to look a little more identical,” he accuses.

You left before the air became his.

Time does not bring relief; the emptiness in your bed does anything but suffer silence. The growing hours are loud, and Jackson is still a paradise to some who are convinced it has its comforts.

You all have lied.

𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐡

“Of course he went and narced on her to her father!”

Jackson is outside the rest of America. Yes, it craters in national alpines, but it was a roadside seedling at the end of the last generation. Wood rotted to cordyceps in its neighbors; this place was given a second life. The standing tables here in the one and alone bar—the famous, aliased Bison—are so red, so wood-strong, so anointed with caring hands, you can catch a glimpse of yourself in it.

Cat treats it with the same purpose as if it were decades ago, and nothing ever happens here; she slams her lighter and pint glass down on it—pissed to express the least of the most. “Who else does shit like that?”

Despite the fact that Cat is virtually your sister from another mother, you went to Jesse about the argument first. He isn't a volatile pipe bomb with ears and earful intentions that create more harm, not good; she absolutely fucking is. One mention, and her fingertips are spitting fire. Cast iron doesn't even get near hot enough as the hands that share a piece of her trouble-starved mind.

But, she found out regardless. Not that you should ever stop her from; on some occasions, she has the right.

Jesse left your big news out of it, though. Not his right to tell.

“His corner of the town,” Jesse adds, his soft fingers around his glass, and up to his splitting mouth. He glances round the booth in search of all attention. Sure of it, he piled on. “Got a lotta assholes with the same notions in mind.” Chuting a sip of wine—a drink which lost its romantic significance to casual consumption, on par with beer—down his gullet.

Slow, agreeing nods pass around until another lip chips in. “Fucking dick.” Ellie, with the fullest glass, and untethered fingers tapping about the rim, has her head resting low on one fist, doubled over the curl-leaf surface.

Jesse scoffed. “Tell me about it.” Sardonic sort of response—to her short, but symptomatic one. He leans in his corner and trains the attention on her, a question in his squint. “Say, Ellie, you dealt with him on occasion, right? When he collaborated with Eugene. All that weed?”

She hates to hear it. “Just one time.” In her head—her head when it escapes out here into social wilderness—she was a good girl. Clean, rectified, an adolescent state of mind, and it has the whole world to do with Joel and learning to forgive. It is the least bit detectable on the outside, but she really is doing better than before. Rough-faced or not. “What about it?” She looks up, at last, the perfect shrug to her cross-question.

“Was she even there?”

Ellie crumpled up having to account for that one time; wrinkles in the brows, a snagged or yawning mouth, post-insomniac ripples and redness in her optic profile. Imagine an irate basset hound.“Reno?” She means your given alias: Reno, or Nevada, your origins. And she is Boston, or Massachusetts. “No, not at all.”

“See, he makes that shit up all the time,” Cat interludes. “First it was Justice, then it was me who he ratted out to Maria. Stopped trading with him after.”

Jesse has not traded once, or thought to smoke pot once, but he agrees. “Mhm.” A man of no judgement—when it comes to friends.

Sunset is climbing and pushing to stoop in the apertures of the table. The lithe, gold tadpole-ends creeping in, beating over faces, and so the restaurant had its lights switched on to make up for those recalcitrant pockets; soft, water-black mottles in the deeper corners. Ellie laced fists, cupping one around the other, and a particular string of light dug for this vulnerable formation. She has a heap to process in her own head; the sudden silence, deafening.

Shifting to his elbows, Jesse rests his well-slept eyes on her—a sore sight. “Gonna finish that?” He points, withheld fingers stretching for his own glass.

She clicks her tongue to her teeth. “Nah,” responding with whatever is left in her, a breath or a reaching-more. The glass grates as she hardly straightens her fingers to push it aside. “Tastes different.”

The claim draws out the doubt from their faces. “Tastes the same as before,” Jesse professes as he rolls the last droplets of his wine past his lips and along the columns of his throat, replacing his grip with the full glass of scotch, sunlight streaming through the liquid with blonde lines against nectar-gold. Her choice of spirits. “I best be joinin’ Seth in the kitchen. Have fun, ladies.” He crawls knee-first from the booth.

Cat shoots an astonished sneer, one he cannot see or sense in his bones as his legs were haste to vault the counter.

Ellie does, though. And she is too low-spirited to guess what for and laugh; a strange demeanor. “Hmm?”

“He'll be drunk on the job,” she clarifies. “But, I guess it's up to who cares. Not enough for me to keep watch.” And she, too, sidles out from the cornered booth, leather brushing against denim. Watching Jesse vanish behind the crowded bar made her suppose it's that time; the fading sun calls you home, and when it does, you go home. Nothing more to it in Jackson. “See ya, geek.”

She waves with an unprepared hand. “Yup. See you too..”

The jog home was not without its usual discomforts. Paths, loved still by a residual winter, were hard not to slip on. The unhesitating side-eyes were too common to dash out of their sight. Ellie is aware of what has them wringing their necks just to look at her, but as it continued, she just accepted it.

Her hoodie is half-sufficient. “Fuckin’ warm up already,” she curses, digging both fists into her pockets for warmth outside the steeple church. She notices three distinct paraphernalia in her pocket when her knuckles hit the seam: the larger, thicker one is obvious—Joel's watch. She inherited it on her own terms when he wasn't there. “Ow! Shit!” The cracked dial case nicks her for her mindlessness.

Second one is a mechanical lighter. Last time she wore this hoodie, she was squinting back the tears after telling Joel she didn't need his fucking help.

Ellie pinches the thinner, paper-textured item, and pulls it out with no clue to what it might be. This should be a simple guess.

Old feelings rush when she sees it in-between her fingers.

“Fuck.”

The word goes quiet in the night. Surrounding sycamores rustle, listening, and they respond with the eerie wind that rouses through their crown-shying bough. Invisible hands dislodge the strand from behind her ear.

Something shifts in her to listen in return.

She raises her chin. Gazes into pitch-blackness with a racing heart; her trees are there somewhere. Under the hole of light up there.

Ellie believed, from a very naive and insignificant age, that she was born and fell from the bough of a tree. The idea has some flesh and blood to it; her mother is unknown to her. She has the head of hair of the autumn sycamores, burning oranges, and delightful greens. Too green yet; left without the hour to decide what living meant and what her reason was to begin doing so—to live. She was given a gun before she was given a purpose. At least to her, matured and ripened, that is how it seems. Little bit careless considering her important condition; did Marlene think it through? Looking up into the same blanket of nothingness, she ponders whether reigniting this bad habit would still get her to the moon or not—if the world ever returned to pre-apocalypse.

From the hour you're born, you begin to die.

Simone de Beauvoir.

“Make it seven?” quoting herself, she slots the pointed end of the joint in-between her fresh-licked, rose-kissed lips and hopes she suffers no bite from it in the future. “Fuck it.” The watch becomes the last thing in her pocket. Flick, flick.

Her lungs fill with nostalgia.

“Ah..”

And puff.

She purses her mouth into an open ring, the somber, but lit against its will, night stolen from her sight in a cloud of white. It ebbs the stress in her she had not noticed was beginning to pulse again, searching for her heart with a pair of circling fingers. She palms her chest down. Maybe this is what the wind was telling her.

Ellie is nowhere near stoned, but swears she can feel it slowing. Easing her into something good, this time around. It feels good to have faith in something true.

Silence bends, not snaps. It fits in the gentle start of sobs, a dreadful blue sound, enough to interrupt her star-watching. She pierces around the grassplot for a source and sees the woman of the hour.

Guitar strums pick up in the wind.

She recognises who it is.

The sniffles reel her over. You see a pair of slow-strolling converse, scratching the ground upon steps, before you see the person. She stands an illuminated silhouette under stelliform, globe-string lanterns, the same ones from the winter dance a week ago that no one has thought to disassemble, several feet from your place on this bench.

Her heart has no reason to be thumping.

Strange, the smoke coming from her mouth, like a gun, is not unsettling—it should be. It parts when it clears. “Hey.” Her hesitant voice pricks your skin with goosebumps. Thinned-out, mint eyes at first glance harsh, but gentle at the second; the tired under-beds of purple is a prevalent stigma, but the shining pupil crawling over her iris struck this overwhelming sense of being understood. The soft structure of her face clasps them.

She looks at you like she has no clue what you are, but in the same glance has been raptured with an idea of what you could be. Creature to creature.

Watching, for a long time.

You wipe the cold under your nose onto your sleeve. Hesitant as she is. “Oh, have I taken your spot?” The first thing that comes to mind rolls from your tongue. You begin to collect yourself without an answer.

She stutters, her mouth ahead of her thoughts. “No, n-no! You're totally fine.” Hand freeing from her pocket to pause you.

She seems sweet.

Her curious eyes drop to where your arms are tangled—sheathed around yourself. You haven't moved them since.

Ellie cannot handle these lingering pre-spring conditions, even in her getup. The white avenues are gone but the winds have fought abating, the worst of the weather at night. In your case, a thin cardigan, she can only imagine.

She thumbs her hem. “Are you cold?”

You register that it might seem that way shooting a once-over glimpse of her collar—blue plaid poking through. To be honest, the cool air slipping under and around the hemlines hasn't occurred to you until she made a scene of it.

“Here,” she quietens, rustling in her layers. The slate-grey hoodie is folded outside-in and being offered before you can protest your independence. Nothing but misunderstandings have come between you and her. Charitable ones. “Keep it. I need to clean out my wardrobe, as others would say, anyway.”

It is a small, nothing-much distraction, but you wonder who others are to her. Good, or damaged too?

Someone once said: it's more trouble to refuse help where it is cost-free. You decide to trust that sentiment and crawl from your arms, reluctant to reply. “Too many hoodies?” Letting a glint of light peek through, you let something slip identical to a laugh. It sounds so unfamiliar.

Hers sounds perfect. “No, uh—sneakers, actually. Been told I have too many pairs.” She laughs again. You adjust the hoodie around your waist.

Your ears ride on the grace of that laugh. Replay, replay, and replay it in your head to the point your eyes are staring absent-minded and the colors on her person begin to remind you of a sycamore in autumn. Her deep-auburn burns with the lantern glow, the collected bundle of mane under the hind of her head an incurious shadow still. You wonder if it comes from her mother, or her father: the fire. “Yeah, been there.” Your answer has no substance to it either; you have nothing but a couple worn-out pairs. Your mouth is just saying things—the mindless thing.

Her mouth line shrinks from its last laugh. She now smiles small, with a feature she can't wipe off curling. “Yeah.” She catches your timid voice and echoes it, glancing down before she releases the joint in her fingers to the ground, squashing it under her sneaker. She twists it around, a mix of earth and ash scraping.

It blows a kiss of smoke.

Reminds you of those stump puffballs—mushrooms, bubbling in the depressions of dead or decaying wood, that puff green when puttered at by an early curiousness. One enveloped the tip of your shoe with it when you were little: stretching your underdeveloped leg that managed to reach once through a metal fence peeled at the sides, making squeamish cries when the thing of nature fumed. Memories do return full circle.

She leans an inch on her toes, still absorbed with the ground. The orange roots of her lashes catch that same fire.

Who is she?

For a small town, you should know; there are a few hundred faces in Jackson. But hers is not one you can remember. It seems misplaced. Her brown freckles are symptomatic of the sun. She lets quiet drapings of stress hang from her tear corners to her anti-brows, not so conventional for her age, but unafraid. Her stares are soft, and don't make you feel like a gullible child or a faithless woman.

She looks like she was born in the springtime, but made for October.

“Thanks, again.” You tire restless from that word. Said too often, heard too often. When will there be more?

You notice her half-arm tattoo right as it gets concealed, the strange comfort pulling her ruched, blue sleeves to her wrists. She pins the hems into her palms with her fingers. “It's nothin’,” she humbles. Her lips and nostrils are redder when she abandons her focus from the ground. No doubt she burns without trying in the summer. “Uh, I should be going—now.” She sidles in a direction and you feel urged to follow with your eyes. She uses her arm in a nervous toss to demonstrate where she is headed. “Do me a favor and get home safe, yeah?”

“Of course.” You watch with a farewell smile, a sweet shape creeping on your lips you can't stop. Maybe, you don't want to. Then, remembering one thing important to you, the so-called sweet mouth curses again. “Fuck, her name!”

You hope the two of you stumble into each other again, on some distant morning or near night. And learn her name, just not at your lowest.

Those guitar strings stop with no one around.

𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐱𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧

Late night dislodges from the space ahead and is punctured with light. Slipping through the door, closing it behind, a home of damaged goods that should feel familiar and smell of floral nothings repulses you at the entrance. You catch it as soon as it hits—alcohol, marijuana.

Mateo.

Your throat burns from the scent.

His presence becomes known through a sharp shout. “Fuck took you so long?” It stabs through the house, the walls thin enough to not be considered in this, or his, material world.

His rage begins to beat, one foot after the other, on the hardwood floors, and your hand returns to where it felt it was needed. Hoodie fabric—that smells nothing like here, or him—is palmed in-between. Your heart pumps with fear and knowing; God is not restless to punish, but a darker, closer, corporeal counterpart is and he steals you from this life on earth, and he tells you that you have not suffered enough. The stranger in this hoodie is your tether.

But, after that fleeting conversation with the girl in the common acres, you feel you have known her for ages—and you're dating a stranger.

Swallow your pride and knowledge. He will smite you for it. “Um, Cat.” Quick, quick, the lump goes. But slow, slow, the lie creeps and is hesitant to be heard, afraid of its flaws. You turn to the kitchen before his ugly, three-headed emergence, running a hand over the budding holes of flowers. Jesse cut them from his garden, a secret congratulations from him and his mother. “She went to Bison and called me along. Time gotta-'head of us in there. Sorry, baby,” you stall, trembling.

The drunken stench gets worse. You cough but the air is all the same.

His footsteps take a pause at what you sense to be the fridge, a thimble distance. The kitchen, entrance, and couch are all subsided into one long room and aren't interrupted with inessential walls. Trailer gradient. It is not so glamorous as it is discreet; months into the relationship you noticed its perfect usage for taboo practice. The earth tries to return to itself as paint peels from the walls.

He converges with the eerie silence.

It is his discontinuation that turns you around. Otherwise, his hands fallow and large would be and in each press would be apologies you have heard in timeless befores. This time—out of all times—he just stares at you, head to toe, without one. Checking, like, to see if you're all there.

No. He is looking at you like you have done something wrong.

Scrunching up, you blurt. “What?” Quiet. Weak. But you regret your tone as it leaves your throat. The gestures blow your cover wide open.

He knows. “Somethin’ up?” And that is his cue to creep with inertia, his unwillingness to confront a potential problem, his face you cannot read. His alcohol kisses are disguises and his blows to your soul are the realest emotions he has stirred in you, post-beginning. Your nights begin with expectation.

He will either be enraged or lethargic.

But he stops crawling too close to the sun and reaches the rest with his hand, pinching the sleeve of the hoodie, rolling it together. His face shifts and unfortunately—you can read it.

Fuck.

He has his idea. “Where did you get this shit from?” You wish he drank himself to bed; his breath is hot, biting and in your senses and he does his part to fill each nerve. He has your arm, but he could very well have your heart, too. In his grasp. “No, better question—who did you get it from?”

Cold sweat. You answer on high alert.

“Cat!”

He chews it up. “No.” Shakes his head, pins the sun closer in on itself. The counter pinches your lower-spine. “She doesn’t do weed no fuckin’ more. This smells of it. Who does it belong to, huh! One of mine?”

Yelling is nothing compared to his gaping volume.

Your eardrums wobble. “No,” refuting, you open yourself to him. Open to his open-ended judgement. He out-reprimands—until it clicks. “Are you sure it isn't just you?”

He is just projecting.

Where did that come from?

Mateo fumes. His seams come apart. “Yeah, is it just me?” His rhetorical disturbs the somehow sound of nothing, but the hope that it would be yelling and nothing else—bangs against the cupboards. He holds your head in the side of it.

The impact disorients you from this kitchen.

You expect to meet a floor next.

As soon as the sharp pain leaves, it returns. He uses the lightheaded silence he created as a second reason to wrangle you a sweep over, aiming your head—or the whole, his anger is extensive—into the fridge. “Stupid bitch!” The door handle gets you in the stomach before he can.

It escapes your throat with a bubble of nothing to come out.

“Hope that solves your morning issue.” And it stops there. On the cold, slate tile. You have been here before.

Made swollen sounds.

You clutch for the floor. The floor that exists in your mind; too flat for any percievable grasp, your fingers find themselves in your palms, indenting. You press and tighten, searching for pain, but her sweatshirt is long and loved enough to protect those parts of your hands.

You regret having a mouth.

Small room, big conniption. You feel a little too seen retrieving your tears through these wordless-oath, congested inhales. Being in here is suffocating. Outside was bigger; omnipresent, not so wall-to-wall, not so focused on your problems.

But you catch her scent. Not the thing he smelled. Her scent.

Unnostalgic.

Wearing a little bit of some-stranger-else does have a coalescing effect. Some chemical change. Rewiring.

Does she?

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enderlovez · 7 months ago

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Oooooo I have a Spencer x germaphobe reader where everyone knows how Spencer is with germs, which isn’t that bad. But imagine everyone’s surprise when they find out he has a huge crush like I mean in love with their coworker who is an extreme germaphobe (think of Ms, Pillsbury from glee) so she’s extra clean but he doesn’t mind he only has eyes on her so he tries to help her while also helping himself and she already has a crush on him but thinks he sees her as a patient in a lab even when he doesn’t but their feelings come to surface and they get a lil dirty lol angst, smut, and fluff thank u❤️

Germaphobe, Too

Spencer Reid x Female Germaphobe Reader WORD COUNT: 3600+ (yeah I got a little carried away)

Summary: You hate germs more than anything else in the world, and Spencer is so very much in love with you, so he's always trying to help you in any way he can — little does he know, that maybe you're feelings about the situation are a little bit different.

Content Warning: reader shows traits of obsessive compulsive disorder, germaphobia and germs, probably misinformation about germaphobia, NSFW content, reader is a freak, dry humping, reader bites Spencer a few times, miscommunication, Spencer likes boobs, groping, nipple play (sort of), unprotected vaginal sex (wrap it before you tap it), virginity loss on both ends, Spencer doesn't pull out, and I think that's it!

A/N I've never actually watched Glee so I went on a bit of a search-spree to try and find out how I would write this, so I hope I did it justice! Also, thank you so much for being the first person in my inbox, you have no idea how excited I was when this popped up, and I hope I did your idea justice!

────── ꒰ঌ·��·໒꒱ ──────

From the moment you joined the Behavioral Analysis Unit, everyone knew you were different — from the way you open doors with your sleeves rather than your bare hands, to how you scrub your hands raw after touching something that's not even really that dirty.

And it's not necessarily a bad thing that you're so conscious of these things, it can just be a little... difficult to navigate sometimes.

Take that one time for example, when you were helping out on a case! Morgan had no writing utensils on him, so without thinking, plucked a pen from the breast pocket of your blouse. To anyone else, it might not have seemed like such a big deal, but you were close to tears.

To put it plainly, you are a germaphobe. You're like a female version of their very own Doctor Spencer Reid, but on steroids, and somehow still a whole lot more sociable despite this fact!

Seriously. It's not to say they don't still see you as the strange new girl doing 'strange-new-girl' things, nor is it to say they don't frequently talk about you when you're not around, but they think you might just be the sweetest human being to ever grace the BAU.

Which is why it really shouldn't have seemed like such a secret, shouldn't have shocked everyone as much as it did, that Spencer was absolutely and irreversibly smitten with you.

At first, it was just little things like watching you from across the room with this strange look on his face — he was just watching the strange new girl doing 'strange-new-girl' things!

When he started spending more time around you than anybody else at work, and when it became apparent that he preferred your quiet company, it was just because you showed some similar traits to him, right? Nobody thought anything different, because come on, this is Spencer we're talking about here.

But in truth, Spencer is beyond mesmerized by you, the most beautiful woman he's ever met, and so kind to everyone even though they clearly treat you different to your other coworkers.

The poor man doesn't think he could ever admit this to you, though, considering he's a blabbering mess of hot skin and stutters every time he talks to you. So instead of further embarrassing himself (and giving Morgan ammunition to tease him for the rest of eternity), he shows his affection towards you in other ways.

Spencer himself is not a big fan of germs, so he can understand, to an extent, how you must feel most of the time. You've explained it to him before, while he was standing beside you at your desk, watching as you wiped the surface down with an antibacterial wipe.

