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almostempty · 9 days ago

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it’s not that deep but it is that serious!

(editing and reblogging to clarify a couple things at the end of the post - edited once more to combine the second reblog into one)

I just want to come to this app to talk about deep throating mean!Joel and to make friends with other hot freaks. But I need my fellow heathens to hear me out for a moment.

I’ve tried to keep this space a little escape from reality, but that’s not a realistic privilege because life and art are inherently political.

I've seen friends and mutuals receiving hateful, racist, and cruel anons recently. I know these issues aren’t new for our Black and brown peers.

I see a lot of folks jumping to offer support and to express their disgust at the racist remarks.

I also see a lot of shock and disbelief and I want to talk about that.

Racism, bigotry, and prejudice are not new issues for Black and brown folks. If you find yourself shocked, surprised, and outraged when folks share the hate they receive I ask that you reflect on this. It’s a privilege to be surprised, to not be used to navigating and experiencing that vitriol.

I know it’s well intended when folks say things like, ‘if you’re a racist piece of shit get off my blog’ or similar messages, and i understand the anger and frustration. (*i appreciate seeing solidarity and i also do not want to police (acab) how people respond to the hate they receive)

I also don’t think anyone who is aware and actively spreading hate will be deterred. I imagine there are 4chan incel type trolls that just thrive on the attention and reaction of using the most inflammatory language they can, and trolls will troll. They inevitably will pop up.

What I want to address is the levels below the overt and active hate. The accidental or inadvertent covert racism. The micro aggressions. The passive silence or enabling of rhetoric that lets folks perpetuate harm without even thinking.

Black and brown creators in our community have been disregarded or overshadowed when they speak up about diversity or inclusion in this fandom or feeling unwelcomed.

They wade through oceans of moodboards with faceless, thin, white women paired with our favorite characters. They power through reader inserts with freckles, red marks, and pink pussies that say and do things they might never feel safe saying or doing in those universes. They scroll through bad Spanish or fetishized latino caricatures and romanticized colonial values. And they still show love and support by commenting and reblogging and uplifting other writers.

Maybe there are footnotes about the moodboards only being for inspiration, but that doesn’t erase the constant messaging that it was easier to find those pictures and add a note than to search harder or leave the pictures out.

When I saw a fic with a detail about the pedro character having a confederate flag in his trailer I had to pause. This is a perfect example. I don’t read this as malicious or intentionally harmful. I understand the stereotype it’s rooted in and the general humor of the story as a whole. I get that it’s a small detail and that racism wasn’t a core part of the character or the story.

But if we sit with this longer.. what does this tell our Black and brown peers? When the reader notices it and it’s just as notable as a calendar on the wall? And she fucks him willingly anyway?

Hate symbols aren’t unserious. Background or not. Imagine writing a Joel fic and giving him a swastika tattoo just as a background detail. Sounds extreme right? Maybe you’re writing an AU felon Joel and just trying to show how hardened and dark he is. Maybe in your headcanon he only got it in prison to protect himself and he isn’t a racist.

But to nazis it says this is a safe place to be. To the general audience it says you don’t care if this makes them feel unsafe or invisible.

To folks reading that a confederate flag isn’t a big deal, it signals that it’s an acceptable symbol. It shows that people are reading and commenting and sharing this story and are unbothered. That maybe people don’t even notice.

I’m not asking anyone to send hate and I’m not writing this as an attack on the author or anyone who shared the fic. We don’t know what we don’t know, but we have the opportunity to learn!

I am asking my peers to step in and step up, because I think y’all are smart and capable of more.

I am not an expert on anything. But as someone who went to grad school for social work — a field that only exists to combat the societal harm of power, privilege, and oppression — I don’t take it lightly. I work in advocacy fighting discrimination and prejudice from institutions built on systemic racism daily. I’m aware that I have the privilege of training, language, and awareness around diversity and inclusion, and that not everyone has the same knowledge or experience.

I also know this fandom is full of incredibly smart and well spoken folks who craft moving stories and analyze characters with nuance and passion.

I’m not interested in censoring what anyone writes and I happily abide by don’t like; don’t read.

If I only wanted to read I would stick to ao3. But I’m here and I stay here because of the community. The friendships and the extra tag games and challenges and support and camaraderie.

I know I make mistakes myself. And I know it can be uncomfortable to be called out for something you never intended to hurt anyone with. I know it can feel like your voice won’t be heard or your experience won’t be validated in such a big space.

I shared a post a while ago by a creator that doesn’t write for this fandom. It was an ode to Black fanfic writers in general, and in the comments Black writers were tagging each other to show love. And I knew there was something wrong when I wanted to share it but felt deeply hesitant about tagging anyone because I didn’t want Black writers to receive hate.

One of my favorite things about this fandom is how global it is. Getting to make friends with folks around the world is such a treat. I also know racism and fascism are not unique to one region.

It’s Black history month in the states and in Canada. I know other countries observe Black history month in other months. It’s an intentional observation for a reason.

For us, this is a hobby. We’re here voluntarily, and mostly anonymously, but we’re all people. Community is so vital to thwarting the dangers of fascism and hateful rhetoric.

This IS a post about racism.

But racism is absolutely entangled with sexism, classism, ableism, ethnocentrism, capitalism, colonialism, imperialism, patriarchal hegemony, etc.

This isn’t just a rant. It’s an ask. I’m asking my peers—writers, readers, gif makers, lurkers, etc.— to help.

Reflect on what you share and post. Think about how others perceive you.

I’m asking my peers to be curious and open to discussions. To ask questions if you see covert racism. To be willing to accept feedback.

We can be gentle with one another.

Like, ‘hey, I saw this and am wondering if you’re aware of the origin or the impact it might have?’ or ‘can I share how this may be misinterpreted or harmful?’

Be kind sure, but be an advocate!

If you see someone posting about a character being their ‘spirit animal’ — send them a DM! If you read something that stereotypes a race, let the author know! There’s plenty of online resources for writing characters from other races without falling back on harmful tropes.

And even better… support your Black and brown peers. Share their work. Show them you value their presence in the fandom.

I encourage folks to read fics with original characters or reader characters with explicitly diverse ethnicities and tell the author you appreciate that character! Recommend the work to friends.

I never shut up about how much I love Heat and the story is incredibly compelling *because* the reader is a Latina written by a Latina.

Anyway, I come to this hellsite to laugh and be horny—but at my core I am an ethical hater and I only wrote all of this because I care and I want this space to be inclusive.

I’m not speaking on behalf of anyone else and I don’t want to speak over anyone. I’m open to feedback or ideas.

I’m tagging some mutuals I interact with and some that I don’t know very well, not to curse y’all with reading my long winded post but to ask: when you have the capacity will you help take action to make this community stronger? Will you commit to being open to feedback and growth?

Bottom line I just wanna read about getting railed by that fictional guy and I want my Black and brown peers to have the opportunity to enjoy the same escape from reality.

I feel like this is worth posting because I think y’all can make a difference. So many of y’all write and analyze stories and characters with such nuance and passion and detail—and that’s why i believe you can help spot subtle and insidious forms of racism and make real changes.

TL;DR: I’m asking everyone to be proactive when you see microaggressions or covert racism in the fandom, and to be willing to accept feedback and learn from each other. Being passive is a luxury and a privilege our marginalized peers do not have. Let’s be more than performative or not racist. Be active. Be anti-racist.

some tags for folks (no pressure to share, I don’t want attention I just want to encourage folks to take time to reflect or let me know what you think idk): *not calling anyone out as having committed any offenses just feeling compelled to share the message i guess

@auteurdelabre @joelmillerisapunk @lotusbxtch @probablyreadinsmut @ace-turned-confused @baronessvonglitter @yxtkiwiyxt @slimybeth69 @bitchesuntitled @thundermartini @sin-djarin @strang3lov3 @mermaidgirl30 @for-a-longlongtime @mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler-pascal @evolnoomym @wannab-urs @sanarsi @yopossum @almostfoxglove @itwasntimethatdidit40 @syd-djarin @miss-oranje-disco-dancer

to anyone: please start conversations or reach out to me or send me an anon ask if you want to discuss something or share, idc but i’m begging y’all to listen to each other and advocate for one another and be open to self-reflection 💗 editing to add: if i tagged you it was not a callout that i think you've done something specific to reflect on-- just a general invite to join me in being intentional and to invite feedback if you have any! if i made anyone anxious i apologize! - to clarify when i said 'it's not that deep' i mean that maybe fanfic is easily brushed off as not that deep, but every blog is a real person (minus the army of porn bots) and we form real connections in this community <3

edit:

one more thing,

first and foremost! a reminder that i am speaking about the inclusivity in this fandom as a whole. i don't want to lose the plot over one specific example that blew up. my point is the bulk of the racism in this fandom is perpetrated through micro aggressions and covert racism EVERY DAY. we can make sweeping statements and tell racists to fuck off, but next week we will be back to the status quo (aka where many non-white folks feel unwelcomed, aren't represented, and are disregarded when they raise concerns, etc.) unless we commit to examining ourselves first and looking for the more subtle things that perpetuate the current culture (e.g. harmful stereotypes and racial tropes, fetishizing latinx characters, bad Spanish, writing reader insert fics with specifically white features and characteristics without tagging, using slurs or coded language, etc.)

