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plush-rabbit · 1 year

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Cookies and Cream

I saw someone on the jonathan ohnn x reader tag ask for angst and rejection and im kinda in a mood (when am i not tbh) so here’s a snippet!!

Word Count: 2.5K

A/N: Realistically, i would like take a chance, but like also if my partner showed up with spots and no clothes, i’d be like oh:^) im about to make an important decision:^)

He’s a nerd- that’s a given with his profession and PhD, but he’s a dorky type of nerd that makes you smile. You like to think that you have a nice relationship with the doctor. He’s cute and awkward. He knows what you like and dislike.

You remember him buying you chocolate- the cookies and cream type- and knew that there was something going on when you don’t eat the candy. Explaining how you have such an aversion to spotted things always seemed silly when explaining to others- you always tripped over your words or never explained it properly- but he sat and listened. He nodded, and never brought you cookies and cream chocolate ever again.

Jonathan was considerate. He was a sweetheart, always so gentle and only really let his guard down when around you.

It’s been days since the Super-Collider exploded and it’s been days since you heard from Jonathan. You tried not to fear the worst; you reasoned to yourself that if something had happened, something bad, you would have been notified.

You’re in the middle of scouring various articles for any mention of the deceased or lost and his name doesn't pop up. Your mouth pulls into a thin line and you groan, throwing your head back in an attempt to let out your frustration.

“Any sign of him would work out just fine,” you mumble to yourself. You pull yourself back, an arm going across to rub at your shoulder. “I just-” tears prick at your eyes. You want him to be safe. Alive. Here with you. “Please,” you beg under your breath. You just want your partner with you.

In the room, you hear a soft plop. When you look back at the room, there’s a person in a white suit standing in your living room. You scream, grabbing at the nearest object- the television remote- and chuck it at the intruder. They yelp in response, moving awkwardly to the side, throwing something dark at the object and the remote clashes beside you, batteries spilling out.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” The person screams, hands covering their head. “I should have said something, but I only just came in.”

“Get the fuck out!” You reach for your phone, unsure if you’re going to call the police or throw it away.

“Please don’t throw it at me.” He says your name with familiarity and disgust pools in your stomach. “I’m sorry- really, I am. I just- I don’t have your key with me and I thought knocking would’ve freaked you out more and I know I look different but-”

“Who the hell are you?” You hiss, holding the phone tight in your hand.

“It’s me,” he says, as if that answer is anything useful. “It’s me, Jonathan,” he clarifies. After a moment where he’s positive you won’t throw anything, he pulls his arms down, and stands tall in your living room. All air escapes your lungs, and you hold whatever is left, unable to move as your phone slips from your hand and drops to the floor next to the remote. “Hi,” he says softly.

You wish you could run to him, but you’re rooted in place. With a good look, you aren’t sure what to make of him. His face is gone- hidden beneath white and a singular black spot that covers what should be his features. You can’t trust this to be your Jonathan.

“Prove it,” you mutter. You clear your throat, and stand straight, puffing out your chest. “Prove it,” you repeat with an ounce of force. Your hands curl into fists, and your heart races in your chest. “Take off the mask.”

The person in front of you laughs awkwardly, raising a hand to scratch at his neck. “I- I can’t do that.”

“I’m calling the cops,” you say, hoping that you’d be quick enough to grab your phone, unlock it, and call for the authorities.

“No, no! I mean, uh- you like it when I kiss your hand. You kiss my palm and I press it against my lips, and when I kiss your hand you always kiss at the spot,” he says in a rush of words. “Sometimes eating strawberries is a struggle for you, so I make sure to cut them up. Um- uh,” he turns his head around as if the answers to his identity are painted on the walls. “You have this mole on you and I always kiss it when we-”

“Oh my gosh.” You interrupt him, and there’s a chill going through your body. “Jonathan?” He nods, taking a step forward. “What- What are you wearing?”