"I know it probably seems like I overreact, but it's not something I can just turn off," you'd said to him in a whisper once. "I don't do this because I want to annoy people or make life harder. It's just... if I don't, I feel like I'll unravel."

────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────

Sometimes it feels like the world is too loud. A stranger is screaming in your ear, you can't see them or touch them, but they're there; there's a bee buzzing in front of your face, but you can't swat it away.

How are you supposed to get rid of something you can't see?

You can't — it's as simple as that, but you can try you're very best.

As if sensing that your thoughts are headed somewhere unsavory, Spencer appears beside you on a rolling chair, as he does most days.

Out of all your coworkers, he's the only one that doesn't poke fun at you behind your back. That's how it's been your whole life, people testing your boundaries and teasing you for something you have no control over, so it's... a nice change of pace.

"Good morning, Spencer," you say softly, offering him a warm smile before turning back to your work. "How are you today?"

"Good—um, good morning," he responds awkwardly, smiling even though you're not looking at him anymore. You see it out of the corner of your eye, his little smile and his firetruck-red face, smiling faintly to yourself as you type away on your laptop.

You ignore how he completely dismisses your question, knowing he'd probably just say the same thing as always — 'Yeah, I'm doing great, thank you. As—as long as you're doing alright.'

He always gets so strange around you, and while you try your best to ignore it most of the time, it still irks you.

No, he doesn't join the teasing with Morgan and Jareau when they think you can't hear them, but he still treats you differently.

"I got you something," he says in a quiet voice, reaching into his bag and pulling out a book. You eye him nervously as he carefully places it onto your desk, using one finger to push it towards you. A tiny smile pulls at your cheeks when you see it's encased in a protective plastic film, but it quickly drops when you see what the actual book is.

'Overcoming Obsessive Compulsive Disorder: A Journey to Recovery' by David Veale and Rob Willson.

You peel the plastic away, tossing it into the little trash can under your desk and sanitizing your hands before picking up the bright yellow book, opening the front cover with a blank expression.

It's not like you aren't grateful he's trying to help, of course you're happy he cares so much. But a book isn't going to fix your problems, despite what he may think at times. And right now he doesn't feel like a friend, he feels like a doctor, and you feel like a patient laying on a lab table, vulnerable and stripped bare for the world to see.

For once, you just want to have a normal conversation without it turning into some kind of therapy session.

"Thank you, Spencer — um..." You voice shakes ever-so-slightly as you put the eyesore book in your bag. "I will be reading that tonight, that was very kind of you."

You know you'll probably put that book in a box and never look at it again. He doesn't seem to pick up on your unease, smile widening at your apparent acceptance of his gift.

"Actually," you continue softly, in a voice so quiet it's almost silent, head bowed forward, "I'm actually not feeling too well right now, think I might head home for the day."

The smile on his face falters slightly as you push away from your desk and stand up, packing your things away into your backpack. "Is everything — would you like me to drive you home?"

It's not unusual for your mind to trick you into thinking you actually are sick, but on the off chance that you really are feeling something, he doesn't think it's a good idea for you to drive yourself home.

"You know, about twenty-one percent of fatal car crashes involve tired or impaired drivers."

"I'll be fine," you reply blandly, though those statistics do alarm you mildly, stepping around him and walking in the direction of Hotch's office. "Thank you, though, Spencer."

As you disappear into the Unit Chief's office, Morgan give him this curious look from across the room, eyebrow cocked in question, but all Spencer can do is shrug, his own face twisted with confusion.

Usually when you get like this, there's some kind of trigger that sets you off, like a chain reaction of sorts, but right now, he can't for the life of him come up with something that might've set you off.

You're only in the office for thirty-seven seconds (Spencer was counting) before you reemerge, your head still bowed as you rush out of the bullpen, like there's something chasing you away.

"What'd you do to get Miss Sunshine all blue and teary-eyed?" Morgan asks mockingly when you're out of earshot. "She looks like you just kicked a fluffy little kitten in front of her!"

────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────

Spencer's never been to your apartment before — nobody on the team has, the only reason he's standing here now is because your address is on your information.

It feels a bit like an invasion of your privacy being here when he's not even supposed to know where you live, but Morgan was right. You did look like Spencer smushed a kitten under his shoe as you were leaving, and he couldn't in good conscience not check on you.

He reaches a tentative hand up, hesitating for a (very) brief moment before knocking thrice.

There's some muffled shuffling behind the door before it opens, revealing you, wearing a cream colored cardigan with delicately embroidered flowers on it. And while you're still neatly put together, there's a more casual air about you now, like you're more relaxed.

"Oh — Spencer, what're you doing here?"

Your voice rasps slightly, and when he takes a closer look at your face, Spencer finds that your eyes are a little red.

"I was just..." He pauses, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay. You seemed upset when you were leaving work."

You purse your lips and give him as once-over, then shift out of the doorway — inviting him inside? You close the door behind him once he's inside, guiding him towards the living room with a gentle hand on his back.

It's shocking, to say the least, that you're actually touching him right now, but he doesn't say a word.

"Would you — um — like some tea, or something?" you ask awkwardly, pushing him to sit on the sofa. "Or — or some water?"

"No, but thank you for offering."

You leave the room for a few minutes, presumably to make yourself something to drink, but come back with two steaming mugs, placing one in front of Spencer regardless of what he said.

Another couple of minutes pass where neither of you say anything, sipping on tea and glancing at each other every now and again. He's pleasantly surprised to find that you've used lavender tea.

Your apartment is very clean, looking more like a set you'd find at a department store than anything, but it's still so warm and inviting. You have a couple of candles lit around the place, and Spencer's fighting the urge to warn you about candle safety.

"I don't want you to try and fix me."

Spencer turns his head away from the tall bookshelf across the room to look at you, eyebrows furrowed. "What are you talking about?"

Fix you. What do you mean, he's trying to fix you?

"The book," you reply meekly, "I don't want you to try and fix me."

That catches his attention, the emphasis on that one little word — it's not that you don't want anyone to help, you just don't want him to help.

You must see the flash of hurt cross his expression, because you're rushing to elaborate, stumbling over your words.

"It's just that — um — I really like you, Spencer, and — uh — when you're giving me stuff like this..." You gesture to the coffee table, where the yellow book he'd given you is sitting. "I don't know, you kind of make me feel like I'm a patient in a lab. Something to be studied and prodded at and — and fixed."

"There's nothing about you that needs to be fixed," he murmurs, trying his best to ignore what you said — 'I really like you, Spencer.'

You place your half-empty mug of tea onto the coffee table and pull your feet up onto the couch, wrapping your arms around them.

"I wasn't trying to fix you — everything about you is perfect," he says, quiet and without thinking. "You just seemed so uncomfortable at work all the time, and I wanted to help you out."

"Why, though?" you ask sadly, a faint heat rising to your cheeks. "Why not just join in on all the teasing and mockery? It would be easier than dealing with me all the time."

"Because..." You raise an eyebrow at his entire face quite literally turns the same shade as a tomato. "Because I really like you, too. I didn't think about how it might come off, and I'm so, so sorry for—"

You hold up a hand to shut him up, leaning a little further towards him than he would have thought you'd like.

"Spencer, it's alright," you assure him, placing your hand on his knee, much to his surprise (and embarrassment). "You didn't need to worry, though — you're really the only person at work I spend much time around, and I'm not uncomfortable around you."

"You're... not?"

A soft smile graces your lips. "Not even a little bit. Not even at all."

Spencer deflates into himself, every inch of his his skin uncomfortably hot — this is news to him.

"That's a relief."

Your voice takes on a teasing lilt. "Why? Because you really like me?"

And just like that, his face gets infinitely hotter, but he gives you the tiniest nod, knowing that if he said anything, he would fumble.

"I don't understand why you're embarrassed," you whisper fondly, "I am the one who said it first, after all. You should be teasing me."

He might be the only one you'll accept it from, just like how he's the only person you'd ever accept physical contact with, the only person you'll ever trust enough to put your mouth near him, like right now."

Spencer has to restrain himself from physically recoiling in shock when you press the softest of kisses to his blazing cheek.

Your instincts are screaming on the inside, but if you're being honest, you couldn't care less.

This isn't a stranger, you assure yourself, this is Spencer, and he could never make you sick.

Spencer could never make you sick.

"Is this alright?" you ask as you press another slightly firmer kiss to the skin under his jaw, your voice dripping with something unfamiliar.

Unable to form a single word, Spencer nods, reaching to place a hand on the back of your neck, gasping when your teeth nipped at the sensitive skin.

It's a complete one-eighty from the shy, germ-conscious girl you usually are, but he can't find it in him to complain.

The girl of his dreams, the one who can't even bring herself to touch his hand at work, currently has her mouth on him, she's biting him, and his mind is in a frenzy.

"I'm not gonna freak out if you touch me, Spence," you tease lightly, lips fluttering over the space just beside his mouth. As if to prove your point, smirking against his skin, you take his hand in yours and settle it on the space just below your breasts — under your clothes.

Where you're not wearing a bra.

His mind reels and melts into goo at the feel of your bare skin against his hand, so soft and warm.

An embarrassingly loud whine escapes his mouth as you bite down on his neck again, sucking the skin into your mouth. His hand drifts slightly upwards, brushing against the supple skin of your breast and gently grabbing onto it.

Your breath hitches as he gropes at your chest, lips pulling off his neck with a little pop and head resting against his shoulder.

"Can I take your shirt off?"

Your question leaves him speechless, but he nods nonetheless, reluctantly letting go of you to help you get his shirt over his head.

The sigh of his bare chest has your mouth watering, and you want nothing more than to leave a trail of hickeys down his stomach, but first, you press your lips to his, hands threading through his hair.

"You're so beautiful," he murmurs into your mouth, hands resting on your hips as you grind down onto him. "Absolutely breathtaking."

You tuck your head into the crook of his neck, whimpering as your hips wildly buck down on him. You've never been like this, desperate for the touch of another person, let alone a touch so intimate.

Spencer's grip on you tightens some, and he uses this new leverage to guide your hips, carefully pressing you clothed heat against the hardness straining against his pants.

"P-please," you choke out, arms wrapping around his shoulders, gripping him for dear life as he moves you.

"Hm?" he hums quietly, shifting the angle so he's rubbing right up against your covered clit.

"Please," you breathe out again, clenching around nothing. "Please, Spencer."

You're not even sure what you're begging for, only that you want — no, need more of this stimulation.

He seems to understand what you need better than you do, gathering your body to him and laying you on your back.

Your thighs automatically fall open for him, allowing his body to fit between them, one hand holding himself up. He presses himself against you again, drawing a desperate moan from the back of your throat as he works on undoing the buttons of your cardigan, letting the fabric slide off your body and pool at your sides.

The hand he's not using to support himself reaches for you, thumb brushing against your hardened nipple. The corner of Spencer's mouth twitches upward as you arch up against him, eyes screwed shut.

"You like that?" he asks genuinely, doing it again. You nod frantically, mouth dropping open, but no sound coming out of it.

"Yes," you pant, bottom lip catching between your teeth. "Yes, I like that — please."

"Please what?" His mouth descends upon your neck, fingers continuing their attack on your sensitive nipple, clothed cock still rubbing up against you oh-so wonderfully.

"Please... please touch me," you beg, unable to stop your hips from bucking up against him. "I need you to touch me, Spencer."

Such vulgar words coming out of your mouth. It shocks the man, but he complies, shifting his body backwards so he can pull your skirt and underwear down your legs.

The sight between them is magical — your folds glistening in the soft light of the room, you writhing in anticipation in front of him — and something he has, admittedly, thought about once or twice.

"Have you ever done this before?" he asks, running his middle finger through your slick and pressing down gently on your clit. You shake your head lazily, face screwed up in pleasure, a sight Spencer will cherish forever.

A strangled moan rips out of you as Spencer presses a finger against your hole, thumb rubbing soft circles on your sensitive bud, and enters you with little resistance.

"Neither have I," he admits sheepishly, pumping his finger in and out of you rhythmically, curling it until he finds that spongey spot within you that has you crying out his name and spilling over his hand.

"Two virgin germaphobes," you mumble jokingly, trying to wiggle closer to him again. You fumble with his belt, somehow managing to pull it through the loops, and toss it on the ground carelessly.

He helps you to push his pants down, just enough for his cock to slip out.

"Two virgin germaphobes," he agrees quietly, adjusting your bodies so you're both in a more comfortable position, sliding his heavy tip through your slick folds. "Are you sure—"

"I'm sure, Spence," you abruptly cut him off, running your fingers through his hair, subconsciously pulling him towards you. "Please just — just fuck me."

Spencer doesn't need to be told twice, slowly pushing into you, gasping as your warm walls suck him in, gripping his cock like a vice. He holds his breath, trying not to immediately blow his load.

You're writhing, gasping, clawing at his back, whispering his name out into the air, and it only works to make him more hungry for you. But he stills one he's fully sheathed inside you, giving you time to adjust.

"Does it — uh — does it hurt at all?" he asks in a whisper, directly into your ear.

"N-no," you gasp back, the small pain slowly morphing into one of pleasure. "It doesn't hurt, you can — fuck — you can move, when you're ready."

He doesn't think he'll ever be ready, with how tightly you're gripping him, but he still finds himself pulling out until only his tip is nestled in you, and slowly pushing back in all the way. You hum shakily, trying to press yourself closer to him as he repeats the action, then again.

Already so sensitive from your first orgasm, you know you're not going to last long with his slow movements, thighs clenching around his. Pressure grows in your abdomen as he thrusts back in, slightly harder this time, grunting into your neck.

"God, I'm already so close," you choke out, head thrown back, sounds you didn't even know you could make raking out of you. Spencer can't get enough of them, leaning down and catching one of your nipples in his mouth, gently sucking on the sensitive nub.

Without warning, you're spasming around him, drool dribbling out of your open mouth as you come, body going slack against the couch.

"W-where do you want me to—"

"Inside," you mumble incoherently, biting your lip hard enough to leave marks, tears building on your waterline. "Please, Spence, I want you to come inside me."

Your words alone are enough to have him spilling inside you, thrusts sloppy and unrhythmic. Your hum in content, clinging to him like a koala as he gently pulls his softened cock from inside you, rubbing soft circles onto the skin over your breastbone. It's comfortably quiet.

And then...

"Hey," you whisper in a tired voice, "you wanna go on a date with me?"

He smiles, pressing a soft kiss to your hip. "I would love to," he whispers back fondly before standing up from the couch, "but first, we need to get you cleaned up and rested.

#spencer reid x bau reader #spencer reid x girlfriend reader #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x female reader #spencer reid #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds #spencer reid x shy reader #spencer reid x germaphobe reader #germaphobia #fluff #smut #angst #enderlovez

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runningincircl3s · 7 days ago

Text

Who Are You?

Kickboxer!Noah x Reader

Chapter Five

chapter warnings: i don't want to spoil anything but i think it's important for me to mention reader does NOT have an eating disorder!! she's just anxious!! a little nsfw? just a comment from matt tho!! i put too much of myself into reader

masterlist ♡ can i just say thank you sooo much for the love on this fic already it's actually crazy??? the idea for this has been on my mind for months (not to expose myself here but it's been my bedtime scenario to help me sleep for so long lmao) so i'm just happy that i can sit here and giggle and kick my feet whilst i write this and people can feel the same when they read it!! :)

┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈

Minutes ago...

“You're sure this is a good idea?” Kylie asked, her heels tapping quickly against the hallway floor as she attempted to keep up with James' pace- but right now he was a man on a mission, and he was not slowing down for anyone.

“Of course!" He grinned, turning to face her, "Worst case, we say we forgot she had plans. Best case?” He smirked, “We catch them being horny and weird, and we get to make fun of her forever!”

Kylie stopped in front of the door and fished around in her bag for her spare key, whilst James pressed his ear up against the door, listening.

“I can hear something. Are they... laughing?” His brows furrowed as he waved a hand for Kylie to join him.

“Probably-“

THUMP

“What was that?” James gasped, wide eyed.

Kylie grinned and shoved the key into the lock

“Let’s find out.”

The door slowly creaked open.

Kylie stepped in first and immediately froze. James bumped into her shoulder as he followed behind.

“What-“

And then he froze too...

Because on the couch, front and centre stage, barely five feet away from them, was you and Noah.

Or you straddling Noah, his hand on your hips, your forehead against his shoulder.

James blinked, before turning to Kylie to whisper.

“Are they-“

“OH MY GOD,” Kylie shrieked, not bothering to keep quiet as she sounded somewhere in between thrilled and horrified. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!”

You yelped, recoiling like you’d been caught stealing candy.

“KYLIE?!”

Noah groaned under his breath, already covering his face with one hand like he’d foreseen this exact scenario in a nightmare.

James stared, wide eyed in stunned silence, and then calmly said.

“Are you… dry humping him on the couch?”

You scrambled upright, bashing your leg into the coffee table in your rush to escape.

“OW FUCK! No! I- we were sparring!”

“Are you sure?” Kylie asked sweetly. “Because it kinda looked like you were trying to fuck him into the upholstery.”

“Jesus Christ.” Noah mumbled under his breath as he sat up.

“Your form was solid, though." James said as he took a step forward, "Good hips.” He nodded, his hand stroking his chin as if he were a judge on a TV show, "Only thing I'd say you could improve on is-"

“JAMES,” you shrieked. “GET OUT!! BOTH OF YOU!!!”

They both giggled as they backed out of the door. You rushed to slam it shut behind them, making it rattle in its frame.

And for a minute, all you could do was stand there, your back to the room, hand still on the door handle.

You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t move, couldn’t even look at him.

You’d never wanted the floor to swallow you more in your entire life.

You had just been on top of him in front of your best friends.

Oh god. You were never going to hear the end of this.

You thought you should say something to Noah, though you weren't entirely sure what you should say in a situation like this. So, you swallowed hard, your throat burning as you opened your mouth.

“I…” you said, finally turning just enough for him to hear you speak, your eyes still locked firmly on the floor. “You can have a shower if you want. Or… you can just go. It’s fine.”

For a moment, Noah didn’t move. He didn’t say anything.

And you still couldn’t look at him.

Your heart pounded so loudly in your chest that you could barely hear how suffocating the silence actually was. You tucked your hands into the sleeves of your gym shirt, as if that could help you.

“I’m really sorry,” you said, voice quieter now. “About everything. About them. About… that.”

Still, nothing.

You peeked up at him for the briefest second.

He was sitting exactly as you’d left him, on the edge of the couch, head in his hands, forearms resting on his knees. His brows were drawn tight, his lips pressed into a line, eyes fixed somewhere on the carpet, far away. He looked like he was thinking too hard.

And then he got up. He quickly threw his hoodie on and grabbed his gym bag.

“Save it. I’m the one who should be sorry.” He mumbled as he passed you on the way to the door.

He didn’t look your way once. He just reached for the handle with no hesitation.

And left.

…

You didn’t text him all week, and he didn’t text you either.

Not that you expected him to, he looked pretty pissed when he left and that only made you feel more awful about it all. You made him uncomfortable, and now you were afriad he would never talk to you again- because this time he actually had a valid reason.

Every time you unlocked your phone, you thought about texting him. But you didn't know what to say... Hey, its me, sorry! or Did I ruin everything? or Sorry you had to push me off your lap in front of my best friends, still up for class on Tuesday?

A few days later, your friends came over to make up for that night. But they noticed you weren't yourself, and they admitted to feeling guilty about it, but you reassured them it had nothing to do with them, and everything to do with you.

“Has he texted you yet?” Kylie asked gently as she handed you a cup of tea, as if she didn’t already know the answer. You couldn't even look at the tea. It reminded you of him. How he had let you try his, how he had paid for you at the café, how you had screwed everything up before it could even start.

You shook your head, placing the mug down onto the table before curling deeper into the blanket cocoon you’d wrapped around yourself on the couch.

“Nope.”

“Are you going to text him?”

“Nope.”

She gave you a look, crossing her arms as she stood above you.

“Babe.”

“I can’t,” you groaned. “What if he thinks I’m still trying to... I don’t know, hump him on the couch again?!”

James popped his head in from the kitchen, a spoon hanging out of his mouth.

"I'm sure he'd happily accept, did you see the look on his face? I thought he was about to-"

“JAMES!”

“I’m just saying." He shrugged, a grin creeping up on his face, "I'm sure he'd love for you to "fall" on top of him again.”

“Don’t listen to him.” Kylie rolled her eyes as she sat down on the couch beside you.

You groaned and buried your face in the blanket.

“I’m going to cancel my gym membership. I'm never showing my face there again.”

“No,” Kylie said firmly. “You’re not.”