(i am behind on everything today and haven’t gotten back to everyone who added insightful thoughts and considerations to my original post yet)

i did see some folks share examples of positive experiences calling-in peers or learning something new themselves and wanted to say thanks and highlight those positives.

maybe other folks have already brought up the rest of my points and if so i do not mean to speak over anyone, but i wanted to add on to my first post:

i originally asked everyone to step up and commit to advocating for each other— but i’d like to explicitly ask white folks to step up and look out for our Black and brown friends (who are tired and don’t get to check out irl or online). i am asking white folks to be open to learning and growing with compassion. i am asking white folks to be persistent, proactive, and brave enough to be uncomfortable or wrong.

when i say we can be gentle with each other i do not mean to minimize pain or anger. i gladly and willingly validate that everyone has a right to be upset and outraged by hatred and racism. i am not asking my Black and brown peers to soften their reactions or dismiss their experiences.

i am (again) asking my white peers to be mindful, to take a breath and listen to what BIPOC folks have to say. to sit with the discomfort and know that seeing hate or racism might be shocking but it is not surprising if you’ve been listening.

i am asking my white peers to be kind and also strategic. if you have the patience and capacity then do what you can to increase the odds that your peers will be willing to listen and learn. it’s free to try at least.

most of us that commit micro aggressions or covert racism don't consider ourselves to be racists. we see posts that say 'racists and bigots aren't welcome on this blog' and we agree! we reblog those posts! we pat ourselves on the back for being an ally and continue on without making any other changes-- not because we are bad people, but because we have the privilege of feeling welcomed, represented, and valued as a baseline.

this is also my call-in to myself because i’ve allowed myself to stay quiet. i’ve relied on the comfort that my close friends know who i am and what my values are, but i have been passive. i have seen comments or posts that i recognized were ignorant or offensive and continued scrolling. i felt like it wasn't worth the drama to speak up.

i’m fallible and open to feedback ! i am also comfortable being an example, being vulnerable and sharing my mistakes or opportunities for growth. i've gotten more comfortable because i have hours of training and practice but i don't expect others to feel good being called-in or to anticipate what might make them act defensively.

i know the core principle of cultural humility is that nobody is an expert on culture, that the best practice is to remain open and curious, to identify your own values and beliefs, and to confront stereotypes. it is an ongoing process of self-reflection and commitment to growth

and so i volunteer to be here for any of my white friends that want to make this fandom a more inclusive space, but are feeling uncertain or uncomfortable. (i am not offering to defend racism or excuse hate)

there is extreme cognitive dissonance in believing you are a good person, a not-racist person, and a friend and ally— and being confronted with the idea you are perpetuating stereotypes, inadvertently causing harm, or alienating folks you care about.

I know it seems like a safe option to stay quiet if you think you might say the wrong thing or make a situation worse.

I know it’s hard enough to send someone a friendly message or to know what to comment on a fic you loved, let alone to feel empowered to point out something that might make someone else react defensively. I’m not volunteering to be the morality police (acab) but i’m here for all of my friends, mutuals, and peers in the fandom who want support with calling-in others or learning. i encourage and welcome discussion and curiosity.

i ask white folks to make conscious changes so that when these conversations die down we don’t fall back into enabling white ignorance to infect the fandom and harm our friends.

bonus thoughts

i see and am grateful for the folks that called my first post eloquent and at the same time i am deeply aware of the ‘angry Black woman’ trope that undermines and minimizes Black women’s voices (especially when they are rightfully angry). i guess i’m just repeating that i don’t want to speak over anyone but i am committing to speaking up.

i don’t want to harp on the confederate flag example anymore, but i would like to be clear that this isn’t about censorship. Consider the context and don’t turn this into a straw man argument or dilute the message with whataboutery. It speaks volumes if you’d rather argue semantics than listen to your peers about the reality of impact vs intent with that example or others.

thank you for reading and being here <3

#discourse I suppose #pedro pascal fandom this is a call for advocacy #opportunities for growth and learning #I see a lot of well intentioned folks and also we can do better #let’s speak plainly and foster accountability #thank you for reading

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nereidprinc3ss · 2 months ago

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mojave ghost

in which spencer reid spends the night with fem!reader—a total stranger—because she just feels so familiar. based on the song "my life in art" by Mojave 3.

18+ (implied intimacy) warnings/tags: based on a song about a stripper who runs away from her abusive boyfriend. tws for mentions of physical abuse. r has bruises from pole dancing. a little ooc bc Spencer hooks up with someone he just met but that's the point and if u know him like I do u know its not completely impossible. mentions of typical cm violence/murder. one brief mention of spencer's addiction. spencer's childhood trauma and abandonment. it's kind of just a heavy one, lmk if i'm missing anything a/n: I doooo suggest you listen to the song first just to feel the vibe of the piece and also how it is literally about Spencer Reid. and also bc its gorjus. anyways its been a while and this is not my most standard content but pls lmk what u think and if u liked it <3

He shouldn’t have done it.

But when he saw you, sitting in a metal folding chair next to some peeling veneered-desk, his breath caught. Something primal deep in his stomach tugged the way it does when he finds little external fragments of himself, calling out to him—usually nonhuman objects. He’s seen himself in books, still warm from the hands that held them but ultimately forgotten on a bench or in the airport, needles in alleys or in between tiles on his bathroom counter, in shards of glass, in a hundred open wounds and dead animals, abstractly gutted on the side of the street.

When he does see himself in a person, it’s in alarming glimpses. The man in the sleeping bag on the corner who talks to people that aren’t there. The lost child crying on the subway platform, rooted to the spot and still gripping the straps of their little backpack with responsible fists. It’s never anything he wants to know about himself, but this identification, this taxonomy and recognition of sameness—it’s so strong it stops him in his tracks, every time. He never really relates to the people he’s supposed to. Not Hotch. Not Gideon. Not even Maeve, in the way he’d so naively hoped for. Three people, all incredibly intelligent, at times standoffish. Used to being on the outside. All still possessing things and redemptive qualities he doesn’t. And what Spencer has secretly believed about himself for what has recently become a very long time, is that he is defined by his lack. The shape of him is made of negative space. He feels like whatever is in your lungs when you’ve pushed all the air out.

And then, you.

Physically, you look nothing alike. And he stops and lurches and does a double take like he’s seen his doppelgänger or been startled by his own reflection in a passing window anyway. Maybe it’s the way you hold yourself—hunched, foot tapping, head hung but still scanning the room, ever vigilant as you pick at your nails. You want to be small. You want to fold in yourself so many times you become a black hole. Spencer knows this.

Something calls out from deep inside him, from all around him, that is not quite in his voice, but feels like grasping and reaching.

I know you, I know you.

He doesn’t catch himself in time before he’s walking toward you like he’s been waiting for you.

Of course your head snaps up at the same time as he stops, and your eyes are shiny but not teary—frozen over with a layer of thick, dark ice like you’d carried the cold inside with you. You look caught. He searches for some sort of recognition in your eyes, anything to betray the fact that you have met before, because he never forgets a face but he knows what familiarity feels like and he can’t remember meeting you.

His throat forms around something but the wrong word comes out. Halting, like he’s trying to lasso it and pull it back in.

“Hi.”

You pull your scarf down—a deep Roman purple—to reveal a pretty mouth, lips chapped by the unforgiving freeze outside.

“Hello,” you say, politely, considering his probably strange behavior. He gives you a proprietary scan. Utility coat over a thick grey sweater. Jeans, cuffed at the bottom but still nearly too long, probably belted, although he can’t tell from the posture and the sweater. Brown boots. Your bag is a frayed tapestry of neutrals and patches. Fingerless knit gloves. You’ve given yourself false density, let the clothes swallow you up. Shapeless. Nearly faceless, magnet eyes framed between the scarf and the hat. But you’ve got a name. Everyone has a name. There’s yet to be anything humanity has discovered and not bothered to name.

He forgets to ask. You clear your throat.

“Um, I spoke to someone on the phone—Aaron, I think? We’re supposed to talk.”

Spencer tries to pick his jaw up off the floor.

“Yeah, um, I can—I’ll… go get him.”

He turns away and breathes for the first time since he saw you, but he feels you behind him. He’s aware of exactly where you are in relation to the back of his head, he can feel you, like a hot spot, all the way to Hotch’s door. He lets himself in, slipping between as small a gap as he can manage and shutting the door gently behind him. Hotch looks up, not noticeably displeased at having been interrupted in his endless paperwork.

What Spencer learns from his boss is this: you live in DC. You heard about a murder in Kansas—a girl, her hair still a fine, pale cornsilk. Barely not a child. You heard the details, and you called the cops, because you swear to god you know who did it, and they told you there was nothing they could do and gave you the number of someone who might be able to help, and so you followed a bureaucratic trail of phone numbers designed to discourage until you got to the BAU. Hotch says he’s going to interview you, but it’s probably nothing.

“Actually, I’d like to do it if that’s okay.”

Hotch frowns deeper than usual.

“Why?”

Spencer swallows. Hesitates.

“I finished my incident report early.”

Though he clearly has his reservations about Spencer’s sudden interest, Hotch is knee-deep in paperwork. So that’s how Spencer ends up in the round table room with you.

You look too young, too raw to have been married, but you’re rubbing at your ring finger with the adjacent thumb like something is bothering you there. An absence that has become a presence. Negative space. You see things that aren’t there. Spencer knows that, too. Maybe you’re the kind of person who could look at him and see something.

That is his most intimate fantasy. He imagines it with you and feels the same kind of illicit shame and bloodied, starving hunger other people feel when they imagine sex or drugs or ravaging power; the way anyone imagines anything they want and can’t have.

But he can’t put that kind of pressure on you. He can’t hold expectations like that. You’re a stranger.

“Do you always do that?”

He points to your fiddling and gets that sour feeling in his throat he always does when he says something and wishes he hadn’t said it. That probably doesn’t show on his face. Most things don’t show on his face. Or maybe they do and nobody has bothered to tell him.

You flex your pretty hand and then make a fist like you’ve been burned, probably to stop the compulsion. When you give a self-deprecating laugh, Spencer feels incredibly guilty for having pointed it out. But he doesn’t know how to talk to you. And at the same time, he almost expects it’ll be like talking to himself. Only nobody will give him odd looks.

“Uh… old habit. I used to spin my wedding ring around when I was nervous.”

Used to. You’re especially too young to have been divorced.

“You’re nervous?”

Your eyes flash as you look up to him. With what, he doesn’t know. Lightning, maybe. Electrical impulses that are a little less well insulated in you than in everyone else.

But maybe he’s projecting.

