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sitkowski · 8 months ago

Text

This was SO GOOD 😍😍😍

i can see you in my fate

pairing: nick ruffilo x f!reader

summary: prelude to the euclid polyverse—a collection of little moments telling the story of how nick and reader met and fell in love.

cw: sex with strangers, public sex (kind of), pining, some of the sweetest fluff i've ever written in my entire life bc how could i not with these two

word count: 2.3K

author's note: a brainworm given to me by @darksigns-exe (as is almost always the case) turned into the poly origins i've been wanting to write for ages. i hope y'all enjoy it <3

dividers by @saradika-graphics 💐

“You have to come with us,” your friends had insisted. You’ve spent too long cooped up, and a band one of them is into at the moment is in town. It’ll be fun.

Not exactly your idea of a fun night, but unable to say no again, you find yourself here, alone and feeling awkward at the bar. Your friends have long disappeared into the crowd, but it’s fine enough. The music isn’t half bad—nothing you’d listen to on your own, but paired with the cheap drinks, it’s loud enough to shut out your thoughts.

Moments away from ordering your Uber and calling it a night, deciding you’ve more than honored your commitment, someone sidles up to the barstool next to yours.

Normally you’d ignore him, but something about him catches your attention. He’s unassuming, laughing brightly at something the bartender says when he orders his drink. He’s so pretty, his eyes kind when they meet yours. You hadn’t noticed yourself staring, but he doesn’t seem to mind, greeting you with the sweetest smile you’ve ever seen.

“Hi,” he says, and that toothy smile melts you, that sweet voice. “Can I get you one?”

You remind yourself that this isn’t why you came here. Your friends wanted to get you out of the house, and they did, and now it’s time to go home. It’s such a sweet offer from such a lovely boy, though, that you find yourself accepting it against your better judgment.

“Um…sure,” you respond, feeling more shy by the moment as you prattle your order off to the bartender. There’s a fleeting feeling that he’s going to judge you by your drink choice, but he’s still smiling at you when you’re done. You feel at ease, and it’s not at all what you expected from tonight.

“I’m Nick,” he says, extending his hand to you. When you take it in yours, you’re surprised by how soft it is. It’s warm and gentle and settles your nerves.

You learn he’s not from around here. He plays for one of the bands that played tonight, and you don’t miss the way his eyes light up a little when you tell him the name doesn’t ring a bell, that it wasn’t your idea to come tonight, that this isn’t really your scene.

He tattoos back home in Richmond, which explains the expanse of pretty ink littering his exposed skin. You wonder who the name on his neck belongs to, but decide it’s either none of your business or a question for another time.

You won’t get your hopes up for a next time.

There are so many things you want to ask him, not used to finding yourself so comfortable so quickly with strangers in dark and noisy clubs.

He’s so animated, talking with his hands about all his favorite things—the shows he watches, his favorite bands, the stories behind his tattoos. He doesn’t get to the one on his neck before he’s sidetracked, moving a mile a minute, and you don’t ask.

“Are you listening to a word I’m saying?” he asks you, mock outrage clear in his tone. You think maybe he’s the most beautiful person you’ve ever seen. You shake your head, sneaking a sip of your drink to hide your shy smile. “Do you want me to shut the fuck up and leave you alone?”

You’ve never shaken your head so desperately, so rushed to answer in the negative.

“No, please keep talking,” you answer, feeling as your cheeks heat but not having it in you to feel embarrassed. He’s so close to you, having slowly shifted nearer, his knee grazing your own. You burn where he touches you.

You’re working against all of your instincts, against the much smarter girl who lives inside you, so entranced by him that there’s no hesitation left in you when you accept his outstretched arm and let him lead you into the bathroom with him. You need to get your hands on him, your lips on his. It’s empty, to your surprise and delight, but the way he wedges the door closed behind him implies that he’s done this before.

You can’t allow yourself to focus on it—not when he doesn’t waste a moment, his hand slipping into your underwear and fingering through your folds while sucking a mark into the side of your neck. It’s awfully presumptuous, the whole thing, but there’s no part of you that wants to complain. You don’t have even a moment to care what your friends will think, when they pick you up for breakfast in the morning to find bruises blooming all along your skin. It just feels so good. It’s so much that you’re dizzy as you slide your hands up the back of his shirt to claw desperately at his back.

“Nick,” you gasp, feeling as your fingernail catches on the skin of his back, skin breaking. He groans, biting down hard on the side of your neck. “Nick.”

“What is it, honey? What do you need?”

The sound of the endearment spilling from his lips has you holding him closer, kissing him harder. He smiles into your mouth, clearly amused by your sudden desperation. “You, Nick. Please.”

He doesn’t move to help, doesn’t back away from you for a moment, just brings his lips back to yours.

His mind seems to snap back into reality when you start fumbling urgently with the zipper of his jeans, pulling away from the kiss and fixing you with a look that’s so shocked, so shy, so wide-eyed for someone who has two fingers inside of you, thumb still rubbing insistently at your clit.

“You—” he starts, gasping a little bit like he’s shocked by the situation, even considering he led you both into it. You go to pull your hand back, immediately concerned that you misread the situation, but he shakes his head. His eyes are still so wide and you want to kiss the dumb expression off his face. “Do you want to?”

A sliver of doubt flashes through your brain. Before you really tumble over the edge into things you can never take back, you trace your fingers along the side of his neck—

“Denise won’t mind?” you ask, realizing you probably should have brought it up before you followed him into the bathroom, but he rolls his eyes before responding.

“I’d rather not talk about my mother right now,” he responds, an amused edge to his tone.

You feel awfully silly, but he’s grinning down at you, still pleased.