You peeked at her through a little slit in the blanket.

“You can’t stop me!”

“I can,” she replied, tugging the blanket away from your face, “And I will. You love that gym, and you love kickboxing. You finally found something you enjoy and you’re good at, and you’re going to throw it away because you dry humped your hot trainer on a Tuesday?”

“I didn’t-”

“You did.” James called from the kitchen. “And it was hot!”

“Shut up, James!”

Kylie leaned in, lowering her voice.

“You didn’t do anything wrong. Neither did he. You tripped and things escalated from there. And I thought you said he was the one who encouraged you to move... on him."

"I thought so, but what if I was wrong? He kept telling me not to move, even when I was trying to get off of him but then that happened... And then you guys walked in. You weren't even supposed to be coming, and I told him that! I'm just worried I made him mad, he couldn't even look at me before he left."

“Babe,” Kylie said gently, “Noah’s not mad. He probably left because he panicked, not because he didn’t like it.”

"So why hasn't he texted me?"

"Why haven't you texted him?"

You stayed quiet, chewing your lip.

“You’re not cancelling your gym membership,” she said again. “You’re going to go to the next class like a grown up and face it. And if he acts weird, then he’s the problem. Not you.”

You stayed buried in the blanket, but your voice was soft when it came out.

“…Will you walk me there?”

“Of course.” Kylie smiled.

...

You’d been anxious all day. You didn't sleep the night before, you couldn’t eat, you couldn’t focus at work. You couldn’t stop thinking about that damn night, and regretting every moment of it.

Your apartment was a mess, responsibilities you've ignored over the last few days were piling up, both clean and dirty laundry piled on the dining table, dishes filled the sink, but all you’d done for the last hour was sit on the edge of your bed, staring at the hand wraps Noah let you borrow last week. The ones you didn't get a chance to give back before he left.

You had taken better care of them than you had yourself for the last few days, you googled if they needed washing, what to use and how to clean them correctly, what's the right way to dry them...

Now, they sat in your lap like they weighed a hundred pounds.

You told yourself that if things went wrong tonight, if he glared at you from across the room, if he ignored you, acted like he hated you, then you were simply only there to return them to him. You'd hand them back. Say thanks. Leave. Cancel your gym membership. Move across the planet.

It was barely a plan. But it was the only thing holding you together right now.

A sudden knock at the door made you flinch, pulling you back from your thoughts as you tossed the wraps down onto your bed and made your way across you apartment to open it.

You could already hear James' voice from the other side of the door. And as you slowly pulled it open, you were met with two overly happy best friends.

Kylie was leaning against the doorframe behind him, arms folded, and James was stood directly in front of you, holding two coffees, you already knew one would be used as some kind of bribe.

“You ready?” Kylie asked, noticing how you were already in your gym clothes.

“Absolutely not.” You shook your head, but just as you were about to shut the door on them, something got in your way.

It was James' arm. Holding out a coffee.

“Drink this, put some shoes on and grab your bag.”

...

You barely spoke on the way out of your apartment, because you still weren't sure this was a good idea. The walk to the gym was barely even five minutes, but it was long enough to feel your life flash before your eyes.

James continued to sip his coffee, oblivious to your meltdown, whereas Kylie kept glancing over at you- probably to check up on you, though you thought she was making sure you hadn't ran away in the time it took her to push the main door open.

You took a deep breath as you stopped at the curb opposite the gym. It felt like you hadn't been here in years, when only two weeks had passed.

“I can’t go in." You whispered, shrinking into your hoodie like it might shield you.

“You can,” Kylie said, looping her arm through yours. “And you will.”

“What if he ignores me?”

“Then he's an asshole and he doesn't deserve you." She said simply, already steering you toward the crossing.

The light turned green, but you didn't budge.

“Come on.” Kylie tugged your arm.

“I’ll throw up!”

“You won’t.”

“I’ll cry!”

“You might. But that's okay.”

Your feet stayed rooted.

“Kylie-”

Kylie gave James a nod, and he quickly grabbed your other arm, coffee still in hand, and the two of them physically dragged you across the street.

“KYLIE. JAMES. STOP!!”

“Relax,” James waved his hand. “No one even knows what you did. Except us. And Noah. And the couch. And maybe even Aaron, depending on where you hid him.”

You groaned, the building was growing closer with every forced step.

The doors were right there now. Right in front of you.

You knew you had to do this, because what's the worst that could happen? Your life would go back to the way it was 6 months ago, and Noah would find a new girl to teach, to tease, to hold-

That was all the motivation you needed. Suddenly, you feet were moving before you could even attempt to stop, and you had made it into the gym.

As the glass doors slid shut behind you, you turned back to your friends, giving them an unsure wave.

But, as you reached the door to the usual room, you hesitated.

You peeked through the glass panel on the door, just to see if he was there- and yep! You spotted him immediately.

He was across the room, standing in his usual spot, your usual spot, but he was laughing with two guys you didn’t really recognise. They’ve never been here before. Noah looked genuinely happy, like he didn't have a care in the world, and you don't know why that stung the way it did.

Your fingers tightened around the strap of your gym bag, wondering whether or not to leave. You could slip out and nobody would notice. Noah certainly didn't look like he was bothered by your absence.

But you couldn't leave. Not with his hand wraps in your pocket. Or else you’d be reminded of him every time you saw them in your drawer of shame, along with your crochet hooks and acrylic nail kits, and other items from hobbies you had given up on a long time ago.

You swallowed hard, forcing your legs to move, forcing your arms to reach out just enough to push the door open.

Your shoes tapped lightly against the floor as you crossed the room, weaving between bodies, keeping your eyes on him.

You felt more nauseous with every step, and as soon as he was in arms reach, you felt a little light headed, like you might pass out.

You took a breath, barely holding it together as you reached him. You tapped his arm gently, his skin warm under your cold fingertips.

“Noah?” Your voice came out small, a little unsure, but he quickly turned to face you. “Can we… talk?”

For a second, he looked like he wasn’t sure what to say... but before he could answer, Tasha's voice rang across the gym.

“Alright everyone, warm up time! Partners or solo, let’s go!”

Your heart sank. But Noah gave a small, apologetic tilt of his head, offering you a softer look this time, one that was more familiar, more him.

“After class,” he promised quietly. “I’ll find you.”

You barely had time to nod before he was tugged away by one of his friends, the one with the beard and darker hair, leaving you alone.

Great!

With a sigh, you shrugged off your hoodie and dropped your bag by your usual spot on the bench. After a quick sip of water, you began to stretch near the edge of the mats. Everyone else had already partnered up, pairs sprawled across the room, laughing, bouncing lightly on their feet, and there you were. Alone.

You bent to fix your shoes, fiddling with the laces, when a voice spoke beside you.

“You wanna partner up?”

You glanced up.

One of Noah's friends, the one with the slight baby face, smiled at you. His hair was dirty blonde, and you noticed how one of his arms was completely covered in tattoos, matching the one fully covered leg.

"Sure!" You straightened, blinking.

With a kind smile, he held out a hand.

“I'm Matt.”

...

You swiped the back of your wrist across your forehead, the warm up had been a little more intense today, and you already felt a little sticky with sweat.

You had been trying your best to ignore Noah, and it had been working so far. You hadn't glanced his way once, and every time you could hear his voice, you blocked it out- or tried to at least.

But now you needed a drink. You wandered over to the where you left your bottle and took a sip before leaning against the wall to catch your breath. That’s when you noticed Matt struggling to wrap his hands. You spotted how one hand was wrapped too loose, and the other was looking like a tangled shoelace.

You couldn’t help the small laugh that slipped out, and Matt’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing as you approached, still smiling to yourself.

“Need some help?” You asked, already reaching for the wrap.

Matt made a face, you couldn’t tell if he was somewhat amused or offended.

“It’s harder than it looks, alright.” He said, watching your hands.

You chuckled under your breath, gently taking his left hand, fingers brushing his wrist as you started unravelling the mess.

“You’ve got them a little twisted,” you explained, smoothing the fabric out. “You’ll cut your circulation off if they’re like that.”

“You seem to know what you’re doing.” He pointed out.

You shrugged, carefully looping the wrap across his knuckles, the way Noah had shown you a dozen times now.

You were even slightly surprised you knew what you were doing. But Noah didn’t have to know you knew how to do it, you liked the way he did it for you.

“I had a good teacher.”

Matt thought nothing of it at first, and you finished wrapping his hands. You let yourself glance over at Noah now, just the once, and you kinda wished you didn't. He had just slipped his black gloves on, his chest was still rising and falling pretty quickly from the warm ups, and he was grinning at whoever his other friend was. His hair had fallen over his eyes a little, his biceps looked a little too biteable-

"I think we should spar," Matt said, making you flinch as he pulled you out of your Noah induced daze, "But you'll have to go easy on me, I'm still pretty new at this."

"Yeah," you nodded, your pulse still racing, your cheeks still slightly hot from looking at the guy across the room, "We should."

You both slipped on a pair of gloves, and then you looked at Matt... You tilted your head, giving him an unimpressed once over. His stance was okay, but his feet were too wide apart, shoulders too tight. You knew it wasn’t going to work.

“You’re gonna fall like that.” You pointed out, stepping closer before he could argue.

Matt’s brows lifted, but he didn’t argue as you nudged at his foot with yours to adjust his position.

He stayed perfectly still, watching you with amused eyes as your hand skimmed down his arm, gently repositioning his elbow and wrist.

“Getting real hands on already,” he murmured, grin widening. “If I’d known you were this friendly, I’d have showed up sooner.”

You laughed softly, giving his shoulder a quick push to test his balance.

“If you showed up sooner I probably wouldn’t have had to correct you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he chuckled, rolling his neck, “Show me what you got!”

And you did exactly that.

You both sparred for a while, dodging each others moves, laughing as you kept him on his toes. It was clear he wasn’t expecting you to be so good at this, and in all honesty neither were you. You dodged nearly every hit he threw, slipping just out of range, each time his frustration growing more obvious.

“Okay…” Matt exhaled, shaking his head as you ducked another jab, your grin only growing. “You’re way better than I thought.”

“Like I said, I had a good teacher.” You shrugged, your gaze meeting Noah's for just a moment.

Matt’s eyes shot across the room for the briefest second, then, a knowing smirk crawled across his lips.

“Oh… you’re that y/n,” he muttered, stepping forward faintly, “Yeah… Noah always talks about you.”

“He does?” You raised an eyebrow.

Matt didn’t reply right away, he continued to move, forcing you to follow. His grin widened, cocky now.

“All the time… y’know he never really cared too much about the gym before, but now he makes sure he doesn’t miss this class if he can help it. He said he trains with a pretty girl…” His voice dropped to a more teasing tone. “But you should hear him when he gets home… we’ve got paper thin walls.”

He let the words hang, a slow smirk spreading across his face as he watched your guard slowly drop before he continued.

“Your names real familiar by now, I thought I was just hearing things the first few nights,” he added. “Turns out, he’s not exactly quiet when he’s thinking about you.”

Your breath hitched, heart picking up speed. Matt’s grin only widened as he dodged your wobbly jab effortlessly.

“Yeah… one sleepless night was all it took for me to figure out what kind of ‘training’ goes on in his head,” he said. “Can’t unhear it now.”

Before you could respond, he made a move since your guard was down. It was just a quick kick that caught your side, but it knocked you off balance. You stumbled, laughing as you landed hard on your ass.

Matt grinned down at you.

“Gotcha!”

“You asshole!” You chuckled, reaching out for his hand as he offered to help you up.

But just as you made it back to your feet, you heard his voice.

“Swap with me.” It wasn’t a question, Noah was already tugging his gloves off.

“Noah?" Your brows furrowed.

“Dude, I didn’t mean to-“

“Don’t care. You’re with Davis now.” He said, already taking Matts place on the mat.

Matt rolled his eyes, but seemingly knew better than to fight.

“Fine, fine!” He sighed, giving you a small smile and a gentle wave as he wandered off.

“Are you okay?” Noah asked, his voice laced with panic as he turned his attention back to you. “That looked like it hurt.”

“Noah, I’m fine. Really. He didn’t knock me down, I slipped… You know what I’m like.”

“But he caught you off guard, he shouldn’t have done that.”

He was right. He did catch you off guard…

One sleepless night was all it took for me to figure out what kind of ‘training’ goes on in his head…

“C’mon, let’s take a break.” Noah nodded towards the benches by the side of the mat.

You didn’t fight him. Mostly because your lower back was already starting to throb from where you hit the floor, and the adrenaline was wearing off quick.

The second you sat down, you winced. You shifted a little, but it was enough for Noah to notice, his brows furrowing immediately.

“Where?”

“Where what?” You blinked.

“Where does it hurt?” His tone left no room for argument, his gaze sweeping over you like he was assessing every inch for damage.

“It’s nothing.” You tried to say, but he was already crouching in front of you, his hands- still wrapped but he had ditched the gloves now- were resting lightly on your knees, waiting for permission to check.

He tilted his head, eyes softer now as he said it again.

"Tell me where it hurts."

Your cheeks flushed.

"Just... near the bottom of my back."

“That’s what I thought.” He said, stepping over the bench so he could get behind you. His thumb carefully brushed the hem of your shirt, “Lift this a little?”

You swallowed, fingers trembling slightly as you pulled your shirt up. His thumb gently dipped beneath the waistband of your leggings, moving them down just the slightest bit, just enough for him to see the faint mark blooming across your skin.

His jaw flexed. His thumb traced the space just beside the bruise, never on it, never pressing.

“He shouldn’t have done that.” Noah muttered under his breath, more to himself than to you as he stepped back over the bench.

“It was my fault, I wasn't paying attention-”

“No, it wasn’t.” He said, crouching down to your level. “You don’t blame yourself for that.”

You weren’t sure what to say, so you settled for a weak smile.

“Stay here,” he said, standing. “I’ll grab some more water.”

When Noah returned with two bottles of water, sitting beside you on the bench, something had changed. Now that you weren’t on the floor in pain, you had both remembered.

He handed you the bottle, but neither of you spoke.

You both sat there in silence, you were thinking of how to word what you wanted to say, and so was he. In all the weeks of coming to the gym and seeing Noah, nothing had ever felt as awkward as it did right now. Not even the time you misjudged and kicked him in the balls.

It was just too quiet.

You fiddled with the bottle cap, twisting it open and taking a sip just to avoid saying what you knew was coming. Noah ran a hand through his hair, his own bottle untouched.

Then, finally, when you both spoke at once.

“So about last week-”

“I should probably explain-”

You both cut off, blinking at each other, the corner of his mouth lifting with a little awkward grin.

“Sorry." You mumbled, laughing under your breath.

“No, you first.” He offered, voice lower and quieter than usual- nervous perhaps, though he hid it pretty well.

You hesitated, chewing the inside of your cheek before glancing at him.

“I… thought you were avoiding me.”

“I thought you were avoiding me.” He said, his eyebrows raised in surprise, and a little amusement.

You breathed a soft laugh, fiddling with the thumb hole in your sleeve.

“I wasn’t. I was just… embarrassed, and I thought you wouldn't want to talk to me again.”

He tilted his head slightly.

“Why?”

“Because…” You looked away, staring down at the bottle in your hands, thumb running over the ridges of the plastic. “Because my friends barged in, and it was embarrassing for me. And I thought it was for you too, and then you couldn't even look at me afterwards... I thought I made you mad."

Noah stayed quiet for a second, his gaze fixed on you, though you were still looking down at your bottle. After a moment, you heard him exhale softly, like he was trying to ease something off his chest.

“You didn’t make me mad,” he said, his voice gentle, "Not at all."

You peeked up at him. His brows furrowed a little as he sat back, water bottle resting loose in his hands.

“I couldn’t look at you,” he admitted, the faintest edge of embarrassment touching his tone, “Because I thought I messed it up.”

"Messed what up?” You frowned.

“That night,” he said, gaze dropping to the ground for a second before meeting yours again. “I should’ve asked before I touched you like that. I wasn’t thinking straight… And when they walked in, I saw your face, I thought... I thought I pushed you too far. You looked… I don’t know. Scared. Like you regretted it.”

“Noah,” you whispered, shaking your head quickly, “I wasn’t scared. And I didn’t regret it.”

He didn’t answer right away, but the tension in his shoulders eased a little, though hus eyes searched yours like he wasn’t sure if he could believe you yet.

“I didn’t stop you,” you added softly, the words barely above a whisper, "Because I wanted it too."

Noah was quiet for a moment, like he was taking your words in. Then, with a little nod of his head, he hummed.

“Okay,” he said with a soft chuckle. “Well, I'm glad we're both idiots.”

You laughed at that, nodding your head as you felt the weight on your chest finally lift for the first time in days.

"We are."

Now, the silence between you felt comfortable. You sighed contently, like you could finally breathe.

However, the silence didn't last for long. Because your stomach decided now was the perfect time to let out a long, humiliating growl!

grrrrrhrggghhhg

Your eyes widened in horror, and you felt your cheeks heat in embarrassment. Noah’s brows raised slightly.

"Are you hungry?" He asked, his voice soft as his eyes met yours again.

You opened your mouth to deny it on instinct, but his head tilted knowingly, cutting you off before you could speak.

“Don’t lie,” he murmured, eyes narrowing in playful warning. “I’ve been watching you. You've not been yourself, your hands are shaky and you let Matt knock you on your ass… how long’s it been since you ate?”

"Last night," you confessed, fiddling with your bottle again, "I've felt too sick, too nervous to eat all day. I've been worrying about seeing you, I was worried you wouldn't want to talk to me."

“Hey,” he said gently, his voice softening. “I told you… I’m the idiot who thought you wouldn’t wanna talk to me.”

Your lips parted like you wanted to say something, but you couldn’t.

Noah exhaled softly, eyes still steady on yours before he leaned down, reaching for his gym bag beside the bench. After a moment of rummaging, he pulled out a protein bar, the wrapper slightly crumpled but still intact.

"This is all I've got," he said, sounding almost a little disappointed , like he genuinely wished he could pull a full meal out of his gym bag for you, "I guess it's better than nothing."

You smiled faintly, your nerves unraveling just enough to let a breathier laugh slip out.

“It’s fine,” you murmured, reaching for it, “Thank y-”

But before your fingers could brush the wrapper, he held it just out of reach, brow raised, the corner of his mouth curving ever so slightly.

“Only if you let me take you to dinner after class." He bargained softly, "Wherever you want."

My bed?

Your lips parted, eyes darting between his and the protein bar like you were considering the terms of a contract.

“It doesn’t have to be a date,” he added, “I already told the guys I’ll drop them home so I'll do that first... then we’ll get food. Is that okay? You can still have the protein bar if you say no by the way.”

The sincerity in his tone made your heart warm. You nodded once, small but certain, and he finally handed over the bar.

“Good.” He smiled.

You hesitated, eyeing the wrapper suspiciously, then took a cautious bite… and instantly grimaced.

“Oh my god,” you mumbled around the dry, chalky mouthful, “I've had one of these before... and I swore I'd never touch one again!"

Noah chuckled under his breath, stealing the rest from your hand and finishing it off himself with zero hesitation.

"Dunno what you mean, they're delicious!" He teased, though it was clear he was trying not to scrunch his face up.

Despite everything, you smiled, settling back on the bench beside him, shoulders brushing slightly. For the first time all week, you could actually breathe.

"I'd ask if you want to get back on the mats," Noah said, looking over at where you had left your gloves, "But I don't want to risk you passing out on me."

"Wouldn't be my most graceful moment." You laughed softly, nudging his shoulder.

Noah's lips parted, like he was about to say something. Then, his eyes drifted across the room towards his friends. They looked like they were meant to be sparring, but instead they were messing around, seeing who could wrap their arms and legs around a punching bag and stay on for the longest.

"Okay," Noah sighed under his breath, "If they don’t wanna be sensible..." He stood, grabbing both your gym bags without asking, slinging his own over his shoulder. "We’re leaving."

"You sure?" You asked, standing slowly.

"They’re barely training, you nearly fainted, and I promised you food. Let’s go."

You smiled, following him across the mats as he called out to the other two.

"We’re done. Grab your stuff."

Matt groaned dramatically but obeyed, the darker haired one- you heard Noah say his name was Davis- shrugging as they followed on behind you.

You didn’t miss how all three of them were wearing something with the words Bad Omens on it... Noah's shorts had the name printed down the side, Matt had a black hoodie with a design on the back, and Davis wore a tshirt with the name on the front. It could've bene a coincidence, but you've noticed Noah seems to wear a lot of things with that name on...

"What's a Bad Omens?" You asked, eyeing the clothes. "You guys in some sort of cult?"