“Yeah. I feel crazy. But I was with a guy for a while who—and he was from Kansas—who would always, like, talk about… about hurting people. And I thought it was a joke at first, but… he laughed, at other people’s pain. He liked to hurt people. And animals. His dad had a farm, so I thought it was maybe he was just cavalier about life and death, but it was more than that. And he lived… he lived in that town. Where that girl died. He probably knew her. I… I probably knew her.”

Spencer’s heart sinks and he clears his throat like the force could bring it back up the right level again.

You’re not his soulmate. You’re just paranoid. Looking for answers and resolution, like everybody else.

The piece of himself he saw in you was just free radical damage. Instability.

“Did he ever kill anyone before?”

“Wh—not that I know of. But I don’t really think he would’ve told me.”

But you would’ve known. You’re here because you’re lost.

“Did he ever seriously injure anyone?”

You swallow and sit up a little straighter. Heat lightning in your eyes, again. It makes him feel something. He sits up too, despite your indignance, because it’s entrancing.

“Yes.”

“How so?”

“He… he…” you melt as quickly as you inflated and go back to spinning a ring that’s not there. It’s like watching technicolor go to black and white. “He’d beat people up. He cut them with broken beer bottles and… yeah. A lot of other shit. He was just… he was crazy. He wasn’t… okay.”

The way your gaze flickers back and forth like you’re reading pages of a book or perhaps in REM as you recount in vague detail what your ex had done clues Spencer into the fact that you’re extremely traumatized. The way you make sure to emphasize that your clearly abusive ex wasn’t okay clues him into the fact that you care too much. That you’re too quick to excuse people’s bad behavior, or dismiss it, because you know how it feels to be dismissed entirely and you don’t want to make anyone else feel the way you’ve felt.

Or maybe he’s still projecting. Maybe he’s idealized you in these few short minutes since you met and he’s too far gone. Maybe he should’ve let Hotch do this interview after all. In fact, he absolutely should’ve.

But the worst thing by far he did was ask to walk you to your car after all was said and done.

The interview went on for over two hours, and he’d learned things about you he suspects you’ve never told anyone before, and thus has learned about himself, and the building is mostly empty when you finally leave. The work day is over. So he selfishly asks you to wait while he gathers his things—buttons his coat, wraps his scarf, packs his bag—and then he soaks in the silence on the elevator because it’s that terrible, beautiful space between where you first cross the line and when you do something unforgivable. Asking to walk you to your car was crossing the line.

Sleeping with you was unforgivable.

And he didn’t care. Maybe he knew he was going to do this from the moment he saw you. Spencer never does this. The knowing that it was going to happen is quite a distinct flavor of intuitive knowledge and it was always on the back of his tongue.

You’re silver and purple, a streak, a blur, you move too fast to keep up with and even when you’re perfectly still the atoms around you scramble like they’re jonesing. You inspire movement. You are movement. But he gets to see you slow, and despite having known you only a few hours, he knows this is nothing short of a natural phenomenon. A once in a lifetime sort of shooting star. That’s where the silver comes in.

The purple, though—it’s in strange places. Around your upper arm. Between your thighs. On your knees and shins and hips. The first time he noticed it he couldn’t ignore it, but he couldn’t very well ask what’s hurting you while he was touching you in a way that was decidedly not painful, if he wanted to keep it that way. And he did. He wanted to keep you looking at him through half-lidded eyes like he was something to see.

Still, he can’t notice it and then fuck you without saying something—or maybe he could, and you desperately want him to and you ask for it and maybe most people would, but he won’t—so he brings it up.

“I lead a very active life,” is your whispered excuse, shaped by a smile that is something like mischievous. And then you’re kissing his flushed neck and making your descent and so he can’t ask very many questions.

It’s only in the precarious after that he can fit his questions in, which is dumb and he knows that, because you’re a dizzying contradiction of cagey and flighty and really the slightest thing will send you running. It’s funny how he knows that after a few hours and sex. Sex can tell you so much about a person. Spencer has compiled all the data from his experiences and decided sex is radically more effective a profiling tool than interview.

You’re on his pillow, lying on your stomach, and his hand is in your hair. Falling in love is quite a distinctive taste as well. Or at least, the recognition that if you spend enough time around a person you will, beyond a shadow of a doubt, fall in love with them. It is almost the same thing. It aches because it’s there and the proper thing to do is pretend it’s not.

And his hand is in your hair. And your eyes are closed, and you look like you might fall asleep, and he should be beyond grateful for all of these things. He is.

But that pesky desire to ameliorate, to improve and make better, and fix and heal, is too strong. Probably it’s the only way he thinks anyone will love him, is if he makes himself useful. That’s no revelation to him. The thought is not shocking whatsoever. It’s just true.

So he asks again. You blink your eyes a quarter of the way open.

“Hazard of the job.”

“What job?”

You make a noncommittal noise of reluctance—a discontented puppy’s whine, half-asleep.

“I’m a circus freak.”

He laughs and remembers to keep scratching your scalp. The way you smile, eyes closed, is infectious.

“Yeah? What’s your act?”

“Guess,” you challenge through the remnants of a smile, oozing satisfaction and glowing like a star.

When he pauses to regard you, to seriously consider, studying the curve of your cheek and the color of your lips, you open your eyes again.

“Tightrope walker,” he finally says, earnestly, so soft it could tear down the middle like gauze.

Your answer is a smile into the dark. “How’d you know?”

The corner of his mouth vies higher.

“I sensed a kindred spirit.”

Silence floods the room again, slowly, thickly, like molasses. It’s pleasant. You’re still here, in his bed, and he’s still measuring time with the pendulum of his hand in your hair.

“What do you really do?”

He expects you to be asleep.

“Dancer.” Your lips hardly move as you say it, inflectionless, immediate. If his hand falters, it’s only momentarily. That explains the bruising, and so is a relief, as far as he’s concerned. But perhaps his silence is misconstrued. “Do you want me to go?”

It certainly doesn’t seem like you want to go. Your eyes aren’t even open.

He keeps his voice low and gentle like maybe you really are asleep.

“Why would I want you to go?”

“Don’t… do that.”

“What?”

“Don’t act like you’re not judging me.”

“I’m not judging you. I’m from Vegas. Your job is not a novelty to me.”

This time when your eyes slide open, there is a new, curious light behind them.

“Really?”

He nods, distracted by a freckle just beneath your eye.

“When I was ten I ran into my bus driver wearing two quarters as a shirt. And we weren’t even on the strip. We were in a Texas Roadhouse parking lot.”

You snort with laughter and it’s melodic, like twinkling crystals, like running water. Even as you hide your face behind your hand, he’s transfixed. God, he’s never cared about being funny before. Now he wants to make you laugh over and over again. He wants to keep you softer than you’ve ever been. The laughter fades slowly and he grieves it—but your hand sliding away from your face like the sun coming up from behind a mountain eases the ache.

You reach out as if in a trance and run your thumb gently beneath his eye. He holds his breath as you make contact, butterfly light. Nobody has ever touched him like this before.

“You’re gorgeous,” you murmur. A thoughtless observation. A truth cast to the breeze. Knuckles carefully follow the dip of his cheekbone—a cartographer, learning her way by touch. Marking her territory. He’d let you do it. His eye stings, ready to spring forth a river just so you can have the pleasure of discovering it. “Breathe,” you laugh, softly, and he does.

“Sorry.”

You don’t say a thing. You let your fingers trace borders into his skin and follow them with soft eyes and he wonders what he’s ever done to deserve this kind of magic. He wonders if he’ll ever feel as good as he does right now, when it’s all over. Nobody has ever paid this much attention to him—but you’re intent, focused, like he’s art.

“Tell me about Vegas.”

It takes him a moment to reply.

“Hm?”

He feels bewitched. Warm. Foggy. A thumb brushes over his lips, but it’s only a pass, thank god, because he can hardly stand how you’re touching him already, at the high point of his cheek, beneath his brow. Finally getting enough sometimes feels awfully close to too much. He’s already almost cried once.

“I wanna hear about Vegas. I’ve always wanted to go. Is it hot?”

Spencer will say whatever you want him to say, but he has to focus a little—like he’s speaking through honey.

“In the summer, during the day. In the winter at night it drops to below freezing.”

“Desert-y,” you hum.

“Very.”

“Tell me more.”

There’s a rousing hunger in your voice and it reminds Spencer to want you again. He finds your waist and tugs you closer. Who is he with you?

Is he better?

“There are 175 casinos in the city, but only thirty on the strip. There are 15,000 miles of neon tubing on the strip alone. It’s the brightest place on earth. You can see it from space.”

“Not that.”

Petulant. He loves it.

His lips find the softness of your shoulder. “Then what?”

The only clue that you can feel what he’s doing to you is the twitch of your fingers on his cheek.

“Tell me something… tell me exactly how it feels to stand in the middle of the desert. With nobody else around. Tell me things and details I couldn’t know about unless I’ve been there.”

At the junction of your neck, he pauses. This beautiful girl, and her beautiful brain—you are so disarming. So perfect.

You shiver into him as his fingers brush up the back of your neck, gently pushing away hair so he can learn you everywhere. So he can remember your landscape, just like he’s doing as he closes his eyes and falls into memory.

A gas station, off the side of the road—seemingly in the middle of nowhere. Desert all around. His dad’s ’79 Ford Fiesta—the one he didn’t take with him when he left. The driver’s door is open. Spencer’s dad has been inside for minutes. Spencer is watching from the middle of the road, because he looked out from the backseat of the Fiesta, and saw that dark, unassuming spot, and thought—how would it feel to be the darkness? What would I see if I were nothing at all?

When he gets there, and he stands on the sun bleached pavement, veined with spiderwebs of tar, and he sees this all from a distance—he realizes he feels exactly the same as he always does. So he pivots his head to the left. The road goes on until it disappears into the smudgy horizon. To the right, it does the same. The earth swells, far away, so many miles, so coal black, so impossible. Hardly even real. But there is something out there, he thinks. There is something, even if nobody else has ever been there, and I want to stand in the middle of it and I will learn how it feels to be nothing. I will not observe—I will become apart of the landscape, with the Joshua trees that have been there for a thousand years, and the rocks that haven’t moved in millennia.

