Multifandom X Reader Stories

Good Enough? (Eric Coulter)

The Dauntless training floor buzzed with activity, shadows darting as initiates sparred, strategized, and occasionally exchanged harsh words. I kept my gaze steady, eyes trained on my opponent across the mat. Training was usually the best part of my day — the thrill, the rush, the constant testing of limits. But today? Today, I could feel eyes on me, a hard, scrutinizing gaze from across the room. Eric.

I'd been on his radar for weeks now, constantly pushing myself, always stepping in when things got rough with other initiates. I could feel his presence even without looking at him, a weight like thunderclouds just waiting to storm.

"Come on!" I barked at the initiate I was facing. He hesitated, glancing nervously at Eric, but I didn't have the patience for his timidness. "Don't look at him. Fight me."

He lunged forward, and I met his attack head-on, sidestepping with a quick jab to his side. He stumbled, and I followed up with a hook to his ribs, pushing him back. I didn't let up — I knew Eric was watching, and I wasn't going to back down or show any sign of weakness. My fists moved quickly, my instincts honed from weeks of relentless training, and after a few well-placed hits, I finally knocked him down.

"Good enough?" I muttered, stepping back and shaking out my hands, the adrenaline fading.

A slow clap echoed through the room, sharp and mocking. Eric stepped forward, his expression unreadable as always, but the smirk that tugged at his mouth told me he was about to give me a hard time.

"Not bad," he said, his voice carrying that low, authoritative edge. "Though I'd say you could've ended that fight a few seconds faster."

I rolled my eyes, wiping sweat from my brow. "Thanks for the feedback, Eric. I'll try to cut it down by a second or two next time."

His smirk widened, and he raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by my attitude. "I think you can manage more than that. How about a rematch with a real opponent?"

He stepped onto the mat, crossing his arms over his chest, looking at me with that unrelenting gaze, the one that challenged everything. I felt a surge of defiance rise within me; I wasn't about to let him intimidate me.

"Oh, you're on," I replied, grinning. "Let's see if you can keep up."

Eric's smirk faded, replaced by a cool, calculating expression as he dropped into a fighting stance. The room around us seemed to fade, the other initiates falling silent, their eyes wide with both excitement and fear.

He moved first, his fist striking out with brutal speed, but I dodged, ducking and sidestepping to throw him off balance. He was strong, precise, each movement calculated to keep me on my toes, but I met him blow for blow, refusing to give him the satisfaction of winning so easily.

A few hits landed — his knuckles grazed my cheek, a sharp sting flaring across my skin, but I barely registered it, focusing on the rhythm of the fight. I'd trained too hard, pushed myself too much, to let anything slow me down now.

We circled each other, breaths heavy, eyes locked, and I caught a glimmer of something rare in Eric's expression. Admiration, maybe? Respect? It was hard to say, but there was a shift in his stance, a hint of pride as he pushed forward again, more intense than before.

I met him with equal force, my movements fierce and unrelenting. But finally, with a swift move, he managed to catch my wrist, twisting me off balance. I stumbled, falling against him, and in a flash, he pulled me in close, holding me there for a moment that stretched longer than it should have.

I glared up at him, refusing to show the slightest hint of submission, even with his grip firm on my arm. "Is that your way of winning?" I challenged, my voice edged with defiance. "Getting cheap shots in?"

A glint of amusement flashed in his eyes, and he smirked. "No. It's my way of teaching you to watch for the unexpected." His tone was soft but full of that sharp edge that he wore like armor.

I could feel his grip loosen, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he looked down at me, his gaze sweeping over my face, the smirk fading to something unreadable. I was used to his scrutiny, his harsh criticism, but this? This felt different, heavier somehow.

"You don't back down, do you?" he murmured, almost as if speaking to himself.

I held his gaze, unflinching. "Why would I? Backing down doesn't get you anywhere in Dauntless."

A slow smile spread across his face, something darker, almost admiring. "Good. I'd hate to see you prove me wrong."

Before I could respond, he released me, stepping back and looking away, his expression hardening once more. He turned to the room of onlookers, his voice sharp as he addressed them. "This is the standard. If any of you are holding back, thinking that's enough to get by, you're wrong. Fight like this, or don't bother showing up at all."

The initiates around us shifted uncomfortably, but I held my ground, watching him with a mixture of frustration and respect. He was hard to pin down, his moods shifting like quicksilver, but there was something beneath the harsh exterior, a drive that made him... complicated.

He walked past me, but before he disappeared into the hallway, he paused, his gaze flicking back to me. "Meet me in my quarters after training. You've got some blood on your face."

I stared after him, feeling my cheeks heat despite myself. There was something disconcerting about the way he'd said it, like he'd noticed more than he'd ever admit. I let out a slow breath, trying to steady the strange mix of pride and confusion swirling inside me.

When I showed up at his quarters later, he was waiting, a small med kit on the table beside him. He gestured for me to sit on the counter, and I climbed up, feeling more aware of his presence than ever.

"You could've told me to patch myself up," I said, my tone light but carrying a hint of challenge.

He looked up from the med kit, an eyebrow raised. "And miss the chance to see you actually take a hit?" His smirk returned, but it was softer this time, almost teasing. "No way."

I rolled my eyes, but I stayed quiet as he worked, his fingers surprisingly gentle as he dabbed antiseptic over the cut on my cheek. The sting was sharp, but I barely registered it, too focused on the steady rhythm of his movements.

"Why do you push so hard?" he asked after a moment, his tone unusually quiet. "It's more than just wanting to succeed. I see it in the way you fight."

I hesitated, feeling his gaze on me, intense and unyielding. "Maybe I just don't want to end up weak," I said finally. "This place... it makes you tough, or it breaks you. And I'm not interested in breaking."

He nodded, his gaze flickering with something I couldn't place. "Good," he murmured, his voice almost soft. "Weakness doesn't belong here. And you're not weak."

The silence stretched between us, and I felt my heart race, the words hanging in the air. It was rare to hear praise from him, and rarer still to see him look at me with such quiet admiration. He stepped back, his hand lingering for a fraction of a second before he turned away.

"Next time, don't hold back," he said, his tone shifting back to its usual sharpness. "You're better than that."

I smirked, feeling a surge of confidence as I hopped off the counter. "Better than you?"

He raised an eyebrow, his smirk returning. "Keep dreaming."

I shrugged, a grin tugging at my lips. "Guess we'll just have to see."

4o