"You could say that," Davis snorted, "But no, it's a band that we're all... fans of."

"Like... a boyband?" You chuckled, watching Matt's smirk grow even more mischievous.

"Metal band." Davis clarified with a nod of his head.

"Yeah but the lead singer? He's pretty enough to be in one, isn't that right, Noah?"

"I... uh..."

You looked over at him, intrigued.

“You a fan too?”

"Yeah... something like that." Noah said, but thankfully this conversation ended as you reached the car- and now Matt and Davis were arguing over the front seat.

“Hey, you sat in the front on the way here!”

“Yeah only cos you walked!”

“So it should be me-“

“I’m older.”

“It’s Noah’s fucking car!”

"Guys, calm the fuck down," Noah interrupted, unlocking the car with a click. His hand pressed lightly to your lower back as he guided you toward the passenger side. "She’s got the front."

Ignoring the guys groans, you slid into the passenger seat, still hyper aware of the warmth of Noah’s hand as it drifted off your back, his touch lingering on your skin long after it was gone. The door clicked shut beside you, and you stared at the dashboard for a second, completely frozen.

You were in Noah’s car.

Noah’s car.

The inside smelled a little like him, you definitely needed to find out what cologne he uses. His hoodie was on the drivers seat, you assumed he took it off just as he got out earlier. He threw his and your gym back into the back with the guys, where you could hear Matt and Davis still bickering as they piled in behind you, but it all felt muffled compared to the way your pulse thundered in your ears.

You were in Noah’s car.

The guy you only knew as the hot gym guy just months ago!

Breathe. Just breathe.

You shifted awkwardly, gripping your seatbelt with shaky hands, fingers fumbling as you tried to clip it in. Noah slid into the driver’s side, glancing your way, one brow raising faintly as he caught your expression.

“You okay?” He asked, his voice laced with amusement like maybe he already knew exactly why you looked ready to combust.

You forced a little nod, swallowing hard as you clicked the seatbelt into place.

“Yeah,” you mumbled, cheeks burning. “Just… y’know… your car.”

A small smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth as he started the engine.

“Yeah, you like it?” He teased.

...

After dropping the guys off, the car was noticeably quieter... You sat in the passenger seat, picking at your nails as Noah pulled away from the curb.

He didn’t say anything for a moment, just one hand on the wheel, the other relaxed on the gear stick. The radio played quietly, which you were thankful for, glad you weren't sat together in complete silence.

“Where d’you wanna go?” He asked, glancing over at you. You were a little surprised at how gentle his voice was.

You opened your mouth, but your brain faltered. You couldn’t think. The nerves from earlier were still sat in your chest, and being in his car next to him wasn't exactly helping. You weren’t even sure what you felt like eating.

“I…” you hesitated, shaking your head with a small shrug of your shoulders. “I dunno.”

Noah’s eyes were back on the road, but his lips curved into a small smile.

“That’s alright,” he replied, steering easily through the traffic. “I’ve got somewhere in mind... It’s nothing fancy. Just somewhere I like to go when I’m home.”

When I'm home.

You frowned slightly, because that's not the first time he had said that. Where else would he go? You already guessed he travelled a lot for work, so just assumed he meant that, and you nodded.

“Okay.”

The ride wasn’t long. Maybe five, ten minutes tops. But it felt longer with how aware you were of him, and how close he was- as if you weren't sat on top of him last week.

Eventually, he pulled into a small parking lot beside a little building with soft lighting spilling from the windows. It wasn’t what you expected, though you didn't even know what you were expecting.

The place was small, but it was inviting. It looked cozy from the outside, and that was confirmed as you followed him in. The lighting was warm, the sound of chatter and laughter filled the air, along with the smell of food, which made your stomach grumble once again.

The waiter by the door didn’t even ask for a name. Just a nod at Noah, like they knew him well, and you were led to a booth tucked near the back by a window.

You both sat down, giving the waiter your drinks order before he left.

And now here you were, sat across from Noah at a small, worn in table, menu in hand, eyes darting nervously between the list of food and him.

Noah sat casually, forearms resting on the table as he thumbed through the menu.

You, on the other hand, were barely skimming the options.

It wasn’t even the food. It was him... His presence, the soft look in his eyes, how nervous you suddenly felt around him.

You had felt this way before, but every time you had ever caught feelings for someone, it was never reciprocated- and if it was, it was only an act so they could get in your pants. But here you were, sat across from a guy who genuinely seemed to care about you, and the thought of him possibly feeling the same way as you made your heart do something you couldn't explain.

You hadn't even noticed you'd been staring blankly at the menu, not reading it. You'd been in a world of your own, and you quickly managed to snap yourself out of it and looked at the options.

Cheeseburgers. Fries. Onion rings. Mac and cheese. Double bacon cheeseburgers. It all sounded delicious... if you were sat at home by yourself in front of the tv, but the thought of ordering something like this in front of Noah made you feel a little uneasy.

And, of course, Noah noticed. His gaze lifted, head tilting slightly as he set his menu down.

“What’s wrong?”

His voice startled you slighlty, fingers tightening around the laminated page.

“Nothing!”

He didn’t buy it. His stare didn’t waver, but his expression softened, as did his voice.

“Talk to me.”

Your throat tightened, cheeks warming as you exhaled slowly, admitting under your breath,

“I don’t… know what to get.”

The words barely made it past your lips, but he caught them.

“That’s okay,” he leaned forward a little, his hand resting casually near yours on the table, like he was wanted to touch you but held back. “You’ve never been here before.”

You bit your lip, heart racing embarrassingly fast. Noah let the quiet stretch a moment longer, eyes searching yours before adding gently,

“Would you like me to order for you?”

The softness and sincerity in his voice made it hard to say no. So, despite the feeling in your chest, you nodded your head.

"Okay... yeah."

A small grin spread across his face, subtle but enough for you to notice, and your heart to skip a beat.

The menu stayed in your lap, mostly forgotten about, your fingers fidgeting with the corner as Noah caught the attention of the waiter.

You half expected him to just order his own food twice, but instead he almost listed off the whole menu. Two different burgers. Chicken nuggets. Fries. Onion rings. Even a side of wings, and also requested some different sauces.

You blinked, glancing up at him as the waiter scribbled everything down and walked off.

“That’s… a lot." You almost whispered, your voice quieter than you meant it to be.

Noah leaned back in the booth, casually draping his arm along the backrest, eyes fixed on yours- god he's so fucking hot.

“Yeah.” He nodded, like it was obvious. “No pressure that way, you can have whatever you want.”

You felt like your heart was going to burst with the amount of pure love you felt for this man.

You almost felt yourself begin to tear up- sure, it was just a simple gesture, all he did was order a bunch of things from the menu, but he did it for you. To make sure you had a choice, that there was at least one thing you liked.

“Noah, you didn’t have to-”

“I wanted to.” His eyes softened as he spoke, “Figured it’s easier than stressing over what to order… and before you say you weren’t, I could tell. You always get quiet when you’re overthinking, something I noticed during that first class.”

Your stomach did a silly little flip at that, and you felt heat rush to your cheeks. You looked away, tucking your hands into your lap.

He’d noticed. And instead of blatantly pointing it out, making it worse, he made it easier.

The food didn’t take long to come, and in the time it took you had been telling Noah all about your week, and your asshole of a boss. But then, the table was filled with plates, a basket of fries, burgers stacked high, golden onion rings- it all smelled incredible, and your stomach agreed, growling loudly enough that Noah huffed a soft laugh under his breath.

“See,” he teased, already reaching for one of the burgers, sliding the basket of fries toward you, “It smells good, right?”

You reached for a fry, hesitating a little, but Noah didn’t rush you. He didn’t say anything, just started eating his own food. You nibbled at the fry, glancing up at him across the table.

He caught your gaze and smirked faintly, nodding toward the rest of the food.

“Try this,” he said, not long after, holding half of his burger out toward you, it did look delicious. “It’s good!”

You hesitated again, but he was so patient with you. Your heart fluttred as you leaned forwards, taking a bite. Noah watched you carefully, smirking as you hummed softly in approval.

“Good, right?” He said as he pulled the burger back. “Told you.”

You nodded, still chewing, smiling despite yourself. The nerves didn’t completely vanish, but they eased enough for you to actually eat and enjoy the food, your appetite growing again.

…

You weren’t even sure how it happened, but between the two of you, every plate on the table was empty after about 20 minutes- besides the spicy wings, which you pulled a face at when you tried, and Noah teased you for it. You were comfortably full now, slouched just slightly in your seat, fingers lazily chasing the last few fries in the basket.

Noah watched you, elbows resting on the table, silently taking in how comfortable you looked now compared to earlier. You peeked up, catching the way his lips had curved into a small, warm smile.

“What?” You asked, wiping your hands with a napkin.

“Nothing.” He said with a gentle tilt of his head, his eyes warming as they met yours, along with his heart.

Your brows furrowed, but his smile only grew as he leaned in a little more.

“Just proud of you,” he expressed, voice a little quieter now. “I know you weren’t feeling yourself earlier.”

Your mouth hung open a little, and you didn't trust yourself to speak as you noticed how his words made your tummy feel fuzzy. You wanted him to tell you that again and again and again. You looked up again to meet his eyes, and something in the way he looked at you in this moment settled you more than anything else had all day.

You swallowed gently, tucking your hands beneath the table.

“Thank you.” You whispered, quiet but honest, looking away to try and hide the way your cheeks had turned pink.

A gentle, comfortable silence settled between the two for a quick moment, until Noah leaned back, tossed his napkin onto the plate and glanced toward the door.

“I should probably get you home,” he said. “Before your friends freak out.” Oh yeah. Kylie and James were waiting for you at your place.

“…Shit.” You blinked, laughing under your breath as realisation settled over you. “I didn’t tell them I was going anywhere.”

“What, you just disappeared on them?” Noah chuckled.

“I didn’t think you’d actually take me to get food," you confessed, a little embarrassed, "I thought you were just saying it… just to be nice.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, pushing his chair back as he stood. His large hand came down, palm open in silent offer. You slipped your hand into his, letting him help you up, trying not to think about how perfectly your hand fit in his.

“For the record,” he murmured as you gathered your things, “I never say things I don’t mean. If I say I’ll take care of you…” His eyes met yours with a look that matched the teasing yet serious tone in the way he spoke, “I’ll do it properly.”

You followed him out, Noah’s hand brushed lightly against your lower back as he guided you toward the car, his gentle touch lingering for a moment longer than it probably needed to, like he wasn’t quite ready to let this evening end yet.

“Watch your head.” He said as he opened the passenger door for you.

The simple gesture made your heart warm, like everything else he does, but you slipped in carefully and let him shut the door for you, before he circled around to the drivers side.

The ride started quiet, the two of you still full but comfortable, you could already feel yourself wanting to yawn- it had been a long and rather emotional day.

You glanced his way once, studying his side profile, the line of his jaw, the tattoo on his throat that crept up the side of his neck- his perfect fucking nose that you wished you could reach out and just boop.

You hated how much you wanted him close again. Even if it was just for a moment, and you had spent all week regretting it, but you couldn't stop thinking about how his hands felt on your hips, how warm his bare chest was beneath your fingertips, how hard he was beneath you, and how it felt as he rocked you against him-

Stop. You shook the the thoughts from your head... but just as the horny ones left, the dreaded ones found their way back.

What if you didn't let your friends drag you across the street to the class? What if you only dropped by the class to hand his wraps back to him and leave again without saying a word. Would he have reached out? Or would he have let this- whatever was going on between you- die?

You exhaled quietly, turning your head to look out the window.

“Hey…” His voice gently pulled you from your thoughts, he glanced your way for a second before returning to the road. “You've gone quiet.”

"Sorry... I was thinking."

“Don't do that, you'll give yourself a headache,” he smirked, gently teasing. “No, seriously,” he prompted, voice a little softer now, “What’s on your mind?”

You hesitated for a moment, debating whether to come up with a lie or an excuse, but knowing Noah, he'd see through you.

"I almost didn't go to the class today. My friends had to physically drag me across the street because I was too scared to face you again... but if I didn't come, what would've happened?"

You noticed the way Noah’s fingers flexed on the wheel as he pulled the car to a slow stop outside your building, not even realising you were here already. He parked up, turning the engine off, before answering.

“What would've happened?” He repeated your question under his breath, eyes fixed ahead for a second like he was thinking it over. “I would’ve gone insane,” he admitted simply, turning his face to meet your eyes. “I spent the whole week thinking I screwed everything up. I was ready to text, I wanted to… but I couldn’t tell if you wanted space, or if you hated me, or…” He exhaled, shaking his head with a quiet laugh, almost at himself. “Guess we both overthink shit.”

"Yeah... well, we don't have to anymore." You said hopefully, meeting his eyes with a soft smile. The kind that made his heart race.

He chuckled under his breath, his gaze dropping briefly to your lips before looking away again. You unbuckled your seatbelt slowly, the click loud in the quiet car.

“I’d say come in… but my friends are waiting for me, and I'm already gonna get interrogated tonight, and I'm sure you'd rather not suffer through a million questions too.”

You noticed the way he smiled at the offer, but he also hesitated briefly.

“I’d love to, and I would have done...” he sighed, his voice dropping softer, sounding almost regretful. “But I’ve got a flight to catch in a few hours.”

"What?! A flight?" Your eyes widened.

"Yeah... work stuff." He nodded, running a hand through his hair, ruffling it a little. “It's just for a couple days."

You tilted your head, studying him.

“You’ve got a flight to catch... and you’re out here with me instead?”

That made him chuckle, and he nodded softly.

“Yeah,” he said simply, like it was obvious. “You were more important.”

For a moment, you forgot how to breathe. You were frozen completely still... did he really just say that or was this a dream? Did you pass out in the gym when Matt knocked you down?

Noah just chuckled to himself and opened his door, stepping out. The sound brought you back to earth and you followed him out the car, waiting for him to grab your gym bag from the backseat.

"Want me to walk you up?" He asked, and you answered with a nod.

Slinging your bag over his shoulder, he reached out for your hand, and he held it all the way up to the door of your apartment, his thumb brushing the back of your palm every now and then, as if to remind you this was real.

Once you reached your door, the two of you stilled. The world around you seemed to just melt away as you looked up into his brown eyes, a colour you’ve grown to love.

You really took him in from this angle... the small scars on his face which you guessed had been left behind from piercings, the dark colour of his lashes, the shape of his lips, the little freckle just under his eye... you wanted to reach out, cup his face in your hands, stand on your tip toes and kiss every inch of him.

His eyes dipped to your lips again, lingering for just a second longer than they should’ve. But he didn’t lean in, even when you thought he was going to. Instead, his grip on your hand tightened ever so slighlty, his fingers gently curling higher up your wrist, and then he lifted your hand between you.

You barely managed to swallow the lump in your throat as he pressed his lips to the back of your hand.

His lips were warm and soft against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine as his eyes met yours, looking at you through his lashes as he gave you the most gentle, delicate kiss.

It was an innocent gesture, but the way he lingered, the way his eyes locked with yours, made it feel incredibly intimate.

You were surprised your knees didn't give out beneath you. The feeling of his lips alone sent heat to your lower belly but the way he looked up at you through it almost made you whimper

“See you next week?"

You nodded, mouth dry, brain working overtime just to form a sentence... but somehow, something slipped out before you could overthink it.

“Text me… when you land?” you whispered, almost shyly. “Just… so I know you got there safe. Wherever you're going.”

“I will,” he promised quietly, his voice soft and sincere. Then, just as he pulled away, gently letting go of your hand, he whispered, “I'll miss you."

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

reading this back i don’t really like this chapter :/ BUT THE NEXT ONE…….

@dragoncopper @renegadebirch @super-btstrash-posts @pipidoll @xslavicprincess @foliosgirl @h4tef6ck @jesuisunchaton @saythatuwill @astronoids @missduffsblog @montgomery-929496 @lonelydragonlady @happyclifford @popularpopularmonster @bluehairpunklol @bruce9818 @itsyaboinoah @mayaslifeinabox @lonesomegrace @dominuslunae @lacy1986 @jesuisunchaton @overmydeadbodysblog @kenjipepsi1 @onlyethereal @theright-wrongway @geminigirlfromfinland @miss570 @trvshdxddy @spookieolson @sugaruapologist @latenightmusiclover @eversiinceny @shuiguans @lyschko666 @xxkatsatwatwafflexx @flowery-mess @pathion @bladeupnred @urafakebetch @mycheersricochet @bloody-spades

#★who are you?#i should kinda add the tag oblivious!reader #noah sebastian #again... i apologise for any inaccuracy lmao #noah sebastian x reader #noah sebastian fanfic #bad omens fanfic #noah sebastian imagine #noah sebastian fanfiction #noahsebastian #bad omens fanfiction #kickboxer!noah

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queensunshinee · 5 months ago

Text

So sweet- part 2 || Patrick Zweig x reader, Art Donaldson x reader

Rating: Explicit (18+)

Warnings: SMUT (mention of p in v sex, oral sex), mention of an eating disorder, family drama, death in the family, cheating. It's a mess.

Word Count: 7.9k

(Part 1)

So sweet- part 2:

Art leaned against the doorframe as he looked at you. Since your back was to him, you hadn't seen him yet, and he felt like he had the upper hand. As if he didn’t need to be defensive. As if he was still part of your life. Your hair looked shorter than the last time he saw you. But then again, the last time he saw you, you told him you never wanted to see him again, so maybe he didn’t remember all the details as well as he’d like to.

Maybe he felt that "never" was subjective. That everyone could choose what to take from the word "never." That a year and a half without speaking to you was enough "never" for him, and you'd be a hypocrite if you said it wasn’t for you too. "Are you going to stand there much longer, Donaldson?" Your voice sounded the same. He'd recently discovered he hated a lot of things, but at the top of his list were all the times you called him by his last name instead of his first.

"You really do have eyes in the back of your head," he tried to joke, but he didn’t hear you laugh, not even a chuckle. He hadn’t seen your face yet, but he could guess you weren’t even smiling. "Aren’t you supposed to be in Atlanta?" you asked. If he didn’t know you, he might have thought you were fine. That this was just polite conversation between two acquaintances who hadn’t seen each other in a while and ran into each other by chance. "My first match isn’t for another two days. I couldn’t miss the funeral," he said quietly. "I’m really sorry for your loss, you know that, right?" He took a few large steps and sat on the bed next to you, hoping you’d give him this moment. Hoping you wouldn’t be angry. Not when he was trying so hard.

"She was a mean drunk," you muttered. "Not a huge loss," you added, glancing at him for a second, allowing yourself to surrender to the moment. He recognized the piercing gaze. Maybe a wrinkle that wasn’t there before, but your eyes were the same eyes. You were the same girl he used to love. Used to. Used to. Used to. Before he went on his path in life and you on yours. Before he made a decision, and then you made a decision, and then both of you made decisions. Before words were said. Before he left and you stayed. Before he opened up and you shut down. Used to.

"You’re a grown man, you should know how to tie a tie by now, don’t you think?" you asked, probably trying to lighten the sadness that filled your childhood room, located right across from his childhood room. He wanted to thank you for that. But he never knew how to talk to you honestly. Why would he start now? "Tashi usually does it," he said quietly, and you stood in front of him, starting to adjust the damn tie. You had no idea what you were doing to his heartbeat. "I’m sorry about your grandmother. I was at your parents’ house afterward. I don’t know if they told you," you mumbled.

He was so angry at you for not coming to the funeral. Because by what right did you take his tragedy and make him consumed with thoughts of you? About your absence. About your hand that could’ve held his tightly, just like you did when he was eight, and Jameson died. Instead, he held Tashi’s hand. She didn’t squeeze. She let go after a few minutes. He was so angry that at his grandmother’s funeral, more than anything, he missed you. So now, a few minutes before heading to your mother’s funeral, he squeezed your hand for a moment while you adjusted his tie, looking at him with big eyes filling with tears you refused to let fall. "Better," you said.

He didn’t think it was better. He didn’t want to argue. He just nodded. . . . Patrick couldn’t focus. Every time he hit that stupid ball, he thought about the fight he had with his dad a week ago and the dumb argument he had with you before leaving for Atlanta. He hadn’t told you yet that his parents decided to cut him off from the trust fund. He hadn’t told you that he was basically broke. Sometimes Patrick thinks you’re the only person in the world who looks at him like he understands something about life. Like he’s capable of pulling off magic at any given moment. Sparkling eyes and a smile. He wonders when was the last time you looked at him like that. It’s been a few good months. He can’t deliver. Not the damn ball and not in real life.

