#almost every time I fly with them they’re late

[thefakerachelray]

John Mulaney was right about Delta Airlines though. The Delta Help Desk is an oxymoron and they do make life a nightmare.

[guiltyasdave]

delicate

pairing: modern!Oberyn Martell x f!reader

word count: ~3.9k

summary: You meet a mysterious man at a club. He's just as attracted to you as you are to him.

warnings/tags: explicit smut (-> 18+ only!), alcohol consumption, able-bodied reader, no use of y/n, very soft dom!Oberyn, protected p in v (who am I), dirty talk, fingering, anal play (m receiving), a hint of angst, romance because I can't help myself

a/n: written for @dancingtotuyo’s on repeat drabble challenge, based on the song delicate by taylor swift. this is honestly just feral, i have nothing to say for myself.

dividers as always by @saradika-graphics <3

find my full masterlist here and follow @guiltyasdavenotifs for fic updates!

Lights are flashing, colors dancing over the exposed skin of your arms and shoulders; the bass is pumping, making your whole body feel like it’s vibrating from within. You’re clinging to your friend, your arms intertwined as you navigate your way through the crowd of people to the bar.

You first see him as you’re gulping down your drink, welcoming the cool liquid in your parched throat. Your eyes are observing the crowd, flying over him and then flickering back to take a second glance. 

He’s gorgeous, his dark hair a mess, a beard framing his face, his skin shining under the lights. He’s wearing a shirt that flows around his body, threads of gold weaving through the fabric and reflecting the dancing lights. It’s almost entirely undone, giving you a generous look at the expanse of his toned chest, at the sun-kissed skin that you feel a sudden urge to run your fingers over. A massive gold chain with a lock hangs around his neck, an accessory that you’re convinced would look absolutely ridiculous on anyone else. But on him, it somehow only accentuates the strong cords of muscle that ripple under his skin in a way that makes you want to lick your lips. 

He moves with a confident ease, his body in tune with the stomping beats, his whole being exuding an almost cocky self-assuredness. You keep drinking him in, fascinated in a way that you can barely understand. You realize that you’ve been staring when your friend follows your line of sight and you hear her quiet gasp beside you. 

“Haven’t seen that one around before,” her voice floats into your ear over the music and you shake your head in silent agreement. You’d definitely remember if you did. 

You both watch him move with the body of a woman next to him, watch him bend down to whisper something into her ear, watch the way his lips curl into a smug grin as she grinds against him in reaction to his words. 

“Too late, I guess,” you laugh, downing the rest of your drink and tearing your eyes away. 

The two of you head back into the crowd, swaying your bodies to the beat. You try to get lost in the feeling of it, but your eyes keep searching for him, hungrily grasping at the glimpses of him that you can spot. Eventually, you watch the retreating backs of both of him and the woman head toward the exit, their bodies closely intertwined. Like you said, you try to shrug it off, too late. It’s not a big deal, there’s more than enough other guys around you. 

But you don’t go home with any of those guys, none of them able to catch your interest the way he did, and when you lie in bed in the early morning hours, your head pleasantly buzzing with the remaining alcohol in your bloodstream, you still see him behind your eyelids. 

A few weeks go by and while you hope to catch him every time that you’re out, there’s no trace of him. It isn’t until your friend’s birthday celebration, a tradition that the two of you have kept up for years, that you see him again. 

Again, you’re leaning against the bar, your eyes aimlessly drifting over the dancefloor while you’re sipping on your drink, when you spot him. He’s wearing another colorful shirt, his chest almost entirely on display, and he’s shamelessly grinding against another young man as they’re both moving to the beat. You can’t tear your eyes away, apparently staring so intently that he catches you and throws you a wink across the room. 

You feel heat rising in your cheeks and almost turn away, but he’s already on his way, moving towards you with a cat-like grace, effortlessly weaving through the crowd of moving bodies. 

“Hey,” he says, leaning into you so close that his breath fans hot against your ear, causing goosebumps to rise on your neck. “Saw something you like?” 

You grin at him over the rim of your cup, biting your lip and nodding. He mirrors your grin, an almost predatory glint in his eyes. He’s even more gorgeous up close, a light sheen of sweat on his face and his eyes a smoldering brown, his dark hair a mess with strands sticking to his forehead. You take in his toned chest, his broad shoulders and you desperately want to touch your hands to his golden skin. A foreign accent is lacing his words in the most delicious way, only adding to the pull that you feel towards him. 

“Let me buy you another drink,” he purrs and you accept, thanking him and offering him your name. You relish in the way you have to lean into him so that he can hear you, greedily soaking in his scent and his body heat that make your mouth water. 

His name is Oberyn, you learn, a name that sounds foreign on your tongue and you could swear that a quiet growl rises up his throat when you repeat it back to him. 

You’d love to spend your evening dancing with him, pressing your body against his, find out if moving with him feels as good as it looks from the outside. But it’s your friend’s birthday, and you’re gonna stick together, dance the night away with each other and no one else, the way you do every year. 

He shrugs it off when you tell him as much, an unbothered grin on his face as he promises you another time then. His hand wraps around your wrist, the warmth of it sinking into your skin as he pulls your arm out towards him, a black marker suddenly in his other hand. 

“What are you–” you begin to ask, but your voice dies at the sight of him pulling the cap off with his teeth, something that really shouldn’t affect you this much. 

He bends over your arm and it takes your hazy mind a moment to register that he’s writing numbers onto your skin. You’re getting lost in the feeling of his hand on you, even in such an innocent place, and your thoughts are already jumping to fantasies of how it would feel trailing up your arm and over your body. 

“There,” his voice floats into your ear and you almost jump. The smug look on his face leaves no doubt that he knows exactly what kind of effect he has on you. He leans in close again, so close that you can feel his breath on your skin. Your mouth feels dry. 

You look down at your arm, now adorned with digits in black ink. A phone number. 

“Give me a call,” he smirks, and leans in even closer, until his lips move against the shell of your ear and a shudder runs down your back at the sensation. “Just think of the fun things we could do.” He throws you another wink and slides away from you, back into the crowd. 

You text him the next day, worried if it’s too soon, if it makes you seem desperate. Then again, you have to admit to yourself, you are desperate. Desperate to hear his voice again, desperate to feel his hands on you again. Texting him is less awkward than you had hoped, his demeanor putting you at ease almost immediately. You catch yourself smiling at the screen, already down bad for this man. 

You’re in bed, struggling to calm down enough to sleep when your phone’s screen lights up the darkness of your bedroom from where it’s lying on your nightstand. 

He’s asking you to meet him in a dive bar, right now, if you want to. You’re reluctant at first, once again worried to appear too eager, but the almost magnetic pull that you feel towards him eventually leads you out of your apartment and to the address he sent you. 

He’s waiting for you in the back, just like he told you. Wearing dark jeans and a white t-shirt, the fabric stretching around his broad chest in a way that makes it hard not to stare, dressed much more casually than you’ve come to know from him. It doesn’t take away from his persona one bit, he’s still exuding that energy that seems to let him command every room he’s in, that makes it so hard for you to resist him. 

He buys you a drink and pulls you into a corner booth with him. Talking to him is easy, he’s an attentive listener and his quick remarks make you laugh, leaning into him when you do. You learn that he’s not from around here, that he flew in to visit friends but that he’s thinking about moving here permanently. It almost scares you, how giddy that prospect makes you, the idea of having the chance to keep seeing him. His arm finds its way around your shoulders eventually, his fingers drawing shapes over your skin. The innocent contact makes you feel like a teenager, suddenly sixteen again. 

He walks you home later, his arm still wrapped around you, pulling you into his side. It feels good, a sense of safety and intimacy that you feel yourself getting lost in. You had thought that he was hot, that he would be a fun hookup, but as the minutes tick on, you realize how much you already like him. How much you want this feeling to last. 

It feels so natural, turning around to face him when you reach your building, both of you leaning in simultaneously until your lips meet, like it’s the only possible way for this evening to end. You think that it is. 

Kissing him feels even better than you had envisioned in your mind, and you melt against him, one hand braced against his chest while the other comes up to pull at the hair in the nape of his neck, needing him closer, not ready to let him go. He’s cupping your face in both hands, his thumbs caressing your cheeks, and you feel him smile against your lips. You lick into his mouth, revel in the groan that rumbles deep in his chest. 

You don’t let go of him, holding onto his hand when you pull him up the stairs, soak in the feeling of him pressed against your body when you unlock your apartment door, let him connect his lips with yours again when he walks you backwards down your hallway.

Everything about him feels so right, so safe and yet like the most exciting experience you’ve ever had. You breathe him in, ecstatic with the sensation of his broad form against you, with the way you feel his muscles move under your fingers where you’re grabbing at his shoulders.

He lets you lead him into your bedroom, his hands still all over you. You push him down to sit on the edge of your bed and he follows your lead, sinking down on the mattress with an easy grin on his face, regarding you with hooded eyes. He wraps his hands around your waist as you’re standing in front of him and he pulls you closer. His fingers find their way below the hem of your skirt, dancing over the supple skin of your thighs, slowly inching up higher. 

You whine, already squirming under his touch, and his grin widens. 

“So soft,” he coos up at you, tightening his grip on your thighs and moving you to straddle him, your legs already spread wide to accommodate the thickness of his thighs beneath you. One hand comes up to cradle your face again, his thumb nudging at your lips and you flick your tongue against the digit, making him chuckle. 

“And so pretty,” he continues, leaning in to connect your lips once more. You want to melt into him, let him consume every fiber of your being. 

Your hands tug at his t-shirt, pulling it up, desperate to satisfy the need to be closer to him, to feel his bare skin against yours. He helps you, lifting the fabric over his head. You’ve seen most of his chest before, but not like this, not revealed just for you, in the dim light of your bedroom, yours to look at, yours to touch. He somehow seems even broader without clothes on and you’re almost transfixed by the thick cords of muscle of his arms and shoulders that are on display for you now. 

He chuckles again, placing another kiss at the corner of your lips. 

“You alright, princess?” 

“Yeah,” you murmur, feeling breathless, overwhelmed with how much you want him. 

His hands splay over your thighs, fingertips dipping beneath your skirt again, slowly, teasingly skating higher. 

“Take this off for me.” It’s phrased like an order, but it’s still so soft, not leaving a doubt in your mind that you could say no if you wanted to. But you don’t. You want him to see you, want to feel his eyes on you, want to have this hungry look that’s trained on your face burning all over your body. 

He groans when you obey, a deep, rumbling sound that goes straight to your core and you know that he feels your thighs clenching on top of his. His mouth is on your bare skin within seconds, kissing and sucking, his tongue moving against you like he’s going to devour you. 

You arch against him with a whine when he circles your nipple, first with his fingers and then with his tongue before sucking the sensitive bud between his lips. It’s all encompassing, the wetness of his mouth, the strong grip of his hands, the heat of his chest seeping into your skin where you’re pressing yourself against him. 

“Please, Oberyn,” you whimper, not even sure what you’re asking for, just knowing that you need more. His responding moan sends vibrations from his mouth straight through you, before his fingers dig into your waist and he flips you over, until your back is resting on your sheets and he’s hovering over you, your thighs still spread wide around him. 

The image alone is enough to send another wave of arousal through you, the way he looks just as wrecked as you feel. His large hands spread your thighs wider as he leans back, his eyes trained on your panties, where you know the fabric must be soaked already. 

“So pretty,” he mumbles again, more to himself than to you. His eyes fly back up to meet yours, almost black, his pupils blown wide. “Can I take these off?” He dips a finger under the lace covering your hip, pulling it away and letting it snap against your skin. 

“Please.” You don’t care how desperate you sound, not when he looks up at you with the most sinful smirk on his face. His hands grasp the fabric and you lift your hips to help him pull it down, but his smirk widens as he tears the lace in half, ripping the shreds off of your body. 

“Fuck,” you whine, not a single thought wasted on the fact that those were some of your favorite panties, every part of you focused on how badly you want his hands all over you. 

His eyes stay focused on your expression, eagerly drinking in your every reaction as his fingers dip between your legs, so close to where you so desperately need him. He groans when he feels the wetness seeping from your folds, swirling his digits through it before reaching your clit. He’s ghosting over the sensitive nub with barely any pressure, but it’s enough to elicit a moan from you, your hips canting up to follow his touch. You’re distantly aware of the pleas that are falling from your lips, giving way to a loud whine when he finally sinks two thick fingers into your heat. 

He thrusts into you, curling them just right, and his name tumbles out of your mouth again, laced with pure need. You watch in fascination when he sucks his slick-coated fingers into his mouth, eyes still trained on your face, a rumble forming in his chest at the taste. 

“Tastes so sweet, princess.”

Your thighs fall open wider, shamelessly offering yourself to him, to his eyes, his hands. You reach out, grabbing at his waist, the need to feel all of him nearly overwhelming. His fingers intertwine with yours, pulling your hands away from his body. He lifts them up to his mouth and presses soft kisses against your knuckles, a whisper of patience on his lips before he lets go of you and rises up to rid himself of his jeans. 

Your eyes widen at the sight of him, a needy sigh escaping you when you think about feeling him inside you, about the way he’s gonna stretch your walls. You sit up, eagerly reaching for him again. Your fingers wrap around his cock, mesmerized by his girth, and he hisses when you move your hand over his length. 

You hear the crinkle of plastic and then his hand is on yours, gently tugging it away, much too soon for your liking. You watch as he puts the condom on with practiced ease, the sight of his own hands on his cock enough to send another wave of arousal through you. 

He’s back on you before you know it, sliding in between your spread legs, his large hands splayed over your upper thighs, pushing them further apart. His eyes are trained on your weeping pussy, a hungry darkness in them. You whine when he rubs his cock through your wetness before tapping against your clit.

“You want this?” he asks, his voice husky. 

“Please, Oberyn.” Your desperate plea breaks off into a filthy moan when he sheathes himself inside of you, breaching your tight walls with the most delicious sting, and you feel your eyes rolling back into your head. 

Pleasure grows inside of you as he starts to move, slamming into your pussy in a forceful rhythm. You feel so full of him, the sensation almost overwhelming as he hits the perfect spot over and over. The wave inside of you crests so suddenly that you barely realize what’s happening, the need that you’ve felt brewing all evening finally reaching its peak. 

You gasp his name, nails pressing into his shoulders as he fucks you through it, until you’re a trembling mess beneath him. He slows, moving in and out of you with shallow thrusts, his lips on yours once more. 

You stay like that for a moment, arms wrapped around him, holding him close while you bask in the bliss that you’ve just experienced. But his continuous movements have the hunger for more growing inside of you once more. You meet his thrusts with your hips, needy to feel him deeper again. He props himself up, and it’s sinful how good he looks, his face glowing, a sheen of sweat on his skin. 

You suck one of your fingers into your mouth, eyes wide and holding his gaze, feigning innocence. He watches you, a curious glint in his eyes, as you trail your hands from his shoulders down his back until you reach his ass and pull him further into you, fingernails digging into his flesh. 

You let your saliva-covered finger reach further, gently massaging the puckered ring of muscle and he gasps, thrusting into you with so much force that it jostles your whole body and you cry out, the sensation of him so deep inside you a heady mix of pleasure and pain. 

“Fuck,” he grits between his teeth as you keep up your ministrations, delighted to have this effect on him. “Fuck, princess, just like that…” 

You bite your lip, grinning up at him. “Do the girls back home touch you like I do?” 

He breathes out a laugh and shakes his head, his movements never faltering as he gathers your wrists in his hands and pins them down on the mattress beside your head. 

“No. And you’re gonna make me come if you keep this up, but I’m not finished with you yet,” he purrs, leaning down and sucking bruising kisses into the soft skin of your throat, the scratch of his beard only adding to the sensation. You free one of your hands from his grip to tug at his hair, your fingers burrowing in the soft strands at his neck and scratching against his scalp. 

“You can give me one more, can’t you?” His voice in your ear makes you shiver and you nod, a breathless please on your lips. 

“Good girl.” His kiss is soft against your cheek before he pulls away, his thrusts speeding up, as he grabs your hips, holding them up, giving you no choice but to take him. “Touch yourself,” he demands, the tendons in his neck straining with exertion. 

Your fingers are on your clit within moments, rubbing against it, slick with your arousal. The coil inside you tightens again, desperate for release once more. 

“Give it to me princess, come on.” His voice sounds wrecked, and it’s the thing that makes you leap over the edge a second time, stars exploding behind your eyelids as you pulse around him, pure pleasure soaring through you. 

He comes to a stuttering halt, hips pressed flush against yours, and his groans are almost enough to make you want to come again. He falls forward, forehead pressed against yours, and you share a lazy smile. 

You think that he really is the most beautiful person that you’ve ever met.

