Love Is Overrated

love is overrated

patrick x reader

The two of you lay sprawled across the couch, the faint glow of the afternoon sun filtering through the curtains, casting a warm light over the room. Your head rests comfortably on Patrick’s firm stomach, the steady rise and fall of his breathing a familiar rhythm beneath you. His hand absentmindedly strokes your hair as you both settle into a shared silence.

“Did you see Art and Tashi today?” you ask, a soft laugh escaping your lips, breaking the quiet. “Jesus Christ.”

Patrick chuckles in response, his body rumbling beneath you, the sound low and comforting. You can’t help but smile at the shared amusement.

“They're so gross!” you continue, shaking your head slightly. “Like, I’m happy for them, don’t get me wrong, but they make me sick.”

Patrick’s hand pauses for a moment, then resumes its gentle caress. His agreement is unspoken, but the easy way he laughs along with you is enough. There's a peacefulness to this moment, a sense that neither of you needs to fill the space with too many words.

You sigh, closing your eyes for a beat before gazing up at him through half-lidded eyes, your head still nestled against him. “Can you even imagine acting like that?” you ask softly, the question lingering between you. “I don’t think any man could make me act like that.”

He shifts slightly beneath you, his fingers still tracing lazy patterns in your hair, his eyes meeting yours for a brief, thoughtful second. There’s something unspoken in the air—something neither of you are quite ready to confront, but it hovers just on the edge of awareness, waiting for the right moment to be acknowledged.

Patrick doesn’t say anything immediately, but his hand on your head speaks volumes. His presence is steady, reassuring, but there’s a tension in the quiet that suggests the conversation isn't quite over, that there's more than just laughter and casual musings lying beneath your words.

————

The living room felt like a memory, warm and worn, the light dimmed by the fading evening. The once playful chatter between you and Patrick had settled into something quieter, deeper—an unspoken connection neither of you wanted to define. It had been months since that afternoon spent laughing about Art and Tashi, months of you and Patrick spending more time together, slipping effortlessly into each other’s lives.

But tonight, something felt different.

You were sitting on the floor now, leaning back against the couch, Patrick’s legs stretched out on either side of you as he sat behind, his presence as familiar as the space you shared. The TV played softly in the background, though neither of you were paying attention. You could feel his eyes on you, the weight of a moment neither of you had spoken about pressing in around you both.

“So,” Patrick began, his voice softer than usual, a little rougher at the edges. “Are we going to pretend we’re still just friends, or are we finally going to talk about it?”

Your heart skipped, even though you’d half-expected the question to come sooner or later. You stared ahead, not quite ready to turn around and meet his gaze. The sound of the TV buzzed like static in the background, a distant hum that made the silence between you feel louder.

“I don’t know,” you murmured, your voice barely audible. You could feel his presence leaning in closer, the familiar warmth of him now carrying a kind of urgency that wasn’t there before.

Patrick sighed lightly, his breath brushing the back of your neck. “I can’t stop thinking about it,” he admitted. His hands, usually so casual and unbothered when they touched you, now rested deliberately on your shoulders, gentle but sure. “About us.”

Your chest tightened at the words. They hung in the air between you like a tether, something binding you to a truth you hadn’t fully allowed yourself to confront. For months, you’d let the playful banter and late-night conversations keep you afloat, but now… now everything was different.

You turned your head slightly, just enough to glance back at him. His face was earnest, his green eyes steady, searching yours for an answer. And in that moment, the laughter and easy companionship you had always shared felt distant—replaced by something far more complicated.

“Do you remember what I said that day? About Art and Tashi?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Patrick’s brow furrowed slightly, but he nodded. “That you could never imagine acting like that with someone.”

You swallowed hard, your throat dry. “Yeah,” you said, your voice quiet. “I lied.”

His breath hitched, just for a second, and you could feel the weight of those unspoken moments between you. The way his hand would linger on your arm a little too long, or the way you’d find yourself watching him, waiting for him to notice you in a way that wasn’t just friendly.