He hesitates. Everything he does comes with a certain delay. He knows that at 24, he’s expected to understand who he is and what he wants from life. But what he wants from life doesn’t want him back, and that’s something he’s not willing to accept. He blames his parents for the fact that he’s too spoiled. That he doesn’t know when to stop. That he can’t let go of dreams. That he has to be the best, even though he’s drowning in his own mediocrity. He moves too fast between knowing how good he is at what he does and the harsh slap of reality that comes with each of his failures. Every tournament he loses in the second round, every person who was once in his life and doesn’t want him anymore. They found something better. Something more put-together.

He saw Tashi from a distance for the second time in the last two days. Always alone, Art wasn’t with her. He wondered why Art wasn’t here. He knew Art was competing. Everyone knew Art was competing. The rising star of American tennis. Motherfucker. His dad screamed it at him when he lost it a week ago— “I wish Art Donaldson were my son, maybe then I wouldn’t be so ashamed.” Patrick won’t tell anyone that it hurt. Not because he cares what his shitty dad thinks of him. Not because he cares that Art is succeeding on an international level, breaking into the world’s top ten. Fulfilling all the dreams they once dreamed together. Patrick cares because he knows that at any given moment, he could beat Art. He’s better than Art. So how is it that Art is ranked eighth and Patrick is a nobody? No one takes him into account.

“You planning to embarrass yourself in another tournament?” Tashi’s voice crept up behind him. “You know that if he competes against me, I’ll win, right?” he asked. Overconfident. Always overconfident. “I know you’re ranked 243rd, and he’s ranked 8th. It doesn’t matter who wins this, you’ll still be a loser, and he’ll still get a Nike campaign. They asked us about a winter collection.” She was trying to hurt him. He couldn’t understand why it was so important to her—to hurt him. But he thinks only two people can: you and Art. Tashi isn’t on that list. He doesn’t think Tashi comes close to being on that list.

He thinks Tashi is beautiful. Maybe the most beautiful woman he knows. Maybe you’re the most beautiful woman he knows. He doesn’t really know- it’s blurry and messy. But hearing you moan or say his name softly, sweetly, is the most beautiful thing he knows. So maybe it’s the same thing. Maybe he measures beauty differently than he did four years ago. “Sounds good. I promise to buy a jacket with his name on it. Do you need anything, Tashi?” he tried to end the conversation. He didn’t want her to see the pathetic training session he was having with himself against a wall. “I don’t know, maybe to ask why you’re here?” She shrugged like it was obvious. Like she cared about the useless existence of Patrick Zweig. Like he mattered. “I’m competing, just like Art-” he started, rolling his eyes.

“Yeah, but Art’s not here. How is it that you are?” she cut off the monologue he was about to throw at her. “I don’t know why Art isn’t here, Tashi.” If it were possible, his eyes would roll so far back into his skull they’d get stuck there. “Because he’s at a funeral, obviously. She’s your girlfriend last time I checked- how are you not there?” The furrow of her brows showed she was genuinely confused. But now he stood in front of her, terrified too. Whose funeral? Who the fuck died? “What are you talking about?” he muttered, feeling his heart pound. Every muscle in his body tensed. “(Y/N)’s mom passed away, Patrick. How am I the first one telling you this?” She doesn’t understand. But he does. And right now he hates Tashi. And Art, who’s with you. And himself- mostly himself- because after four years, he’s still a selfish bastard who only cares about himself. . . . You’re not crying, and you suspect it bothers your father. He looks at you strangely. As if you’re making things difficult. Because this is an event. A funeral is an event, and you need to behave the way you're expected to behave. You just can’t seem to do it. Because you don’t think you have a warm spot in your heart for the woman you called Mom for the pathetic 24 years of your existence. To anyone else, it would sound sad. Pathetic. You don’t say it out loud very often. You don’t want to make things harder for anyone. You don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable. You considered cutting an onion before you left, just to save yourself from the weird looks from the extended family you haven’t seen in years, but Art fucking Donaldson hasn’t left you alone since the second he heard she kicked the bucket.

His hand held yours like his life depended on it. Maybe yours. Someone’s life depended on it. Definitely not your mother’s. She’s dead. You wonder if the need for sacrifice died with her. You wonder if your constant need to make everyone feel comfortable all the time died with her too. It’s exhausting. You wish you could be less like that. Your hand is sweating into his. He probably thinks it’s disgusting. He probably doesn’t like it. You miss the time when your whole world was making sure Art Donaldson was comfortable. His parents hugged you, and you’re pretty sure his mom left lipstick on you. He’s been staring at you for an hour straight. Maybe two. Maybe your whole life. You can’t know; it’s an emotional day.

You try to move your hand away from his; there’s no way this is comfortable for him. He grips harder. Doesn’t let go. Doesn’t leave you alone. Your father says the Kaddish, everyone responds "Amen" and cries. You don’t. Maybe you really are crazy, like she hinted at a few times when she got drunk and called you at an inappropriate hour. Maybe you really are the reason for every problem she ever had. Maybe you didn’t sacrifice enough. Maybe you didn’t love enough.

Maybe you just don’t know how to love, and then it makes sense that you don’t deserve to be loved. Not really. Not unconditionally. Not like your father loved your mother. Not like Art loves Tashi. Not like Patrick loved Tashi. Not like Patrick hated you. Maybe he still does- sometimes you’re not sure. Patrick isn’t here. Art’s hand keeps holding you both steady. You finally cry.

When you walk into the house, your extended family is already there. Uncles, cousins- you think you saw the grandfather of someone your father goes to synagogue with. All you wanted was to sit quietly in your room for a second. Take off the heels and the damn dress. You felt the thong digging into your ass. That’s what happens when you let a dead woman dictate what you'll wear to her funeral. A woman who had conditions for her own funeral. Who told you what dress to wear. What underwear to put on. Sometimes you wonder how many years ahead you’ll keep dragging her advice, her judgmental looks. The tongue clicks. The general dissatisfaction with the world, wrapped in fake smiles. Maybe that’s where you learned to fake so well. To fake who you are down to your core. To fake and fake until you don’t know what you want or from whom.

“You disappeared. I figured you’d be here.” Art walks into your childhood room like it’s his. Like he always did. “You’re still here?” you mutter, and he hands you a plate of food he picked up from downstairs. “Where else would I be?” he sighs. As if that’s the only answer that makes sense to him. As if you two were in touch. As if you know anything about his fancy life or he knows anything about your painfully mediocre one. “In Atlanta,” you answer and place the plate on the nightstand beside you. “When’s your flight?” you ask, not looking at him as he sits next to you on the bed like he did before the funeral.

“I can stay-” he starts quietly. You know he’s looking at you, almost begging you to see that he means it. "Ridiculous,” you mumble to yourself, but you know he hears. “When’s your flight, Art?” you ask, your voice steadier, looking at him with an almost hollow expression. One that doesn’t show any emotion or maybe shows all emotions at once. A look that scared him. A look that worried you. A look you’ll think about a month from now. You’ll sit at home, writing the structure for one of your classes, and you’ll think about Art Donaldson and the empty look you gave him when your mother died. Embarrassing. Everything is so fucking embarrassing.

“Tonight,” he sums up. You glance at your phone’s clock. Sixteen missed calls from Patrick. Instinct says to call him. But it’s 6 p.m., and his first match is at 8 in the morning. “Don’t you need to pack?” He rolls his eyes, ignoring your attempt to dismiss him. “What are you doing?” he asks quietly. “Excuse me?” you snap back, not understanding the direction of the conversation. “Now. In general. What are you doing?” His gaze surrounds you from every direction. You can’t look anywhere that isn’t Art Donaldson. He reflects off the damn mirrors in this room. “Trying to sit quietly in my room, clearly,” you reply stiffly.

You remember how all your conversations used to be warm. Soft. You’d talk about dreams. About books you’d write. About tournaments he’d win. You’d kiss. He’d touch you. You’d touch him. There was curiosity. There was love. Or at least that thing you’ve spent years believing was love. The thing where you become exactly what he wants and needs and disappear when he needs something else, something better. That was the unwritten contract between you. Lately, you’ve been thinking that’s the unwritten contract between you and everyone you know. A depressing thought. You try not to dwell on it too much. On the way you please people in your suffering. Please in deprivation. Please to the point of tears, and more tears, and more tears. You try not to think about all the dreams you had when Art Donaldson -maybe- loved you. You try not to think about the joy of life. About how much you loved seeing him happy, how much you loved making him happy. How much you loved being responsible for his happiness. "Why isn’t Patrick here?" He quietly asked what he really wanted to know. He wanted to understand if you’d broken up. If you were alone. If he could laugh and say he told you so. That he told you; you had no business being with Patrick Zweig. "Because he has a match tomorrow at 8 a.m., and he trained too hard to miss it," you said it coolly, without breaking eye contact. As if it made perfect sense that you hadn’t told your boyfriend, the person who was supposed to be your confidant, that your mother had died. "He didn’t want to come?" Art continued, confused. Ice. That look again. The immediate shift in his mood confuses you, but it doesn’t throw you off balance. You know him. For the past four years, every time he’s seen you, all he’s tried to do is confuse you, to knock you off balance. It never works, at least not in his eyes.

"Hedoesn’tknow," you mumbled the words as if they were one. Quietly, knowing that what you’d done didn’t make sense. Wasn’t reasonable. Wasn’t acceptable. Didn’t fit into the unspoken rules of a relationship. "You’re an idiot." He stood up and started pacing back and forth. "A fucking moron, really." He was angry, as if he was the one who hadn’t been told your mother had died. If it were up to you, he wouldn’t have known either, but his mother told him. Whatever. "I’ll tell him when he gets back from the tournament, it’s not a big deal," you said and shrugged. Art stopped and looked at you like you’d just fallen from the moon. Like you were some natural phenomena. "If you did that to me, I’d kill you. If you thought some shitty tennis tournament in shitty Atlanta was more important to me than you, I’d murder you and then die myself. I don’t like what you have with Zweig, God knows I hate it, but how could you not tell him? Do you even understand the concept of a relationship?" He let out this Shakespearean monologue while looking at you with a half-pitying, half-angry expression. Maybe he was sick. Maybe he thought you were Tashi.

"Art, I’m not your problem. Do you remember that?" You didn’t know what else to say, so you said the only thing you knew for sure in a defeated voice. Art Donaldson was not a part of your life. "You’ll always be my problem. You should know that by now," he said, half despairing at himself. As if wondering how you both got here. As if wondering if there was anywhere else you could be. . . . Patrick was beyond frustrated. He won his first match after two and a half hours, barely. It didn’t come easy. All he could think about was how nothing came easy for him anymore, and how everything used to be so easy.

The thought that you didn’t tell him your mother had died, and then didn’t answer his calls either, hovered over his head like a rain cloud focused solely on him. He didn’t know how to approach it. He knew why you didn’t tell him- because unlike what Art thought, unlike what your dead mother thought, he knew you. He knew how you thought. He understood the mechanics behind your strange decisions. He hated that he had become someone you had to overthink things for.

That afternoon, he went to one of the courts and caught Tashi and Art’s practice. They both saw him sit down. He thinks it made Art play better. He wondered if Art imagined his face when he hit the ball. He thinks he does. Because when Tashi checkmated his relationship with Art, Patrick wrapped his life around yours as if that was how it was always meant to be, while everyone involved knew it wasn’t. While everyone involved knew that you had embroidered Art’s name on bags from the moment you learned how to stitch. While everyone knew that Art Donaldson didn’t know how to exist in the world without you.

So, Patrick took you for himself. Most of the time, he didn’t think of it as something technical, as a game he was playing against Art. Most of the time, he looked at you, really looked at you. Most of the time, he tried to make you laugh and understand the world through your own eyes. Most of the time, he tried to protect you from complex emotions you couldn’t express, from hunger. He tried to protect you from yourself, the way you protect some helpless creature. In some way, you were. In his eyes, you were helpless.

When you first started sleeping together, Patrick treated you with kid gloves, in a way he had never treated anyone before. Like you were porcelain. Like you could shatter and crumble in his hands at any moment. You had gestures and habits, ones you thought no one noticed. But he always saw. You tried to please everyone all the time. You switched from a smile to a sad look in a second, for the sake of the feelings of whoever was in front of you, for the sake of what you thought they wanted from you.

But Patrick didn’t want anything from you. He wanted to give you all the orgasms that you missed and for you to eat at least three meals a day. Some days, he didn’t know how to make you do it. Some days, he raised his voice. When he was desperate, he cried. When he was really desperate, he asked you to eat for him, so that he would be happy. That was the easy way, it always worked. He exploited a destructive mechanism someone had embedded in you (he suspects your dead mother) and used it to get you to do something he thought would be good for you. He wanted to throw up.

Art was playing well. He was playing against Tashi in front of him, and he was playing well. Too well. Patrick no longer thinks he can beat him. Not something he would ever say out loud. He wanted to ask him how you were. He didn’t want to admit that you hadn’t answered his million calls. He didn’t want to admit that he was a loser who didn’t know where his life was going. Not when Art had been with you at the fucking funeral of your awful mother. He hated that woman with everything he had. More than he hated his own father, and that had to be some kind of record. Art looked at him for a moment. The moment passed. Patrick thinks Art won. He’s not sure. . . . Patrick finds Tashi alone in the evening. Completely alone in the middle of the lobby restaurant. She suddenly looks small and fragile to him, holding a drink he can guess is whiskey or cognac or whatever it is that Tashi Duncan drinks these days. He doesn’t know anything about her anymore. Only that a few years ago, he thought he loved her, and in return, she took his best friend away from him.

When he stands in front of her, he is like a streetlight- impossible to ignore. It dawns on him, belatedly, that he is wearing her shirt. She must think he’s pathetic. He feels pathetic. He doesn’t think he cares about being pathetic in front of her. Because he sees her for what she is right now, and she is miserable. She doesn’t have much in life. She clings to what Art has. Which is fucked up on so many levels, but that’s reality. They both cling to things they shouldn’t be clinging to, and his eyes wander to her ring. Massive. Flashy. A bit like her, like the woman she tries to be when she’s not half-drunk and pathetic in front of him.

He places his hand over hers just as she’s about to take a sip of her drink, stopping her. He doesn’t know what he wants. Not from her, not from himself, but his lips find hers within seconds, and she doesn’t resist. He knew she wouldn’t resist- he saw it on her face. She wanted him just as much as he wanted her. Maybe more. And what a thought that is- that Tashi Duncan wants Patrick Zweig more.

They exit through the back door of the restaurant, go up to his room. Naturally. As if more than four years haven’t passed since the last time he was with Tashi. He wishes he knew what he was doing; it would make this easier. But it’s not particularly difficult, either- otherwise, he wouldn’t be pressing Tashi against the wall. Otherwise, his lips wouldn’t be kissing every inch of her body he can reach.

Hunger. Patrick feels hunger. It’s the only emotion coursing through him as he looks at her. He thinks he wants to hurt Art. He thinks about how Art was there for you at your mother’s funeral, and that was supposed to be his role, but you didn’t call him. So he strips Tashi of her shirt. Only to discover she isn’t wearing a bra. He compares her to you every few seconds. You never go without a bra. He can barely convince you to just be at home, without clothes, without defenses. Just be. He doesn’t think you’re capable of that. He doesn’t think you know how to feel at ease. That worries him more than he’s willing to admit.

“You’re thinking about her?” Tashi’s voice is almost angry as she kisses his neck. “No.” A lie. A complete lie. He can only think about you. He realized that a few years ago and stopped fighting it. You and tennis, as if that’s all there is in the world. What else even exists? What else even matters? “You’re a terrible liar,” she mutters against him, and somehow, the ugly shirt he’s pretty sure was Tashi’s -he doesn’t even know why he wore it- ends up on the floor. ‘You’re not thinking about Art?’ he should have asked, but he’s not here to ask questions. He’s here because he’s angry. At Art, at you, at Tashi for telling him, at the world. So he’s here. And they’re both shedding more pieces of their clothing and maybe their souls, because what they’re doing now has no way back. No forgiveness. They are bad people. Patrick knows it. Tashi knows it.

And after he wrings a heavy moan from her, one that follows an orgasm, she quietly tells him she thinks Art loves you. Patrick stares at the gaudy ring stuck on her finger, the ring that, in another universe, Art would have placed on yours. “Why do you think that?” Patrick asks softly, because what else is left to do? “I didn’t want him to go to the funeral. I wanted him to stay and train, but he went anyway,” she mumbles. Patrick says nothing, just nods. He would have done the exact same thing, and that’s why you didn’t call him. He would have come. Despite the dreams. Despite the tennis. Despite everything.

And Patrick remembers all the times Art called you sweet. All the times Art never wanted to tell him anything about what happened between you two. All the times Art didn’t want to talk about you. And it wasn’t because it wasn’t good. It wasn’t because other girls were better. It was because there was depth Patrick can only put his finger on now. So much happened beneath the surface- so much that Art had no words to describe it. So much that Art drowned in his own emotions. Repressed them and kept them bottled up until he found something shiny to bury his feelings in. Until he found Tashi.

And Tashi is safe. With Tashi, you can’t get lost. With Tashi, there’s a plan. With you, he just has to be himself. He doesn’t know how to be anything else. And that’s terrifying.

For the first time, Patrick understands Art in absolute terms. He lies in a hotel room, stroking the hair of a woman who isn’t you, and understands everything there is to understand about life. Mainly, he understands again- that you are so fucking sweet. And that there’s no way he can win. . . .

You're going over tomorrow’s lesson when you hear the door open. Without turning around, you already know it’s Patrick. Who else could it be? His scrutinizing gaze doesn’t waver from you, even when he says nothing. “How was it?” You find yourself breaking the silence, lifting your head toward him with a smile. He doesn’t smile back. He looks exhausted. The message Art sent you lingers in the back of your mind; He’s cheating on you. -Art Donaldson- Art has his reasons to make something like this up, but you doubt he’d be cruel enough to lie about it. Not while you’re mourning your horrible mother. No matter how angry he is at you. No matter how angry he is at Patrick. You don’t think Art is capable of that. You want to believe he isn’t capable of that. Then again, you also want so badly to believe Patrick wouldn’t do it. That Patrick wouldn’t cheat on you. That he wouldn’t find someone prettier, better, more cheerful and do all the things with her that he probably can’t do with you. You don’t want to think about the possibility that you haven’t sacrificed enough. That you didn’t try as hard as you were taught to. Your fault, your fault, your fault. You don’t want to believe it’s your fault. That another love will slip through your fingers, as if you’re trying to hold water. So, you choose to say nothing, because even if it’s true, even if he was with someone else, he came home. And home isn’t big, to say the least, not grand, not dazzling. But he came back. He’s right in front of you. You’re not alone. He knows you. He knows such ugly parts of you that sometimes you’re scared to acknowledge they even exist. He knows what you refuse to recognize in yourself, and sometimes he reminds you that you deserve more than you think. Which is a bizarre thought in itself. But you let him think it, you let him believe it enough for him to believe it for the both of you. “I lost in the third round. To Peter Michelson,” he says shortly, and you nod. “No choice but to make a voodoo doll with Peter Michelson’s face,” you try to joke. He usually laughs. At least smiles. He does neither. He just stands there like a block of wood, with the same expression. “I’m sorry you lost. I wish I’d been there,” you mumble, not knowing what else to say. “What about you? Anything special happen this week?” he asks, his gaze never leaving you.

Now you could tell him your mother died, but there’s no way to say it without it turning into a fight about the fact that you didn’t tell him the moment you found out. “No, nothing special, you know. My routine is boring.” You shrug and shift your focus back to the lesson you’re supposed to teach tomorrow. The Great Gatsby. A shitty book. “Nothing special at all?” he presses. “If you count the fact that Mr. Grace forgot to put in his dentures on Monday -again- and I had to sub for his class, then no.” It’s a half-lie because the thing with Mr. Grace and his dentures did happen, just not this week. Most of this week, you were at your parents’ house, helping your father deal with shiva and all the people who came by. He was completely heartbroken.

You see Patrick shake his head slightly and close his eyes. You know this is something he does when he’s trying to restrain himself. When he doesn’t want to lash out. When something is bothering him, and he doesn’t want it to turn into the biggest fight in the world. He has a bad history with fights that spiral out of control. “No one was born? No relatives died? I don’t know, maybe the woman who gave birth to you?” he says, his piercing gaze back on you. “Shit,” you mumble. Because what else is there to say in this situation? “Yeah, shit,” he stays exactly where he is, making you feel like a child being scolded. Like you dropped a lollipop and won’t be getting a new one.