You fell asleep curled against him, your head resting on his chest and soaking up his warmth, with his arm around your shoulder, but when you blink awake to soft morning light falling through your curtains, you are alone. You roll onto your back, staring up at the ceiling. You’ve seen him at the club, he’s probably in a different bed almost every night, you shouldn’t be surprised that he snuck out of yours in the morning. And you sure as hell shouldn’t be disappointed. 

You get up with a sigh, pulling a t-shirt over your head and padding down the hall to the kitchen. You come to an abrupt halt in the doorway, met with a sight that you hadn’t expected. He’s standing in front of your open fridge, the expanse of his back bare and turned towards you. There’s a swoop of excitement in your stomach.

You exhale loudly and he turns towards you, an easy smile on his lips. “Good morning.” His voice sounds raspier, still thick with sleep. 

“Hey,” you say, returning his smile. He closes the distance between you and cups your face, the sensation of his thumb against your cheek already a familiar one. His lips find yours and you get lost in the feeling of it, in the fantasy of this being your every morning, in pretending that he’s yours. 

When he pulls away, the words are out of your mouth before your mind is able to catch up.

“I think I really like you.” 

You want to bite your tongue immediately, to take them back. Too early, the voice in your head screams. Your eyes widen as you search for something else to say, but he doesn’t waver, still regarding you with that relaxed smile on his handsome face.

“Is– is it okay that I said that?” 

He hums, his large hand still on your cheek. 

“I think I really like you too.”

as always, if you enjoyed this, please consider putting a smile on my face by reblogging, commenting or sending in an ask <3 thank you for reading!

[heliads]

wouldn't you love to love her? - jack hughes

The New Jersey Devils have a new social media intern. Jack Hughes is determined not to care at all, except for the fact that he does.

masterlist

“We’re getting a new social media intern,” Luke remarks offhandedly.

Jack tries not to roll his eyes. He’s not sure he succeeds. For as long as he’s been at the Devils, there have been perhaps dozens of new social media interns, one after another in a chain of pretty girls shoving phones into his face. Every time, it’s always the same. Another girl, fresh from college or in between jobs, asking him and the others to learn dances or take part in trends. Luke will flirt with the intern. Dawson too, probably. Even Jack, when he gets bored. Then, the internship will be up in a month or two, and they’ll get another one. Prettier, maybe, or funnier. And the cycle will begin again.

It’s not like he can really blame them, either. The hockey industry is precious, even for people who aren’t playing. If these girls want in, an internship is a great way to start. Any entry post’s a good one if it gets you where you want. Only, social media’s a pain. Jack came here to play hockey, not be in a dozen new photos and videos a day. It drives him crazy sometimes, or all the time.

So, when his brother tells him they’re getting another intern, he really couldn’t care less. Luke, more prone to fits of passion over the latest girl in Devils red, is still staring at him wide eyed, waiting for a reaction, so Jack rolls his eyes and gives him one.

“Good,” he says dully. “It’s been too long since I saw a phone camera shoved in my face. Can’t wait.”

Luke groans. “Come on, man. They’re fun, don’t give me that bullshit again. Besides, I saw you trying to buy the last one drinks.”

Jack can’t argue with this. He had been trying. It was something to do. “Won’t do it this time. I’ll leave that for you.”

Luke heaves another dramatic sigh. Jack wants to do something to stop the oppressive judgment, so he does, snatching the hat off Luke’s head and shoving it towards his mouth. Luke, predictably, nearly falls out of his chair and starts squawking indignantly. Jack just chuckles and gets up from his seat, heading towards the door. They’ve been idling in one of the cafes in the massive arena where they practice, called there early for business stuff that ended up getting delayed. Meetings always run late, and now Jack has the rare feeling of tardiness not actually being his fault.

He heads down the hall towards the locker rooms, ready at last for practice. Luke follows a few paces behind him, still complaining, something about saving violence for the ice. Bullshit, obviously. Jack does what he wants, where he wants. Hasn’t Luke figured that out by now?

Jack steals a glance over his shoulder just to rub in the injury. Luke meets his gaze and glowers, still pissy from almost taking a nose dive off his chair, but all of a sudden his eyes widen at something in front of them. Jack whips around just in time to collide with someone exiting one of the offices.

It’s not an accidental almost-impact, either, this is a complete disaster. Papers go flying. Jack manages to keep his balance, but the victim of his distraction is worse off. He has to fling out both hands to steady them, catching at their arms at the elbow before they fall over. A dozen apologies rise to his lips, but Jack only gets through about half of them before he actually looks at the person he’s just bumped into– and look, indeed, he does.

Jack has just run into a girl his age, and a very pretty girl at that. He gets lost in her eyes without even meaning to, captivated by the way the light shines in them as she opens her mouth and says, “What the hell are you doing?”

Jack blinks in surprise, feeling like he’s just been abruptly pulled out of a dream. “Huh?”

The girl stares at him like he’s crazy. “Why are you holding onto me?”

Too late, Jack realizes he never actually let go of her when he was trying to steady her. He snatches his hands away, the sinking feeling settling in that he actually has no idea how long he was standing there, captivated. No wonder this girl thinks he’s insane. This random guy comes up, runs into her, then silently holds her in his arms for what’s probably more than just a second or two? Yeah, that’s crazy in anyone’s books.

“Sorry,” Jack says again. They look at each other warily for a moment longer, then collectively, both gazes drop to the papers spilled across the ground.

Immediately, Jack dives for them, trying to gather as many as he can. He springs up again, and, not trusting himself to say anything that isn’t stupid, just awkwardly holds out the papers until she takes them. The girl gives him one last disbelieving glance, then walks purposefully past him. Jack turns and watches her go, wondering why he feels vaguely disappointed that she hadn’t stopped to talk longer. He didn’t even get her name.

Raucous laughter breaks out the second the girl disappears around a corner. Belatedly, Jack remembers that Luke has witnessed the whole thing, which is just great. The last thing Luke needs is more ammunition for making fun of him.

“That was, like, the least smooth thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” Luke chokes out. “What the fuck was that?”

Heat flares into Jack’s cheeks. “Shut up,” he says, turning back to continue walking down the hallway.

Luke, however, is unwilling to let go of the horrific blunder. He trots up to walk by Jack’s side, regardless of how much Jack tries to pick up the pace. “I mean, Jesus. Way to make an entrance. Poor girl’s probably going to log that with HR.”

“Shut up,” Jack repeats through gritted teeth. “I’ve seen you do worse in front of fans.”

“We’re not talking about me right now, we’re talking about you,” Luke says happily. “I’m so telling Quinn about this.”

“You are not,” Jack warns, but even after many threats of serious violence, he’s not entirely convinced that his older brother won’t hear about this.

Jack almost manages to put the whole thing out of his mind until he and the others are hanging out in the locker room later that day. They’re all dressed, but their coach wanted a few words before they hit the ice, apparently something bureaucratic that Jack can’t wait to forget.

Instead of being introduced to a new friend of the owner or some wealthy donor, however, Coach announces that they’ll be meeting their new social media intern. Online presence is crucial for sponsors, apparently, and the Devils need to up their game. So they say. Jack thinks it’s a lot of nonsense, and is fully prepared to treat it as such until their coach beckons the new intern into the room and Jack realizes he knows her. This isn’t a stranger, someone he can ignore without another thought. This is the pretty girl Jack just ran into earlier today, and she’s the one in charge of most of his Internet footprint.

Great.

Across the room, Luke is grinning ear to ear. This is so not what Jack wanted. The coach is saying something about how they’ll all be pulled one by one today for introductions and a few quick videos that can be parceled out during the next week or so. Usually, they would ask Nico first, captain rights and all that, but they need him to advise on some drills, so they go for the next best– Jack himself.

They’ll be filming TikToks or whatever a few halls over so as to not distract anyone, so Jack makes his way over with no small amount of trepidation. She hadn’t seemed so excited to meet him earlier, but maybe she’ll have forgotten who he was. It was a fast exchange. Maybe this means nothing at all, and they will have a great meeting, and he could even get her number or something. Yeah, not a problem.

The girl is setting up a phone on a stand when Jack shows up. She glances once at him as he approaches, then nods. “Oh, we’re starting with Mr. Observant. Cool.”

Jack feels his face turn a bright scarlet. “I’m not– I’m sorry about that. Honestly. I just didn’t see you.”

“That’s fine,” the girl says with a listless wave of her hand. “It was funny. I just thought hockey players would have more reflexes or something, I don’t know. Anyway, what’s your name, again?”

This is a simple question. It really is. Yet for some reason, Jack finds himself bothered. He’s been with the team for a while now, had that A on his uniform for a while now, and maybe he shouldn’t, but he’s gotten comfortable with his reputation. People know who he is. He’s recognized on the street, asked for photos while he’s getting coffee, all of that. And now this girl– this intern– is pretending like she doesn’t know who he is, and insulting his reflexes to boot?

“Jack,” Jack replies tersely. “Are you going to tell me your name, or should I just guess?”

“Y/N,” the girl answers him. “What do you do on the ice except run into people?”

“I play hockey,” Jack deadpans. “What else do you want me to say?”

Y/N just smiles at him, the picture of innocence. “Your position? This is supposed to be an introduction, isn’t it? I have to make sure I have a good picture of the team.”

Fine. Fine. Jack can be civil. He’s going to play along and then he’s going to leave and make somebody else deal with her.

“Yeah, position. I'm an alternate captain, a center. Left wing. That matters.” He feels like he’s rambling. This is stupid. He’s stupid. He never does this.

“Sure it does,” Y/N says, one eyebrow raised. “Do you have to tell everyone you’re cool or just the interns?”

“Huh?” Jack asks. “I’m not– I’m just talking.”

Y/N nods. “I’m sure you do. Talking and hockey, that’s impressive. I can see why the Devils wanted you.”

“Your team spirit needs some work,” Jack notes. “Why’d they hire you, your winning personality?”

“That, and I’m wonderful at making infographics,” Y/N informs him breezily.

“I bet they’re terrible,” Jack says on instinct. “Clashing colors and all that. Can you even draw a straight line?”

Y/N cocks her head to the side. “I don’t know, can you shoot on goal without getting injured?”

Jack takes a step forward on instinct before he remembers that he cannot fight social media interns and backs down. Still, the anger simmers in his head so bad he’s not sure if the red all around him is for the Devils or just the film of rage clouding his eyes.

This isn’t good for him. His team needs him out there on the ice with a level head, even in practice. Jack forces a smile and says, “I guess you’ll see at our next game, won’t you?”

Y/N meets his gaze with a mirror smirk, which bothers Jack more than if she’d tried to one-up him again. He grabs his stick with more force than necessary, making himself step past her and onto the ice before he does something he’ll regret. Once he’s out there, skating broad loops to warm up, Jack can almost put the whole exchange out of his head.

Almost. 

Luke finds him after practice, because of course he does. Somedays, Luke swears that little brothers must be born with an innate knowledge of how to stick their heads into other people’s business. Fleetingly, he wonders what Quinn would think about that, then moves on before that lesson can settle in.

“I love our new intern,” Luke says happily on the drive back to their apartment.

Jack scoffs. “Sure you do. You love rubbing this in my face.”

Luke glances at him, surprised. “No, honestly. I think she’s great. Super funny, too.”

Jack turns to stare at him with disbelief so abruptly he almost swerves the car into a telephone pole. Veering to correct course, Jack spits out, “Y/N? You think Y/N is great?”

Once Luke stops pretending like they’ve almost died– which they didn’t, by the way, Jack had everything under control– he calms down enough to say, “Yeah, I do. She was super nice to me. I need to ask if she’s local so we can hang after the internship ends.”

Jack feels as if he’s been dropped into an alternate reality. “You’re serious. You really do like Y/N?”

Now Luke’s looking at him like he’s the crazy one. “Like I said, yeah. Why, what happened when you talked to her? Was she still mad about earlier?”

“You could say that,” Jack grits out, knuckles white around the steering wheel.

Luke chuckles. “That’s kind of funny, actually.”

“It is not,” Jack mutters, but Luke remains in high spirits the whole drive back anyway.

To the great amusement of his younger brother, Jack and Y/N continue to be at odds the next time the Devils have to film social media videos, and the next time, and the next. Even when they start off a meeting on relatively stable ground, something will happen to have them sniping again, and they’ll be at each other’s throats by the time they leave the building in the evening.

What makes it worse is that Jack is apparently the only one suffering from Y/N’s cold shoulder. Everyone from the captain to the rookies seems to have gotten along just fine with their newest social media intern, yet Jack feels like he walks around with a target on his back every time she’s in office. They’ve started to ignore each other instead of purposely tossing insults, but that’s as close as he’ll ever get to a truce.

Jack has started counting down the days until she leaves. He would love some peace and quiet. Maybe the next intern will be normal, or they’ll all be poisoned forever just because Y/N L/N showed up and changed Jack’s life for good.

God, he feels like she’s crept into every part of his world. He’ll be scrolling on his phone and the videos she filmed will appear on his For You page out of nowhere. Jack swears he can sense her in every quick cut, every box of text, every song selection. Walking through the arena, he sees her everywhere– ducking into a meeting room, discussing potential videos with some of the PR agents, tucked into the bleachers so she can watch them practice and snap some shots. Jack is starting to seriously wonder if there has ever been a time when she hasn’t been wound around him like a loose thread come undone from his favorite coat.

Even now, he can see her. Jack has finally left a late-night practice, breath fogging up in the cold evening air. He’s glad for the warmth of his car when he slides in. Luke went back with some friends, but Jack had wanted to hang around a while longer to practice some skills before the next game.

Y/N must have been working late too, because he can see her now, walking out of the parking lot and towards the sidewalk leading into town. Jack assumes she’s waiting for someone to pick her up, but Y/N’s steps don’t show any indication of slowing down. Is she actually walking on a night like this? Jack is cold just thinking about the weather outside. Y/N has a coat on, but it won’t be enough to discourage the bite of the wind.

Before he can even think about what he’s doing, he’s pulled his car alongside her. Y/N looks panicked when he comes to a stop, but relaxes somewhat when Jack rolls down the window and calls out to her. “Are you waiting for someone?”

Y/N shakes her head. “No, I’m walking back. Have a nice night.”

She turns back to the sidewalk, evidently expecting him to keep driving. Jack also expects himself to keep driving, but he doesn’t. “It’s awfully cold to be walking. How far is your apartment?”

“Not far,” Y/N says. “Twenty minutes, maybe?”

That settles it. “You’re not walking twenty minutes in the freezing cold,” Jack decides. “Besides, I thought you were dropped off. Isn’t someone coming to pick you up?”

Y/N pauses oddly, and it occurs to Jack that he probably shouldn’t be noticing how she gets to and from work each day. Still, when she speaks again, he’s pretty sure the annoyance in her voice isn’t directed at him, for once. “I was dropped off, but my friend canceled on me. Hence the walk.”

Jack’s mood immediately sours. That’s a shitty move for sure, and even if he doesn’t always see eye to eye with Y/N, he’d never leave her out here, shivering even after a few minutes of walking. And he won’t tonight, either.

“I can drive you, if you like,” Jack offers abruptly. He’s not sure why he does it. He never has before. They’ve never been in a position like this before, and maybe they won’t either. Still, he doesn’t take it back.

Y/N, apparently heedless of the gravity of this offer, just smiles and shakes her head. “That’s alright, I’ll just call an Uber. Thanks, though.’

Jack blinks and stares at her. It had taken such a rush to get the words out that it honestly didn’t occur to him that she would just say no. “Is this because you’re mad at me?”

“I’m not mad at you, Jack,” Y/N laughs. “I’m walking. You should get going soon, you’re going to disrupt traffic.”

“Fuck traffic, you’re cold,” Jack says disbelievingly. “Get in the car, Y/N. Please?”

She looks like she’s going to argue, but a particularly frigid gust of wind rips through that thin jacket and a moment later, Y/N is settling into his passenger seat. She turns to look at him, and Jack looks back at her, just a few spans apart. They’re close enough that he can see the flutter of her eyelashes as she blinks. Close enough that he could reach out and touch the slow bloom of cold on her cheek if he just tried.

“So?” Jack manages to pull himself together long enough to ask, “What’s your address?”

Y/N blinks, evidently startled out of some reverie, then pulls it up on her phone. Jack follows the directions, fingers drumming absentmindedly on the steering wheel. The car is quiet, and it weighs on him like a burden until he finally blurts out, “Why do you hate me, though?”

Y/N looks baffled. “I don’t hate you.”

Jack snorts. “Of course you do. You get along with every single member of this team but me, it’s a little hard not to take that personally. Come on, just tell me. Is it because I ran into you that first day?”

Y/N laughs again. It’s one of the few times it’s with him, not at him, and Jack lets the sound wash over him like sunlight. It’s a good sound. He wouldn’t mind hearing it again, maybe.