So he begins to walk.

The rocks crunch under his feet, and that is the only noise.

He walks for minutes. He walks until he knows the gas station will be small. He walks until he can feel the emptiness on the back of his neck, until it feels like an embrace.

“It’s silent,” he hears himself say to you, in some other universe, decades in the future. “At night, it’s completely silent. You can hear yourself breathe. If you throw a pebble ten feet away, you’ll hear it hit the ground.”

Little Spencer takes a deep breath of inky air.

“It smells like… geosmin.”

“What?”

Perfect. Your voice is perfect.

“Dirt. But it’s not the same as dirt anywhere else. It’s… drier, like it’s smelled the same way for a really long time.”

Spencer’s cheeks burn. He’s doing a terrible job explaining.

But he feels your breath on his cheek—eager. Your hand at his shoulder as you lean closer, enraptured. Reverent, almost.

“What else?”

What else?

Dry brush snags on the hem of the corduroys his mother had picked out for him. They’re a little too short. She’s going to try to take him shopping again tomorrow. It’ll work this time—they’ll get to the store. Mom’s just been having some trouble leaving the house lately.

Rustling leaves skim the tips of his fingers as he reaches out for them, and keeps walking. When was the last time someone touched that shrub?

“There’s vegetation. Creosote, mostly, if you’re in the scrubland. Larrea tridentada. It’s dry—kind of twiggy, with green leaves and yellow flowers in the spring. The smell is bad, like asphalt, but you only notice if you get close.”

He hears his dad calling his name. It fades in and out.

It’s dizzying, hearing his father’s voice. His father saying his name.

It’s been a long time.

“It’s so flat that things don’t echo. But because of the extreme variations in temperature the air pressure sometimes forces the sound waves to the ground and makes it impossible for them to propagate. They’re called the Santa Ana winds. Someone could be standing right next to you and if the wind blows at just the right angle, you won’t be able to hear them. But when it’s still, sound carries far.”

His father is angry. Or is he worried?

Spencer can make out his dad, pacing frantically back and forth across the gas station pad, white button-up a glowing beacon even from this far away beneath the lone yellow street light. He looks so small. So very far away. Ant-like.

Santa Ana comes slow—warmer than the night air around him, to ruffle his hair and rustle the dry leaves and blow soft clouds of fragrant sienna dirt around at his knees. It blows through him. For a moment, it wakes the desert up.

Then it’s passed. It moves further down the desert and leaves Spencer behind. Things settle into silence again. He’s alone again.

Spencer’s stomach flips as he realizes his father can’t see him this far away, this deep into the dark nothing.

As he finally feels the enormity of the distance on all sides.

Suddenly the void behind him is massive. Suddenly it is everything, and it is sucking him deeper. Nobody can see him. He could just disappear into 25,000 square miles of desert. He’s already, what—a thousand feet gone? More? The weight of all the infinite space behind him presses, and he thought it’d feel interesting but it feels like dying and there has never been so much regret or dread curdling in his stomach before. His face crumples, eyes stinging in the dry air, and he takes one step forward, and then another, and then he runs like he’s running for his life. But he doesn’t feel chased—no, that’s the worst part. He is running from an infinite, vacuous, nothing. Dad! He screams, but even this young he knows how sound waves work in the desert and he can tell his dad can’t hear him and he’s running and screaming until his lungs burn, and the scrub lashes at his ankles, and it has been the same for a thousand years and it will stay the same for a thousand more with or without him. Dad, I’m right here! He sobs, the words ripping up his throat with desperation as they go.

Finally, finally, he’s heard, and he’s close enough to see his dad seeing him, he stops pacing and stares dumbfounded at the little boy appearing from the desert, sneakers slapping cracked asphalt. He gets closer and closer until he can see the lines on his father’s face and the color of his eyes and he sobs as he crashes into him. His dad’s hands are vice-tight around his arms, as Spencer cries and can’t breathe and thrashes like a fish out of water.

What? Is all his father can manage, tight and baffled and afraid and the first word of a question he doesn’t even know how to ask. He says it again and again, like a skipping record; what—what? What?

On the drive home, Spencer sits in the backseat, a bottle of Bug Juice in his lap. His ankles sting, whipped and bloodied and punished for wearing too-short pants.

The silence is cloistering and at the same time, completely par for the course. He does not expect his father to speak to him, but he sort of thinks maybe another father would.

Outside, the black spine of distant mountains rolls on forever and stays impossibly far away. He peers out into the nothing, past what the moonlight can illuminate—and now, he doesn’t have to wonder. He knows how it feels. Imagines another little boy made of shadows, as far away from the road as he’d been, and feels sick from all that fruit juice. He won’t ask his dad to pull over—all he wants is to get rid of that feeling on the back of his neck, like he’s dissolving into space. Like he’s the only thing for miles and miles.

But the problem is—the feeling doesn’t go away.

Not in the driveway. Not in the bath. Not in bed, later that night.

Spencer did a bad thing and he wishes he could go back to normal. He wishes he didn’t get that desert feeling when he was surrounded by other people. But it comes back, again and again. At school. When he tentatively asks for new pants and his mom throws a vase at the wall and then sobs on the floor for forty minutes. When a few weeks later, his dad leaves, and doesn’t take the Ford with him—so it sits under the carport, greets him on his way to school every morning, and over the course of years the windshield turns opaque with dust.

He hasn’t stopped feeling that way since.

“You okay?”

A long, soft breath draws him back into his body. Into his bed.

Not creosote. Not geosmin. Not the Santa Ana winds, coming from the deepest parts of the desert and carrying their desolation to him. Shampoo. Warmth. A girl who smells sort of like him, now—a girl whose perfume is all over his neck and chest and pillow.

You’re there. You, a stranger. You, a girl he’s going to fall in love with. You—the only person he ever brought into the desert with him. The only person who ever brought him back.

Point Nemo is not in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Asphodel is not in the underworld. It’s a little less than half a mile out across from an old gas station on the I-15 in the middle of the Mojave desert.

Spencer nods because he can’t bring himself to speak just yet.

You smile and take the time to find his hand in the dark.

“Felt like I was out there with you. Thanks.”

And he squeezes your hand—because for the first time, it feels like someone is going to come looking for him.

lyrics from my life in art <3

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fic #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid angst #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds smut #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfic

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sp4ceboo · 2 months ago

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a/n: ok so. alpha deku. this was specifically inspired by @kajinovaa's art (here and here) because. what the fuck man. this gave me severe brain rot. absolutely delicious artwork, belongs in museum.

tw: 18+, smutty, afab omega reader, a/b/o, alpha deku goes into rut, breeding kink (it's abo, what were we expecting)

wc: 1.2k

Everyone knows when your alpha is close to his rut.

Since Izuku has risen on the hero rankings, ‘everyone’ has become anyone who happens to be watching the news that week. Citizens, villains, news reporters, hell, even his mother - they all know. It would be hard to not notice, not with the pheromones that practically ooze off him, and especially not with the way he acts.

Normally, the villains are the first to know. You always patrol with Izuku (he insisted it be that way, but you wouldn’t have been paired with anyone else with how obvious it is that the two of you work best together), and usually, you’ll divide and conquer any minor villains with ease. You’re ridiculously attuned to each other, able to communicate in battle just as well with your eyes as with your words, and it makes it pretty hard to mount a defense against.

All of that flies straight out of the window the moment his pre-rut hits; the hormones give him an extra edge, a strength derived from something primal, and his hindbrain takes control. Your mate is a force to be reckoned with already, but in pre-rut, he’s unstoppable.

You’re aware that he knows you’re perfectly capable of holding your own, but once his instincts take over, there’s no stopping him. He’ll break a villain’s hand if they come too close to you, flashing his canines and snarling keep away from my omega while he pumps out a ridiculous amount of pheromones. By then, they’re already running: it’s no secret that his threats aren’t empty when it comes to you.

The reporters are the next to find out, and you hope that the ones that get sent to interview you and Izuku while he’s in pre-rut get paid extra, because he’s impossible; once he’s sure the villains are successfully detained, he’ll latch onto you, curling an arm about your waist and wrapping himself around you from behind.

It’s worth acknowledging that Izuku is big, even by alpha standards. He’s fucking huge, broad shoulders and massive thighs, still bristling from the fight, and he dwarfs your frame entirely when he crowds into you the way he does. You’ve seen fan-made compilations, clips of him draped over you, nose buried in your hair as you answer reporters’ questions, captioned with things like ‘proof pro-hero Deku can’t get enough of his mate, if you hadn’t noticed already’.

You always politely smile for the cameras, but he has no patience for them. He never speaks during those interviews, instead drowning his restlessness in the familiarity of your scent, growling if anyone comes too close and only letting up once they retreat.

At that point, you already reek of him - well, more than you usually do - and when you feel that you’ve shown face enough, you excuse yourself. No one can refuse you, not when you have a more than just sizeable alpha hanging off your shoulders, glaring at anyone who might dare to object.

On the way home, you’ve made a habit of filing your request for leave from work (that is, if your manager hasn’t seen the news and already granted it). You’ve never been refused leave, but that doesn’t surprise you. The risk of having pro-hero Deku off patrol is nothing compared to having him half crazy, half feral and fully grumpy, supposedly watching over the city while in reality all he does is want after his omega.

Reliably, you’ll barely have gotten through the doorway of your home, struggling to close the door behind you, when he finally lets loose.

He’ll be all over you, hands tugging at your clothes while he laps at your scent glands, almost drooling as he breathes in your pheromones. Rut reduces your alpha to nothing but a mess. You won’t even be more than a metre into your house, and he’ll be grinding against you, fondling you, groaning in your ears and telling you sinful things: that you smell so fucking good, that he can’t wait to be deep in your sweet omega pussy.