“I’m sorry-” you start. “My mom isn’t dead; your mom is dead. I think I’m the one who’s sorry.” Patrick hated when you apologized. He said it was irrational with you. That you apologized more than was normal and more than people around you deserved. “Patrick,” you sigh, scrunching your nose as you try to think of a good way to explain it. “I really need to understand this, (Y/N). When were you planning on telling me your living mother was no longer alive? Another month? Two months? Two years? What was the timeline in that head of yours?” His words drip with sarcasm, like the way he used to talk to you before you became you and Patrick. Before you learned to love who he was and before he started treating you like you weren’t the worst person in the world.

“I didn’t want you to withdraw from Atlanta. You trained for it so hard.” You sigh again, quietly. This time, you’re the one closing your eyes, not wanting to look at him- and in doing so, you miss the fact that he moves toward you in giant strides. “I wish you’d told me, Little Dove. I wish I’d been with you instead of being there.” His hands cup your face as he crouches in front of you, looking up to catch your eyes. “I’m sor-” You stop yourself mid-sentence when you see his displeased expression. “How do you feel?” he asks, and you shrug in response. Because what you feel isn’t something you can say out loud, not even to Patrick. It’s not okay to feel relieved. A lot of sadness, of course. But also, relief.

“Tell me,” he insists. He has a habit of knowing the things you don’t want to say. He can look at your face and catch the slight twitch of your left eyebrow to understand what you’re feeling. To see what you try so hard to hide. You can’t beat him at this. You can’t lie to him, not too much. Not about your feelings. Not when he spent years of his life learning what to hate about you, and then a few more years learning to love it. “She wasn’t the nicest woman in the world,” you murmur quietly, like you’re confessing the most forbidden secret. Like it’s a secret that could start a world war. Like Patrick would tell someone.

“She didn’t like me.” Patrick lets out a dry chuckle, his eyes glassy as if he’s remembering something. “She used to call me Art all the time and then correct herself, like it was an accident, but she did it on purpose. So I’d know she wanted me to be Art.” His jaw tightens slightly. You can see the anger and frustration behind the fake lightness in his tone. “I’m sorry,” you say because you don’t know what else to say, and he sighs. His large hands wrap around you in an almost crushing hug. Almost making it hard to breathe.

But that’s how Patrick is. Everything he feels is out in the open. Everything he thinks, he says. Everything he wants, he does. And most of the time, he wants to be present in your life, which is ridiculous because there is no one more present in your life than him. He still acts like he needs to prove something to you. “I wish you’d let me take care of you, Little Dove. It would be easier.” He whispers into your hair, not letting go for a second. You can almost feel him thinking, almost see him guessing what might help you. “I know you care about me,” you say, shifting slightly to look at him, to show him that he doesn’t need to prove anything. That you’re okay.

“Did you eat?” he suddenly asks, stepping back slightly, scanning you, then moving toward the half-empty fridge. “What did you eat?” he follows up. “I don’t know, Patrick. I don’t keep a journal,” you roll your eyes. “Don’t give me that bullshit. What did you eat, (Y/N)?” He doesn’t let up. “A sandwich,” you mutter the first thing that comes to mind. “Since this morning?” His eyes stay locked on you. “Patrick, my mother just died. Can we not focus on what I eat for one second? It’s exhausting,” you roll your eyes and cross your arms, turning your face to the side as he steps toward you and nods. . . . "What do you want to focus on?" he asked. Patrick felt guilty. He looked at you and saw nothing but the fact that just a few days ago, he had been with Tashi. While you were mourning your unbearable mother, he was busy fucking Tashi in a fancy hotel room, at a tournament he lost and that Art Donaldson would probably win. "You," your voice was small as you looked at him, almost pleading for a break from the interrogation and the anger. He hated when you made him the center of your focus, when you tried to do what you thought he wanted you to do. So he nodded and placed a small kiss on the crown of your head, knowing exactly what he needed to do.

Patrick felt like a man on a mission as he dropped to his knees in front of you. "Pat-" you tried to protest, to tell him he didn’t have to. You always tried. As if going down on you was a burden to him, as if all it would take for him to spend a lifetime just like this was for you to fucking ask. "Baby, can you take these off for me?" It was a question, but there was no question mark at the end. Not in that tone. Not when he was looking up at you like that, completely in control of the situation.

So you slid your pants down slowly, trying to hold on to the last bit of control slipping away with every second he stared at you like that. He took care of your underwear himself. Leaving you bare in front of him. "Fuck, Pat," you mumbled, closing your eyes for a moment, leaning back against the wall, making him look up at you one last time with a smirk stretched across his face. And then he got to work.

His lips explored you like you were his source of oxygen. Like his natural place was buried under you, his mouth inside you. "Baby, I’d eat you for the rest of my life. Every day. Every fucking day." His grip on your thigh was ruthless. Patrick felt like he was holding on for dear life, like this was all there was left to do. Like it was all he knew. "Sweet fucking pussy," he kept mumbling into you, until his face was coated with his own spit and your slick. He was ready to take it all, everything you gave him. In these moments, everything that was yours became his, and the little that was his became yours.

So he was milking it. He licked your clit in slow, agonizing strokes- for both of you. He took his time. The euphoria would come, but he was going to enjoy it until it did. Your small whimpers made him growl directly into you. "Patrick, Patrick, Patrick," like a prayer. He felt it. He felt divinity in all of it. He sped up and slowed down and sped up and slowed down. Merciless to the near-sobs escaping from you. "You're so sweet, baby. Do you want to come?" And he wasn’t asking if you wanted to come for him, because he wanted you to come for yourself. Because he wanted you to always, always come for yourself. He wanted to be a vessel. He wanted to erase all the stupid patterns in your head and make sure every orgasm you had was yours and for you. "Patrick." He thought that was the only thing you were capable of saying coherently, and he was fine with that. He was selfish enough to be satisfied if his name was the only word you could say forever.

And when you came with a moan he had learned to recognize and nearly worship, he told you how good you were. How rare you were. That he was yours and that he would always take care of you. He looked up at you from below, saw the tears slipping down your face, and pressed another kiss to your thigh. One that emphasized the word always. Because he didn’t think he could ever let this go. He was too selfish to ever let this go. . . . Art peeked through the door of the room every few seconds, searching for you among the guests. At this point, he didn’t even bother lying to himself about it. Because he didn’t know what else was left for him besides admitting the truth to himself- things he was never able to admit before. Lately, he’d been thinking a lot about the nights he used to lay beside you. When you didn’t even fuck. When you just lay in that rickety twin bed in his dorm room. He was willing to take that. He was willing not to fuck you if it meant you’d hold him again. More than that, he was willing not to fuck anyone ever again. But you were too sweet, you wouldn’t let him go through life without sex. The thought made him chuckle for a second. But he was nervous. So fucking nervous.

He was about to marry Tashi, and she didn’t cross his mind even once. He accidentally saw her dress, even though he told her that he hadn’t really noticed it was there. He knew she would be a stunning bride. That months from now, people would still be talking about Tashi Duncan in a wedding dress. He knew people would envy him, he knew everything. His mind knew everything.

But all he could think about was what kind of wedding dress you would have chosen. He was almost sure it would be something less extravagant; you’d try to draw as little attention as possible. But the Art he was today wouldn’t have let you. He would’ve told you that you deserved all the attention the universe had to offer. That you deserved to be seen. He hated himself for how long it had taken him to realize that. Only when you truly weren’t there. Only when you belonged to someone else. Only when you chose Patrick Zweig of all people.

Patrick Zweig, who hated you with every fiber of his being. Patrick Zweig, who Art was almost certain had cheated on you with Tashi. It should have hurt him much more than it did. But all he cared about was figuring out if this would be the thing that made you get up and leave. You had to know you deserved better. That if not him- if not Art, the guy you both knew you loved with all your heart- then at least someone who didn’t want anyone else. That was the bare minimum you deserved. For years, he’d wondered if he had something to do with how little you thought you deserved, with how low your standards were.

He convinced his mother- who probably loved you even more than he did- to take upon herself convincing you to come to his wedding. Which was almost sadistic of him. Maybe masochistic. Maybe both. But he had to see you. He hadn’t seen you since your mother’s funeral. Sometimes he dreamed about that day and how his hand held yours, he wanted it again and again and again. He wanted everyone to die if it meant he could hold you like that again. If it gave him an excuse.

He noticed that everything about you required an excuse. It hadn’t been like that when you were his. Except you were never really his. He didn’t even understand why it had been so complicated- why you hadn’t told him that’s what you wanted (though he could have guessed). And more than anything, he didn’t understand why he hadn’t known what he wanted. Why it hadn’t been clear to him that you were his person. That you knew the deepest parts of him.

He saw you walk in and texted you, almost begging you to come to the room where he was. You could tell him to go to hell, but that wasn’t your style. No, you were sweet. So sweet that all you did was knock on the door and push it open. Looking at him while he already had his eyes on your little black dress. While he was already studying the red nail polish. While he was already focusing on the lipstick he so badly wanted to wipe off of you.

“Your mother asked me to prepare a speech. Was that your idea?” you asked. There was no coldness in your voice, which made him happy. You stepped closer and started fixing his tie. He wanted to close his eyes, but at the same time, he wanted to see you. To remember you like this; in a little black dress, in heels, standing in front of him, helping him with his tie. “What can I say? You’re my best friend,” he said. And it wasn’t a lie, just as much as it wasn’t the truth. “That’s really sad, Art,” you said, probably referring to the last four years you spent apart. “Are you saying you have a better friend than me?” he asked, hoping you’d deny it because a yes might make him break down crying.

“It’s a mediocre speech. I didn’t know what to say at your wedding,” you sighed, confessing a secret. “Saying you don’t want me to get married would’ve been a good start,” he said, taking a risk. Because he calculated the timing, and you were late, so he had a very short window for this risk. “Don’t be ridicul—” you started, quietly. “If you tell me not to do this, I won’t get married. Tell me not to do it. Tell me it’ll be okay. That we’ll be okay,” he whispered. Not looking away from you.

The silence in the room was deafening, and the chuckle that escaped him was bitter. Fake. He felt pathetic and small and miserable, and maybe he was all those things because he never knew what he wanted in time. “I’m sorry,” you murmured. Not knowing what else to add, because what was left to add? He could see the wetness in your eyes. He knew how unfair he was being. “I’m sorry,” he echoed. He didn’t think he had ever told you that before, but he really, truly was. “Did you write something good about me?” he added. “That you’re my best friend. And that my soul will always love yours,” you said, letting a single tear fall as his rough hand wiped it away with whatever gentleness was still left in him.

It was a nice speech. Everyone applauded. Art cried. . . .

Here we are- the second part of So Sweet! Hope it turned out good enough. Thanks for stopping by and reading what I write, it means a lot. Let me know what you think. Love you guys, stay sweet! 💕

#art donaldson x reader #patrick zweig x reader #art donaldson #patrick zweig #tashi duncan #challengers fic #challengers #art donaldson smut #patrick zweig smut #so sweet

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rafesgreasycurtainbangs · 4 months ago

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Ok idea

S1/2 rafe making a mean comment to pogue situationship reader about her weight not knowing she had a ed. And then she spirals.

let me show you - rafe cameron

warnings: eating disorder, body dysmorphia, a bit angsty, insecure!reader, suggestive ending

au: love love love getting requests for insecure!reader! thank you so so much for this request, i hope i did it justice

word count: 1.1k

The bar at the country club was packed tonight, filled with the usual crowd—Kooks with too much money, loud conversations about boats and stocks, and the occasional sneaky pour of top-shelf liquor when they thought no one was looking. You moved through it all like you always did—quick, efficient, unnoticed. That was the job, after all. Blend in. Smile just enough to keep tips coming. Keep your head down.

Except tonight, you couldn’t stop yourself from listening. Rafe was at a table in the corner with his friends, all of them deep into their drinks, talking the way rich guys do when they don’t think anyone else matters. You weren’t even paying attention at first, too busy wiping down the counter, but then you heard your name. It was barely a passing comment—one of them, slurring slightly, laughing as he muttered, “Man, Rafe, you’ve been slumming it, huh? Didn’t know you liked ‘em built like that.”

Your stomach dropped.

And then Rafe—Rafe, who had been sneaking into your bed for the past few weeks, whose hands had traced every inch of you, who had murmured things against your skin that made you feel like maybe, just maybe, he saw you differently—just laughed. He didn’t even hesitate. Just went along with it. You didn’t hear what he said after that. You didn’t care. The sound of his agreement was already playing on a loop in your head, digging under your skin, pressing into your ribs like something sharp and heavy all at once.

After that, you couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

—

It got worse after that.

You told yourself it was fine. That you shouldn’t care. That it wasn’t like you and Rafe were serious, anyway. But it clung to you, sinking into the back of your mind like poison. Every time you looked in the mirror, you heard his voice. Every time you stepped onto the scale, the number felt heavier. Every time you skipped a meal, it felt like control. It wasn’t new. You’d been here before—this feeling, this pattern. But now it was worse because he had put you here.

And Rafe? He noticed something was off, but he didn’t put it together. Not at first. At first, it was just a passing comment. “You good?” he asked one night when you were curled up in bed beside him, staring at the ceiling instead of sleeping. You hummed a vague answer, and he didn’t push.

Then, it was little things.

“You’re barely eating.”

“You look tired.”

“You’re acting different.”

He noticed. He always did. He just didn’t know how to really ask.

Until tonight.

—

The scale in the en-suite bathroom was cold under your bare feet, the number blinking up at you in bright, unrelenting red. Too high. Your jaw clenched as you stepped off, heart pounding. The mirror in your bedroom was waiting for you—tall, unforgiving. You turned in front of it, hands resting lightly on your stomach, your ribs, your thighs. It wasn’t enough. It was never enough.

You barely heard the door open. But you felt him. Rafe’s presence filled the room instantly, his footsteps slowing as he took in the scene. The mirror. The way you stood in front of it, scrutinizing yourself. The way your body tensed when you realized he was watching. You didn’t turn around.

“What the hell are you doing?” His voice was rougher than usual, laced with something unreadable. You swallowed, forcing your arms to drop to your sides. “Nothing.” Rafe scoffed. “That’s not nothing.” Silence stretched between you. His gaze felt heavy, pressing into your back like the weight of a thousand unspoken things.

Then—he stepped closer. His reflection appeared behind yours in the mirror, taller, broader, solid in a way you suddenly envied. His eyes flickered over you—over the tension in your shoulders, the way your fingers curled into your palms. Then, over to the en-suite bathroom, where the scale still sat, numbers glowing faintly. Something clicked.

His expression darkened. “Are you—” He cut himself off, exhaling sharply. “How long?” You didn’t answer. Rafe’s jaw tensed. “Jesus Christ, y/n.” You finally turned to face him, wrapping your arms around yourself like that would somehow make this moment less unbearable. “What?” you muttered, voice flat. His eyes flickered with something almost like frustration. “You—this.” He gestured vaguely at the mirror, at you. “Why?”

You hesitated. Your throat felt tight. And then, before you could stop yourself— “I heard you.”Rafe’s brows furrowed. “What?”

“At the club,” you said, forcing the words out before they could suffocate you. “With your friends. When they were talking about me.” You swallowed hard. “You laughed, Rafe.” Realization crashed over his face. He opened his mouth. Shut it again. Exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his jaw like he was trying to buy himself time. “I—”

“Don’t.” Your voice cracked, and you hated it. Hated the emotion rising up in your chest, the sting behind your eyes. “Just—don’t.” Rafe ran a hand through his hair, looking more frustrated with himself than anything else. “I wasn’t thinking,” he admitted, voice lower now. “It was just stupid bullshit. I didn’t mean—”

“But you did say it.” The silence after that was unbearable. Then, quietly—

“I hate that you think you need to change.”

Your chest ached. You squeezed your eyes shut, hating how badly you wanted to believe him, hating the tears that slipped down your cheeks anyway. “I hate feeling like this,” you whispered. Something in Rafe’s expression cracked. He exhaled, slow and careful, before stepping closer. This time, when he reached for you, you didn’t pull away. His hands slid to your arms, warm and solid, grounding you in a way you didn’t know you needed.

“I didn’t say anything before not because I didn’t care,” he admitted. “Not in the way you think. I just—I’m not good at this shit, okay? At emotions, at knowing what to say.” He exhaled. “But I do care. More than I should, probably. And I swear to God, I never meant for you to—” He cut himself off, his grip tightening like he was scared you’d slip away. “I was an idiot.” You hesitated. Let his words sink in. Let yourself feel them. For the first time in weeks, the weight of it all didn’t feel so unbearable.

Then, softly, Rafe tilted your chin up, searching your eyes. “Let me fix this,” he murmured. “Let me show you how fucking perfect you are.”

His fingers trailed down, curling around your wrist, and he slowly led you toward the bed. His lips brushed against your forehead, your cheek, then lower, tracing reverent paths over every part of you that you had spent weeks hating.

“You don’t need to change,” he whispered between kisses. “Not for me. Not for anyone.” His hands explored, his mouth worshipped, and for the first time in forever, you let yourself believe it.

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ozzgin · 1 year ago

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OZZGIN!

May I request an idea/imagine?

It is about yandere! mental asylum patient and psychiatrist! reader, who is very practical and strict regarding her job, takes no BS from others. But, for some reason, she has a soft spot for yandere! mental asylum patient. The reason could either be he had a hard childhood in which he had to do what he had to do, which brutally killed his father, who used to abuse his mother and sister, but when the father tried to sell the sister into prostitution to buy more alcohol, all hell break lose. Psychiatrist! reader thinks what yandere! mental asylum the patient did was OKAY, and she wants to get him out of the asylum. They love each other deeply and would do anything, so far as to kill for one another. If you can, make it as twisted as you can. I live for some dark romance!

Please ignore my request if you are not able to do it. I completely understand. Thank you in advance! <3

Oh my, this request hits somewhat close to home as I have a friend incarcerated for similar reasons. I'm pondering the logistics behind this context you've provided, since murdering someone won't necessarily land you in a psych ward unless there are other symptoms that come with it. And so I've taken the liberty to expand the character's profile if that's alright. (Conveniently enough I still have my psychopathology lecture notes)

I want to add, however, that this story in no way romanticizes mental illness! If anything, one may consider it an opportunity to reflect on the fact that so many people struggling with disorders do not receive the proper care for it, or only do so when it's too late. Furthermore a medical professional should never, ever behave like this and whatever is written here should stay in the realm of fiction!

Yandere! Patient x Psychiatrist! Reader

Featuring a patient that's pushing the boundaries of your work ethic and might even succeed.

Content/warnings: female reader, detailed mentions of mental disorder, violence, obsessive behavior, breach of professional conduct

You roll up your sleeve and check your watch. He should be here soon. Out of habit, you shuffle the papers for a quick case review, even though you already know all the details by heart. You carefully set aside the patient’s MMPI and WHODAS entry assessments, then your first interviews. Your eyes briefly rest upon the resulting report you’ve comprised: Schizophreniform Disorder (Provisional) with good prognostic features; Diagnostic criteria consisting of delusions, disorganized speech (frequent derailment with episodes of incoherence, echolalia) and comorbid catatonia. Responds well to antipsychotic (clozapine 25mg/12 h) with no imminent need for dosage increase. As it currently stands, he will be fit for proper incarceration in less than 6 months. Is it something you agree with? Not quite. You’ve presented your case many times and it has always been met with pitiful shrugs and dismissals.

The door opens and you fix your posture, sweeping the documents back into your drawer. “And? How are you feeling today?” You ask, flashing a professional, cordial smile as the assisting nurse leads the patient to his seat and prepares her leave. “My chest hurts.” The man answers in a low voice, glaring at the nurse. He taps his foot against the plush carpet, seemingly restless. “How bad would you rate it? Chest pain is a somewhat common side effect of your medication.” You retort, following the movements of the woman finally excusing herself and exiting the room. Once you’re alone, the man’s shoulders droop and he visibly relaxes. “It’s not that, you know it. When can I touch you again?” He pleads, despair twisting his features. You tense up at the words. “Behave yourself. It hasn’t been that long.”

It’s not something you’re particularly proud of. In fact, you might even call it one of your great shames in life. You’ve always been a textbook professional, perhaps even too strict according to your coworkers and most patients. Not even in your wildest dreams would you have dared to imagine you’d violate the code of ethics by falling in love with your patient. But something about his situation stirred your sense of justice. Surely one cannot be punished for protecting their loved ones. The only criminal in the equation, at least in your eyes, was that joke of a father and he had it coming. So you found yourself wrestling against a blooming protectiveness and favoritism towards the young man brought here last month.