“That was funny. No, it wasn’t that. It’s just–” Her voice drops off, suddenly serious. “Do you remember Emma? She was your social media intern last summer. She’s the one who suggested I take this program, actually.”

Vague memories appear in Jack’s head. “Kind of? We’ve had a lot of interns.”

“Yeah, well, she’s one of my best friends, and the most important piece of advice she gave me before I started was to stay the hell away from you.”

Jack almost misses his turn. “What? Why?”

He risks a glance away from the road and towards her, but Y/N is keeping her head perfectly straight, not allowing herself to look at him in the slightest. “Something about you breaking her heart. She seems to remember you flirting a lot, buying her drinks, then dumping her for someone more interesting the second the internship ended.”

Jack winces. “That does sound familiar, actually. Sorry. I didn’t mean to–”

Y/N interrupts him with a wave of her hand. “Yeah, no, I get it. I love Emma, I really do, but she’s got a habit of moving quickly. Still, she was really hurt for a while. I figured anyone who could do that to my friend and not even remember was someone who didn’t need me to be nice to them.”

Guilt starts to pool in Jack’s stomach, icing him down to the core. “Still. I was a dick.”

“You still are, on occasion,” Y/N says, smiling slightly, “But I’ve been bad too, I think. I wanted to get revenge for my friend, but I’ve been more mean than needed. I’m sorry too.”

Jack comes to a slow stop in front of one of the notoriously long red lights of their shared city. As the scarlet of the traffic light washes over them, Jack takes advantage of the stopped traffic to hold out a hand to her. “How about a truce, then? If we’re both sorry?”

Y/N considers his outstretched hand, then nods at last and shakes it. “I’m good with that. Let’s start over.”

“Let’s start over,” Jack repeats. 

Her hand is still a little cold in his, even after the few minutes they’ve spent talking. It occurs to Jack that he could probably sit here for a while longer, warm her hands up with his, and then Y/N nudges him in the side and Jack realizes the light has turned green. He drops her hand hastily, turning back to the road in the hopes that she won’t notice the slow flush of heat to his cheeks.

The rest of the drive back is uneventful. Jack offers to walk Y/N to the door of her apartment complex, which Y/N jokingly calls creepy then smiles for real when he insists. They part with a promise to try harder next time, and Jack doesn’t think his feet have ever felt so light on the walk back from practice. He goes to bed that night like a little kid, practically giddy at the thought of the day ahead.

Looking back on it, Jack isn’t sure what he expected to happen with them after that. A celebration, maybe some fanfares? Or just a normal conversation in which she expressed how glad she was to see him and Jack could do the same? He doesn’t get any of that. In fact, they hardly see each other for most of the next few days. This isn’t too unexpected; although they love to complain, the players and media don’t see each other that often unless someone’s sworn on live TV or otherwise messed up their online presence.

Still, by the time Jack’s path finally crosses with Y/N’s, he’s really hoping for something special. He’s sort of crazy the whole time they’re filming videos, all raised eyebrows and hopeful glances, but instead of seizing the opportunity to make fun of him, Y/N just giggles a little and goes on with her life. It’s not bad, all things considered, but Jack– Jack wants more.

When hasn’t he, after all, wanted more? He wants to be better at skating. He wants to score more goals. He wants to stop getting brushed off by the commentators. He wants, more than anything, for some reason, for the pretty girl interning for their media department to do more than just look at him with a faint smile every now and then.

The sheer wanting starts to consume him. Jack goes out of his way to be exceptionally funny, astoundingly clever, practically fantastic in every way, yet nothing seems to wow Y/N. They’re just talking, which is certainly more than he had a few weeks ago, but Jack doesn’t want to just be talking to her, he wants to be back in his car again, with her leaning over and laughing at his jokes, her cold hands in his, telling him that maybe she’d misjudged him after all. Jack doesn’t just want more, he wants her, and that is making him insane.

Worse still is the fact that he doesn’t have her. Jack has spent his whole life, it feels like, hating the ‘pretty boy hockey player’ persona. He’s certain it’s cost him deals or trades or something over the years with the way people refuse to take him seriously. Yet now, Jack isn’t cursing its existence, but rather wondering why the hell it hasn’t worked. He’s still the same guy, same face. That stubborn acne patch on his chin has been clear for weeks now. He got a haircut, and people said it was good this time. Everything should be in his favor, looks-wise. So why doesn’t it seem to have a single effect?

It’s baffling, honestly. Jack cannot stand it. Worse still, the internship period is starting to slip away, and soon enough Y/N will be gone for good, leaving Jack to reel in her absence and wonder why he couldn’t make her like him enough to stay.

His mood sours whenever he thinks about it, which is often. Like now, even, in between Jack’s hours on the ice. They’re swapping out players in shifts, and Jack won’t be on for another five minutes or so. He’s sitting on one of the metal bleachers, hoping that watching the others will help keep his mind off things, but it’s not working too well.

Someone sits down right next to him, and Jack is about to start asking why they couldn’t pick anywhere fucking else to sit when he realizes it’s Y/N.

“Oh,” he says, trying desperately to sound cool and not bone-tired from practice, “Hey. D’you need another TikTok or something?”

“No TikToks,” Y/N says, smiling. “We can do a bonus one if you want, though, I know how much you love them.”

Jack chuckles. “They’ve been growing on me.” No reason why.

Y/N grins like she knows exactly what he’s thinking. “High praise. I hope you carry that spirit to the next social media intern, too.”

Jack sighs plaintively. “Do you really have to go? You fit in well, you know. You might as well stay a little longer.”

“That so?” Y/N asks, one eyebrow raised.

Jack looks away. “I don’t know. I heard some of the guys saying–”

Y/N cuts him off, lips twitching up into a smile. “I don’t care about the guys, Jack. What do you think?”

“I think you should stay,” Jack mumbles. He still can’t look her in the eyes. “With me.”

As soon as he says it, he knows it’s true. It doesn’t have to be through the Devils or not. He just wants Y/N with him for a while longer, to tease him when he’s being stupid and cheer for him during the games. He wants to hear her laugh longer than just the next few days. He wants to get coffee and buy flowers and match outfits and do a hundred things that would be special because he’d be doing them with her. That, more than anything, is what he wants.

A soft pressure on his hand; Jack looks up to realize Y/N has put her fingers over his, and squeezes slightly. He squeezes back by instinct.

“I want that too, Jack,” she tells him.

The smallest spark of luck is creeping back into his veins. “I thought you didn’t go for hotshot hockey players,” he says. “Especially not ones that flirted with the interns.”

Y/N rolls her eyes, but she’s laughing slightly, so they’re okay. “I wasn’t supposed to do that. The idea was that I would try to avoid it.”

Jack grins. “How’s that working out for you?”

“Surprisingly badly,” Y/N confesses. “I’m not too mad about it, though. Something tells me we’re going to make this work out.”

“It will,” Jack promises. He’s going to make sure of it. Looking at Y/N, the light in her eyes when she smiles, Jack knows that he’s going to do everything in his power to keep her. He rubs his thumb over her hand, still in his, and cannot help but think about how lucky he is.

Y/N looks like she’s going to start blushing. “Let’s talk about this when all of your teammates aren’t watching,” she says suddenly.

Jack glances up and realizes that he’s on the receiving end of quite a few curious looks from the Devils still on the ice. Luke, especially, looks like he has several questions he wants to ask. Jack groans, mentally preparing himself for the absolute nuisance his little brother will become on the drive home.

Still, it doesn’t faze him for long. “How about we talk about it this Saturday?” Jack asks. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”

Y/N is breathtaking when she smiles at him. Jack might have to keep looking forever, just so he remembers. “I think that sounds alright to me.”

Jack opens his mouth to say something stupid like how he can’t wait, but the coach blows a whistle to usher him and some of the others back onto the ice, and Jack is saved from himself. “I’ll see you then,” he repeats somewhat needlessly.

Y/N nods, and Jack turns to leave. He’s still got most of his senses intact, despite evidence to the contrary, and Jack does know better than to kiss Y/N in front of his whole team and coach in the middle of practice, but– well, there’s a difference between what Jack knows and what Jack does, and today, he kisses her anyway. It’s good. Really good. Good enough to deal with the teasing when he finally makes it down to the ice. Good enough to keep him hooked until their date, and the next, and the next. Good enough for forever.

hockey tag list: @locke-writes

all tags list: @wordsarelife

[macfrog]

little aphrodite sex on fire chapter nine

the amount i had to write jean-marc in this chapter makes me nauseous. anywho. these two heal my soul and make me weep. please enjoy a little look back at the ceo's experience of paris.

pairing: ceo!joel x fem!reader

summary: we're going back to paris. this time, through joel's eyes.

warnings: age gap (reader is late 20s, joel late 40s), workplace relationship, imbalance of power dynamic, alcohol consumption, ostentatious flaunting of wealth (eat the rich i say), sugardaddy!joel, softdom!joel, oral (f and m receiving), daddy kink, praise kink, cursing, angst & pining, and...well. the ceo falls in love.

word count: 7.5k

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He wasn’t even sure you’d say yes when he asked. Thought you’d find it a bit much, flying halfway across the world just for one lousy meeting. He had what he’d say when you turned him down in mind, already: Sure, yeah, no problem. No, I just thought – Yeah. ‘s alright. I’ll bring you back som’ as a souvenir.

But you didn’t.

Oh, yeah? you’d said. Your face seemed to light – humored, impressed even. It made Joel feel braver. Reassured. You’ve a habit of doing that to him.

Mhm, he replied, chewing on the sub you’d ordered him after his conference call. He can’t remember what he promised Human Resources he’d have done within the hour. You walked in as he was saying it, and – well. Two days, he said, swallowing, Saturday Sunday.

And are you gonna make me take minutes while you meet with this Jean-Marc? You wiggled your fingers as you said it, letting the name drip through your lips in some kind of dreamy song. I don’t make the flight back unless they’re typed up by the time we leave? That the catch?

No catch. You don’t even gotta come to the meetin’.

I don’t have to –? Wow, Miller. You’re spoiling me, no? You kicked your leg, one knee hooked over the other. Your skirt shrinking up your thigh.

You were sat in the chair on the right, opposite his desk. You always sit in that one – and Joel’s still trying to figure out why. The working theory so far is that it’s at a good angle to watch the city below, and at the same time, see exactly who comes and goes in and out of the office during lunch.

But there has to be more to it, he thinks. He suspects. Martha’s desk is, like, five feet from yours. She spends her lunches in the conference room with Deb, shaking salads doused in balsamic vinegar and sharing cross-floor gossip. They invite you every day, and almost every day, you turn them down in favor of his shuttered office, the muted swish of cars on the street, the mock gasps and clutch of invisible pearls when you share that same fifth-floor gossip with him over the desk.

You’d been talking while he’d been thinking about the damn chair. He hadn’t heard a word of it. Huh? he asked, and you rolled your eyes.

Ain’t never listenin’, you muttered, peeling the damp paper back from your own sub.

Say it again, Joel said. Was just making a mental note to book dinner for us over there.

You scoffed, licking mayo from the corner of your lips. Why you making mental notes for anything? That’s what you pay me for.

And you were right – it is what he pays you for. Pays you to be his shadow, his right-hand man, his eyes and his ears and his entire brain, some days.

But lately – he doesn’t know. It’s different.

Truth be told, he has no idea what’s gotten into him. Looking at you the way he is. You’ve fucked around twice, now, and both times have been…nothing short of fucking amazing. Both times, Joel’s thought he might come within the first two minutes. Pushing inside your velvet walls, watching the way you roll forward, hearing the lewd moans pour across your lips.

He’s always thought you were attractive. It’s pretty fucking hard to ignore. Physically, sure – the look of your body, the way you know how to dress it. And the prettiest, softest face he’s ever seen. You can win him over in any discussion without a word, just by fluttering your eyelashes at him.

But you’re more than that. He thinks of you both as friends, maybe something more. Something deeper. It’s in the glances you steal, the silent lines tossed between one another. The way you read one another like an open book. Sometimes, he wonders if you actually can read his mind.

You’re intelligent, you’re funny, and you’re a hard fucking worker. Always on time, always seemingly juggling thirty things at once, and never letting him down. Nothing is too much, it seems; everything just is as it is. And he likes that about you. Simple. No baggage.

The morning of the flight, you send him a voice note telling him you’re downstairs. “And I ain’t lugging two cases up to the top floor only to bring ‘em back down when we’re leaving, Mr. CEO.”

He’s striding past Martha for the elevator before he’s even done listening to the message.

“Uh-uh!” she chirps, dashing over to slip between the brass doors behind him.

Joel sighs under his breath.

“I know better than to rely on you to remember all this stuff,” she says, holding up a file he’d asked her to put together for the trip.

She’s right not to – he’d probably leave that file in the car, or put it down somewhere and walk off without it. You’re the only one who can be trusted with it – with anything. You’re good at your job. And yet, he resents the fact that Martha’s about to lump you with even a fraction of responsibility for the next four days.

So when the Rolls pulls off and Martha is nothing but a pin-sized silhouette through the back window, still waving from the sidewalk, he pinches the folder in two fingers and tosses it to his left hip. Out of your grasp. You smile, eyes rolling, and pop your earbuds in. Joel breathes a laugh, eyes dipping again to skim read some contract on his phone. His hand is locked around your thigh. He likes that you just let him do it now.

Likes a lot of things about you. Likes that you put your music on shuffle, and then skip eleven tracks until you find one you actually want to listen to. Likes that your fingers twirl around the light chain of your necklace – the way they do anytime you’re nervous – and when he asks if you’re alright, you bareface lie to him and squeak, Yep.

Likes the glow the morning sun casts on you when you emerge from the car on the tarmac, pooling in the dimples on your cheeks, bright gold. The way you tug on the loose cotton of your sweatpants, bashful. Shy. And he likes that, when he follows you up the steps to the plane cabin, your awestruck expression lasts all of five seconds before that quick wit kicks straight back in.

“Feelin’ pretty guilty about all the air pollution,” you tell him, and Joel silently says his fifth thankful prayer this morning that he thought to ask you and not Martha.

He watches you settle into a seat by the window, watches you crane your neck to survey the view from the tiny circle of thick glass. He thinks about what he’d do if you were alone right now, if there weren’t crew slowly filing into the jet behind him.

He floats the idea. Tells you about the bedroom up back, tells you it’s cozy. You read between the lines just like he wants you to. And when the plane’s in the air, you follow after him.

You fall into bed together the same way you do when you arrive at the hotel. A tangle of limbs, of sweat and stuffy plane air. He sleeps the soundest he has in months – years, maybe. Pushed off by the sound of your breathing, the dip in the mattress by his side. The warmth which radiates from your body, the soft brush of your hand against his.

He puts it down to the travelling – the eight-hour flight, the plushy super king waiting on the other side. He puts it down to the way the world feels different, this side of the Atlantic. The privacy he feels come over the two of you, like sneaking into the next room: your voices muffled through the wall, your movements reduced to vague shadows beneath the door.

He watches you through sleepy eyes as you prance around the suite in the morning, twirling in and out of the bathroom while you get ready for the day. He wonders if this is what you’re like every day – if you spend your Monday mornings beaming like a little kid, toothbrush hanging lopsided from the corner of your mouth, white bubbles lining your gums. He wonders why he’s wondering. Why a part of him wants to see that version of you, too.

This version – now following his lead down Avenue Montaigne, doe-eyed and wonderstruck – is over all too soon. He’s dragged from her, from you, before he’s ready to leave.

His phone vibrates in his pocket right as he’s leading you out of some ridiculously overpriced jewelers – an irritating reminder of his meeting in an hour’s time.

“Fuck,” he whispers, holding you steady as you spin around to glimpse at the baroque building. “Hey, pretty girl,” he squeezes your hand, “I got some bad news.”

Your bottom lip pouts, eyes gleaming. It’s enough, he thinks, to convince him to stick around. If you asked him to, he’d text Jean-Marc right now and tell him to fuck off. But you tell him to go, tell him you’ll meet him back at the hotel once he’s done and you’re tired. With a teasing smirk and a tiny wave, you see him off down the cobbled street. He watches from the back window as you set off again, heading towards another iron-gated store.

Denis pulls up alongside the towering hotel, totters around the car to meet Joel as he stretches out of the Maybach. The square-jawed man stands with his hands linked, and nods enthusiastically when Joel thanks him.

“The shopping – I will take it back to the hotel,” he assures his boss, a wide smile on his lips.

He’s a good guy, Denis. He’s chauffeured Joel to five of these meetings over as many years – he knows the drill by now. Knows it’ll be a couple hours and a few whiskeys before he gets another call to pick him up.