They’re always dirty, the things he mumbles in your ears, but it always circles back to the same thing - I protected you so well, didn’t I, omega? I kept you safe, right? - and you nod every time, kissing him sweetly - yes alpha, of course you did - and tilting your head back to give him access to your throat, a display of trust, because that��s what he needs to hear. That’s what has his cock throbbing against your hip, achingly hard.

It’s what sets that part of him ablaze, just like you burn whenever he tells you that you’re such a good, pretty omega for him and that you take him so well while he fucks you through your heat. Yes, Izuku understands you can protect yourself, but he needs to know that he’s a good alpha to you, that he takes care of his mate and keeps you happy and safe and content.

The moment he hears that, he won’t stop until you're knotted and pumped full of his come.

He’ll take you against the first flat surface that presents itself (usually the wall of your foyer), slipping in easily because your body responds to him even before you’ve smelt his exquisite pheromones, your pussy all slicked up and fluttering for him. He won’t stop for days after that, ruining you on his cock over and over again, eyes rolling back in his head as he slurs about how he’s going to give you his pups, and though you know it won’t take because of your medication, sometimes you wish it would.

Right now, you lie on his warm chest, tracing the constellations of his freckles with your fingertips. Today his rut started no different from how it normally does, and he’s purring softly in his sleep beneath you, his warm palms splayed wide over your back; you smile at the occasional snore that leaves him. Your mate has been busy recently. You’re not surprised that he knocked out so quickly.

He’s fucked his knot into you already, and from where it sits snugly inside you, you can feel it slowly coming down. You don’t bother to lift yourself off him though - he’s far from done, and besides, he’ll just ease it right back into you the moment he wakes up.

You’ve heard people comment on how your Izuku is pretty high maintenance during his rut, that he should take suppressants to give you a break, but you wouldn’t have it any other way.

He stirs, and you watch his green lashes dip as he blinks his way back to consciousness; gently, he catches your fingers, his palm calloused against your skin, and lifts your hand to his mouth to press kisses your knuckles. Your lips curl up at the sight of him, unruly hair mussed, glowing in that way he does during his rut, and sleepy eyed, he smiles back.

Already, you can feel him stiffening inside of you, his body getting ready for another round. He cups your face in his hands, fitting his lips to yours, and you find yourself grinning into his kisses.

Yeah, you definitely wouldn't have it any other way.

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astro-rainbow777 · 10 months ago

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💐🌸 𝓣𝓪𝓾𝓻𝓾𝓼 𝓣𝓱𝓻𝓸𝓾𝓰𝓱 𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓗𝓸𝓾𝓼𝓮𝓼 🧸🌱

♉︎ - Happy Taurus Season Everyone!!! In honor of Taurus season, I am continuing the signs through the houses series. I hope y’all enjoy my findings & this post serves you well. Thanks so much for all of the support! Happy Spring & Upcoming Beltane to the Pagan Community <3

🌸 Taurus in the First House ~ Taurus on the ascendant is the embodiment of peace, calm and pleasure. These natives aren’t the most outgoing but leave such a comfortable and cozy first impression. They don’t say more than needs to be said, however they are unlikely to turn down a conversation. They have a soft and natural beauty about them and strong familial values. They enjoy the finer things, have a clean aesthetic and a “rich” aura. Many of them are shorter or more petitie in size, have a pleasing and smooth voice and kind eyes. However, if you mess with the bull, you’ll get the horns! Being on the opposing end of Scorpio, when they cut you off, it is completely. Good luck getting back into their lives because they are a closed book. Why y’all always smell good? Fr tho

🐂 Taurus in the Second House ~ Here the sign is in its ruling house, they do very well in saving their money, are picky about what they eat and indulge in the material pleasures of life. They value loyalty, commitment, stability and security - not to mention their love fashion & the arts. They will tell you they have the most exquisite taste, you would find it very difficult to change their mind. They hold up strong values and morales, what they know to be right and wrong is the truth. This is a very secure personality, they are very comfortable with their bodies, and have a healthy sense of worth and self love. Honestly such a healthy placement - as someone with NO earth in their chart - muhbenaaaace

💰 Taurus in the Third House ~ These natives find security and peace in their childhood homes, where they grew up, the memories of their cousins and siblings. They could be the most stable or the least stable out of their siblings. The way they think, learn and communicate is slow and methodical. They take their time in studying new topics, preferring to stay on the surface of a topic. They may have an artistic and beautiful singing voice, or maybe the way they speak is just very polite and sweet. They were raised with manners and this makes them very charming. They can have a liking for music that moves at a slower pace, classical music, or just a more elegant taste in art.

🥘 Taurus in the Fourth House ~ Their family could be a source of stability and security for them. The mom, mother figure or more feminine role model can be the bread winner in the family, her love language could be gifts, an amazing cook, and give a lot of hugs 🫂 They have stable emotions, it takes a lot to emotionally sway them. It may end up bothering people who try to get an emotional reaction from them because of this. They can be the most grounded one in their family. Their family may view them as realistic, practical and reliable. Family is what gives them sanction from the world.

💝 Taurus in the Fifth House ~ They express them selves in a very material type of way, their flex is their finances. These natives take a lot of pride in what they have...this usually comes from a place of having to work really hard for their things. They love the natural look, minimalist, they like long lasting, high quality, practical fashion. To them that is the best statement to make. They don’t like that trash to treasure look their tastes are refined. They will shower their kids with the finer things and really enjoy providing for them - this will be their love language. They aren’t huge adrenaline junkies and enjoy more grounded, chill hobbies. They definitely don’t mind being alone and love their down time at home…on the couch…snacks…naps…repeat.

🐻 Taurus in the 6th ~ These natives prefer a slow start to their daily routine, and enjoy a slow paced job, with chill yet organized coworkers. The workplace must be something that they don’t hate… because if they hate it and it stresses them out just thinking of going, they won’t work there. Period. They need low maintenance pets as these individuals are very independent in nature. It’s important for their day job to be a place of peace and pleasure for them, and once they are comfortable, it’s gonna be hard to get them to leave. Their job can provide them with sooooo much stability if they have a good one.

🍨 Taurus in the 7th ~ Wining and Dining with your loved ones! Shopping sprees, luxurious and high quality partners. With the ones they love the most, they spoil, eat and they just want to be lazy with them honestly. They want their relationships to be a place of peace for them. It’s important that their partner can support themselves and is stable on their own. It will just cause them stress if they are constantly worrying about having to take care or mommy their partner. It’s possible that they can stay with someone out of fear of the unknown/change, even tho they don’t like them or it’s not working anymore.

🌷 Taurus in the Eighth House ~ Cycles related to self esteem, self worth, and supporting themselves. Honestly, this is a really hard placement to have- they may have times where they stay in ab*sive relationships because they can’t support themselves financially or they are too uncomfortable alone. However, the eighth house is notorious for taking your greatest fear/weakness and turning it into their super power. You just have to get through those lessons and take those leaps of faith to unlock that power and hidden potential! They like to engage in their senses when they’re intimate with their partners and prefer slow love making rather than the raw primal stuff.

🪴 Taurus in the Ninth House ~ These people can be a little fixed in their beliefs, their spiritual beliefs/religion can be a source stability and sanction for them. If they aren’t necessarily spiritual- they could just have a specific philosophy or lifestyle that they stick to. What I admire about these individuals, is they know exactly what they want. When they travel, it has to be somewhere where they know exactly what to expect, somewhere that won’t give them anxiety, and probably a more luxurious staycation type of experience. They could also enjoy a nice nature walk with their loved ones.

👛 Taurus in the Tenth House ~ Every single person I have met with this placement neeeeeed a stable job, they will not leave a job if it provides them with the type of lifestyle they desire. It doesn’t really matter what they are doing for their career as long as it aligns with their values. Their dad/father figure could have been the sole provider and could have made a huge impact on their reputation. This is definitely a daddies money placement 💀 - sorry if that’s triggering for anyone lol. The father figure could be super down to earth and chill, enjoy cooking or just be way too overly indulgent in a negative manifestation.

👒 Taurus in the Eleventh House ~ Is the stay at home friend, doesn’t like to get out of their comfort zone to meet new people. Much likely to want to stay inside and bond with their community in a space that is familiar and inviting to them. Their community could be their sanction and be the most stable part of their lives. They enjoy cooking and creating art for their friends. Anything to bring peace to their homies senses! For their friends, the Taurus eleventh house native’s place is a home away from home. How special 🥹

👄 Taurus in the Twelfth House ~ When it comes to matters of the twelfth house, spirituality, isolation, ect. - these individuals may like to keep things light and on the surface. They are comfortable being alone, in fact they consider it to be comfortable and safe. Their spirituality isn’t something they spend time questioning, and they could be very comfortable with the unknown, they enjoy their own curious nature. They are endearing to their own selves, however sometimes their sense of worth could be confusing. They may have a hard time understanding their own values and morals, preferring to just go with the flow, everyday they are a new person trying on different personalities, hobbies and styles! The possibilities are endless! It’s quite an interesting placement. One more thing….secret indulgences…the silent snacker

Smell ya later!

#astro community #astrology #astrology signs #zodiac #spirituality #taurus #taurus rising #astrology observations #Taurus in the Houses

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muniimyg · 2 months ago

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*ੈ✩‧₊˚ SUPERNOVA // JJK ੈ✩‧₊˚

01 | 02 | ♡ 03

— stuck in an unspoken love triangle, oc and jungkook face the end of it all

au/genre:

mean girl au

love triangle

childhood friends to lovers

note: omg ! the end <3

jungkook had a plan.

he was going to show you around the new exhibit, confess, and ask to be your boyfriend. his entire life, he waited for signs and for the perfect time—only for him to realize that there will never be a moment where bells ring and tell him; now.

no.

you see, after all this time—for his entire life—you have been the quiet.

his quiet.

all his life, it’s like his eyes only focused on you. everything and everyone around him was blurry and the only real clarity he had in his life was art and you… and as corny as it is; that’s what you are to him entirely.

art.

from your pottery, to the way you look, and to the way you simple are—you are his favourite masterpiece.

the canvas gallery is where you two ran around as kids, amazed at all the pieces other artists made. so, it only made sense that this would be the place where he kicks his anxiety in the ass and finally fucking goes for it.

so, he waited.

and waited.