Patrick let out a shaky laugh, the sound more surprised than amused. “I figured,” he said, his hands still on your shoulders, his fingers tightening slightly, almost as if he were anchoring himself. “I don’t think I could ever act like that with anyone either. Except you.”

You turned around fully this time, kneeling between his legs, your faces inches apart. The air between you felt electric, like the entire room was holding its breath.

You didn’t need to say anything more. There was no need to analyze every moment that had brought you to this point, or to go back to all the times you’d both skirted around the inevitable. You knew it. He knew it. And now, there was no going back.

Patrick’s hand reached up, brushing a strand of hair from your face, his touch light but deliberate. For a moment, he just looked at you, his expression unreadable but undeniably tender.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” he whispered, almost as if speaking the thought aloud made it real.

“You won’t,” you said, surprising yourself with the certainty in your voice. And then, before either of you could second-guess, you leaned in, closing the distance between you, your lips meeting his in a kiss that felt like it had been waiting to happen for a long time.

It wasn’t rushed or intense, but slow, almost cautious—like you were both testing the waters of something you’d both been afraid to ruin. But as soon as it happened, everything else fell away. The laughter, the teasing, even the conversations about Art and Tashi seemed distant now, irrelevant.

When you pulled away, Patrick rested his forehead against yours, his eyes still closed, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “So… what now?”

You exhaled slowly, your fingers still lightly touching the fabric of his shirt. “I don’t know,” you admitted, the words honest but not uncertain. “But I think we’ll figure it out.”

Patrick grinned, his eyes fluttering open, looking at you with the same affection and ease that had always been there—only now, there was something more behind it.

“We always do,” he said, his voice filled with quiet confidence, as though everything that had happened between you up until this point had been leading to this.

And for the first time in a long while, you believed him.

jealousy, jealousy

art donaldson x reader

summary: two ex-lovers reunite unexpectedly, leading to an emotional confrontation that forces them to face their unresolved past.

You clenched your fists at your sides, throat tightening painfully. You weren’t supposed to feel this way anymore. You told yourself it was over—over him, over the hurt, over the stupid idea that maybe, just maybe, things could have gone differently. But standing there, watching him from across the room, your chest constricted with a mix of fury and something far worse: longing.

How did he move on so easily? Why did it seem effortless for him to be laughing, smiling, living his life like you’d never existed? And why her? Why Tashi? Actually, it made perfect sense as to why it was her. She was gorgeously stunning. A tennis player too. Just like you, just like him.

Your jaw tightened just as Art’s eyes met yours. He was watching you now, his gaze sharpening into something cold, almost hostile. “Don’t look at us like that. At her like that. Don’t bring her into this,” he snapped, his voice low, the words slicing through the air like glass.

You swallowed, your tongue heavy in your mouth. “What’s that supposed to mean?” you asked, trying to sound indifferent, but your voice cracked at the edges. You hated that you sounded so small, so desperate. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Art took a step closer, his expression hardening. “You know exactly what I mean,” he said, his voice rising, the anger simmering beneath the surface now glaringly obvious. “You can’t stand her because she’s happy. I’ve moved on. We’ve moved on. And you just—” He paused, taking a breath like he was trying to stop himself from saying something worse. His fingers twitched at his sides. “You need to stop.”

You flinched, the accusation stinging far more than you’d expected. “Stop what?” you shot back, your words more defensive than you’d intended. “Stop caring? Stop wondering why the hell you could just throw everything away like it meant nothing?”

Art’s jaw clenched, his hands balling into fists. “It didn’t mean nothing,” he ground out. “But this shit you’re pulling won’t change anything. Won’t change the past and it certainly won’t change the future. It’s not gonna make me come back to you.”

The words hit you harder than you thought they would, knocking the air out of your lungs. You took a step back, your vision blurring, your chest hollowing out with the weight of it all. For a moment, the room tilted, and you could barely breathe.

“That’s not fair,” you whispered, your voice trembling as tears pricked your eyes. You hated that you were falling apart in front of him. “I never asked you to come back. I just—” You bit your lip, trying to hold back the tears threatening to spill. “I just don’t understand why it was so easy for you.”