His nodding doubles, more obedient when Joel asks him to make sure he listens for your call. “You mind stayin’ nearby that part of town?” he asks. “Just so – when she’s done, y’know…”

“Not at all,” Denis says, flapping two palms to the ground. Swatting away Joel’s concern, his worrying, his missing you.

He replies, a little absentmindedly, passing by the head of gray hair with a distant smile. “Thanks, Denis. See you later.”

Five meetings, five trips over here to be pestered by some obnoxious little man in an obnoxious little robe and obnoxious little loafers, and still, Joel never knows what to expect. He strides beneath the golden archway entrance into a domed lobby, every surface spotless and shining; marble counter in the center with a symmetrically-suited clerk sat behind.

She stands and smiles politely to Joel as he approaches, recognizing him with a flutter of her eyelashes. He feels the absence of your arm on his, an ache at his elbow.

“Monsieur,” she croons, pale fingers reaching for the telephone. She whispers something softly into the receiver and then nods, folding her painted lips together as she places the handset back into its cradle. With a floating hand aimed at the elevator behind her, she says, sultry and dreamlike, “He is ready for you.”

Joel fights an eyeroll with every fiber of his being. He wanders round the circular desk, bunches his shoulders into the tight elevator, and jams his thumb into the button marked P.

The doors shudder open when he reaches the top floor. He steps out slowly, waiting for the Frenchman to pounce on him like some kind of wild cat. Wouldn’t put it past him, Joel thinks. As he’s scanning the room, counting the six bouquets dotted around, there’s a single clap from behind the veiled curtains. A silhouette out on the terrace.

Jean-Marc swings between the sheer white, calling out to the lonely figure in his entryway. “If it isn’t my favorite American,” he sings, taking Joel by the arms and squeezing roughly. “How lovely to see you again, Joelie. Please, come.”

The sunlight blinds Joel when he steps out into it, peering over the city skyline under low brows. Jean-Marc is already sat at the top of a thin, glass table, pouring golden whiskey into a square glass and scooping two bulky ice cubes in. The nectar swirls around when the glass is held out to Joel, the ice tittering as he accepts it.

The table, a rocky terrain of pain au chocolat and brioche, pools of citrus spreads and dishes of butter. Joel keeps his hands to himself as Jean-Marc slaps jam onto a croissant, bronze flakes fluttering all over the table as he attempts to regale Joel with some investment into a casino.

“Riccardo says it is too much; I told him to go to hell. We will double the cost of the place, I know it, Joel. We have the eye for things like these, men like you and I, hm?”

Men like you and I, Joel thinks, lips tilting. He balances the glass on his thigh, watches the ice cubes turn over themselves. He thinks of you, thinks of the man you see him as. Thinks how tall he stands against the man Jean-Marc must see sat opposite him right now.

Thinks how rotten, and ugly, and how small the latter is. How easily you and your words could crumble him. All show, all sitting on perfect terraces with pretentious dickbags disguised as friends, drinking pissy whiskey with a plastered smile on his lips.

How comical it all is – the sound of yapping across the tabletop, These idiots would pay millions for manure if you painted it golden, the sprawling sheets of green-leafed plants, the headache-inducing flowers, the buckled loafers and the signet ring catching the sun.

How much he misses the weight of you on his hips, forearms flat on his chest, ear against his heart. The sound of your laughter lilting in his ear. The rosy smell of your skin and the feel of your eyelashes, featherlight on his cheek. He feels the distance between the two of you like elastic strung apart, stretching thinner and thinner, weaker and frailer, ready to snap into two halves at any moment.

“Anyways,” Jean-Marc says, lifting the wine bottle shakily. It clinks brashly against the lip of his glass, a painful scrape. Joel wonders if he’s already halfway to hammered. “Tell me how you’ve been, Joelie.”

Joel tells him he’s been fine. Business is fine. Money is fine. Company’s doing fine. Everything’s fucking fine. Easiest answer to avoid further questioning, to satiate Jean-Marc’s constant thirst for news, or intel, or just plain gossip.

He slips up, though. Makes the one colossal mistake he spent all morning hoping and praying and drilling directly into his brain that he wouldn’t.

Jean-Marc asks how his flight was, sticking the damp end of a cigarette to his bottom lip.

Joel says, “Good, yeah. We got here, maybe, ten o’clock last night.”

And Jean-Marc’s eyebrows arch. His hands freeze, match held against the striker strip. “We?” he asks, white stick flapping between his teeth.

“Uh,” Joel shifts in his seat. Your gentle wave, the corners of your lips, the toss of hair over your shoulder. It’s as though Jean-Marc can see his thoughts played on a reel before him, the haste with which Joel attempts to wipe you from his own mind. “Yeah,” he clears his throat, “Jerry ‘n Lisa. Len and Pol.”

The Frenchman’s eyes narrow, a grin pulling on his pink lips. “We,” he says again, whipping the match roughly against the strip. Speaking into cupped hands, a cloud of white billowing from his leathery fingers, he murmurs, “Joel brought company with him to Paris, yes? Who is the lucky tourist? Une petite amie?”

Joel’s tongue dabs at the sickly wash of whiskey on his lips. He thinks to grab the fucker by the throat, throttle him until the idea of you rattles from his skull, spilling back into Joel’s safe hands where you belong.

He almost fucking lies. Almost says it’s just Martha, or Drew, or his fucking mother. But Jean-Marc is like a rat, scurrying along after a source of water. He’ll find it in the end. They always do.

He breathes your name, reluctant to let it go. Jean-Marc cocks his head, leans in, a swirling snake of silky smoke lifting from the cigarette between his fingers. Joel repeats it, voice louder, but flatter. Breaks it into too many syllables. Lets his host hear every bite of annoyance.

“She’s my assistant,” he says, and Jean-Marc claps again.

“Your assistant! How wonderful. And where is she today? She is not…” his fingers circle the air, disturbing the trail of smoke, “…assisting you?”

“Gave her the afternoon off.” Joel lifts his glass to his lips. The geometric shape amplifies his voice, bass like the growl of a bear. “Busy couple days. She deserves some downtime.”

He hates the sound of your name as it peels from Jean-Marc’s tongue. Like a hangnail, the residue a gorge of bloody, torn skin. Your name is Joel’s favorite sound, he realizes now, and the way this little asshole keeps butchering it boils an anger so hot and so quick under his skin that he’s not sure he can hold it at bay.

It’s not as if he owns you or your name – far from it. He has no desire to be anything more than a placeholder: somewhere for you to slot your hand, rest your head, curl your body against. Still, he feels a direct protectiveness over you right now. An impulse to stand in front of Jean-Marc’s tiny figure, arms wide, stopping him from picturing you or learning about you or meeting you.

Which is, of course, exactly what the little fucker suggests.

A wet pff sound as he rids his mouth of bitter smoke, and he offers to host breakfast in the morning.

“No, no, we, uh –” Joel’s hands are up, like pleading with the man, whiskey kissing the lip of its glass, “– you don’t have to – Look, Jean-Marc, I’m sure you’re busy enough with all –”

“Nonsense!” Jean-Marc waves a hand. Ash sprinkles down the cuff of his robe. “It would be my pleasure. Shall we say, ten?”

Joel grumbles, eye following the flight of a bird in the distance. What are you doing right now? Are you back in the suite, trying on the outfit you picked out together? Are you still wandering down the streets, drinking up the lavish city like a perfect little cocktail of bliss and wonder?

And what the fuck does he have to do to excuse himself, to come find you, to wrap his arms around you and never let you leave his side again?

He feels idiotic. Juvenile. Like a stupid little teenager, pining for his junior year girlfriend. The feelings all sharp and brittle, prodding his heart roughly anytime he thinks too hard on them.

When he looks back to Jean-Marc – the cigarette tearing closer and closer to his fingers, an expectant smile on his lips – he concedes.

“Ten is fine,” he says, and suddenly, the sky casts over.

You’re on the terrace when he finally returns to the hotel room. Head aching from the alcohol and forced conversation, he drags himself over to you.

The sight of you, hair lifting in the breeze, the sweet smell and soft touch under his hands feels like the pouring of honey on a raw throat, like cool water lapping at his waist on a scorching day. And he needs more, and he feels the saliva pool beneath his tongue, and you’re touching him and talking to him and all he can think about is replacing his saliva with you – with every drop of you that you’ll lend him.

You follow his every request – parting your legs, making room for him between them, opening yourself to him like coming home after work, like sinking deep into your shared bed, like pushing your salt-slicked fingers on his tongue and chanting taste me taste me love me need me.

Petals opening, shards of orange separating. His cock throbs in his pants when he feels the circle of your hips against his jaw, the taste of sweet, sweet nectar spilling from your center. His clothes still smell of the smoke from Jean-Marc’s weedy lips; the sweat on his skin borne from three hours sat in the sun, dehydrated by whiskey, discussing money and gold and then money again.

He doesn’t want to fuck you here, like this. As that puny, pompous prick he’s felt like since the second he wandered through the Frenchman’s hotel doors. He can’t. You deserve him clean, new. You deserve the Joel you think he is – yours. Affected by your touch alone, moved by the gleam in your eye. You deserve him, Joel decides, on your terms.

And that same night, stood in the same spot, dregs of sunlight replaced by molten moonlight, staring at the dazzling Eiffel Tower against the deep blue sky – that same night, when he turns and clocks the silhouette of your body just feet from him, he realizes that this is it.

He’s sure he thinks you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever laid eyes on, standing in the dim light, your fingers playing with the bust of the silk robe draped over your body. The jewelry on your neck catching the light like his own private attraction, his own little spectacle. Just for him.

He forgets any other version of himself. Shakes them off like seawater flying from his body as he emerges from the ocean. Venus stood before him; hair lifting in the light, palm over her breast. And he doesn’t notice the departure of those old versions; doesn’t feel the way they tear from his skin. His eyes are glued on you, only you, everything around the two of you reducing to dark matter. There is only his awestruck gaze pointed to your radiant form, as though the scene sits alive in the eye of Botticelli or Michelangelo.

Baby, he whispers, and you move forward, dragging him with you under a wave of lust and rebirth.

He stirs the next morning to the feeling of a weight shifting across his body, two divots in the mattress either side of his waist. Something nuzzling, warm and featherlight, into the nook below his earlobe. Wet kisses trailing down his neck.

There’s no weight of you in the crook of his arm anymore. He’s scooping thin air. He lifts it, and his palm meets the baggy cotton of his own T-shirt, draped over your body, draped over him.

A laugh brushes between his lips. “Mornin’, darlin’,” he croaks, voice still low and broken.

“Hi,” you whisper back, voice like silk and sugar and tufts of lustrous clouds.

He opens his eyes and you’re hovering over him. Tip of your nose circling his, hips light as air across his own.

You look so fucking cute, he thinks. He’d take what he had last night – you, dripping in black lace and bound by satin straps – every night for the rest of his life, if he could. If you’d grant him it. But, this. This.

You – in Joel’s clothes and nothing else. You – the curl of your hair now a lazy wave, the smoky afterthought of your half-removed makeup. The smell of sex still lingering on your skin, the taste of Joel still home on your tongue. Each part of you laced with a part of him.

You – holding yourself up over him, less than an inch apart, and all Joel thinks to do is wrap his arms around your back and let you drop onto his body; his strong, solid body, which accepts the weight of you with only so much as a tiny grunt over his lips when you fall on top of him.

You giggle. He swears he feels butterflies in his stomach. He prays you don’t feel them, fluttering purposefully against your ribcage.

“You’re an idiot,” you mumble into his collarbone, words curled by the smile on your lips. You suck a mark into the hot skin, teeth and flesh and sel et sucre, and then push off from his chest, nudging his thighs wider with your knee.

Your tongue drags a wet trail down his chest, from solid sternum to suppler stomach, following the thickening of hair the lower you move. You leave wet kisses along the crests of his hipbones, the gentle slope of skin leading you to the wide base of his cock, already stiff.

Joel’s breath hitches when your tongue sweeps across it. Your eyes lift and lock with his, fingers taking a heavy hold of him. He smiles, tongue sitting patiently behind his teeth.

“Go on, angel,” he nods, “put that pretty little mouth on daddy.”

You obey instantly, as hungry for it as he is, your tongue swiping from the base of him up, curling around as you reach the head. Swollen, gleaming, slit dripping with slick precome that you lick with just the tip of your tongue and send a roll of pleasure across every nerve in Joel’s body.

He falls back, hands searching for the back of your skull as your lips sink further down down down, tightening around the smooth skin, stopping only when they meet the tuft of hair decorating his dick. His tip pushes against the back of your throat. His head begins to spin.

His back arches, hands anchored on your head, holding you steady as you bob up and down. His shoulders push heavy into the mattress, tummy sucks in until the points of his ribcage mold through his skin. And, oh – you’re so soft with it, so wet and so warm and so good with your tongue, kitten licks over his tip, wet fist wrapped tight around the width of him.

You lift your hand and meet his halfway up his stomach, fingers intertwining, Joel’s knuckles instantly whitening.

“Doin’ so good, baby,” he groans, gasping when your throat constricts around him again.

You gag, choking with a wet grunt, but you never pull away. A quick pause, a heavy breath from your nostrils, and your movements resume.

“’s alright,” Joel coos, fingers rubbing against the back of your hand, “you got it. Atta-girl, fuck.”

His hips begin to lift, slowly jerking up into your mouth. He looks down, loosens the grip you have on his hand only to run his thumb delicately across your cheek, dabbing lightly at the tears in the corner of your eye.

You suck hard around him, cheeks hollowing, tongue flattening to his underside to let him fuck your mouth – a rhythm of sopping sounds and heartbeat hums from your throat. He’s close. He’s so fucking close.

“Just like that,” he tells you, and you blink up at him. Moans muffled by the mouthful of cock, saliva and sex slipping from your swollen lips. “Fuck, baby, I’m gonna come. You’re such a good girl – you want daddy to give it to you?”

Mhm, you mumble into the warmth of his cock, the vibration of your throat on the eager skin enough to send Joel over the fucking edge. He throws his head back, lifts his hips up to you, and fills your mouth at the same rate he fills the room with the sound of his orgasm.

You take every last drop. You’re so good for him. Once he stills, once the screaming in his ears subsides, once the room slowly desaturates back to normal, a faded, blurry normal – he sits up and hooks his hands under your arms, pulling you up into him.

You collapse against his chest for the second time this morning, giggling and licking the last of his come from your mouth. Joel guides your jaw towards his, lips meeting in the middle, and licks the salty aftertaste from your tongue.

He rolls you both over, your thighs sitting safe on his hips.

“I know,” you sigh, head rolling against the curve of his arm beneath, “I know. You don’t gotta tell me.”

“Tell you what, angel?” he asks, one eyebrow lifting.

“Best head you ever had. I know.”

He scoffs, lips finding the hinge of your jaw. You giggle into his ear, a sound softer than birds cooing at the break of dawn, sweeter than the first bite of ripe fruit – the sharp taste bursting across his tongue and coating his teeth in sugar, numbed by the holy coaxing of feathered doves.

“You’re good with it, I’ll give you that,” he murmurs, and the giggle erupts into a laugh which fuels him enough to follow your roll out of bed, tear his shirt from your shoulders, and slip into the shower behind you, kneeling before you when you turn to look.

Joel’s second encounter with Jean-Marc in as many days, goes about as well as the first.

He balls his fists as he introduces the pair of you, watches like a caged and bound animal as Jean-Marc’s eyes loop all around your face, your shoulders, the pull of your dress around your waist.

He knows he’s being quiet. The glances you keep stealing at him tell him you know it, too. He wishes there was something he could say, something his lips might be able to carve into a neat little sentence. Tongue sanding the jagged edges of what he’d really like to say into a joke, a quip to ease the tension you so obviously feel.

But he can’t. His tongue isn’t blunt, isn’t defensive. It’s sharp like the kiss of venom, protective and aggressive. He knows he’d do better to hold it tight between his teeth.

The best he finds himself able to do is keep a heavy hand on your thigh, let you wrap your fingers around his own, squeeze you in place of whispering in your ear.

You hold your own, up against Jean-Marc. He knew you would. He learned less than a week into working with you, not to underestimate you. Your quick tongue, the million and one observations hidden behind the flash of a frown. He knows you can read Jean-Marc – probably better than he can, having known the guy ten years.

It doesn’t make it feel any safer, though. Luring you into a lion’s den. He knows you’ll make it out alive, but he can’t stand the thought of the claw marks in your skin.

That feeling washes over him again – that urge scored so deep into his bones that it hits marrow, to put himself between you and anything which might come to harm you. He swallows it down with the acidic sting of orange juice – slots it somewhere safe in his chest until he can assess whatever the fuck it is. Whatever the fuck it means.

His hand tightens around your leg when Jean-Marc mutters something to his assistant. Joel decides against asking you what it means, for fear he’ll tear the Frenchman limb from limb, strips of satin robe strung across the paved patio.