…. and waited.

and right when he was about to call you—

hana showed up.

she grabbed his arm and yapped all about how excited she is to be here with him. to that, jungkook shook off her grip and stepped away.

...

“what are you doing here?”

“___ gave me her ticket—”

“fuck that. hana, why do you always do this? why do you always take things from ___?”

with distant yet jealous eyes, hana replied; “because she has better things than me. i like her things. is it so wrong to like her things?”

“are you insane?”

“maybe.” hana scoffed. “i don’t get it. what does she have that i don’t? we grew up together and did everything together—yet, it’s like… i’m not even half of her.”

“because you aren’t.” he growled. “you hate ___, right?”

silence.

“that’s okay,” jungkook exhaled. “cos i fucking hate you. with all my being. ever since you blew out ___’s 14th birthday candles. ever since you always kissed the guys she was into. ever since her pottery business bloomed and you accidently knocked over a piece she was working on for two months. god, hana. i have and will always hate you.”

“shit, jungkook. is that it? are you done—”

“no,” he sighed. “i will never be done hating you for taking every opportunity to turn anything good for ___ into something bad. you want to play mean girl? fine by me. let’s fucking play. get this through your fucking head; i will never be yours but i will forever be ___'s."

...

jungkook gave you time.

partly because he was mad—mad that you gave hana your ticket so easily, mad at how quickly you folded like you always do. but mostly, because he knows how you are in moments like this. you don’t talk. you retreat, giving yourself space to breathe, to think. he hopes you’re using the time to clear your head, making space for him.

by the third week of awkward text exchanges—his dry "good night" met with your overly polite “you too"—and no more nightly facetime calls where he fell asleep to your voice, jungkook snaps.

he gets into his car and drives to your studio.

the late afternoon light spills through the frosted windows as he parks outside. his stomach twists at the sight of the closed sign hanging on the door, but the faint hum of a song playing inside tells him you’re there. jungkook knocks, loud and insistent.

for a moment, he worries you won’t answer.

that you’ll pretend not to hear him or let the music drown him out. but then, he hears the soft shuffle of slippers and the click of the lock.

when the door creaks open, you’re there.

cheeks flushed from the warmth of the studio, hair tied back messily, and streaks of dried clay smudged across your forearms. your apron is dusted in powdery beige, a damp hand towel clutched in your fingers.

“jungkook—”

he doesn’t let you finish.

his name on your lips is enough to tip him over the edge. stepping forward, he pushes the door shut behind him and closes the space between you in one fluid motion.

your back hits the sink behind you with a soft thud, the cool porcelain biting through the thin fabric of your apron. his hands find your waist first, firm and grounding, as though he’s anchoring himself to you.

“w-what are you—”

“i can’t do this anymore,” he mutters, his voice low and trembling, the words spilling out as though they’ve been trapped inside for years.

he shifts closer, one hand leaving your waist to cradle your jaw. his thumb grazes your cheek, where a smear of dried clay clings to your skin. you’re so warm, and so unbearably soft that it makes his chest ache. his other hand brushes against the edge of your apron, his knuckles bumping against the damp streaks of clay still drying on your fingers.

“jungkook—” you try again, but your voice falters when he leans in. his forehead brushes yours, and he’s so close you can see the strain in his jaw, the tension pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“i’ve had enough, ___,” he breathes, his voice trembling with something between desperation and exhaustion. “i’m tired of bending backwards to see you. i'm tired of people standing in front of you and i'm sick of you letting them. most of all, i’m tired of waiting for the right time. i—i’ve been in love with you since we were seven, and you know that.”

his hand leaves your cheek to tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear, his fingers trembling slightly as they linger there. “i haven’t done much to hide it, have i? i'm sorry. i've been a coward but... maybe i never did anything because i always knew how you felt about me too.”

your hands tighten on the towel, the wet clay squelching under your fingers. you glance down, unable to meet his gaze, but he doesn’t let you escape.

“look at me,” he pleads softly, tilting your chin upward until your eyes lock with his. the raw intensity in his stare steals the air from your lungs.

“please, ___... i'm fucking begging to you see me through this,” he whispers, his voice breaking as he leans his forehead against yours again. “i'm begging you to take my heart and mold it yours.”

and that’s exactly what you do.

your hands tremble, damp with clay and nerves, as you reach for him. you cradle his jaw gently, your thumbs brushing over the faint stubble along his cheeks.

then you kiss him.

jungkook freezes at first, his breath hitching in surprise, but it takes only a heartbeat before he softens. his lips move against yours, slow and deep, like he’s memorizing every second of this moment.

he’s hesitant—his hands stay planted on your waist, his grip cautious, almost shy. but when you sigh against him, his restraint snaps. his fingers curl into the fabric of your apron as he steps closer, pressing his body firmly against yours.

he bends his knees slightly, his arms sliding down to wrap around your thighs. with a quiet grunt, he lifts you effortlessly, settling you on the edge of the sink. your legs part instinctively, making room for him to step closer, his body slotting perfectly between yours.

you gasp softly as his hands find the back of your thighs, pulling you flush against him. your fingers slip into his hair, still streaked with clay, and he laughs quietly against your lips at the mess you're making.

his laugh fades quickly, replaced by a deep hum as he kisses you harder, with more certainty. the kiss grows messy, your breaths mingling and the faint taste of salt lingering between you.

when he finally pulls back, his lips are swollen, and his eyes search yours with an intensity that makes your heart stutter. he doesn’t move far—his forehead rests against yours, his nose brushing yours as his fingers trace small circles on your thighs.

“so…” he whispers, his lips curling into a boyish grin as his gaze flicks to your apron, your hands still smeared with clay. “about that mug?”

#bts mini fic complete #jk scenario #jungkook confession #jungkook f2l #jungkook childhood friends to lovers #jungkook fic #jungkook scenario

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queensunshinee · 25 days 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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x-heesy · 1 year ago

Text

𝚆𝚑𝚢?

𝙺𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎

𝙻𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍, 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎, 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚕!

𝙸𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚕!

(𝙸𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚕!) 𝙸𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎, 𝚒𝚝 𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚠

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚙𝚊𝚢 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚗

𝚁𝚘𝚋 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚘𝚛, 𝚜𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚔

𝙳𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚠, 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚒𝚝

𝙳𝚘 𝙸 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚐𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚔?

𝚂𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝙸 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚘𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍?

𝚆𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚛 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝?

𝚆𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚠𝚎 𝚋𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍?

𝙵𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚍𝚜, 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚍𝚜, 𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚍!

𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚑𝚎

𝚆𝚎𝚊𝚙𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚢𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚜 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍, 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚍

𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚑𝚎

𝚃𝚘 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝

𝙾𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚔𝚎𝚙𝚝

𝙳𝚘 𝙸 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚐𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚔?

𝚂𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝙸 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚘𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍?

𝚆𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚛 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝?

𝚆𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚠𝚎 𝚋𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍?

𝙵𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚍𝚜, 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚍𝚜, 𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚍!

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚙𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚊𝚛

𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚍𝚎!

𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖!

𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚍𝚎!

𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖!

𝙳𝚎𝚗𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚒𝚐 𝚕𝚒𝚎!

𝙼𝚢 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚎

𝙹𝚘𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚎

𝙰𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍

𝙰𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎

𝙰𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎

𝙶𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚍, 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚔

𝙶𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚞𝚕𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎, 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎

𝙶𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚍, 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚔

𝙶𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚞𝚕𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎, 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎

𝙶𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚍, 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚔

𝙶𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚞𝚕𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎, 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎

𝙷𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚍, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚍𝚒𝚎𝚍, 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚍!

𝚃𝚑��𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚑𝚎

𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚒𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚖𝚎

𝙾𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚍!

𝙱𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚎, 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚎, 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚎, 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚎

𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝙾𝚝𝚎𝚙 𝚘𝚗 𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚃𝚞𝚋𝚎

@invincible-selfxmade-punk @bigbonzo @inbetweenneeds @2020blaq

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not-neverland06 · 6 months ago

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hi!! Given my obsession for Hugh jackman I am CRAVING for some Leopold X reader (from Kate & Leopold)! Maybe with some little angst but happy ending??

I love your blog!! Have a wonderful day 😽💐💓

Leopold Mountbatten x fem!reader a/n: I don’t know how controversial this is going to be and I don’t care. I could never finish the movie because I hated Meg Ryan in it so much. It’s so odd, I’ve loved her in everything else she’s been in but she made it such a hard watch. Maybe it’s because she reminds me of my grandma in the worst way lol, but I finished it for you anon sorry this was a little rushed Anyways, hope you enjoy lovelies Summary: Your neighbor went back in time and dragged someone back with him. He's irritatingly polite and far too interested in your way of life. What are you meant to do when you fall for a man who was never even supposed to meet you?

“Hello, madam, please I need your help!”

You’re used to crazies, it is New York after all. But they’re not usually shouting at you through your window. Especially not when you’re on the sixth floor. You look away from your coffee and glance towards the fire escape.

There’s an oddly dressed man with red eyes waving at you through the dirty glass. You offer him a tentative wave back and he nods aggressively. “Yes, hello, I need your assistance.”

“Um,” you shake your head, “Sorry, I don’t have any drugs dude.”

“No,” he places his hands pathetically on the glass and shakes his head. “Please, I have been kidnapped.” Finally, you take a step closer to him. You can tell now that his eyes aren’t reddened from any medicinal fun, he probably got pepper sprayed.

Your friend did it to you once when you tried to surprise her on her birthday and you’ll never forget just how awful you looked afterwards. You can see him a bit more clearly now. Whatever odd costume he’s got on, it looks good. Genuine and clean.

Not like most of the street performers you see in Times Square. Besides, he doesn’t have that maddened look in his eye that makes you worry he’s going to come inside and kill you. Tentatively, you open the window.

He’s leaping through in a second and you jump back with a yelp. He turns towards you and his eyes widen before he quickly turns away. “My good lady, where are your pants?”