Art’s face twisted, his anger cracking into something that looked a lot like guilt, or maybe regret. His shoulders slumped as he shook his head. “It wasn’t easy,” he muttered, his voice breaking. “But what do you want me to say? We weren’t right. You know that.”

The tears you’d been holding back finally broke free, sliding down your cheeks. You hated him in that moment—hated how calm he could be, how he could stand there and say it like it was some simple truth, while you felt like you were falling apart at the seams.

“I know,” you choked out, wiping at your eyes angrily. “I know we weren’t right. But that doesn’t mean I don’t miss you.”

Art’s expression softened, and for the first time, he looked like he might cry too. He stepped closer, hesitating for a moment before reaching out. “I miss you too,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Something inside you shattered at those words, and before you could stop yourself, you surged forward, grabbing his shirt and pulling him toward you. Your lips crashed together in a desperate, messy kiss—one filled with all the unsaid words, the anger, the longing, the regret. It wasn’t soft or tender; it was raw, a collision of everything you’d been holding back for months.

When you finally pulled apart, both of you were breathless, tears mingling between you. Art’s hands were still on your arms, his touch gentle now, and for a moment, you just stood there, staring at each other like you didn’t know what to say.

“I’m sorry,” Art whispered, his voice breaking again. “I’m so sorry.”

You nodded, your heart aching in a way that felt unbearable. “Me too.”

Art’s gaze dropped to the floor, his breath shallow and uneven. The room felt impossibly small, the space between you both crackling with everything left unsaid. For a moment, neither of you moved, both caught in the whirlwind of shared heartbreak.

Then, as if driven by an invisible force, Art spoke quietly, his voice tinged with desperation. “Come back with me,” he whispered, his fingers tightening ever so slightly on your arms. “We can talk, just… come back to my room.”

Your heart twisted at the words, a part of you wanting nothing more than to follow him, to forget about everything outside this moment. The hurt, the anger, the broken promises—they all flickered away for an instant. But reality snapped back too fast, too clear.

You swallowed hard, shaking your head slowly, your body trembling as you stepped back from him, breaking the fragile connection. “I can’t,” you murmured, your voice thick with emotion. “I’m not a homewrecker.”

Art flinched at the word, his face contorting in a mixture of pain and frustration. He opened his mouth as if to protest, to explain, but the truth hung heavy between you, undeniable. He had moved on. And you couldn’t let yourself be the one to unravel what he had built, no matter how much your heart ached for the past.

“I’m not her,” you continued softly, wiping the remaining tears from your face, forcing yourself to look him in the eyes. “I won’t be the one who ruins things. You made your choice, Art.”

His lips parted as if to argue, but the fight seemed to drain from him all at once. His shoulders slumped, his eyes filled with regret, and he let out a shaky breath. “I never wanted to hurt you,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

“I know.” You nodded, biting back another wave of tears, your heart breaking all over again. "But you did."

There was a silence between you, thick and unbearable, the kind of silence that felt permanent. And then, with a final look that said everything words couldn’t, you turned and walked away, leaving behind the pieces of what you once were, and what you would never be again.

💇‍♂️i miss your crazy hair.

connor murphy x reader

"You should never cut your hair," you had whispered one lazy afternoon, fingers combing through the wild tangle of his long, unruly locks. The sun had filtered through the window, casting a golden glow over the two of you as you lay together, lost in a world that felt like it would last forever. "I love it too much. It's crazy and beautiful, just like you."

He had smiled that slow, easy smile of his, the one that made you feel like you were the only person in the world. "I’ll never cut it," he’d promised, voice soft, filled with a warmth that melted the edges of your heart. "Because I love you."

But promises, like relationships, fade. And now, standing in the hallway, you see him again after all these months, and it feels like the world is falling out from under you. His hair, once a wild, beautiful mess, is gone—cut short, disheveled, like a shadow of the man he used to be. Like a shadow of the love you thought you had.