The assistant – tall, thin, looming over you like impending doom on legs – offers to show you the view of the city. And as Jean-Marc settles into your empty chair, the image of that torn satin robe shunts closer towards reality.

“I wonder if you might indulge me,” Jean-Marc slithers, pinching thin air with one hand and resting the other on the back of Joel’s chair.

“I wonder,” Joel mutters, finger tapping angrily on the table.

“She is a wonderful character. Beautiful, and very smart, I can see. I would be crazy not to ask, you must understand, Joel –”

He can’t help himself. He bites before Jean-Marc lays the trap. His head shakes. “She’s – she’s –”

And suddenly there isn’t a single word in the English dictionary worthy of describing you. Not a single combination of letters, of sounds, of syllables and phonetics that would do you justice.

He settles for, “I wouldn’t be anywhere without her.” It feels fucking redundant. It is fucking redundant.

Jean-Marc nods. “And you know that I see the value in things, hm?”

Joel dead-eyes his opponent, gaze narrowing. “What are you sayin’, Jean-Marc?”

“Well,” he shrugs, gesturing to the shadow pointing out the Eiffel Tower, “Paul is fantastic. Dedicated, hardworking. But it is a lot, for one person. I am sure you can understand, being that you have two assistants yourself.”

“And you wanna take one of ‘em out from under me?”

Jean-Marc chuckles, shaking his head. Tutting. Teeth grinding. He senses the bitter tone, hears the distortion of words squeezing through gritted teeth. “Not at all, my dear Joelie, not at all.”

Placating. It pisses Joel off more.

“I simply would like to raise the question of: would she like to be…taken?”

“Taken?”

“Hired. By me.”

The smug grin which pulls over taut lips incites Joel with a desire to punch the luminous veneers from their gummy holders. His fist balls again, nails digging harshly into his palm. He swallows roughly.

“She seems…she seems happy enough where she is to me.” He glances over, catches your eye for a fleeting second before Paul’s ghostly hand perches on your shoulder and turns your attention away again. Resigned, he adds, “You would have to ask her. I ain’t speakin’ for her.”

Jean-Marc’s leer only grows. “Ask her,” he repeats, nodding. “That is an idea.” He pushes out of his chair with a squeal of wood across stone, calling to the party, “Why don’t we take a drive? There is so much of the city I would love to show you – both of you, of course.”

Before he knows it, Joel’s on his feet, too, panic hammering through every muscle in his body. He tosses some half-assed excuse to the breeze; a half-truth, a desperate attempt to pull you away from the beady eyes and sharp claws of Jean-Marc and his assistant, and back over to his side. He takes your arm and scatters, pulling you past four, five, six bursting bouquets, your heels clicking along the polished floor, your head spinning.

He can feel the blood thrashing through his veins as the elevator arrives back in the lobby. Can see the shadow of Paul the assistant still over your shoulder, the place his hand sat like charcoal on white linen. He feels red hot, anger mixed with panic mixed with a word he hasn’t let slip just yet. He covers it by answering your questions shakily, diverting the ones about the conversation on the terrace.

And then you’re back in the safety of Denis’s car. You’re back to being on your own, together. No third set of eyes watching your every move, studying you like you’re some doll to be observed, or worse. You’re touching him again, holding his arm, caressing his cheek. His breathing eases, his body relaxes into the backseat of the Maybach.

You tell him you’d like to see the Louvre. So Joel takes you to see the Louvre.

Joel Miller has never been in love.

He’s said it, sure. Said it plenty to Avery.

G’night, love you.

I’m so proud of you, sweet; I love you so much.

Thanks for makin’ dinner, babe, I love you.

It began to take the form of breath, passing over his tongue with as much ease and instinct as his lungs would push out air. She looked at him a certain way – he’d say he loved her. They’d talk about the future – he’d tell her he loved her. They fought, over his working hours or the interest rates at different banks or whose family to spend Christmas with – and he’d remind her he loved her.

He meant every single one. He did, truly, love her. He loved her auburn hair, the way it’d sweep over her shoulders like a wave of fire. He loved the way she would pause to take thirty photos of the sky at sunset. He loved how homely she was, how simple and warm she could be. Her recipe books lining the shelves in her kitchen. Her pajamas folded neatly at the foot of her bed, waiting for her at the end of the day.

He loved her enough to spend four years with her, a life split nearly down the middle. Never seeping into one another. His side of the bed, and hers. His items in the fridge, and hers. His fucking bathrobe, and hers.

But right now, standing in a jam-packed room, maneuvering awkwardly around museum guides and backpacked tourists, avoiding the knee-height glass barriers and dodging fucking selfie sticks – Joel knows: he has never been in love.

Not until the moment he turns from some headless bust to search the room – the dark marble walls and great, carved arches; the white Parisian sky illuminating everything in a pale glow. Not until he catches a glimpse of you amongst the sea of bodies – stood before the Venus de Milo, staring up in wonder at Aphrodite like she’s the first thing in the world you’ve ever truly seen. The gentle lean of her body, the low sling of marble fabric around her waist, the soft dimple of her navel.

The way your eyes scan every detail of her form – every fold draped over her thigh, ever chisel mark and chip in her torso. The round swell of her breasts and the wavelike swirl of her hair. Barely blinking, afraid to lose sight of her for even a second.

Joel’s never been in love. Not until this very moment.

He only turned to make some quip about…well, now he can’t fucking remember, can he? Something irrelevant. Something so mundane, so meaningless, so dull that he wishes he could take back every word he ever said to you and use the breath more wisely – use the time spent making stupid jokes and work orders, just to look at you. Watch you, like he is right now. Every other thought, every worry and concern drop weightlessly from his mind, with such ease that he doesn’t feel the loss.

Your fixed stare up at the statue’s set face, the slow pacing of your heels, ankles crossing over one another as you pivot around her. And the look of wonder on your face – as if Joel instantly recognizes eight-year-old you, thumbing through the pages of the first art book she was ever gifted, copying the curled hair and round shoulders of the marble goddess in a pencil sketch.

Haloed by the towering windows behind you, arms crossed over your chest. Lips melting from a content smile to agape, and then pinning back in a smile again.

And suddenly – he can’t remember the flame of hair over his ex’s shoulder. Doesn’t remember a single meal she ever cooked for him. In the blink of an eye, he realizes he doesn’t want a life neatly split anywhere.

He realizes that his life, the way he wants it, was always meant to be meshed with yours. Intertwined so tightly that there is no his and hers. Last night at dinner, you couldn’t decide between the bœuf bourguignon and the confit de canard, so Joel ordered both – as well as what he wanted – and the two of you picked at three separate meals. Holding out forkfuls to feed one another, comparing and judging them like professional chefs on a fucking cooking show.

Back at the hotel, you fell asleep in his arms. Your head nestled under his chin; your arms curved around his shoulders. In the center of the bed, laying at an angle. When he got up this morning, the robe he threw around himself smelled like your perfume. The terrycloth on your shoulders, tinged with the weak scent of whiskey.

None of it – not the relationship you had before any of this happened, not the strolling over one boundary to the next, not the blurring of lines between colleague, and friend, and lover – has been neat. None of it has made any sense. And maybe that’s why he fucking trusts it so much.

Joel spent the first two weeks after you fooled around in his office swearing he wasn’t that guy. Staring himself down in the mirror with a balled fist, a pointed finger that said, You don’t sleep with your fucking assistant, you idiot.

And now, standing opposite you in a crowded room and only seeing you – he knows. He finally gets it.

He loves you. He – no, fuck.

He doesn’t just love you.

He’s on his knees, dagger through his heart –

blood spilling all over the pristine floor –

pathetic and adolescent in its nature –

butterflies tearing through his stomach as destructive as a hurricane –

in love with you.

He thinks to say it. To wander over and kiss your shoulder, hook his chin into your collarbone like he did in the Dolce and Gabbana store, and whisper, Hey. I love you. Did you know that?

But he knows that’d be fucking insane. Knows you’d probably unstick yourself from him and back up, tripping in your step. Paris ruined.

He knows he’d probably get so far as curving around your back and then bottle it, anyway. The words would die in his throat. You’d just lean back into him, none the wiser. You’d still make his heart pound.

Pound the way it does when you reach for his wrist and drag him off into the next room, and the next, and the next. And with every piece of art your eyes fall upon, another fragment of your soul is revealed to Joel. The depth of da Vinci, the color of Bruyère. The scale of Veronese and the beauty of Canova.

And with every part revealed, a desire blooms in him to learn the next part. Understand you; know you better than he knows himself. See you, the way he’s seeing you right now.

He takes his ex’s lead, when you’re stood in front of the Mona Lisa. All those fucking sunset photos, like she was afraid to forget what it looked like. The thought becomes urgent, pushing past every other meaningless word in his head.

He taps you on the shoulder, says your name lightly. When you turn, he’s already holding the phone up, watching your delayed motions through the screen. Please don’t let me forget this. Don’t let me forget you, like this.

“Smile,” he says, and you do.

“You’re cheesy,” you tell him, wandering off from the painting.

He’s still staring at the photo. At your dimpled cheeks, your red lips. Staring at your eyes, seeing a new glint in them that wasn’t there before. Like eight-year-old you smiling back at him, trusting him, knowing him.

Joel breathes, “She’s beautiful,” taking your waist in a steady arm to guide you out of the room.

You misunderstand him. He knows it. He doesn’t correct you.

She’s beautiful – the Mona Lisa. But she only became beautiful the second you laid eyes on her. The second she handed you a piece of your soul, the transaction laid bare for Joel to witness. A bucket list item ticked, or simply your childhood self, stood before one of her own seven wonders.

Everything is only beautiful after it comes into contact with you.

There’s a change in you, the morning that you leave. Something low-lying, melancholy and blue. Joel feels it under your skin, in the grip you keep on his hand the entire car ride from the hotel to the airport.

“You good?” he asks, walking up the steps of the jet, shelled around you. Safe, with him, safe with him.

You nod, but you’re watching the Maybach roll off, rounding the corner back to the airport. The same way you watch the city disappear beneath the clouds as the plane takes off.

The same way you glance over to him, your glossy eyes twinkling, pearly tears swimming across your waterline. Joel gets it. Figures he feels much the same.

He leads you slowly back through to the dark cabin bedroom, where you peel the shirt and sweats from your body. He watches from the bed, arm outstretched and inviting you to burrow into his side, curl around his body, loop your legs through his. His own little Aphrodite, the curves and the dimples and all the beauty to go with her.

He sinks his shoulder to let you nuzzle into him, let your slow-closing eyes follow his movements like rocking you back and forth to sleep. You link your arm through his, locking your bodies tight together. Joel slows his typing down, moves gentler, so you can fall asleep without being nudged too much by his arm.

You mumble something into the sleeve of his tee. He pauses. Looks down at your already closed eyes, your parted lips.

“What’d you say, baby?”

You take a deep, slow breath. Already sleeping, he thinks. And then, in the sigh that escapes from your mouth, you whisper to him.

“Please don’t ever leave.”

[bucketslutz]

Don't Be Late (Professor Logan Howlett/Fem Student Mutant Reader)

A/N: This one's a doozy, don't know how I feel about most of Logan's dialogue in this one but oh well! Enjoy!

Chapter Summary: Awkwardness ensues when you arrive at Logan's class on Friday, finding no one there but him.

Warnings: 18+, mindors DNI!!!!, drinking, reader getting drunk, puking, swearing, light depiction of anxiety disorder, sexual harassment (nothing bad happens to reader, light harassment only)

Word Count: 4,712

Chapter 3

This is the fourth night this week you’ve masturbated to the thought of your professor. Unfortunately, your fingers don’t offer the same release that you’ve been seeking from Logan. Instead of relieving the pressure that spreads through your body, your orgasms leave you dissatisfied and in need of more relief. But you can’t. He’s your professor, and downright terrifying to speak to. He makes every hair on your body stand on end, like your body is in a constant state of flight or fuck. Plus, you’re pretty sure he hates you. He stares at you, makes rude remarks, and barely even pays you any mind. But, goddamnit, sometimes you swear his lips curl into somewhat of a smile when he sees you. And you haven’t seen him smile at much of anything. But you cannot misconstrue tolerance with infatuation. He just might hate you less than everyone else, which could be enough for you to get through the semester without anymore anxiety than you already have.

You turn over in bed with a huff and glare at the clock. 2:14 am. If only you spent as much time studying as you did masturbating, maybe you’d get your masters a year earlier. You almost fear going to sleep. Afraid that another dream will leave you hot and bothered in Logan’s class tomorrow, and you don’t like that he has that effect on you. You repeat a mantra as you doze off, I do not want to fuck Logan Howlett.

…

It’s been a good morning. You woke up, no explicit wet dream, with enough time to manifest a Colombian dark roast and one of the best breakfasts you’ve had in a while; which you enjoyed while watching the sunrise from your roof. For a brief moment, you considered flying to class. The weather was perfect, making you long for a place you could traverse the sky in peace without a worry of who might see you. You often find yourself dreaming of such a life. How freeing would it be to fly around the world, helping people in need, exploring areas unknown? As much as you daydream of this life, you still know deep down that your dream can never become a reality. No, every day you hear of someone else being killed just because they’re a mutant. Or others disappearing off the streets and thrown into secret government labs where they conduct god knows what kinds of tests on them. That’s not a reality you ever want to face. You don’t want to think about how the government might exploit your powers. The thought of them abusing the atomic structures you manifest to create weapons of mass destruction makes you sick. No matter how desperately you wish you could display your strengths for good, you can’t. And that breaks your heart.

Despite the unfortunate stifling of your powers, your morning still ends up going just as well as it started. You’ve timed your commute perfectly; slipping into your favorite parking spot with just enough time to walk to class, Colombian dark roast in hand. You open the door to Logan’s class, quickly stopping dead in your tracks once you see that not a single one of your classmates are here yet. You check the time on your phone, there’s only 3 minutes until class starts.

“I was beginning to think it was something I said,” Logan’s voice calls from the front of the room, his broad frame leaning against the white board., “Did everyone tell ‘ya to skip?”

You chuckle softly, “No, Logan, I think it was actually something you said.” He furrows his brow, you clarify, “Wednesday when you left class you sorta said ‘see ‘ya Monday.’ So I think people just got confused.”

“Huh, and I guess you’re here…” he trails off, wanting you to explain.

“The convenience store. You said you’d see me on Friday, so, I just assumed you misspoke the other day,” you conclude, your fingers fiddling with the lid on your thermos. He just stares at you for a beat, making your anxiety swell in your throat. Is he mad at me? I think he’s mad at me, you think to yourself, “Not that you messed up or anything! It’s definitely everyone else’s fault for not following up with you, or whatever.”

“Right,” he says, giving you an incredulous look. You definitely weirded him out. The way he’s looking at you makes your breath hitch, and not in a good way.

“Anyway,” you continued, setting your coffee on a nearby desk, attempting to drive the topic of conversation elsewhere, “I might as well give you this.”

You approach Logan slowly as you rifle through your shoulder bag in search of your essay. Your fingers anxiously fumble between each folder and binder in your bag, incapable of grasping anything. You halt your approach, digging deeper in your bag to find the folder containing your essay. Jesus Christ where the hell is it. You’ve been searching for hours, has it been hours? Or 15 seconds? You cannot tell because time has halted right here. Blue folder, blue folder, blue folder, you repeat to yourself, hoping your thoughts do something to pop the folder in your face. Finally, after years of searching, you’ve found it. You pull it out of your bag with a breath of relief, stepping forward as you intend to hand it to Logan. A gasp escapes your lips when you slam straight into Logan’s tall frame, stumbling backwards, nearly falling until hands grasp your waist and keep you upright.

“You alright?” Logan asks, his hands remaining fixed on your waist. You look up at him through your long eyelashes, your hands planted flat on his chest for support.  You cannot help the fluttering in your heart at your proximity to him, feeling your arousal swirling inside you at the feel of his strong hands holding you tightly. Logan stares at you from above, breathing heavily through his nose; his sharp, repetitive inhales almost sounding like a dog sniffing the air. You struggle to form a coherent thought, the only thing flooding your senses is the smell of Tobacco and pine emanating from Logan. Only a few seconds have passed, but as far as you know time doesn’t exist anymore. Logan loosens his grip on your sides, smoothing your jacket down with his hands before letting you go. You clear your throat, trying to shake the impure thoughts that are swarming your mind.

“Yes, I’m fine, thank you,” you exhale, handing him the folder, “Um, my essay. Here you go.”