“Uh,” you glance down at the oversized shirt you’re wearing and the tiny shorts underneath. Admittedly, it’s a little skimpy, but you’re not walking around naked. You’ve heard of committing to the bit, but this is a bit much. “On,” you tell him, walking around him and trying to stand close to the phone.

“Ma’am-” He’s cut off as someone slams their fist on your front door. You keep a weary eye on the man while you unlock your door.

“Hey,” Stuart smiles at you. His eyes drift slightly past your shoulder and he goes barging into your apartment. “Leopold! What did I say?”

You huff and glare at Stuart’s frantic back. “This is yours?” Stuart nods and rushes Leopold out the door. You don’t miss the pleading, while slightly scandalized, look he sends you.

You slam the door closed behind them, shaking your head and going back to your morning paper. You doubt you’ll be seeing him around again.

You know, it’s just your luck that your upstairs neighbor is a scientist, one who happens to dabble in the art of time travel. And it’s just your luck that he had to fall down a damn elevator shaft.

Now, according to him, you have to care for someone from a different century so he can make it back to his time portal in, well, in time. This is fucking ridiculous. “I’m going to kill you, Stuart.”

“Look, they’re going to take my phone but he really cannot-”

It goes silent on the other end. You shout his name a few times but hear nothing in response. You assume the hospital staff has finally gotten sick of his shenanigans and has taken his phone. You slam your handset down with a huff and look towards the living room. Leopold hasn’t sat down since you walked in and it’s unsettling.

“So,” you start and his attention snaps towards you. “1876, huh?”

He nods and you roll your eyes with a scoff. “Oh, this is insane. This is insane,” you mutter to yourself, walking towards Stuart’s door. Leopold gives you a concerned look before quickly following after you. There’s a part of you, and you hate that part, that actually believes some of this.

Stuart is a brilliant, though flawed, scientist. You don’t doubt that he might have actually unlocked the secret to traveling back to the past, but it’s such an insane idea to try and wrap your head around.

“Come on, we’re leaving.” You know that Stuart doesn’t want him out of the house. Tough. You’re not going to just stay inside and wait until he can supposedly go back to the past. You don’t give Leopold any time to process your answer, already out the door and heading towards the stairs.

“You know,” he starts as he catches up to you. “You are quite rude.” Your first instinct is to snap back at him. But you take a breath and stop yourself.

You’re desensitized, ridiculously used to just how awful New Yorkers can be to each other. And whether this man is truly from the past or not is up for debate. But he is polite and earnest, and you have no reason to be a bitch to him.

“I’m,” the words are hard to come by but you force them out anyway, “I’m sorry.” He looks genuinely surprised by the apology and it only makes you feel worse. “This is just an insane idea to try and grasp.”

He chuckles softly, smiling as he glances down at his feet. “Yes, how do you think I feel?”

You’re sure it’s not his intention, but you only feel like more of an ass. If this is hard for you, whatever he's going through is a hundred times worse. You weren’t forcefully ripped out of your own time and shoved into another you don’t understand. He’s still trying to comprehend the television.

Though, you’re sure being a scientist has helped him in marginally understanding how all of this is possible. “How do you like the future?” It sounds awkward and stiff, but you haven’t had to talk to anyone in a really long time.

Your interactions are pretty limited at the book shop considering no one ever comes in. They all order online nowadays and all you really have to worry about is organizing shelves. You’re embarrassingly rusty when it comes to conversing.

And his propensity towards eloquence only makes you feel worse. “I must admit, some of your inventions have been quite fascinating. I’m especially fond of your showers.”

Your face scrunches slightly at the mention of hygiene and you nod, “I bet.” Before either of you can attempt to salvage this horrible attempt at conversation your phone starts ringing. “Hold on one second,” you tell him. You walk a few feet away from him but you can still feel his eyes boring into your back as you move away.

“Hello?”

There’s a frantic shout of your name down the line and then the distinct jingling of keys. “I need you to cover the shop. Marcy just went into labor and I’ve got to go!” Paul doesn’t give you a chance to respond before he hangs up.

Your jaw gapes and you stare down at your phone with shock. You know Paul and his wife had been expecting, but had it really already been nine months? Has your life become so monotonous and dull that nine months doesn’t even register for you?

It’s a depressing thought. One you’d rather not linger on. “What was that?”

You scream, though the people passing by don’t pay you any mind, and jump away from Leopold. “Jesus, where the hell did you come from?”

Leopold flinches away from you and his face is just as aghast as yours. “Good heavens, what is the matter with you? Do you respond to anything as a sensible woman might?”

“I resent that.” You tell him bitterly. Though, he does make a good point. You’ve been on edge constantly. You always seem to be more anxious than you are happy. It’s not a good state to perpetually exist in. “I need to go into work.”

You don’t want to outright say that he needs to go back to the apartment. It feels a little mean, but you’re hoping he’ll catch onto your tone of voice.

His entire demeanor perks up and he smiles at you. “Wonderful, I am dreadfully curious as to what you do.”

You open your mouth to correct him, let him know he’s not coming. But he’s staring at you with such hopeful eyes that you cannot find it in yourself to turn him down. He seems so excited, you’re sure he won’t be when he gets to your cluttered little bookshop. You let out a weary sigh, “Fine. Okay.”

You walk towards the curb, hoping to hail a cab. But Leopold’s hand gently wraps around your elbow and tugs you in the opposite direction. Your eyes widen in response to his boldness. You thought touching a woman he wasn’t courting would cause someone like him to combust. Seems he didn’t mind breaking the rules sometimes.

You make a mental note of that for later. You don’t know what you’re going to do with the information, but you find it intriguing. Maybe the modern world was rubbing off on him more than he’d like to admit.

“We should take this,” he stops you in front of a horse-drawn carriage and you immediately begin to shake your head.

“No, Leopold, these are just tourist traps-”

He doesn’t let you finish, opening the carriage’s door and gently nudging you inside. “Nonsense! This is far more enjoyable than those yellow monstrosities.”

“Taxi,” you correct. You turn towards the carriage driver and give him directions to your bookshop. “Ink and Tea on Fifth.” He nods and the carriage rolls forward with a lurch. You grip the cushioned seats and pray you don’t get motion sickness.

“Ink and Tea?” Leopold inquires. “Are you a journalist?”

You smile and shake your head. “No, nothing so fancy. I just help take care of an old bookshop. They were supposed to extend the shop when it first opened. They were going to build a space for people to get pastries or drink tea, but it never happened and the owner was too lazy to change the name.”

It feels a little humiliating to be talking about your minimum-wage job to a renowned scientist. He’s invented or is going to, elevators. He doesn’t care about your stupid shop. But he doesn’t look particularly judgy of you. If anything he seems to be endeared to you the more you talk.

Normally, you’re oblivious to these sorts of things. But it’s nearly impossible for him to hide. He’s not shy with his attraction, never taking his eyes off of you and hanging onto your every word. You’re not used to such outward attention.

You look out of the carriage, pretending to take in views you’ve already seen a thousand times. “This city is incredible,” he wonders aloud. His awe is palpable.

Your nose wrinkles and you shrug. “It’s dirty and the people are intolerable.”

“Must you always be so pessimistic?” You snap your mouth shut and feel embarrassment creeping around you. You’ve never had someone point out when you’re being negative, but he has a point.

You used to view the city through the same rose-colored glasses. Something’s broken inside you in recent years that has just taken the joy out of life. Everything is grey to you now, until Leopold, nothing spectacular has ever really happened to you.

The carriage comes to a stop outside the shop before you can respond to him. You want to deny what he says, but you can’t. Your attitude is almost always unnecessary. You think sometimes you might just be trying to see if everyone feels as miserable as you do or if there’s just something wrong with you.

“Come on,” you tell him, getting out and paying the driver. He wanders towards the shop, eyeing the displays in the window curiously.

“These are wonderful,” he tells you, pointing to the way you’d made the books look like they’re floating above the shelves. It was just some silly little thing you’d tried to get more people in the shop. It’d worked for about a month.

“I did that,” you unlock the door to the shop and open it for him. But he doesn’t walk in immediately, instead, he lingers in the doorway. He offers you a soft smile and you can’t help but return it.

“You’re more creative than you give yourself credit for.”

Your eyes widen as you watch him walk inside. He keeps making these oddly astute observations about you and it’s throwing you off your game. You barely know this man and you’ve always been good at keeping yourself aloof and vague. Yet, he seems to read you like you’re wearing your heart on your sleeve.

“Feel free to…” he’s already made himself comfortable somewhere in the back and you trail off. “Look around,” you finish lamely. His form is lost somewhere in stacks of books and cluttered shelves.

You know most of the classics and history books are kept towards the back. You wonder if he’s reminiscing or getting a headstart before he gets back to his time. You smile at the thought and walk behind the counter, sitting on the stool and preparing to finish off the rest of the day.

Leopold is still somewhere lost to you an hour later. Occasionally you’ll hear a page flip or the clatter of a book being reshelved, but there are no other signs of life. Not until the bell above the door rings.

“Clark,” you smile, sitting up straighter as your friend walks through the door. “What’re you doing here?”

He gives you a crooked grin and shrugs. Just over his shoulder, you can see Leopold’s head pop over a shelf, he looks between you both, eyes narrowing with disdain. “Paul told me you’d be here, figured you might want some company.”

“Actually-” you start, but another voice cuts you off.

“Leopold Mountbatten,” he comes around the corner, hand outstretched as he comes in between you and Clark. “And who might you be?”

Your brows furrow in confusion at the interaction. Leopold seems oddly hostile and Clark looks strangely caught off guard. “Um, Clark. Nice to meet you, man.” He shakes Leopold’s hand but his grip is weak and it only lasts for one awkward half-second.

It’s uncomfortable to watch them try and interact and it only gets worse when they turn towards you. Clearly, they want you to tell them who the hell the other guy is. But you feel like that might just make the situation worse.