It’s strange how something as simple as a haircut could feel like the final blow, the last shard of what you once shared being torn away. You’d always thought the breakup itself was the worst of it—the slow unraveling of something that had once seemed unbreakable. But this... this is different. This is seeing, in the starkest way possible, that the man you loved no longer exists in the same form. That he’s shed the last part of himself that still held traces of you.

You try to swallow the lump forming in your throat, but it stays there, heavy and unmoving, just like the hurt in your chest. You hadn’t expected to see him today. You hadn’t prepared yourself for the way his presence would still make your pulse quicken, or how the sight of him would stir up the grief you thought you’d buried long ago.

Your eyes follow him as he walks down the hall, oblivious to your gaze, to the silent devastation you’re cradling inside. His steps are hurried, distracted, and in that moment, it’s clear—he’s still hurting as well. But he’s trying desperately to move on.

And it hurts more than you ever thought it would. Because deep down, you’d held onto that promise—his hair, the little part of him that had once been tied to you. You’d imagined, in some naive part of your mind, that maybe, just maybe, he’d kept it because some part of him still cared, still remembered. But now, standing in this cold, empty hallway, you realize how foolish you’ve been.

He turns a corner, disappearing from sight, and you’re left standing there, your heart breaking all over again, this time in a quieter, more painful way. There are no more promises to cling to, no more pieces of him to hold onto.

It’s all gone now.

You lean against the wall, exhaling shakily, trying to remind yourself that this is what you wanted—to move on, to let go. But the truth is, you’ve been holding on to ghosts. And now, even the ghosts are slipping away.

It’s time to face it: the person you loved is no longer there, and maybe, neither are you.

Oh!

OHHHHJ thinking of fucking art to get back at patrick for something now

and it’s ironic because you’re wanting to get back at patrick for keeping you a secret. and clearly art doesn’t know about you, because if he did he wouldn’t be letting you ride him on the couch in his living room, a movie softly playing in the background.

he’s so much needier than patrick; clawing at your ass and the small of your back and sobbing out sweet whimpers. says your name over and over and pushes your fingers into his mouth before dragging your hand down to wrap around his throat.

and after art finishes he begs to eat you out. he’s on a high when he takes you home and art can’t keep his giddiness to himself.

the next day he tells patrick he thinks he’s in love. tells him about the sex you had and how much chemistry there was and he pats art on the back. asks to see a picture of the special girl.

but when he pulls up a picture of you, he feels his eye twitching and he doesn’t have the heart to tell art.

This scene makes me sooo sick to my stomach. And obviously, yes, because of Art and Patrick and their whole Thing. But also because just LOOK at Tashi. Look how fucking terrified she is. The bouncing leg, the tensing muscles, the big wracking breaths like she's trying not to start sobbing. She's so fucking scared and in so much pain.

This is one of the reasons why I have problems with the challengers fans, and honestly, just the fans of media in general—because they reduce women so much, that, in their eyes, the pain they go through is essentially worthless. I know for a fact that if it had been Art or Patrick who had gotten an injury like this, people would've cared so much more, would have been a million times more understanding of any "bad" behavior.

And I know it's easy to be upset with Tashi because we see how miserable Art is, we see how he and Patrick's relationship with her led to their falling out. But, seriously, imagine that you're Tashi. Imagine that you've been working towards something since you were a little kid, probably. Imagine that you sacrifice an ordinary, care-free childhood to do something, and imagine you're really fucking good at it. Imagine your entire identity being crafted around a single thing—

And then imagine it all being ripped away from you. Imagine you're in your first year of college, your life just beginning, and the thing that has basically been your entire world for over a decade is taken away.

Like, wouldn't you become completely insufferable? Wouldn't you be so fucking angry—at your ex boyfriend, at the world, at your husband who has an able body, has the ability to be great, and who doesn't even really want it?

People who train that long, who actually have a future as a professional athlete, treat their sport like a fucking religion. It is everything to them. And you're mad at Tashi because she was mean to some guys? Seriously?