What would have normally compelled you into action had therefore been silently swept under the rug. Or even worse, you secretly indulged in it. A patient showing signs of affection towards you would instantly be transferred to a different psychiatrist. Yet you couldn’t put away the letters written by this one. Erratic, crumpled notes of “I love you” written countless times, pencil dug so deep it tore into the sheet. Bizarre illustrations that looked almost threatening. His elaborate delusions before medication was introduced, where he’d detail in grand narratives how you were fated for each other and nothing would stop him from having you sooner or later. You do not know what forces possessed you into this addictive plunge, but you’ve come to enjoy his violent, frenzied confessions. So much, that during one of the unsupervised meetings you let yourself pushed into the sofa as his hands tugged at your body in rabid need. It was so out of character that you wondered if it truly happened, though the bite marks and scratches on your neck and chest proved otherwise.

“Are they going to send me to prison?” He changes the subject and stands up, walking towards your desk. “Most likely. What you have is the result of a traumatic event, not a lifelong condition. Sporadic episodes that can be kept under control with antipsychotics aren’t enough of a reason to keep you in the hospital.” You press your legs together nervously and glance at him. “Can’t you just say it’s no longer working?” He suggests, kneeling before you and placing a hand on your thigh. “You know I can’t lie on the report.” You really don’t like it when he manipulates you like this. “Ah, yes, because lying is worse than fucking your patient.” He scoffs, annoyed. “Don’t threaten me like that”, you say as you turn towards him, but you’re stopped by the rough grip of his hand over your cheeks. “I’m not threatening you, I’m threatening everyone else. Listen, (Y/N), I’m not fucking around. I don’t mind pretending to be crazy if I have to. Will the meds still be working if I steal a shaving razor and cut the nurse open?” You try to open your mouth, but his fingers are pressed into your skin, locking your jaw into place. “I’m not going to prison. I’m not. Then I’ll never see you again and that can’t happen. You know that.”

Eventually he releases his hold, allowing you to speak. "I understand. Then there's no choice but to arrange your escape." You sigh, defeated, and he raises his eyebrows. "Won't that get you in trouble?" You chuckle at his statement. "Either way I'll be in trouble. You said it yourself. Might as well quit before I have to stand in front of the ethics board and have my license revoked." You'd prefer to keep the last ounce of pride if possible.

He sits on the floor and you notice his trembling hands. "Nervous?" You ask. "No. Just really happy. I'm not a bad person and you were the only one here to see it. But God, (Y/N), I'd kill anyone if it was for your sake. I can't wait to hold you whenever I want." He gazes at you as a smile widens on his face.

#female reader #male yandere #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere x darling #male yandere x reader #yandere imagine #yandere imagines #yandere scenarios #yandere headcanons #yandere oc x reader #obsessive yandere #tw yandere

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sweetestcaptainhughes · 1 year ago

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the order of which this series will be written has not yet been decided. this series is currently on hold. Trust me I love this series and I plan to come back to it and finish. But this is a very very HEAVY series to write if do it properly and I don’t half ase any of my writing on my blog. That being said, currently I don’t think I am not mentally in the current headspace to do give it justice. Give me some time, but I promise I will finish it. 💜

Is today a dark day? - Cole Caufield (depression)

For the first time since you started dating Cole, your depression seems to be coming back to kick you in the ass. Scared of how Cole will react, you do the only logical thing and pull away.

Quinn Hughes (ADHD)

Can you tell me what hurts? - John Marino (PCOS)

Always struggling with having a abnormal menstrual cycle, and doctors not seeming to care. It sort of became the norm for you to just not really know what's going on with your body. After meeting John, you were worried if he would get scared with how sick you really got so often and run. Or would he be the one to stick around and try to help you figure out what's wrong?

Jack Hughes (OCD) (requested)

What are you trying to say? - Trevor Zegras (Dyslexia)

In the talking stage with Trevor Zegras you're not sure how his joking personality will respond to your struggles that you have with being an adult with dyslexia, especially since it doesn't affect you how media expects it to.

Why do you think that? - Nico Hischier (Body Dysmorphia)

Y/N was happy with Nico, he made her feel like the most beautiful girl in the world. But what happens when an old friend of Y/N visits and they start looking back on old pictures. Or how does Nico handle Y/N pushing away when her body dysmorphia seems to finally catch up to her after so long of it being pushed to the back of her mind.

Brock Boeser (Anxiety)

Matthew Tkachuk (PTSD)

Luke Hughes (Binge Eating) (requested)

Auston Matthews (Anemia) (requested)

Borderline Personality Disorder (player undecided) (requested)

I am open to the idea of adding players and different disorders or health issues to this list if you have any ideas please send in an ask.

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komorebinked · 1 month ago

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⋆౨ Tacit ৎ˚⟡˖࣪

desc ✦ when you come home falling apart, soaked from the rain and too tired to explain, he doesn’t ask. he simply stays. listens. holds. loves.

word count ✦ 5.1K

what to expect? ✦ second person pov, porn with plot, no Y/N usage, fem!reader, hurt/comfort, all lowercase (i got lazy im sorry)

warnings ✦ body dysmorphia, implied eating disorder, metaphorical body horror imagery (NO EXPLICIT GORE), oral sex (f!reader receiving). if any of these things concern you or you worry it may trigger something in you, please click away! :(

a/n ✦ this is my first time writing angst and publishing smut so please go easy on me 💔

it was 6:47 PM. gyeong-seok had gotten home a while ago, having picked up na-yeon from her mother’s house. he waved, said goodbye then got on the bus. he pulled his phone out to send you a text.

“picked up na-yeon ❤️ do you have anything you want to have for dinner? :)”

delivered appeared at the bottom. he smiled, remembering the conversation the two of you had on the matter. you were telling him about a friend of yours who kept complaining whenever you would leave them on delivered. you told him that you only did that because you had no idea what to even text back or because you simply had a life outside texting. apparently, your friend didn’t get that. neither did gyeong-seok—but in a much different way than your friend did.

he said that sometimes when he’d text someone, the bottom of his messages would either say sent or delivered. he never knew what the difference even was, or if it even mattered. you laughed, thinking about how adorable it was that he didn’t know. of course he wouldn’t. he only just got a hold of using his phone properly (or efficiently), it made sense that he wasn’t aware of certain terminologies. you even tried getting him on instagram once, to post his artwork on that platform. he seemed shy, saying that he’ll give it a go next time, that he thinks he has yet to perfect his paintings. that man, you thought, such a perfectionist of his works.

but that was a few hours ago; currently, na-yeon was asleep in her room while gyeong-seok sat on the sofa of your apartment, which he had moved into eight months ago after you complained about having so much space but never having anything to fill the rooms.

the room that you never used and only gathered dust, was now a room for na-yeon to sleep in. the pantry you had, now had a variety of different snacks; some were na-yeon’s, some were yours, some were his and some were for all of you to share. it was a nice touch. it made you feel more at home.

gyeong-seok was more grateful than ever for your soul. you were so kind and sweet to him, offering him and his daughter a nicer place to stay, and helping him with his daughter’s treatments, even if the two of you have only been going out for a year and a half. it meant a lot to him. he didn’t think he’d ever find someone who would accept him, flaws and all, problems and all. there was absolutely no doubt in his heart that you were the right person for him, which is why he worries about you sometimes.

he worries that, behind your kindness, behind your soft exterior, was someone who just wanted to be treated the same way.

sure, you were open to him. told him your problems, your issues and whatnot, but they were always just the lighter ones. he didn’t know if you were simply an unproblematic person—or if you still hesitate to share your feelings, even with him.

there would be times when your whole mood would change. but it was never anything drastic. just you being quiet. so quiet. with a blank expression on your face like you were thinking of something, something that was bothering you. that bothered him. he never forced you to do anything, let alone tell him anything, so to help you open up, he’d do small things like.. sharing his problems, telling you stories, his insecurities, his desires, his wishes.

but every time he thinks you’re about to tell him what’s on your mind, it’s like you get reminded of something and quickly change the topic and the expression on your face.

gyeong-seok had a feeling that this night was one of those many.

he glances up at the clock, which reads 6:58 PM. he reaches for his phone on the coffee table, pressing the power button to see no new messages from you. you told him earlier this morning that you’d be home by 7:00, and you’d send him an update-text beforehand. but you didn’t. did your phone die? what happened?

his finger reached up to hover on the call button.

should he call you?

maybe you’d think of him as clingy if he did. he is clingy, but he doesn’t want to annoy you because of it, especially when you’re visiting your family. you wanted to bring him with you at first, wanted to introduce him to your parents and your cousins. it would be a great step forward in what you have together, but for some reason, you didn’t. he didn’t think much of it. he just figured that maybe it was too early to have that leap—too early for you. that’s all he cared about. ever since the two of you started dating, he made it clear that you would do things at your own pace. not his. he wanted to make you feel loved and cared for, especially with this being your first serious relationship.

he was snapped out of his little thought bubble when he heard the sound of muffled keys rattling outside the door. that was probably you, he thought. a smile faded into his lips. oh, he couldn’t wait to see you. every night, he always waited to see you. he stood up from the sofa, walking behind it and towards the door to greet you.

when the door opened, you were soaking wet from the rain.

his smile immediately faded into a look of concern.

“oh, honey..” he quickly took your hand and pulled you inside, closing the door behind you and clicking the lock. “did you not bring an umbrella, what happened?”

“i left it behind,” you murmured, your voice stoic.

he frowned, taking your shoulder bag and laying it down on the floor next to you. “you should take a shower, darling, you must be..” his hands ran up your arms, you feel the warmth of it through the sleeves of your top, “cold..” he says.

your gaze dropped to the floor. all you wanted to do was crawl onto your bed and sleep like a baby all night. today was a long day—and he could tell. but he didn’t know exactly if this was just you being stressed over taking a vacation leave from your job or if it was something else entirely.

“have you eaten dinner?” you spoke up, your breathing was unsteady.

he shook his head. “no, i was waiting for your message in case you wanted anything—” he glanced into your eyes, brushing over the strands of your hair that clung to your forehead, “but don’t worry, na-yeon already had her dinner. her mother took care of it.”

you simply nod, mustering a weak smile, stumbling your way forward. he was going to catch you when he watched you take another step forward. it must be the cold affecting you. he went to your side, his hand on your waist as he guided you forward.

“are you heading to the bathroom?”

“mhm..”

“i’ll get you a towel and some warm clothes, then.”

“thank you..”

he glanced at you, but you seemed to have your mind on something else. there it was again, he said to himself. something was bothering you.

you made your way to the shower while your lover busied himself with finding clothes for you to wear. you start to feel your body grow heavy. a fever is imminent. you start to unbutton your top, starting from the highest button.

the sound of the door knob twisting behind you made you jump, turning around to see it was just gyeong-seok carrying the garments and towel he promised you. he looked up at your startled face, chuckling softly. “it’s just me, honey..” he said, placing them on the sink counter. you let out a sigh of relief, going back to unbuttoning your clothes under the warm light of the bathroom.

he watched you struggle before walking over to help you.

“do you want some help?” his tone was calm and reassuring.

you nodded. his hands came up to replace where yours were, his gaze met yours. he still seemed hesitant to take your top off, just like when the two of you slept together for the first time. you found it adorable, how gentle and caring he was with you.

a smile formed on your lips as you rested your palms on his hands as a way to tell him that you’re okay with it.

gyeong-seok leaned forward to place a shy kiss on your knuckle after which he began to undo your shirt. he was careful, up until the very last button. then, he slowly pushes your arms back to pull your shirt down. your breath became a little more unsteady as you avoided his gaze, avoided looking at your body in the mirror. once your shirt was off, leaving you in your brassier, he tossed it over his shoulder and went down to kneel in front of you. you were thankful that he didn’t pay much attention to your bare torso.

you took a deep breath, which made him look up at you.

“is this okay..? can i take this off?”

you hesitated. “i.. uh..”

he could tell that you wanted to tell him something, your lips parted as you thought of the next words that were going to come out of your mouth.

“do you want me to turn arou—”

“did i gain weight?”

he suddenly stopped. a bit dumbfounded by your question. he just stared at you at first, processing the situation. maybe this was your way of opening up.

“did someone.. say something like that to you?” he asked gently and for a moment, you actually felt the seams of your interior start to fray. sniffling, your vision began to blur. the familiar sting of unshed tears welled in your eyes.

gyeong-seok’s expression softened when he realised what was happening. he quickly got up from his knees and cupped your face. “oh, angel..” he cooed. you feel your throat constricting, like you couldn’t breath, “you’re okay.. i’m here.” the memories were all coming back to you. you were glad that you chose not to bring your lover with you to that stupid gathering, but a part of you was regretting that visit altogether.

his hand trailed down your cheek to rub your arm.

“darling.. talk to me.”

you wanted to. but how would you even say it?

the words. they played on loop in your mind, like a broken record stuck on the cruelest parts. the glances, the hushed whispers, the sharp-tongued comments. the way they picked apart your outfit.

“did you gain weight? you look a lot fuller than before.”

gyeong-seok tries to get you to look at him, his fingers tilting your face to him but it was like you were in a daze. your tears spilled over your lashes. he feels his heart clench, gosh, he hasn’t seen you like this before.

you shook your head, trying to get rid of it—to not let it get to you. you were letting yourself go before you even got married—that you were never gonna get married. no one was gonna marry someone like you. and in the blink of an eye, you were back to being 13 and picking at your skin in the mirror.

who am i if not kind?

that was your only redeeming quality. your kindness. everything else, you thought, were unreformable. your face, it was too wide. your stomach, too much was spilling. your eyes looked wider than an owl’s. how could you ever not let it get to you, when a nagging thought followed behind?

“darling, hey.. can you hear me?” his voice was ever so calm.

what if gyeong-seok thinks of you the same way? it made your left hand reach over to your right arm, your nails digging into your skin. the idea seemed to claw its way deep into your head.

“hey.. hey, don’t do that—” he tries to brush your hand away, but it just came up to pinch another spot, “stop that. you’ll hurt yourself.”

what if he’s just with you out of convenience? what if he only wants your kindness, not you? it made you sick, like you wanted to throw up—throw up everything you ever ate. maybe then you’ll learn to lose a couple pounds.

your sobs became louder, your fingers clenched around your wrist. you wanted to rip your body apart, reshape every edge, then sew yourself together—so tightly that nothing would spill over. gyeong-seok pulls your hand away from your arm, placing it on his shoulder instead. his hands were warm, steady—one resting on your back, the other cupping your face. you wanted to say something, but the words tangled in your throat.

“if you need to pinch something, pinch me, alright?” he said, in a firm yet loving manner. he didn’t want you to hurt yourself. whatever your past was, whatever was going through your head at this moment, he was determined to stay by your side.

with your eyes too wet to see, you simply closed them, allowing your head to fall forward on his shoulders as your sobs began to break free. you were shaking. he wasn’t sure if it was from the cold or from your crying. either way, he wasn’t gonna let you go anytime soon, but he also knew that you needed to take a warm shower. any time later and you’d catch a fever, that is, if you don’t already have one.

“darling..” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss onto your hair, “do you want to talk about it?”

you barely moved your head, just enough to say no. the weight of it all was still heavy for you—you needed time to calm down and collect yourself so you could tell him properly. so that he could understand.

“yeah. that’s alright..” he brushed your soaked hair back, “but.. you might need a shower, though. can you do that for me? a warm shower might help to clear your thoughts,” he says, making you pull your head back from his shoulder. he smiled. even with your face all flushed from sobbing, your eyes red and your cheeks stained with tears, you were still so beautiful to him.

“okay..” you responded, your voice sounding hoarse and dry. yeah, you were definitely going to get sick. gyeong-seok didn’t seem to mind though, that meant he’d have an excuse to look after you and spend time with you.

he nods, “great, i’ll get the water going. you can take your trousers and undergarments off while i’m at it, yeah?” he leaned forward, kissing your forehead before stepping towards the shower.

he turned the shower knob to the right, adjusting the temperature with his fingers.

you watch him from behind, taking your bra and then your trousers off but leaving your panties. you didn’t want to be.. fully naked in front of him. not right now anyway. you were still a little overwhelmed. stepping into the shower with him, he feels your cold presence which made him turn around. “is this a good temp’?” he asked, carefully taking your hand and pointing the tip of your index finger to the water.

you nodded, smiling weakly at your lover.

“okay, i’ll leave you to it then.”

gyeong-seok gave you a gentle peck on your hair, running his fingers through before making his way out of the shower, unexpectedly being stopped by you grabbing onto his arm. his eyes landed on yours, an eyebrow raised.

“please.. stay..”

his brows furrowed, a bit puzzled at your words. did you.. mean what he thought you meant? “i’m not going anywhere, honey. i’m just going to the kitchen, if that’s what you meant—” he turned his body around, his hand taking yours that was on his arm to interlace your fingers together. “is it?”

“n.. no,” you sighed, your lips still quivering a bit.

he tilted his head to the side. “do you want to shower together?”

your eyes met his, as if to say yes, but he needed more than that. he needed your word. “i need to hear you, is that a yes?” he asked, squeezing your hand ever so slightly. you look down at the tile flooring, nodding your head, “y.. yes. please.”

“of course. all you had to do was ask, sweetheart.”

with that, he closed the shower door behind him and tucked a strand behind your ear. “gosh, you’re beautiful..” he smiled, he couldn’t help it. if he could, he’d just pamper you with compliments all day. actually, maybe he will try that some day.

you mindlessly pull his hand up, your lips pressing softly on top. gyeong-seok just stood there dumbfounded for a second, shaking his head. “ohh.. you,” he didn’t get a chance to do anything in return as he watched you take a step back, your eyes fluttering close while the warm stream of water hit your back. you got startled at first, before you realised it was warm.

“it’s warm, remember?” gyeong-seok chuckled. you open your eyes to see him pull his shirt off over his head. you’ve seen him without a shirt multiple times before, but never in this lighting. never under the dim orange lighting, with the glass wall of your shower all fogged up.

his broad shoulders, his biceps that you loved to snuggle up to in bed. his muscles that weren’t overly defined, but you knew could effortlessly carry you if he wanted to. then your eyes travelled to his chest, toned but not exaggerated. he was beautiful too. you wondered if he knew that.

lucky for you, he hadn’t noticed you staring, having been too preoccupied with unbuttoning his jeans. once he did, he looked up at you once again, like he was asking if it was alright with you.

“you know that we’ve slept together before, right?”

there it was. your silly attitude that he loved so much. “i know. i just want to make sure that you’re okay with someone stripping in front of you.”

“that someone is my lover,” you corrected him, “if anything, i want to see you like this.”

“oh? you do?” a cheeky smirk made its way to his lips as he pulled off his jeans, leaving him in his boxers, “that’s something.”

you let out a soft laugh, making him glance up at you. your mood seemed to be improving, that was good. he needs to keep you like that. “you know,” he started lowering his jeans down, the burgundy coloured garter of his boxers coming into view, “if i didn’t know any better, i’d say you were ogling.”

your eyes slightly narrowing, you crossed your arms. “i was not ogling,” oh, you most definitely were now. gaze tracing his pants, the way he was sliding it down. lower, and lower. letting out a shaky breath, you closed your eyes for a second. calm down.

“uh huh, right..” he teased, tossing his trousers up his shoulder. his arm reached out to push the shower door open.

“where are you going?”

a soft laugh escaped his lips. “i’m gonna go get a towel, honey. ‘won’t be long,” he reassured you, giving you a gentle smile before stepping out.

you stare blankly at where he was for a moment, letting out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. you scoffed. won’t be long.. won’t be long—he was teasing you, like a father soothing his child on the first day of school. you turned around, leaning forward into the steam to allow the water to wash over you completely.

the warmth soaked your skin as your mind began to wander back to that house. no. you weren’t gonna let it bother you all night. what were you thinking of anyway—visiting? never again. at least, not alone anyways.

your arms loosened, falling to your side. you turn your head up, feeling the light tickle of the shower stream on your face. you tried thinking of something else, anything else. your thoughts drifted to something.. different, almost involuntarily. the image of your lover, hands gently loosening his trousers, that stupid coloured garter. you tried to shake the thought away, but it clung to you like hair stuck to your forehead when you got a little.. too.. hot.

finding your hands trailing down your stomach, you try to ignore the part of your head that was reminding you of your visit earlier. you imagined it was his, it was him touching you like this. you could get him to do that, but he was taking too long with that damn towel.

you open your eyes, looking down at your hand. where it was. just below your stomach. gosh. the things this man made you do, and he didn’t even put his hands on you. a sigh through your lips as you leaned your head back, suddenly feeling warm skin behind you.