Besides, you were pretty content with it just being you and Leopold, you don’t need Clark coming in here and riling things up. “You know, Clark, I’m set here. You can just go home.” Your tone leaves no room for argument but you know he wants to.

“Alright, I’ll just call you later, I guess.” He throws one last skeptical look at Leopold before finally slinking back out of the shop.

“Neither of you should be alone without a chaperone present.” Leopold bluntly scolds you without even waiting a second before Clark is gone. It catches you off guard and you scoff.

You motion between the two of you, “We don’t have a chaperone.”

Leopold shrugs, “Yes, well, I’m not courting you.” It shouldn’t, because he’s right, but that stings. He is attractive, surprisingly so. You have this odd belief that anyone from his century had to be at least a little ugly. But he’s near perfect.

Hearing him tell you so bluntly that you’re not courting hurts a little. Though, you can’t blame him. You must be dramatically different than the women he’s used to. From your manners to how you dress, you’re practically an alien.

You stand up from behind the counter and walk towards the cart of books that need to be shelved. “Clark is a friend. Nothing more.” You’ve never once been romantically interested in your friend. He’s attractive, but he’s not really your type.

Apparently, British men from the nineteenth century are. Which does not bode well for your romantic prospects once Leopold is back home. “It is plain for anyone to see how he wants you. Don’t let yourself be blinded by naivete.”

“Naivete?” you scoff and turn around to glare at him. “Don’t pretend to know anything about me, alright? I’m not some maiden in a frilly dress who needs a chaperone.” You can see that your words affect him. He looks a little taken aback by your anger and so are you.

It’s misplaced. You’re not mad at him, just mad that you even like him. “Just go read or something, Leopold.” You dismiss him more rudely than necessary and hide yourself behind a few shelves. The rest of your workday is spent in a tense silence that makes your stomach churn.

You’re nearly ready for bed when something slips under your door with a slight whoosh. You turn towards it, frowning when you see a little envelope with a wax seal on the ground. You pick it up and let your finger slip under the paper, opening it to find a letter with your name on it inside.

The handwriting is impeccable, with a gracefulness to it that you’ve never seen before. You don’t have to read for very long to know who it's from. Leopold writes poetry about the color of your eyes and the way your lips curl when you smile. And then he ends it with a vague, nearly ominous, invitation to dinner.

You can’t help but smile to yourself, changing out of your pajamas and slipping into something a little nicer. A few minutes later you’re climbing out your window and taking the stairs up the fire escape to the roof.

You don’t believe your ears at first, thinking the music must be coming from another apartment. But when you make it up to the roof there’s a violin player there waiting for you. He smiles happily at you as you approach.

You spin in a slow circle, taking in the sheer amount of flowers littered around the roof. You don’t know how he managed to afford all of this. He transformed the barren and empty rooftop into your own little paradise. Candles lit and a live musician playing for you.

You’ve never had anyone do something like this for you, ever. It’s a little hard to accept that someone would be willing to put this much effort in for you. “I wasn’t entirely sure you would come.”

You turn around and Leopold is waiting behind you, that familiar smile playing on his lips. You aren’t aware of the grin forming on your face in response. You don’t have much control over that when you’re with him.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

He looks like he wants to respond but at the last moment thinks better of it. He instead pulls your chair out for you, helping you into your seat. “This is nice,” that feels too underwhelming a word for such an incredible gesture.

You sigh and frown as you try and find the right words. You don’t notice him sitting down across from you. You only look up when you feel him placing his hand on your own. “It’s alright,” he assures you.

It’s still so odd how he can know you so well after such little time. “This is incredible,” you tell him, undeterred by his attempts to soothe you. “No one’s ever done something like this for me.”

He looks like he takes personal offense to that and it makes you laugh. “You deserve far more than this. Sadly, it seems Stuart’s pockets do have limits and I’m afraid I would have put him into debt if I’d gone any further.”

You have the perfect mental image of Stuart coming back from the hospital only to find his science project has robbed him. It makes you laugh and you squeeze his hand once before drawing it back into your lap. He lets his touch linger on you for a long moment, seemingly reluctant to pull away.

“No,” you tell him, “this is perfect.”

You fall into a comfortable silence for a little while. Conversation mostly drifting toward what his life was like as a duke. You don’t have much to say about your own life. It’s been incredibly normal and you’re a little sad to find that you don’t have one good thing to share with him.

Nothing comes to the front of your mind.

Inevitably, you drift into the topic you’d both been so adamantly avoiding. “Has Stuart said when you’d need to return?”

Leopold’s grip on the fork tightens and for a moment he refuses to meet your eye. “Monday, I’m afraid.”

“Oh,” your eyes widen and you feel something burning at the back of your throat. Monday, the same Monday that’s two days away.

“Dance with me,” the suddenness of the demand catchers you so off guard that you forget the tears. He stands, holding out his hand to you. You almost say no, you can’t remember the last time you danced and you doubt it’s going to be pretty.

But he whispers your name and something about his tone tells you to take the chance while you have it. You slip your hand into his, letting him pull you to your feet. He doesn’t sweep you off your feet and dance the night away.

Instead, he holds you close and you sway together. Like moving even an inch away from each other would hurt. “You could come with me,” he tells you. And you know immediately what he’s talking about.

You also know it could never happen. Going to the nineteenth century is insane. Even considering it should be enough to have you sent to a psych ward somewhere. Especially not for a man you’ve known for less than a month.

You try and tell him that you can’t, but he stops you. “I know, a preposterous idea. I just wanted to think about it.” You look up at him and find that you can’t take that away from him. There’s nothing wrong with imagining what it could be like with him. Even when you know it can never happen.

You dance like that for a little while longer, swaying against each other while the violin plays in the background. He whispers your name and when you gaze up at him this time, there’s a certain look in his eye that you know is reflected in your own.

He dips down, lips caressing yours gently before he’s pushing more firmly against your own. The world stops. Cliche, you’re aware. For the first time in years, though, you’re alive. You feel something other than the dull monotony of life. You feel excited and terrified all at once. Because you know you can never have this feeling again.

You will never meet another man like Leopold who ignites this spark of life and passion within you. Never has a man been able to make you doubt every decision you’ve ever made with just a kiss, but here he is.

Your arms lift like you might try and draw him in closer. His hands come up, taking yours in his gentle hold and squeezing. He pulls away from you and reality comes crashing back down. You’re not in love, you can’t be. You’ve only just met him a few days ago.

Yet, here you are, wondering if you might actually want to leave everything behind to be with him like the great romances authors write about. He smiles at you and there’s a bittersweetness to it, a final farewell that you know will break whatever is left of your heart.

He lifts your knuckles to his lips, pressing his lips against them like he never wants to part. “Goodnight,” he whispers your name and backs away from you. You watch him go, watch him leave, unable to muster up any words for him.

You can’t think of anything that would ease this gnawing ache inside of you. Nothing to soothe the pain for either of you. You let him go because you know if you asked him to stay he would. And how selfish of you would it be to let history unravel simply because you fell in love?

Monday. It is Monday. You’ve been coming to terms with that all weekend. You don't want to think about the fact that Leopold will be gone tonight. Your time together was so brief but you feel like you’re never going to get over losing him.

Before the night was over on Sunday, a note was slipped under your door. This handwriting was messy, it made you think someone other than Leopold had written it down, but you don’t know who it could have been.

It was a date and time, jump off the Brooklyn Bridge at this time on Monday night. Only an idiot would jump off a bridge because of an ominous note slipped under her door. But you haven’t been able to take your eyes off of it, not since you first picked it up.

Leopold had invited you to go with him. And while you might not have said no, the insinuation was clear. Your eyes dart to your clock. If you left now, you could still make it in time. What an absolutely ridiculous thought.

So, why are you running out the door without locking it? Why do you not care who slips into your home now? There’s this sense of finality within you that lets you know you’re never going to see that place again and that’s okay.

You never truly felt comfortable in your life. You always thought a part of yourself was missing. Or that you were always running late for something. You think you understand what you were feeling now.

The thing you’ve been searching for your whole life wasn’t halfway across the world, a hundred thousand miles from you. He was on the wrong side of time, or you were, at least.

You manage to snag a taxi to get to the bridge but there’s a traffic jam. You’re forced to jump out of the car and run through the different lanes of blocked traffic. People shout at you. Your cab driver screaming after you about your fare. You don’t care, the only thing you can think about is the note crumpled in your hands and the clock counting down how long you have to jump.

You’ll either be on the news tomorrow as an unfortunate suicide. An idiot who accidentally threw herself off the wrong side of the bridge. Or, you’ll see Leopold again.

You reach the ledge and you can’t hesitate. If you do, you won’t jump in time. You close your eyes, holding your breath like you’re jumping into your neighbor’s pool. Air rushes around you, whipping at your hair and skin violently.

It’s not until you hear someone shouting down at you that you realize you’re not dead. You’re lying in the middle of a dirt road, a group of people staring down at you with concern in their eyes.

You only have to take in the clothes they’re wearing to know you’ve made it. Before they can react you’re leaping to your feet and running off. You know you’re near the Brooklyn Bridge, or where it’s supposed to be at least. You know enough about the area to remember where Leopold’s house is supposed to be.

You’re covered in sweat and red mud. The people you pass by in the streets hide behind their hands and whisper about you. You’re not making a good impression on your future neighbors, that’s for sure. But, honestly, all you care about is making it back to him.

You see people congregating outside his uncle’s home. You know there’s a party inside, that he’s supposed to be announcing who his wife will be. You barrel through the people outside, shoving through the crowd and running up the steps of the house.

You can hear Leopold’s voice as you run, “The woman I’m going to take as my wife is-”

There’s a loud gasp as you come panting into the room. You can’t catch your breath long enough to speak but it doesn’t matter. The crowd is parting around you and Leopold is smiling down at you. He says your name and there’s nothing else that matters about the world around you. Not when you finally found each other.

#leopold mountbatten x reader #leopold mountbatten x you #kate and leopold #I just know this is going to flop lol #hugh jackman #hugh jackman x reader #anon

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