He freezes in his spot, and stands straight. “I’m not wearing anything. I- Something bad happened back at Alchemax. I mutated with a black hole and-” he lifts his arms up in a show of himself- “I’m this. It’s skin.” He pinches at a part of his arm and pulls, and it stays connected to him.

“Skin?” You hiss out, staring at him up and down. “What do you mean?”

“It was Spider-man. He- he did this and now I look like this- but-” he shakes his head and takes a step towards you- “I’m home. I’m sorry. I know you wanted to move in with me but uh-some things happened and-” he pauses when he notices you haven’t stopped staring at him. “I know I look different, but it’s me. You know me.” He says your name softly, and you can hear the smile in his voice even though there’s no mouth. When you don’t speak, he presses further. “Please. Please say something.”

“What do you want me to say?” You ask, and it comes out cold.

“Tell me that you’re happy to see me,” he offers. When you don’t make a sound, he gives another option. “Ask if I’m okay.”

You weren’t entirely sure if you were happy to see him. You think you are. You should be. You wanted to see him just moments ago. You should have specified that you wanted to see your partner as your partner and not some mutated person.

Taking another glance, your stomach drops at all the spots- all the holes that cover his body. You should be happy. You should be holding him and asking if he’s okay. You should be thanking the stars that he’s in front of you. But you can’t. And you won’t. Not when the sight of him makes you nauseous.

You can’t look at him. It’s too many spots- too many holes. You think you’re going to be sick. You remember telling him how you hated spots- trypophobia is what he told you it was. You couldn’t eat cookies and cream flavored anything because of the spots, on bad days, strawberries made you sick. He knew that. He knows that. He’s the one who was always so careful to not give you so many punctured items. But he’s here now and you hate it.

Guilt eats at you. It makes you nauseous, and scared. You wish you could look at him. He croaks out your name, and even without a face, you can tell that he’s crying. Your teeth are clenched, molars pressing into each other, and when you peek, you turn away again. No. You can’t look at him. Not when he’s like this. Not when he’s not Jonathan.

“Please,” he croaks. You hate how your name sounds on his tongue. It’s pathetic and sniveling, and you can’t help but swallow the bile that burns your throat. “It’s still me. It’s still your Jonathan. I- I know I look different, but I- I’m sorry.”

“Jonathan,” you say, spit laying heavy on your tongue, “looking different is like a scar or bleaching your hair. You-” you gesture to him- “don’t even look-” human. He doesn’t look human, but even as you’re close to being sick, you can’t tell him that. That would be going too far. “You don’t even have eyes.”

With his long legs- too long to ever have been human- he takes quick strides towards you. His stomach touches the edge of the couch, and you see the spots swirl, contracting in size, and erratic as he speaks.

You’re going to have to wash the couch- somehow.

“I can still see!” You shut your eyes tight when he speaks. “I- I don’t have anyone else.” His voice quivers. Closing your eyes was a mistake- it still sounds like him. It is him, but it isn’t. “I thought you- you wanted to move in with me.” The sentence breaks your heart. His voice makes you want to hold him like you did nights ago.

The air is cold and it makes your skin rise with goosebumps. You wonder for a moment if his skin does the same, but the mental image of it makes you regret even thinking about it- about him. Your lungs fill with air, and you have to brace yourself to look at him.

Looking at him is so much worse than you could have imagined. The spot in the middle of his face is deflated near the top, and he’s sad. Him expressing emotions with a spot makes everything so much worse. The dark of it spirals, the edges of it fading into a small cluster of spots that reminds you of poorly mixed cookies and cream. It takes all of you to look at him.

“I wanted to move in when you-” when he looked human- “when you had a job. When you - where even if you lost the job, you could- I don’t know, find another one.” You’re shallow. You wish you weren’t. You wish it were another poor soul that got infected with spots.

“Please,” his voice is fragile, tense and heavy, and his hands rise, and they’re loosely wrapped around your own, until you pull back, scrambling to get away.