“Right, thanks,” he smirks as he takes it from you, “Don’t suppose you want to be the only one hearing my lecture today.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” you affirm eagerly, watching Logan’s smile dissipate into a pursed line. He was joking, oh my god. Kill me. “Oh! You were kidding! No, I’d much rather be home right now. Definitely do not want to be here…with you.” Your words grew quiet towards the end, unsure if your recovery was even remotely smooth at all. If you could even call that a recovery.

“Oh, so you don’t want to be here with me?” he questions, his arms crossing over his stiff chest.

“No! No, no, of course I do, you’re lovely, I mean, not—I don’t hate you is what I’m saying. You’re lovely, as far as professors go,” you stutter, a clammy layer of sweat forming on the palms of your hands. He’s silent, his eyes burning a hole into your soul. Surely, he’s mad at you, “I would so love to sit and listen to you lecture, if you want, totally up to you. I’ll be here taking notes and listening if—“

Logan calls your name with a chuckle, interjecting your ramblings and bringing them to a halt.

“I’m just messing with ‘ya, bub,” he assures with a self-satisfied smile, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder. You can tell he gets a lot of enjoyment out of making you uncomfortable, giving himself personal satisfaction every time you squirm under his gaze.

“Oh,” you mutter dejectedly, your face blushing red from embarrassment, “right, well, you sure got me.” You attempt a laugh to hide your anxiety. Fiddling with the strap of your bag, you try to focus on anything else than the tears of embarrassment that prick the corners of your eyes. You hate this feeling, someone making a fool of you just because of your gentle, people-pleasing demeanor. It makes you feel weak, even though you physically aren’t, but no one knows that. They just see a meek, quiet girl that they can walk all over and take advantage of.

“Shit, are you okay?” Logan asks, a surprising level of concern in his voice. His knees dip slightly, craning his neck to your level to try and meet you face to face. You keep your eyes to the ground, not wanting to embarrass yourself further by crying in front of your professor just because he teased you a little bit. You’re surprised to feel fingers grasp your chin, gasping as Logan lifts it to so you’ll meet his eyes. Tears haven’t fallen down your cheeks yet, but you’re sure you look embarrassing; flushed cheeks, watery eyes, parted lips inhaling air shallowly. Logan looks concerned, which surprises you. It seems out of character for him, considering he only speaks to cuss someone out.

“You look like you need a drink,” Logan says, not a hint of humor in his face, fully meaning this seriously and earnestly. Like it could solve all of your problems.

“I can’t drink I have class,” you whimper, slightly confused.

“Not now, later, here—you got a paper? Pen?” he asks as he drops his hold on your chin, holding his hand out while he waits for you to hand him what he’s asking for.

You nod, shuffling through your bag for a notebook and pen, retrieving it and handing it to him with a sniffle. He starts scribbling something on an empty page.

“9 o’clock,” he hands you the paper, an address is written on it, “go there, I’ll buy you a drink.”

“Oh, no, I can’t ask you to do that,” you declined politely.

“You’re not asking me to do anything, I’m asking you,” he corrects, a firm tone in his voice making you nervous to say no. It’s almost as if he isn’t asking, merely telling you what you’re supposed to do, but disguising it as an ask to seem less brute.

“Okay, 9 o’clock,” you conclude, nodding your head in agreement.

…

What the hell are you doing here? This is inappropriate. This breaks multiple codes of conduct. But free booze? Who are you to decline an offer like that. The outside of the establishment is like any other mountain-town, backwoods, rural dive bar. It honestly wasn’t too far from where you live either, maybe you ought to give this place a visit more often. You step out of your car and approach the front door, lit with a neon red “open” sign flickering in and out of consciousness. The door jingles and creaks when you open it, causing a few of the patrons to turn their heads towards you before promptly returning back to their drinks and games of pool. The air smells of stale cigarettes and salt, rock music droning through a busted jukebox in the corner. Straight ahead, you see the bar, lit dimly by more neon signs and faulty overhead bulbs. A familiar figure is already there, Logan’s flannel-covered back is to you, hunched over what you can assume to be a drink he’s been nursing. You approach the bar-seat next to him, pulling it out with a sharp scratch to the ground, causing Logan to turn his head in your direction. Before you can even mutter a greeting, the bartender has already intercepted your attention.

“What can I get you?” he asks, scratching at his scraggly beard, a rag draped over his thin, tattooed shoulder.

“Um, Woodford and coke?” you ask as you get comfortable on your stool. The bartender laughs at your request.

“This ain’t that kind of place, missy,” he quips, you try and look at Logan for support but he’s focused on his beer, “I got Maker’s, Jim Beam, and Jack, what’ll it be?”

“Maker’s, I guess,” you concede, watching as the bartender walks down the bar to make your drink.

“Bourbon girl, eh?” Logan remarks, adjusting in his seat to face you.

“Um, yeah, I don’t like much clear liquor,” you say, trying your best to avoid eye contact, “or, it doesn’t like me at least. Some of my worst nights started with a bottle of vodka.”

Logan laughs, catching you off guard, you laugh lightly with him. The bartender sets your drink in front of you, you thank him with a smile.

“Open or closed?” the bartender asks, but before you can even think of a response, Logan answers for you.

“Put her on mine, Jim,” Logan says.

“Oh, no, you don’t have to—“

Logan gives the bartender a stern look, and he walks away, no contest.

“Thank you,” you grin, taking a sip from your glass.

“Don’t mention it,” he waves off, the same warning in his voice as last time. There’s a beat of awkward silence. You’re not sure what to say, or why he even asked you here.

“I um—“ you pause, trying to find the right words, “I appreciate you going out of your way to try and make me feel better about earlier.”

“I didn’t go out of my way,” he corrects, turning back towards the bar, his body now parallel with yours, “this is usually where you can find me this time of day.”

“Oh, well, thanks for inviting me, I guess,” you correct your previous statement. You purse your lips, wanting to explain your behavior earlier. But you’re not sure if that’s appropriate, you feel bad that he had to take pity on you just because you got choked up from him making fun of you. “Look, I at least want to apologize for the way I acted earlier and—“

“Save it,” he interjects with a raise of his hand.

“I’m…sorry I—“ you stutter, trying yet again to apologize for your presence, causing Logan to cut you off with a wave of his hand again.

“You don’t need to keep doing that. Have your drink. Relax. I’m not pissed at you,” Logan reassures, his voice stern. You’re convinced that his voice doesn’t fluctuate from that kind of tone too often. But despite the sternness of his voice, you feel your shoulders relax. You’re holding his gaze but you don’t feel like you’re about to combust. You feel…fine. You feel just fine.

“Huh,” you mutter, a curious tinge to your voice. Relax. Have your drink. You ponder the glass for a moment, considering it. Fuck it. You raise it to your lips and chug, swallowing every burn the Maker’s leaves down your throat without a care. Logan’s brows raise at your sudden gratuitous impulse.

“Okay then,” he remarks with a grin.

A buzz floats around your head, your chest heaves from your uninterrupted drinking.

“Rick!” you call, attempting to get the attention of the bartender.

“Jim,” Logan corrects you quietly, smiling in amusement as he takes another sip of his beer.

“Jim! Can I have another?”

…

You’re four bourbon and coke’s into your evening, and you cannot recall the last time you had this much fun. You beat Logan twice at pool and watched him take fruity, girly shooters for each loss, per your request. Currently, you’re in the middle of another game, a tied score bringing out your competitive edge. Logan’s frame is bent over the pool table, lining up the perfect shot. You chew on the straw in your drink as you unabashedly ogle his ass. Damn, he looks good in those jeans. He makes his shot, the cue ball ricocheting off of the edge and barely skimming the 8 ball he was trying to get in.

“Damn it,” he grunts, turning away from the table, his chest rising and falling in frustration. You giggle in excitement, ready to take your turn.

“Jim! I’d get started on that lemon drop if I were you!” you call, your voice slurring slightly as you’re ready to claim your victory over your professor.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, bub,” Logan warns, clearly a bit more annoyed at the fact he’s losing than he’s letting on.

“Oh, don’t you worry about me, baby,” you counter, a teasing, almost sultry edge to your voice. Logan holds his eyes on you, watching as you bend over the pool table to make your shot. You close one eye, carefully trying to line up the cue ball in the direction you want to go. The ball is towards the center of the table, but you’re so sure that you can manage on your own, balancing on your tip-toes.

“Need a hand?” Logan asks, trying his best to hide his amusement at the precarious position you’ve put yourself in.

“Shh!” you snap, “I’m concentrating! 8 ball, corner pocket.” You make your shot, but your feet slip out from under you with the momentum you built. You almost crumble to the floor, but Logan’s hands catch you around your ribcage first. He lifts you onto your feet, but in your buzzed state you’re having a hard time maintaining balance.

“Easy there,” Logan drawls, keeping his hands so temptingly close to the side of your breasts. You’re jelly in his hands, letting him take hold of you in whatever way he wants. You could spin around and make out with him right here, which you honestly consider for a moment. But before you can, Logan leans his face close to your ear, his beard tickling your cheek.

“Looks like you scratched,” he whispers, his gravelly voice reverberating around your skull. Any other day, this would make you wet immediately, but the competitive monster inside of you is awoken. You shake your head in disbelief, turning your focus back to the pool table. There’s no sight of the white cue ball anywhere. You suddenly find your balance, scrambling out of Logan’s grasp to search for what pocket the ball got shot into. ‘Lo and behold, it made it into the corner pocket you were aiming for.

“Goddamnit,” you curse, stomping your foot in frustration, gripping the table with white knuckles.

“I told you not to get ahead of yourself,” Logan taunts, one hand planted on the pool table, the other on his hip. You scowl at him, trying to find a clever comeback, but your liquor soaked brain is coming up dry. The sound of your name turns your attention towards the bar.

“I got ‘yer lemon drop right here,” Jim calls, setting the sugar rimmed shooter on the edge of the bar closest to you.

“Get her a shot of Tito’s to wash that down with, will ‘ya, Jim?” Logan chimes, maintaining eye contact with you. Your jaw drops in shock at the deliberateness of his actions. The nerve.

“Are you trying to get me to be more sloppy just so you can beat me again?” you question, your eyes narrowing as you cross towards him. You stand just a few inches in front of him, squaring up to him with a challenging look in your eyes.

“I think you’re doing a good enough job at being sloppy by yourself,” he teases, eyeing you up and down. You roll your eyes as you brush past him and towards the bar to retrieve your punishment. Lemon drop in one hand, Tito’s in the other.

“Bottoms up,” you chime, maintaining eye contact with Logan as you lick the sugar off the rim of your glass, taking the shooter down with one swift gulp. You wince slightly, before humming in satisfaction, the sweetness masking the vodka just enough. You exhale in preparation for your next drink, closing your eyes and willing yourself to not think too hard about what you’re going to inevitably do to yourself. A single lemon drop is not enough to make you blackout and puke all over your house, but another shot of vodka on top of that might just put you on that track. Swallowing your hesitance, you bring the glass to your lips and choke it down in one gulp. Frowning at the way it burns your throat, sending tingles down your spine.

“Oh, wow,”  you grunt, your face twisted into a pained expression. “Okay, fuck you, m’gonna win this next one.”

Logan snorts at your drunken confidence, already anticipating what might happen next.

You did not, in fact, win the next one.

Logan cockily slams a shot glass of clear liquid in front of you, causing your jaw to drop in surprise.

“Thisn’t fair,” you pout, leaning against the pool table for support.

“I choked down 2 lemon drops because of you, the least you can do is take this shot of tequila, princess,” Logan counters, offering you a slice of lime and a flimsy packet of salt.

“Bitch, this’s tequila?!” you exclaim, too drunk to even comprehend the fact that he just called you princess.

“Bottoms up,” he says teasingly, pushing the glass towards you, clearly quoting you from when you were more confident earlier. “Unless you’re feeling like chickening out on me.”

“No! I jus’ don’ wan’ get too drunk before our nex’ game,” you slur, almost tripping over yourself. Logan sighs, considering your drunken state for a moment.

“Tell you what,” he starts, “I’ll do half this shot with you if you quit your whinin’, got it?” You nod eagerly, accepting his proposal. With your confirmation, Logan takes the lime in his mouth and bites it in half, giving you part of it. You secretly wish he gave you the half that was in his mouth. He rips the salt packet open, and you watch earnestly as his tongue swipe along the back of his hand before he pores some of the salt on it. You follow suit, wetting the back of your hand with your tongue and allowing Logan to pour a bit of the salt on it. Logan goes first, licking the salt up, swallowing half the shot down, and finishing it off with a bite of the lime. You try and stifle a gag when you look at the glass of clear liquid. You sigh, closing your eyes tight as you lick the salt off the back of your hand, choke down the tequila in one gulp, hoping the squirt of lime juice in your mouth will save you. It does not. Your throat burns and you involuntarily shiver at the contact of the liquor on your tastebuds.

“I’m gonna get these back to Jim,” he gestures to the stack of glasses that’s accumulated over the course of your games, “rack ‘em up for me, princess.” Logan nods to the pool balls, indicating for you to get another game started. You oblige, leaning over the table to retrieve the balls and placing them into the plastic triangle. A gasp escapes your lips when you feel a pair of hands grasp your waist. Assuming it’s Logan, you smile, craning your neck to get a view of him. You startle when you see a complete stranger pressing up against your rear. A yelp leaves your lips as you scramble up onto the table in an attempt to get away.

“Don’t be like that, baby, I was just saying hi,” the strangers gruff voice beckons to you from where your feet are hanging off the table. You scrunch your face in disgust. He has a long, unkempt beard with yellow teeth peeking out behind it. His hairline is thin and greyed, his figure broad and heavyset. He towers over you, making your stomach churn.

“No thanks,” you say, sternly, sobering up slightly in an act of self preservation. The stranger doesn’t let up, though. Still attempting to pull you towards him by grasping at your ankles. You don’t register anything else around you. Not Logan’s shouts from the other end of the bar, you don’t see him rushing towards the stranger either. Your preservation is the only thing on your mind.

“I said no, asshole!” you shout, reeling your legs back before kicking into his chest with as much force as you can muster, your abnormal strength sending him flying all the way into the back wall 10 feet away. He crashes against the wood paneling, leaving a dent in his wake, groaning and writhing in pain on the ground. Your adrenaline dissipates, allowing the realization of what you just did to really sink in. Someone of your size should not have been able to send someone like him flying in the way you did, and the way that Logan looks at you, indicates just that.

“…You okay?” Logan asks carefully, reaching towards you, helping you down off of the pool table. You tumble off the surface, allowing Logan to fully support your weight. “You, uh, seemed to have it pretty under control there.”

“I don’ skip leg day,” you slur, feeling your mouth suddenly fill with saliva, your natural instincts of self preservation just dissipated, and you now are feeling the full brunt of every sip of alcohol you had tonight. The blood drains from your face and a wave of nausea washes over you, “Logan, I think’m gonna—“

You can’t even finish your sentence before you hurl the upset of your stomach all over the floor in front of you, Logan just barely missing the line of fire.

“Shit,” Logan hisses, trying to support you as best as he can without getting your puke all over him, “Okay, let’s get you out of here before you kick someone else through a wall.”

You’d find that funny if you weren’t painfully nauseous right now. Logan slings your arm around his neck, you’re limp around him, like a rag doll. The next few hours are a blur. You’re delirious, incapable of forming a coherent thought. You might recall Logan asking for an address, or directions. But you don’t remember what you said, or if you even said anything in response through your drunken stupor. Which leads you here, hunched over the toilet in Logan’s bathroom, as he tries to shove croutons in your face in an attempt to soak up the liquor that’s strangling your stomach. You’re half awake, ready to fall over and sleep this off. So you do just that, fall over, that is. You’re snuggled into the shag rug on his bathroom floor, reveling in its softness. Oh, this is perfect. You think to yourself, dozing off already.

“C’mon, you can’t sleep on the floor,” Logan grunts, scooping you up off of the bath mat. An incoherent whine escapes your throat at your loss of comfort. You snuggle into his chest, seeking the same comfort you were just robbed of. Your body lowers onto something soft and plush. You sigh in approval, spreading your arms across the expanse of this luxuriously soft bed. Ready to get comfortable, you groan in indignance at the stuffiness of your jeans. You ungracefully unbutton and prod them down your legs, freeing your body from the stiff discomfort of the pants. You hear a throat clear, and feel the comforter get pulled out from under you and then promptly over you, cocooning you in a soft, pillowy heaven. The soft fabric feels so nice and cool against your bare legs, clad in nothing, save for your panties. You silently thank your sober self for wearing a tank top and no bra today, allowing for optimal sleepwear.

“There’s water for you here,” Logan tells you, gently, gesturing to what you think is the nightstand, but you can’t bear to look at it.

“Don’t puke on my bed,”Logan warns. The light gets turned off and you sigh at the peaceful nature of the space. You inhale, reveling in the scent of Logan that lingers on the bed.