As you’re slipping out of your jeans and placing them on the grimy bathroom counter, your socked feet on the sticky floor, you make the decision to be disgusted later. You take the free pass you’ve afforded yourself to do something you shouldn’t as you hand the condom you keep in your bag just in case off to Nick.

It feels filthy because it is, but you won’t allow yourself to feel any shame about it. Not now, when he’s wrapping your legs around his waist, his jeans barely pushed down to mid-thigh, and pushing himself into you deliciously slowly.

The stretch burns in a way you weren’t prepared for, but it’s nice to feel full of him. He kisses you through it when you cry out, giggles into your mouth when there’s a deep, bellowing voice attached to the fist that’s pounding on the bathroom door—

He walks you to your car after, placing a kiss to your cheek before he asks if you’ll put your number in his phone. You don’t expect anything to come from it, but it’s an awfully nice gesture for him to make you feel wanted.

You’ve barely made it through the door when your phone lights up with a text from him.

Day off tomorrow. Let me buy you breakfast?

You want to play it cool, wait a little while to answer. You don’t want to seem too eager. But the thought of him making alternate plans because you’ve made him wait makes your heart sink. You don’t even really have to think about it—the prying questions from your friends will be more than worth it if it gets you some more time with him.

I know the perfect place.

You keep waiting for the line of communication to stop, and it just…doesn’t.

You anxiously await the day you don’t get a text wishing you a good morning. He’s bound to get bored of it eventually, you figure, but no matter where he is in the world, no matter how many hours ahead or behind, the message hits your phone before you’re out the door for the day.

It makes your heart swell each time you hear from him—the calls come more often than they don’t. It’s new, having someone this interested in you. It’s unexpected, having it be someone as lovely and busy and interesting as Nick.

You can’t help but feel it’s unsustainable, and there’s a dread pooling in your belly when you think about the end. The whens and hows of it and how you’ll possibly recover.

When a text from him comes through on your phone, you decide to save your misgivings for another time. With Nick, it’s always that—you have to enjoy him while you can and worry about the consequences of it all later.

Got you a postcard in Denver and realized I don’t have your address. Something for your gallery wall.

You had mentioned it so briefly, just a tiny passing topic while you were on the phone and he was falling asleep. He’d had a long day and you didn’t expect him to retain any of what you were saying, happy just to get a little bit of time with him at the end of your own long day.

He sends a picture over and your tummy fills with butterflies—always so busy, especially on tour, and still he manages to think of you. A random girl he met one night in a city he isn’t from, at a show you hadn’t wanted to attend.

It feels like an awfully lucky game of chance you both played.

I thought you might like this one. I miss you.

It’s a cutesy little thing, hand-drawn and vintage. It doesn’t fit the vibe of your wall necessarily, but you decide quickly that it will have to. You’ll make it fit.

He sends another photo of the back of the card, Wish you were here! scrawled on the back in his pretty writing, just missing an address. You give it without a second thought.

It’s the first time he ever told you he missed you, and you’re not quite sure how much he does, but the clawing emptiness you feel has you positive you miss him more.

The first time you go to visit him is more of a happy accident than anything else. He’s home from tour for a little bit and for once you have some time off work and—

When he floats the idea of you coming to stay with him for a bit, you don’t know how you’re supposed to say no.

Over a month since you met and missing him more by the day, it’s barely even a question, not even when he mentions his best friend Noah is in town, too. You start packing a bag before he even hangs up the phone.

Pulling up in front of his house to them sitting on the porch waiting for you makes your heart flutter. They’re engrossed in a conversation and you swear you can hear Nick’s big, silly laugh even through the closed windows of the car, but they’re up and smiling before you step out.

Every worry you had about feeling out of place here is pushed away when Noah pulls you into a hug first. You hear Nick whining from somewhere behind him, and you find yourself grinning, so welcomed.

You knew what a big step this was, meeting Noah. You’ve heard Nick talk about him enough to know how important he is. Either it’s not as big of a deal as you made it out to be, or it’s really just right, the way you’ve found yourself in Nick’s life.

“Noah, she’s my girlfriend,” Nick complains, before pulling you out of Noah’s embrace and into his. It catches you by surprise, but you find yourself not wanting to question it. It’s awfully presumptuous of him, but it’s so Nick at the same time. Deciding what he wants and having it.

“I’m your girlfriend?” you ask, an edge of teasing in your voice. His reply is delayed and for a fleeting moment, you worry he’d misspoken.

“You are, aren’t you?” he responds, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “That’s what I’ve been telling everyone. I don’t really want to take it back.”

It’s just right.

Everything fits so seamlessly well you wonder how you ever managed a life before him.

When he has an opportunity for a guest spot at a tattoo shop nearby, a second thought doesn’t pass through your mind before you tell him to take it, and don’t bother renting a place.

It feels like it should have always been this way when you come home in the evenings to Nick napping on the sofa, or cooking in the kitchen, or on a phone call with his mom. The nights he works late are made worth it when you’re roused from late evening naps to delicate kisses all over your face. Your life grows around him and everything fits.

It feels idealistic, a chilly winter walk, holding hands in his coat pocket. You feel giddy, like your first high school crush, but it’s something so tangible and overwhelmingly real.

He drags you into a café for a treat and an escape from the chill outside. His gloved hands are placed on the sides of your face to warm you up and there’s no instinct left to shy away from his gaze. His nose and cheeks are tinged the faintest pink. He’s gorgeous.

“I love you,” you say without thinking.

The surprised expression you’ve come to expect from him doesn’t make its appearance this time, just his big, pretty smile, like he was waiting for it all this time. “I love you more.”

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