“Don’t!” You hold your hands in a clawed pose, shaking until they form into fists. “Don’t,” you whisper out, pulling your arms closer to your body and further away from him.

His body is shaking, shoulders rising and falling, and there are these broken gasps of air coming from him. He’s calling your name, pleading for you to accept his apologies. He feels bad about touching you, and you can’t help but want to wash your skin until it burns.

“I’m sorry,” he wheezes out. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Please-” your name sounds broken when he speaks it out loud- “I promise I’ll find a way to reverse this. We can figure it out. You- You said that you would take care of me when I was sick.”

“Sick, Jonathan,” you spit out, unable to stop yourself from glaring at the man across from you. “Like the cold or something serious like a broken bone or fucking radiation poisoning. Fuck!” You look away from him, and catch his reflection in a piece of furniture. It’s warped and unsightly. “It was shit like that Jonathan.” Tears pool in your eyes- burning and overflowing, and your face scorches under all your emotions. “Not this. Not when you don’t look-” you have to say it, it’s lodged in your throat, and it’ll stay stuck there until you get rid of it now- “human.” You’re the absolute worst- you’re sure of it.

Your name is called once more. You hiccup and keep your gaze away from him. “It’s still me,” he says in a low voice, hurt interlaced into every letter. “We can- I know that this is new and it’ll take some getting used to, but we can make it work.” You stay silent, biting on the inside of your cheeks to keep yourself from crying. “I wouldn’t leave you if the situations were reversed.” You flinch, and you hate that you know he’s speaking the truth. He wouldn’t leave you. Not when you needed him the most. You wish the building would crumble and you’d be crushed by stone and pipes. “I won’t bring this up ever again. We can figure it out, and I’ll never hold this against you. I promise. We can start fresh.” He so desperately clings to the relationship, and you both know that if you were to move forward, you could never forget this conversation. He could never forget how you were so quick to abandon him. “I promise.”

It’s selfish. You do this for yourself. You want to live a life that doesn’t involve hiding a man who is longer human. “I want to go out on dates. I want to watch a movie.” You turn to him, and the tears burn themselves into your skin. “I want my friends to see you.” You shake your head and take a step back, furthering yourself from the man before you. “I can’t do this, Jonathan.”

He shakes his head, and you wish that you cared for him the way that he cared for you. “We can do that. I can do that.” He takes a step forward, and you take another step back. “I- I can wear clothes and hide myself and we can go out.” The spots on his body swirl, expanding and moving across his body. They break apart at the edges, scattering smaller spots across him, and it makes the acid in your stomach fill your mouth. “Don’t do this,” he pleads. “Please.” He’s crying, and you hate that you can’t bring yourself to comfort him.

“I can’t see you anymore, Jonathan.” You turn yourself away from him. “I mean it. I can’t-” you wave a hand towards his direction- “I need you to leave Jonathan.”

“You can’t be serious.” You don’t answer, and that in itself is an answer. “I- I thought you would still want me.” You flinch at the words. You thought the same too. “Please don’t do this. I promise, you won’t see my holes. You can cover me and I’ll- I’ll hide and-”

“Jonathan,” you say curtly. “I need you to go.” You refuse to look at him. “Please, Jonathan. Just- Just get out.” Even in your worst of fights with him, you had never kicked him out, and now when he needs you the most, you kick him out. You wish that someone would put you out of your misery.

There’s a pause in the room, and you can hear his ragged breathing. “I thought you loved me.” You refuse to answer. “I love you.” You grit your teeth and shut your eyes until organic shapes in different colors swirl behind your eyelids. The confession makes you bite your tongue.

It’s silent for a long time, and when you open your eyes, you’re alone in your home. The only evidence that gave away that something bad happened was the television remote and your phone that lay on the floor. A sob cracks through your chest, and you smother it with your hand, forcing yourself not to cry. Not now. Not when it was you that demanded the break-up. You wanted him, but not when he was this- when he was that. You wanted your Jonathan.

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