“Hm, bed smells like you,” you hum in satisfaction, finally feeling your sleep begin to overtake you. There’s a beat of silence that hangs in the air.

“Night, princess.”

...

A/N: hehehehehehe😈😈😈😈 I hope y'all had as much fun reading the bar scene as I had writing it. I loved writing reader letting loose a bit and not being so anxious, hopefully she stays that way but you'll have to wait and see. I'm getting oral surgery tomorrow so I'm not sure when the next update will be. click here to view on ao3.

Tags: @wolviesgirl @sanemis-piss

[jolapeno]

7. honey cream

frankie morales x f!reader | chapter seven of do me yourself

summary: a meet-cute in a hardware store? impossible, out of the question. except, that's exactly what happens. a need for screws leads you to a broad-shouldered, brown-eyed man who you're sure is about to change your day, never mind your life.

wordcount: 3.9k chapter warnings: frankie calls you 'rainy' (paint-related from chp.1) no other descriptions or name used. no use of y/n. frankie being a good dad. bad tool names. anxious!reader. an: can i just say a massive thank you to all those who show up EVERY SINGLE WEEK. i adore you so much. thank you. if you're new to the ride, also welcome. even if i loved this story so much, i never expected people to love it even half as much as me, never mind the love i keep getting. so thank you.

prev chapter | series masterlist

key: frankie is in bold, you are in italics

Nice forearm in your story.

Thanks, It’s this guy I met in a hardware store? We’ve been kind of seeing one another.

Oh, tell him he has a nice watch.

I’ve been told to tell you that you have a nice watch.

You’re hilarious.

I try to be.

You can say no to this, but do you want me to call you later?

That’ll be nice. I’ll be working late so I'll take a break when you do.

Tomorrow, I just need to grab some bits from the store and then I’ll be with you.

Are you sure you want to spend your day off helping me paint?

I was promised to see you in overalls, so yes.

They’re nice, but please lower your expectations.

I bet they look great on your ass.

Everything looks great on my ass.

Including my hand.

Yes, specifically when you slipped your fingers in my jeans pocket on the way to brunch.

I can’t wait to see you.

Drive safely, Butterscotch.

“I feel bad that your day off is spent painting.”

Flicking the lid off with a screwdriver, Frankie just smiles—eyes looking up at you from under his cap.

When he looks at you, you might as well be a fly irresistibly drawn to the brilliance of it, captivated by it.

He’d come in clothes that were long since paint-splattered. A set, you assume, he wears most times—an over-washed and over-loved flannel over a greying white tee, and a pair of cargos that have more pockets than you know what they could be used for.

It had been more natural when he’d arrived this time. A sweet kiss at the door, a long hug where he walks you in and his heel kicks your door shut. A muttering of 'you smell nice', into your neck—grinning over his shoulder because you’d sprayed far too much of your perfume.

“Don’t—I want to be here.”

“I think I’ll likely apologise another three times, at least, before we’re done.”

Standing, wearing a slightly twinged expression on his face, he steps over the clean trays and folded step ladders. His hand rises, turning the beak of his cap around, before he’s in front of you, staring at you before he kisses you.

Kisses you like he wishes to rid you of your worries and make your guilt wash away. Like he wants to empty your mind of things you’ve once been told, make you forget them, purge them. Fuck, his mouth almost does.

“So, rule of thumb—ceiling, walls and then kickboards, window sills.”

“Did you… Did you really just finish kissing me and immediately talk about painting?”

Grinning, he chuckles, bending down to grab a paintbrush. “Did you want me to linger on why you feel bad, or are you ready to get your hands dirty?"

You hesitate for a moment before taking the brush, fingers brushing over his. “I guess I’ll get dirty, since it’s with you.”

He seems to swallow, gaze holding yours as a soft smile tries to tug at his lips before flattening out to a line. Then, you just watch as he pours the off-white paint into the trays—its thick, glooping contents filling it quicker than you’d banked on, but he took it perfectly in his stride.

The sleeves of his flannel are rolled up, forearms flexing as he tilts the larger tub until he appears content with the measurement in the tray.

You know a thumb covered in paint shouldn’t cause your throat to dry, but it does. Your mind thinking up all the places he can leave a stamp of it, a trail of it, turn you into a map showing where he’s been—over a thigh, collarbone, your —

“Race you to the end of the wall?”

Blinking, finding him already readying his roller on the blank, sun-stained wall.

Before you can respond, he's off. The roller glides smoothly across the wall, leaving a trail of fresh paint in its wake. You laugh, shaking your head at his competitive spirit before joining him, your own brush meeting the wall—cutting in.

In time, the room fills with the rhythmic sound of brushes against the wall, the occasional laughter, and gentle conversations. The room transformed over the hours, looking fresher, already a thousand times better than it had this morning with the patches off filled in holes and cracks.

Taking the brush from your hands, you step back to the middle, looking around, not initially aware of how he’s looking at you. Not until you spot a satisfied smile and a glint in his eye.

“We did good, didn't we?”

You shrug. “Think you could do better—put your back really into rolling next time.”

Shaking his head, he throws your brush into the used tray before he’s grasping, tugging, your body connecting with his in an oomph—his reflexes quicker, arms longer than you’d expected—as laughter escapes out as you slide your hand around the back of his neck.

“Thank you. For helping me.”

“Sure,” he whispers, cheek close to yours, fingers on your hip. “Have I told you how good you look in your overalls?”

Rolling your lips, you slowly turn in his hold—all set to turn his cap for him again. To whisper to him that they’re easy to remove too, that he could slide his fingers up, even slant your mouth back over his again.

But you hear his stomach. It rumbles—practically thunderous.

“I haven’t even offered you food,” you confess, words laced with guilt. “I should make you food.”

“You don’t have to…”

Fingers entwining with his, you pull him—finding him happily following, even as he mumbles about cleaning up, that the paint will dry in the tray. You don’t loosen your hold until the two of you are in the kitchen, a hand needed to open the fridge, both required to pull out some ingredients.

“You cooking for me?”

“I’m going to try, if that’s okay?”

He leans against the counter, watching you with a soft smile.

“I'd love that, baby,” he says, the affection in his voice making your heart flutter like it keeps doing.

Before you’ve even sliced the first vegetable, Frankie excuses himself—a kiss to your cheek, all domestic, normal. It not feeling weird even as he goes back to the “project room” and you hear him tidying.

Because it’s not odd in the slightest him being here.

A thing you turn over as you continue to prepare ingredients, cutting and marinating. By the time he’s returned, sporting an amused smile on his face, you’re about to begin frying things.

“Can I do anything?”

Shaking your head, you glance at him over your shoulder, finding he’s taken up his earlier spot. “Just keep me company.”

And he does. Asking you things, questions—some about your childhood, your family, friends. Every word spoken, he hangs onto. Staring like he’s making notes in his head, committing them to memory, somewhere inside that beautiful, amazing mind of his.

“Should I get used to you cooking if I come round and help you with your project?” he teases, taking a water from the fridge like you’d instructed.

“You better not get used to it,” you retort, throwing a small piece of bell pepper at him playfully. He ducks, laughing. “I batch cook most of the time—easier when you eat for one.”

His eyes follow as you move around the kitchen with a fondness in his eyes, you focusing on not burning anything. Stomach knotting itself when it comes to dishing it up, placing it down, and watching him slide into the stool.

When he takes the first bite, you swear you are frozen—unable to move, or think. Eyes just focused on his, watching, waiting, until you breathe a sigh of relief at the way his eyes light up. “This is really good, baby.”

You can't help but feel a little proud. “Thank you.”

He raises his water in a toast. “To more cooking then,” he proposes, and you laugh, agreeing wholeheartedly.

As you stick your own fork in, it's easy to find comfort in the shared silence, a contentment you continue to be amazed at. The atmosphere all at ease. There's no need for words as you both eat, side-by-side, a relatively normal thing for most, but not for you.

But, none of it feels weird, awkward. It never has—even if part of you continues to wait for it. If anything, it continues to be comfortable, right.

Even as the food effortlessly vanishes off both of your plates, it's not until you've reached your fill that you clear your throat.

“So, how often do you have Luca?”

Chewing his food, he puts down the remainder—wiping his fingers on the napkin. “It’s a weird rota. But it works? I’ll have him in the week for two nights and then overnight on a Saturday one week and then one night in the week the following and then Friday to Sunday, and then I’ll have him for three nights in the week the following. Sometimes, extra if I have time off or I want to take him to see family.”

Nodding, you take a sip of your drink.

“Does that… bother you?”

“No! No, of course not,” you grin. “He’s the most important, in all of this. It was just curiosity, I couldn’t… I couldn’t work out the pattern.”

Chewing his cheek he smiles. “You trying to work out when I’m free?”

Shrugging, you look away, aware of the heat warming your cheeks. “Well, someone did post about brunch on their Stories…”

“I remember someone else posting my forearm on theirs.”

Smiling, you plate your cutlery down. “It’s a very nice forearm.”

Shoulder nudging you, Frankie chuckles—cutlery lined up on his plate, your hand moving to take it. Sliding around the kitchen as he begins debating what part of him will appear next, a thigh, an ankle.

“I can include all of you next time, if you like?” Hand testing the hot, soapy water filling the bowl.

“Yeah?”

Licking your lips, you smile. “I don’t cook for anyone, Morales.”

Shifting to meet your gaze, his eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles. “Is that right, Rainy? I must be pretty special then.”

“You have no idea,” you reply, your voice a mere whisper but the words carry an immense weight, one you suspect has snuck out, and embedded itself into him.

You're quick to turn your back to him, hide the heat and shyness, as you carefully rinse off the dishes. Only hearing the stool shift at the last moment, the sound of his sock-covered feet padding around until he's standing behind you.

His presence is unmistakable, more so when he places his hands on your hips. “I think I'm beginning to,” he murmurs into your ear, his warm breath sending shivers down your spine.

You turn to face him, the plates forgotten in the sink. Looking up into his eyes, seeing a reflection of things fluttering in them.

“You better,” you say, reaching up to gently stroke his cheek, “because I'm not planning on posting anyone else’s arm for a while.”

His grin widens at your words, his hands pulling you closer until your bodies are flush against each other. "Good, because I don't plan on trying brunch with anyone else."

And as he leans down to kiss you, he pauses, mouth hovering over yours. “Speaking of…”

Narrowing your eyes, you retract your head, soap suds sliding off your wrists.

“My friends… they want to meet you.”

His words catch you off guard, your heart pounding in your chest. “Meet...me?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper.

As soon as he confirms with a simple nod, you feel a tightness in your chest. An explosion in your mind. A vortex of thoughts, all overwhelming, non-stop.

Each second you try to breathe, the knot in your chest tightens, sitting, carving a bigger hole where your happiness had just been—

“Yes,” he confirms, his hands soothingly rubbing circles on your hips as though noticing your sudden tension. “I think, maybe, I’ve talked about you too much?”

Running your teeth over your lip, you feel a piece of skin. One sticking up, not as smooth as the rest. Lip balm would solve it, fix it—but you pick at it anyway, pick, pick, pick—

Running your teeth over your lip, you notice a stray piece of skin, protruding slightly, disrupting the otherwise smooth surface. Lip balm would fix it, effortlessly smooth it out—but despite knowing this, you find yourself unable to resist the urge to pick at it. Listening to him as he explains, hearing names, a day suggested. As you compulsively pick, pick, pick—

Until he says your name.

Soft. Gentle. So cautiously spoken it makes your heart do a double take as you taste copper on your tongue.

“Are you sure? I mean, I want to. I just… don’t want to intrude or anything,” you reply, and you know it’s left your mouth shaky, bathed in nerves.

Attempting to shake the suds from your hands, hoping to fling off the worries with it, you find yourself unable to meet his gaze. Mind a flurry, a snowstorm of ifs, buts and maybes.

Because meeting his friends is a significant step—a thing you’re happy about, pleased he feels the same way. Yet, you're also terrified.

Digging your hip into the counter because of it, rooting yourself as you flex your fingers.

“Hey.” His fingers gently lift your chin, forcing you to look up at him; eyes full of warmth and reassurance. "You wouldn't be intruding, baby. They're… they’re like my family and… I want them to meet the person I can’t stop thinking about.”

Shoulders sliding down from your ears, you move to rest your hands on his waist. “You really talk about me that much?”

Scrunching his nose, he smiles. “A bit.”

“Okay,” you agree, your voice sounding more confident than you feel. “I'll meet your friends.”

“Great,” he grins, his relief evident. He pulls you close, hugging you tightly. “Benny—the one who fights—that's who we'll be supporting.”

“When?”

He frowns, but vanishes it away as though realising you hadn't been listening. “Not this weekend, but next. They’re going to love you, I promise.”

“I hope so,” you whisper into his chest, your heart rate trying its best to slow down.

I need you to tell me what I need to do with the office room, if your friends happen to not like me. They’re going to like you. But if they don’t. Rainy, they will. Introducing you is more so they don’t think I’ve made you up. You have a habit of making up people? No. But apparently, the way I talk about you makes it seem like you’re made up. Why? Because you’re perfect. I am not. You are, but let’s have that battle another day. What are you worried about?

It sits there, in your fingers. The answer to his question.

Foot kicking out at your kitchen island, laptop light illuminating your face as you roll your tongue over your lips.

Foot kicking out nervously at the kitchen island, the harsh glow of the laptop casting an eerie light across your face, you roll your tongue over your lips.

A nervous tic. One you find yourself repeating—letting it trace over the same path again and again, desperately seeking a sense of calm that seems perpetually out of reach.

The question doing its rounds, spinning and swirling: What are you worried about? What are you worried about?

Like a bell has been wrung, it blares out. The answer.

It vibrates through your bones and comes back to you in an echo. Almost a chorus: That I’m not good enough.

A thing you’ve done well to ignore, to stuff down. But now, it's crawling up out of its boxes, the tape having barely kept it down, flapping about in the whirlwind of worries in your head.

As your phone screen dims, memories flood, recalling the evidence. The words flung at you, feelings you’ve wrestled with in bathrooms at loud parties and brutal quiet nights; arguments in places that don’t feel like home and tears against brick walls that cut shoulders.

Unlocking your phone, you tighten your jaw because he's not like them. He's good, kind. A sudden unwillingness to bend to insecurity roaring inside of you as you list every good thing about him; not willing to let a good thing be ruined by things that could never happen.

Sliding your fingers over the screen, you type words that seem easier, less difficult to confess:

Living up to the stories you’ve said. No stories, just a mention of your name and apparently a smile they’ve not seen in a while.

With a mouth-closed grin, you purse your lips.

Reading over the message again and again as your teeth sneak out to bite your lip, thumbs darting out over the phone’s keyboard.

Would it be okay to pick you up? You want to pick me up? I do. Yeah, sure. I was going to offer to pick you up. I think I’d like to pick you up, and if I don’t make a fool out of myself, would you like to stay over? I’ll pack your robe.

As soon as he throws his bag into the backseat and slips into your car, you feel at ease.

The drive over to grab him had been a combination of whispered mutterings about how it was going to be fine and a mind full of all the ways it wouldn’t be.

It’s further helped when his lips press to your cheek, allowing hands to loosen on the steering wheel, and when that low voice sweeps over you as he greets you—as other words hang there unspoken.

You almost say it on sight, I've missed you.

Because you have. A week and a half of messages and phone calls sufficing, but you’ve missed his presence, his face, the chance to brush your fingers over his cheek.

“You look nice.”

Eyes widening, he stares down at himself, palms brushing out over his thighs. “Me?”

“No, the ghost you brought with you—of course, you.”

Snorting, he fastens his seatbelt. “Says you, hermosa.”

“Smooth talker.”

The drive to the fight continues with similar, gentle teasing, all comfortable conversation filling the vehicle. He begins to fill you in on the new developments in the saga of Luca’s newfound love for blanket forts rendering the living room a disaster and you about the sign-off on the work you'd been worked up over.

As you navigate the roads, excitedly sharing about how you've picked a wallpaper you like, Frankie's warm hand finds a home on your thigh, his thumb idly tracing patterns over the fabric of your jeans as he continues talking.

No smirk, nothing. Just the usual smile, as if he'd done this before.

Yet, he hasn't. Unfamiliar sensations surge through your body, catching you off guard, body all ill-prepared for the way it warms you. It almost urges you to shuffle in your seat so his hand rises north; Electricity crackles along your veins, accompanied by a tightening in your abdomen that refuses to dissipate. And, it only worsens when he coughs and his hand grips you a little tighter.

As more of the cityscape flits past your windows, you steal glances at Frankie. His profile illuminated intermittently by the passing street lights, shadows highlighting the rugged contours of his face.