“oh, what the hell—” you jumped, turning around to see it was just gyeong-seok, his arms up with a look in his face that you could already tell was regretting sneaking up on you like that.

he swallowed. “i’m sorry! i didn’t mean to.. i—.. you were.. in the middle of something…” he explained, but you just chuckled, “i didn’t want to interrupt but you said you wanted a shower together.”

a smile played on your lips, shaking your head as you pulled him by his hands closer to you, his hair slowly getting soaked. “you didn’t interrupt.. trust me.”

his eyes remained locked on yours, a gentle curl on the edges of his lips. you watched as a bead of water pooled in the dip of his collarbone; slowly did it overflow, eventually trickling down his midriff. this time, he definitely caught you staring.

you feel his index finger pointed to your chin, tilting your head up. “eyes up here,” he said, his joke catching you off guard. a scoff came out of you as you gently pushed him away. “you ruined the moment..”

“oh, i’m sorry.”

“no.. don’t apologise.”

“.. okay.”

gyeong-seok hummed a quiet laugh as he stepped forward again, his arms pulling you towards him. “better?”

you narrowed your eyes.

“better.”

now it was his turn to scoff, making you smile even more—one might even say you were beaming at him. he tucked a loose, wet strand of hair away from your cheek, cupping your face with one hand. “you realise how beautiful you are, right?”

you closed your eyes. “alright, don’t start pampering me with good words now. i’m not in the mood for that.”

his eyebrows raised.

“then what mood are you in?”

you look up at him. does he know what he’s doing? breath hitching, your lips parted as you tilted your head to the side.. slowly, your palm pressed to his chest, you leaned in to close the space between you. when your lips met his, it felt soft as ever. making him use a chapstick paid off, you thought.

he felt a bit hesitant at first, not sure where this was going. when you slightly push yourself against him though, that was the hint he was waiting for.

oh. that’s what she wants.

a hand coming up to the back of your neck, he pulled you closer, his lips finally moving against you in a rhythm that nearly felt addictive. he pulled away for a moment, eyes meeting yours only to kiss you even more under the warm stream of water. you had no idea if it was the steam getting to you, but you felt a lot hotter.

you stumble, your back hitting the cold tile wall of the shower, before your head could do the same—the hand on your neck went up to cushion the hit. you smile against his lips which made him ease away, his face slightly pink. he looked so adorable, with his hair dripping looking like a lost puppy for you.

“‘you okay..?”

“mhm..” you hummed, nodding your head.

he returned your smile. instead of going back to your lips however, you feel him nuzzling his face in the crook of your neck. his breath warm, you exhaled slowly as he places a kiss on your skin. then another. and another.

your hands found themselves holding onto his shoulder, not wanting him to go anywhere.

“so beautiful.. so sweet…” you hear him murmur against your neck.

his kisses were nothing but soft.. yet needy—not once did you feel him suck, like leaving a hickey. he was being so gentle with you. he switches his head to the other side, making your eyes flutter close as he peppers that side with more kisses.

his other hand travelled down your shoulder to your stomach, tracing circles before making its way to the supple curve of your breasts. he squeezed gently, dragging out a whimper from you.

“i’ve barely done anything, sweetheart..” he teased.

your scrunch up your face in frustration. “you know what you’re—...” you cut yourself off as you watch him leave kisses in his wake until he reached your breast. he stuck his tongue out at the peak, taking it in his mouth and swirling it around. you looked away, trying to bite back a moan but failed miserably.

“hm..” gyeong-seok hummed.

then, you feel his mouth leaving your tit. you whine at the lost contact, your eyes blinking open. you see him slowly kneel down in front of you, kissing your stomach, your lower abdomen before reaching your panties.

right. you haven’t taken them off yet. at first, you just simply didn’t want to, now you were glad you chose not to so he could remove it for you. and remove it, he did. hooking his fingers under the band before pulling it down to your ankles. you raised your leg up slightly, one after the other, making it easier for him to discard it on the floor next to him. “why’d you keep it on..?” he asked, his tone ever so sweet.

you tried to speak but no words came out of you. not right now, not when he’s in front of you like this. kneeling, on the hard tile floor just for you. you simply stare, no, ogle him as he leaned forward to press a kiss on your folds.

lips parted yet again, you tried to tear your gaze but you couldn’t. he parted you down under with his tongue, dragging it to that small bundle of nerves, his saliva mixing with the shower water and your slick. you shifted above him, moving your pussy on the bridge of his nose. “oh.. fuck. sorry..” you cursed, reaching down to brush his hair back, “y-you look so… handsome..”

“only for you, darling,” he said. his hand reached up to rub your wrist, “do pull on it if you want, dear. yeah?”

you feel a daze coming over you, your heart pounding in your chest as you try to keep your cool. “ah.. uh huh.. s-sure.” he gently squeezed your hand, guiding it to his scalp before settling his own on either of your thighs, spreading it. you followed, slowly sliding your feet to spread yourself.

he leaned forward, gathering spit on his tongue before licking you up. you hissed, your fingers curling around his hair. “oh.. go-od..” you moaned.

he closed his eyes as he took your clit in his mouth, eating you out like it was his dinner for the night. his tongue moving in a circular motion—burying himself further, you feel him protruding your slit. you let out a soft gasp.

“o-oh—baby.. s.. uhh.. mm..” you whine, your hips jerking forward which made him press you back on the wall to get you to stop moving. he pulled away for a moment, his eyes meeting yours with his chin shiny from the mix of spit and slick.

“are you okay? was that okay..?” he asked, his thumb soothing over the bone of your hips.

you nod, combing his hair back.

“i need to hear you, honey.”

you swallowed. “y-yes.. it.. it felt good.”

“may i do it again?”

“please..”

you didn’t need to tell him again before he dove back in. you looked up at the ceiling above you, closing your eyes again as you felt his tongue in you. a breathy moan escaped your lips, then one a pitch higher when his nose brushed hard against you. he was lapping at you like he’d been craving you for days. your walls clenching around his tongue, making him flick his tongue up your clit. it was no surprise when soon you felt a knot forming in your stomach. one that was no stranger to you.

you feel yourself arch instinctively, trying out his name on your lips again. a warning, perhaps, but it didn’t really matter as the second one came out broken. caught in a moan as you ground yourself by gripping his hair tighter. that heat. it builds up fast. fast and sharp, you can almost feel it pooling in you. you didn’t even know how long it has been, probably not even that long before your body tenses as you gave in.

slowly opening your eyes, you glanced down at him, but he was already looking at you. he gently withdrew, pressing soft kisses on your folds. “what a sight..” he murmured, a lazy yet satisfied smirk curling at his lips as you feel his thumb rubbing on the skin of your thigh.

your eyes narrowed a bit, breath hitching with your lips parting as you let out a weak whine from the lack of him down there. still feeling that fluttering feeling inside your stomach, your hand ran through his hair again as he started peppering kisses up your body.

a soft noise, nearly a whimper, from you when he reached your collarbones. now that he was standing straight in front of you, he gently took hold of your palm. “what is it, darling?”

you shook your head.

“no. don’t be like that, tell me what you want to do. i’m here, and i won’t do anything until you tell me to,” he squeezed softly, placing a firm kiss on your knuckles, “do you understand that, honey?’

you let your head fall forward on his shoulder, closing your eyes.

“i just.. really—i need..” you stumble over your own words despite neither of you being in a hurry. he hushed you, pulling you in a hug. “oh, shh.. you’re okay. i know, and i got you.”

those were all you needed to hear to know that no matter what words spew from others, he’d always be there for you. his sweet little angel. also you probably should turn that water off. bills aren’t cheap!

a/n 2 ✦ hihihiii!! i hope u enjoyed that fic. im sorry it took so long for me to finish and publish this. i know this might be a downer note or something but i got SA’d a while ago and have been having a hard time trying to finish or process anything that’s.. you know. sexual. i was gonna go deeper with this fic but i really couldn’t, i hope u guys understand :’) anyway, have a great day!! <3

also im like lowkey on a lewis pullman grind lately thanks to thunderbolts*. if ur also on that train, hmu w some requests! not smut preferably. im already working on some fluff though :D

#park gyeong seok #lee jin wook #player 246 #gyeong seok #gyeong seok x reader #lee jinuk #player 246 x reader #squid game s2 #squid game #squid game x reader #c’s fics 🖋️

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knoepfl · 8 months ago

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Fractured Obsession

Okay I recently saw a post with this picture in it and I just thought "Fuck, this is amazing, what if...?" So I decided to take several characters and write as if those were locked in that room. Now here we are. This will be the first one of many more. If you want to see specific characters just write a comment or a request and I shall do them.^^ Right Under this will be a link to a Masterlist where I will update and announce the coming characters. So be sure to check that out once in a while! Now let's start with dear Shigaraki! Have fun! That Post was from @devotion-disorder so be sure to check them out!

Masterlist

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It started with a flicker of disbelief.

Tomura Shigaraki stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by walls plastered with pictures—dozens, maybe hundreds, all featuring you. At first glance, relief washed over him. Seeing your familiar face, the soft curve of your smile—his fixation, his obsession—so beautifully captured.

But then his sharp eyes caught the details. You weren’t alone.

There, in every photograph, was someone else. That stranger stood too close, his hand resting on your shoulder in ways Shigaraki thought were reserved only for him. In some pictures, the two of you laughed together, and in others, you leaned into the man like you belonged to him. Every frame was agony, stabbing deeper into Shigaraki’s mind.

“What…?” His voice rasped as he slowly reached out, fingertips grazing the glossy surface of one photo. “What kind of sick joke is this?”

5 minutes in: He tried to rationalize it. This had to be some kind of prank, right? Some attempt to mess with him, to twist his mind. They’re not real… They can’t be real.

But the images were so detailed—every smile, every casual touch. They were the kinds of moments that looked far too natural, far too intimate, to be faked. His stomach churned at the thought. Did you… No, it wasn’t possible. You wouldn’t betray me… would you?

He shook his head, trying to steady himself. “This is stupid,” he muttered under his breath, pacing the room. But doubt clung to him, tightening like a noose.

1 hour in: The rationalizations were gone now, replaced with gnawing paranoia.

Shigaraki stared hard at the photos, tracing each of your smiles, memorizing the way your hand lingered on the stranger’s arm. It was driving him mad. “Did you know about this?” he whispered, running his tongue over his dry lips, his mind spiraling. “Were you lying to me the whole time?”

His nails dug into his scalp, tugging at his hair in frustration. The edges of his mind blurred, thoughts turning jagged. “No. No. No.” He repeated the words like a mantra, but they did little to stop the images from burning into his brain.

What was worse—the idea that these moments were real, or that someone had gone to such lengths to fake them? Either way, the result was the same: you weren’t his anymore.

His breath quickened, chest rising and falling as if the walls were closing in. “I don’t like this,” he muttered, voice cracking. “I hate this.”

3 hours in: He was unraveling.

His hands trembled as he clawed at his throat, gasping for air that wouldn’t come. The thought of you with someone else was poison, flooding his veins, suffocating him. Every photo seemed to scream betrayal, and the faces—the laughter—blurred together into a haunting mockery.

“I can’t… I can’t breathe,” he choked, collapsing onto his knees. His fingernails scraped at the floor, leaving trails of red where his skin split open, but the pain barely registered. He could only think about you—your smile, your scent, your warmth—and how it now belonged to someone else.

Each thought was a knife twisting deeper into his chest. “Why would you do this to me?” he whispered, voice hollow with anguish. “Why?”

6+ hours in: By now, reason had long since abandoned him. His mind was a storm, a swirling mess of obsession and fury, of love and hatred. He sat slumped in the corner, hands clutching his face as he rocked back and forth. His nails dragged across his skin, leaving angry red streaks in their wake.

“It’s not real… It’s not real…” he whispered over and over again, but the words rang hollow. The photos were everywhere—on the walls, the floor, even the ceiling—and there was no escaping them.

In his mind, the stranger became an enemy—a threat to everything he had built in his obsession with you.

“They won’t have you,” Shigaraki muttered, his voice low and dangerous. His red-rimmed eyes glinted with manic determination as he dragged himself to his feet. “I won’t let them.”

Even if it meant destroying everything—even if it meant tearing apart the world itself—he would make sure no one ever took you from him. Not in this life, not in any other.

The Aftermath: When you finally returned to the room where Shigaraki had been kept, the sight that greeted you was… horrifying. The walls were scratched, the photos crumpled and torn, but his eyes—oh, his eyes—glowed with a madness that chilled you to the bone.

“You’re back,” he whispered, his lips curving into a smile far too wide to be sane. He staggered toward you, as if every step was a struggle, but his hands reached out eagerly.

“You won’t leave me again… right?” His voice was a mix of desperation and obsession, a promise and a threat.

And in that moment, you realized: there was no escaping him now. You belonged to him, in his mind, and he would stop at nothing to make sure you stayed that way.

Forever.

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achilles-rage · 6 months ago

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achilles-rage’s twelve days of christmas

day twelve: have yourself a merry little christmas (ft. evan buckley)

summary: spending christmas eve with your boyfriend, evan buckley.

word count: 1.6k

series masterlist

a/n: so sorry this is late, my grandparents just got here for christmas and i’ve been spending time with them!! and if i’m not online tomorrow, merry christmas!! i love and appreciate you guys so much, you have no idea!! enjoy<3

warnings: none, no use of y/n, fem!reader, plus size!reader, race inclusive!reader

Despite all the disorder and chaos the holidays bring, Buck loves everything about it. He’s often stressed about finding the perfect gifts for his loved ones, but the pure, unfiltered joy it brings him to see his friends and family happy always makes him completely forget about the hunt to find said gifts.

Coming home from work on Christmas Eve this year, however, felt off. His heart felt warm as he left work; feeling the brisk December air, seeing the multicoloured lights, and watching those around him frantically searching for last minute gifts and turkey dinner ingredients. He was only pulled back to his own Christmas Eve when he got to his apartment, remembering that you’re working late tonight, and he won’t be able to spend the night with you.

His face lights up, however, when he opens the door to Christmas music playing, and you standing in the kitchen in an apron, rather than a dark, empty house.

“Merry Christmas Eve, baby.” you say in a sickly-sweet voice, looking up from your mixing bowl to give him a wide grin.

He drops his bag and crosses the apartment to give you a kiss, unable to say anything as he wraps his head around the fact that you’re right here. He could already see his night in his head; all of his friends were spending the nights with their own families, so he’d be sat on the couch, all alone, wishing you were beside him in your matching Christmas pajamas.

“I thought you had to work?” he says when he pulls back from the kiss, one hand finding its home on your hip.

You drop the spatula in your hand and raise your shoulders, giving him a cheeky smile.

“I may have wanted to surprise you. My boss told me I could go home early, so I figured I’d keep it a surprise. I thought we could-” you explain, but you’re cut off by his lips on yours again, his shirt most definitely getting covered in flour and sugar as he presses his body against yours.

His kiss is slow and passionate, and it makes your head spin as his cologne invades your every sense. You haphazardly raise your hands to his wrists in a desperate attempt to ground yourself as he holds your face in his hands, and the stubble that scratches along your chin and your cheeks makes you shiver.

“This is the best surprise ever.” he murmurs as he pulls back, looking down at you with a dazed smile.

He then looks down at the cookie dough on the counter, and smirks as he dips a finger into the bowl and raises a glob of it to his lips. You roll your eyes with a soft laugh, then push him away and take the mixing bowl back into your arm to keep him away from it.

“Hey, stop that! These are for dinner tomorrow.” you tell him sternly, although the smile threatening to make its way onto your face betrays you. You’re going over to Athena and Bobby’s tomorrow for Christmas, and you desperately want to make sure you don’t run out of sweets.

“I don’t think anyone will mind if we’re one cookie short.” he tries to reason, taking a step forward. You step away again, a quiet giggle escaping your lips as he lunges at you and wraps his arms around your plush middle.

“What about 10 cookies short? I know you; you always eat them when they come out of the oven.” you argue, raising your shoulders to protect your neck as he drops his head and begins to press sloppy kisses to your neck, his stubble tickling your skin.

“Quality check.” he mumbles against your skin, and you laugh again, trying to squirm out of his grip.

“Buck, I’m serious.” you get out through breathless laughs, feeling your heart rate increase at the feeling of being wrapped in your boyfriend’s arms.

“And I’m in love with you.” he purrs, pressing one last kiss to your neck before pulling away reluctantly. He looks at the big smile and your face, and his chest swells with pride. He loves being able to make you a giggling and flustered mess with just a few kisses.

“And I love you. Now, please, can you get started on dinner while I finish these?” you ask him sweetly as the oven dings to signal it’s reached the right temperature.

“You’re no fun.” he teases, but complies, making his way to the fridge to pull out ingredients for dinner.

“Hey, I came home from work early for you. And, I bought more cocoa powder at the store so we can make homemade hot chocolate and drink it while we watch Christmas movies in our matching Christmas pajamas, which I also bought for us.” you argue in a teasing tone, narrowing your eyes at him.

He beams over his shoulder at you, and he has to resist the urge to pull you into him again at the thought of spending Christmas Eve with you on the couch, wrapped in each other’s arms with no worries or stress.

“You’re the best.” he tells you with a wink, balancing the food in his arms before dropping it on the kitchen counter.

“Damn right, I am.” you tell him with a smirk.

You both continue to work around each other in the kitchen, falling into a comfortable silence as the soft hum of the Christmas music envelopes you.

When the cookies are done and cooling on the counter, and your bellies are full from the dinner Buck had made, you go upstairs to change into your pajamas. While Buck’s consist of pajama pants and a t-shirt, yours are shorts with the same pattern, and a long sleeve shirt.

You sit on the counter as Buck makes the hot chocolate, swinging your legs absentmindedly as you talk about your days, and the plan for tomorrow. You sit close enough to the stove that Buck can keep a hand on you when he’s stirring the hot chocolate, at his insistence, of course, letting him run his fingers over the soft flesh of your thighs.

Every now and then, you pull him towards you, distracting him momentarily with a kiss as you wrap your legs around his waist. He melts into the kiss each time, the task at hand slipping his mind as he gets wrapped up in you, but he always pulls away before the hot chocolate burns, and you’re not sure how it hasn’t burnt already.

You bring your hot mugs to the couch once it’s ready, and curl up under lots of blankets, sides pressed together as you rest your head on his shoulder and he extends his arm behind you on the couch.

“What movie should we watch?” Buck asks as he turns on the TV, beginning to scroll through movies.

“How about It’s a Wonderful Life?” you ask, eyes following the flipping of movie titles passing on screen.

“What?” he says, brows furrowing as he looks down at you. Your brows furrow as well, and you look up at him quizzically, eyes searching his face.

“You’ve never seen It’s a Wonderful Life?” you ask in disbelief, letting your jaw drop as he shakes his head.

“No? Was I supposed to?” You sit up straight, hot chocolate in hand threatening to spill over the edge of the mug as you stare at him, completely dumbfounded.

“It’s a classic, I used to watch it every year growing up. What kind of movies did you watch as a kid?” you ask, turning your body completely to face him. He shrugs sheepishly, then looks down at his lap, feeling a little embarrassed.

“We never really celebrated Christmas much. I mean, there were presents and stuff, but there were never any traditions or anything. My parents got even more upset and distant around holidays, which makes sense now, I guess. But at the time, I just didn’t really see the point in celebrating Christmas if all it did was make my parents sad.” Your eyes soften at his words, and you feel a pang in your chest as you picture a little baby Buck wondering why his house seems to be the only one not filled with joy and laughter.

“Oh, baby. I’m sorry.” you whisper, a frown on your face. You move your fingers up to his chin and force his face back up, ducking your head a little until his eyes are back on yours. “We should make some new traditions, give you a real, happy Christmas.”

“Like homemade hot chocolate?” he replies, a small smile coming back onto his face. It’s true, his Christmases were never great, but now, with you, he’s extremely excited about the holidays.

“Yeah, and Christmas movies in matching pajamas.” you reply with a smile, leaning in to kiss him softly.

He hums as he kisses you back, and when your hand comes up to rest on his cheek, he lets out a content sigh. This has got to be the best Christmas ever. He has everything he could ever wish for right here in front of him.

“Sounds perfect. As long as it’s with you.” he tells you sincerely when you both pull away.

You feel heat rise to your cheeks at his words, and you bite your lip, as you stare into his eyes, entranced.

“Merry Christmas.” you whisper, then move to face the TV again, settling against him.

“Merry Christmas.” he replies, pressing a kiss to the top of your head before resting his head on top of yours and clicking play on the movie.

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