By the time you're pulling into the parking lot, you wish the drive had been longer. Momentarily, you press your thighs together, for reprieve. Only doing so when his hand moves to open the door, the liveliness and music spilling out onto the sidewalk as he comes around the vehicle to take your hand.

“So, where will your friends be?”

Frankie tightens his hand on yours, leading you, holding the door open. “They’ll be in the locker room. Will is Ben’s non-official trainer.”

Nodding, you smile, letting him lead until the two of you come to a stop at the bar—him asking you what you’d like, giving you a look that says please don’t fight me as he takes out his wallet.

“You not needed there?” Shaking his head, ordering drinks as he faces his head forward but his eyes slide down to you. “And what are you, what's your role?”

“His other non-official, less present trainer.”

“You slacker.”

Shrugging, he shakes his head, paying for the drinks. “I know, so much free time to do it too.”

Grinning, you follow him to a spot out of the line, sliding your arm around his back, curling into him—the ice cubes in your plastic cup colliding in the fizziness of your drink.

“I’m glad you came.”

“Because you missed me?”

His mouth opens, parts—the tip of his tongue peeking out as you feel his chest expand before relaxing. “Yeah. Nine days was too long.”

Biting the inside of your cheek, you slide your hand under his jacket, it taking a moment, more awkward than full of ease before you can fan your fingers out against him.

“Technically, it was five—if you count me half-waving to you when I came in to get a screwy.”

Almost spluttering as he takes a sip, he clears his throat, staring down. “You can’t call it a screwy?”

Narrowing your eyes, smirking away. “And why not, Morales?”

“Because suena mal... dirty,” he argues, trying to suppress a laugh.

Your eyebrow raises in question, but before you can retort, his lips are on yours, effectively silencing you. The place around you is all of a sudden silent, muted—as if no one else is around at all. The ring, the lights, and all of the people blurring into nothing, not as your fingers tease over his chin, as your mouth reminds itself what his feels like.

Pulling back, mouth hovering close to his. “So, what do I need to know about your friends? Outside of the obvious.”

The obvious is that they all served together. Frankie had explained it one night as you cooked for yourself, him on a shelf—face filling the screen as you sliced and brewed on the stove.

It was clinically given, top-level you'd been sure. Just the need to know—the need to understand.

“Well, Ben is loud—but he’s gentle. Will is a bit protective, especially since we've all been through a lot together," he begins, rubbing his thumb along the back of your hand. “But they're good people. They're upfront and honest.”

“Does Harold like them?”

Tutting, he pauses as he lifts the plastic cup to his lips. “The only person Harry likes is you. And his own family.”

“I’ll be sure to drop that in conversation then. Show them I’m one stamp approved already.”

Tilting your chin up, he licks his lips—slowly, intently. “You have nothing to worry about, alright?” You nod, trying to take in his words. “I mean it.”

“Okay.”

Kissing the top of your head, Frankie keeps his arm around you. Even when Benny's name is shouted and the crowd goes wild.

I think they like me.

Are you texting me from the bathroom?

Maybe. But, I think it’s going well.

Baby, are you peeing and texting me?

No! I dried my hands and then messaged you.

So you’re leaning against a dirty wall texting me.

Are you grinning like an idiot at your phone?

Don’t answer I can see it.

Shut up.

If that’s the grin you wear when I message you, no wonder they wanted to meet me.

Basta!

You're cute when you're flustered. Can see the red climbing up your neck from here.

Come back and keep me company.

Grin a bit more and I might.

Rainy.

Fuck you're handsome, Butterscotch.

NEXT CHAPTER ->

an: while the meeting happens off-paper (haha wanted to say off-screen) all meetings won't appear like this 👀. we knew they'd love her, and in time we'll see how much. also, her texting him in the bathroom may be my fave thing she's done off her own accord (i am merely just a body and fingers when rainy begins talking to me)

[emmyrosee]

“But I’m cold.”

Your voice whines in a pitch that makes Kiyoomi’s brow hitch up in annoyance, arms crossed firmly over his chest as he stares at you from the end of your bed.

It’s late, he’s been staying later every time he comes over after practice, almost as if to see you off to bed. You tell him- well, beg him- to just stay and spend the night, it’s too late for him to drive and you’ll miss him.

Deep down, you know that’s the point that seems to make him want to cave the most, but the stubborn asshole hasn’t given in fully yet. He’s told you from the beginning he’s more of a ‘sleep in my own bed’ kind of guy, but it did make you feel a little insecure about why, then, he never invited you over.

Kiyoomi promised you it was just because of the early mornings, he never wanted you to feel like you had to dash out, or even wake up to see him off, but the insecurity burns all the same.

“If you’re cold, get under the sheets,” he says, as if explaining to a child. “I’ll leave my hoodie for you, if you’d like?”

You fiddle with the threads of your blanket stiffly, “I don’t… I don’t want to get under the sheets.” You sink your teeth into the fat of your lip in embarrassment, trying to ward off awkward tears that want to sting. “Because, when I do, you’re going to leave.” From your sitting position, you see him deflate slightly.

Then, he pads his way next to you. He scoots on your bed, and he wraps an arm around you, tugging you close. You burrow into his side, inhaling the warmth of his skin.

“How about I wait until you’re asleep?” He offers, voice low. He moves the hand not embracing you to gently grip your chin and angle you to look up at him, eyes soft and calm.

“You hurt my feelings when you don’t want to stay, Kiyoomi.”

The words slip out unprovoked, and as his face morphs into one of guilt, yours turns to one of embarrassment. You clear your throat and turn away from the fingers against your chin.

“Yeah,” You pant. “I… I understand that you don’t want to stay. If you don’t mind waiting until I’m asleep, that… that would mean a lot.”

He nods, mind deep in thought as he curls more around you, protectively, letting you get lost in the fabric of his sweatshirts and the bulky arms encasing you. You purr, and just like it does when you’re always with kiyoomi, your mind settles and before you can know it, you’re off into sleep.

Your dreams conjure minimal, little flickers of familiar faces in ridiculous scenarios, but you jolt awake when there’s a teeny nightmare that manages to catch you off guard, and your eyes fly open to try and stop the fear that started brewing.

Now awake, you gladly are able to take in your surrounding and shake off the fright; you’re not entirely sure how you ended up in your pajamas and under the covers, but you’re not complaining. As sunlight peers through the blinds, you stretch and try to curl in on yourself, but you’re blocked by a solid body next to you.

You yelp, slightly alarmed, but there’s a soft, smooth “shhhh,” that comes from the person beside you, and as an arm wraps around you, you burrow into his familiar scent with a happy mewl.

“Omi?” You mumble, pulling your arms close to your chest as he pulls you closer. “You stayed?”

“Shut up,” he murmurs. “You were shivering.”

The meek attempt at denying why he truly stayed makes you giggle, and you burrow against his chest in search for that addictive warmth he’d granted you through the whole night.

“Thank you,” you say, nuzzling your head under his chin. His arms are protective around you, his sleepy grunts barely audible, you’re sure you would’ve missed them if you weren’t so close, but they’re the sweetest noises you’ve ever heard, and you hate that he denied you them for so long.

“You wanna talk about your nightmare?” He says, voice drunk with sleep.

“What nightmare?”

“You were flinching a little before you woke up. Figured it scared you awake.”

You smile and plant a kiss along the muscles of the pectoral you’re nuzzled against, “it wasn’t serious. I’m more impressed you knew it had me awake.”

“Of course I knew; you only tremble like that when you’re scared.”

“You care about me or something?”

“I just happen to pay attention to you.” One onyx eye peers down at you, “because of course I care about you, dickhead.”

Fuck, you think to yourself. He’s damn good.

And he is. Kiyoomi is ridiculously good, he always has been, and while you hadn’t meant to upset him with your confession last night, there is a small sliver of you that’s grateful he listened and caved to be with you.

Even if it was a little out of his comfort zone.

“This is nice,” he mumbles into your hair, his fingertips dragging up and down the slope of your spine.

You nod and move one of your hands to the nape of his neck, carding the curly locks and relishing in the mewls he lets out, “I told you. You just don’t listen to me.”

“Because I’m not used to you being right.”

“You’re so rude,” you snort, and once again, his vocal chords vibrate against your head as he laughs. It’s quiet once again, and you’re almost ready to doze back off when on the nightstand next to the bed, his phone vibrates loudly.

“Omi-“

“No,” he grumbles. “‘S just Miya. He’s fine. We’re comfortable.”

“We are,” you giggle. “But I don’t want you to be late.”

“I’m never late for anything.” He shifts to nuzzle his head deeper into the pillow, “besides, you’re the one who convinced me to stay, why are you trying to get me to leave now?”

“I don’t want you to leave,” you assure.

“Yeah, I don’t either.”

“You have to,” you snort, your eyes watching as his Adam’s Apple bobs with each swallow and word that falls from his sleepy mouth. “Come on. Meian will be pissed, Miya will be blowing up your phone soon enough.”

“Fuck Miya,” he grumbles. “You’re trying to get me to stop snuggling and leave and you think Miya is your best argument?”

You give him some more laughter, your fingers gently running over the moles and scars that adorn his chest and side, and you smirk as the muscles quiver under your touch. Ticklish. He would be. “Oh?”

“You wanna keep that hand?” He grumbles, and if you knew him any less, you may have missed the way you could hear the smile in his voice. “I suggest you don’t get too creative there.”

“Oh, I’m getting very creative.” Before you can provoke him further, a hand grabs yours and tenderly brings it up to his lips, planting warm, soft kisses to the knuckles.

“Don’t be annoying,” he mutters, sleepily looking at you from the corner of his eyes, “just be affectionate. I got months to try and make up for.”

He looks cute, soft in the early morning haze, and you do decide You yield as you curl into the bend of his sides, letting his breathing even out before his phone starts ringing again. He’s warm, his snuggly, and he’s still the Kiyoomi only you have the privilege of seeing.

And now, you’re hoping he’s giving you the privilege to see it every morning.

[allthingscons1dered]

Like Brothers

Batbros x batsibling!reader, hurt/(some)comfort. Reader is going through it.

warnings: canon typical violence, tons of angst, lots of self doubt. I think this is pretty gender neutral, I apologize if not.

For the past few weeks, you’ve been miserable. It had started with a particularly hard case you’d worked on involving Professor Pyg, and the victims he’d taken hostage. You had caught him in the act of dismantling one of them.

It would have made you physically ill, if there was time for it. Thankfully, your muscle memory took over and you took him down— hard.

Writing the report had been excruciating. You had seen a lot of gruesome and evil in this work. But this… it was stuck in your mind, replaying over and over.

You couldn’t sleep the first night. It was there, in every dark corner of your room and every time you closed your eyes. And if it wasn’t playing out in front of you, the screams were ringing in your ears with every second of silence.

So you trained and tired yourself out, thinking it would be the solution. It would never be so easy, of course. In fact, it was almost worse.

Because now you were sluggish and you had a much harder time occupying your mind with other thoughts. And when you finally drifted off, the nightmares plagued every moment of your slumber.

Sleeping no more than two hours a night was wearing you down. And now, after multiple weeks of this sick game, you were starting to make mistakes.

The first slip is not on patrol, but during school. You fall asleep in the middle of algebra. Which shouldn’t be a huge deal, right?

A classmate decides to take a picture and send it to the newspaper, suggesting issues in the home. And the next morning, you’re featured on the front page titled ‘Bruce Wayne: Unfit Parent?’.

The Wayne family has had its share of unflattering and false news headlines, so it’s truthfully more embarrassing than worrisome.

“That’s definitely not your angle, kiddo,” Jason says as he snags an apple from the bowl in front of you before stalking out of the kitchen.

Bruce ruffles your hair. “Try looking a bit more lively today, okay?”

You smile and duck your head, acting sheepish, but you’re overwhelmed. Having hoped you’d get over this nightmare situation by now.

Instead, you wake every night in tears or sweating bullets. The nightmares are always changing. Sometimes, you’re the one being captured. Other times, you’re forced to watch as your loved ones become disfigured, unable to aid them.

Patrol is the only time that you can clear your thoughts and focus on the task at hand. Until you engage too early, with not enough backup. Spoiler bails you out. She assures you that it’s no big thing, everyone has bad days.

You try to believe her.

The next mistake is made when you’re unfocused against Two-Face goons with Red Robin. They’re lousy fighters and yet, you misjudge a hit, sending you flying into the wall behind you.

It was a rookie mistake. And one you wish had happened without an audience.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Tim asks as he hands you an ice pack for your split eyebrow. “You’re not seeing double or anything, right?”

You’re mad and embarrassed.

“I’m fine, Tim.”

His brow furrows. “You’ve been acting kind of strange lately,” he says.

You give him no answer, picking at your nail beds.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

You narrow your eyes and grit your teeth. “I’m fine. It was just a bad day.”

He looks skeptical and eyes you blatantly. “You’ve been having a lot of those recently,” he starts, but you don’t let him continue.

“Whatever,” you snap, jumping down from the bed in the med bay. “You know, I don’t point out all of your missteps.”

You’re irritated, and more than that— you’re ashamed. Everyone in this family has witnessed something gruesome like you had a few weeks ago, and they continued on just fine. Why couldn’t you?

“Wait,” Tim stresses, voice filled with regret. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

A piece of your heart aches. You hardly ever fight with Tim. Though you may not be super close to him, you value his opinion. But now you’re suspicious of what he thinks of you. He’s obviously taken notice of your shortcomings.

You pace a few steps away from him, not quite looking at him as you toss over your shoulder, “I’m fine, Tim. Worry about yourself for once.”

He catches your arm with his hand, turning you around to face him. “Okay, now I know you’re not fine.”

You laugh, though you don’t know why. Nothing about this is funny to you. “Why do you care?” You ask, your words laced with irritation. “You never have before.”

Stop, you think to yourself. You’re clueless as to where this is even coming from. Have you always had these insecurities?

There’s hurt on his face, and it’s clear he’s trying to analyze your behavior so you rip your hand out of his grasp before he has the chance to.

“I’m just stressed about that stupid headline, Tim,” you lie easily, not giving away any of the usual body language while doing so. “So, drop it.”

You stalk off and hide in your room for the rest of the night, hating yourself for acting so stupid.

Tim didn’t hate. You knew that. Right?

The next night on patrol, you end up getting pistol whipped by one of Black Mask’s men. Your movements were too slow to block the strike— your body exhausted from the lack of sleep. Which lands you on the ground and seeing stars with a gun pressed against your temple.

Luckily, Red Hood was there to prevent the making of sidewalk art composed entirely of brain matter.

Your brain matter.

“Jesus,” he whistles low, hands tilting your head towards the streetlight to look at the purpling bruises on your cheekbone. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you take such an avoidable hit this hard.”

His comment burns you, even without intention. It’s a meaningless jab, one that’d you normally laugh at and return in good nature. Tonight is different.

“Yeah, he caught me off guard, I guess,” you dismiss him, shoving his hand away.

Jason rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. “Yeah, no shit. You’re lucky I was here tonight, or this would be an entirely different conversation.”

Shame claws through your chest, causing you to clench your jaw. You pull the hood of your cloak over your damp hair and grab your grappling hook, firing and swinging away before more can be said.

You don’t sleep that night, which is no surprise. The imprint of the cool barrel of the handgun has made a lasting impression on your mind. It’s a feeling you can’t shake, sending chills up your spine.

Even worse is the disappointment you’ve seen in everyone’s eyes recently. It leaves your skin crawling and your heart aching.

When you make your way to the Batcave the next evening, you find three of your brothers conversing around the mantle of the Batcomputer. Only Jason is suited up, but is maskless like the other two.

You briefly wonder where Bruce might be, before remembering that he’s on a JLA mission.

Damian is with Jon at the Kent Farm for the weekend, thankfully. You don’t think he’d let you live down one mistake after another.

The sound of your approach draws their attention to you, and each of them seems worried.

“Uh, hey guys,” you greet, a small awkward wave as you survey their body language. The smile on your lips is strained but you’re hoping it leaves a good impression nonetheless.

It doesn’t, of course.

Dick steps forward, the golden boy he is. “Hey, kiddo.” Kiddo, always ‘kiddo’ with him. “You seem a little run down recently. Everything alright?”

You could come clean and explain that you’ve been going weeks without proper sleep, earth shattering images haunting you around every corner. They might understand.

But then you look at the three of them and consider all that they’ve witnessed and lived through, and now you feel sick with shame.

How pathetic you are, for believing you’ve been having such a hard time when each of them has overcome major adversity.

So no, you’ll save yourself the embarrassment of admitting that you’re dealing with childish bad dreams.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you laugh with a shrug. “I’m fine.”

You catch eyes with Tim and you realize he must’ve brought this conversation about.

Dick reaches out a hand, setting it on your shoulder. “You know you can talk to us, right?” His tone is gentle and it’s almost enough to break your resolve.

Almost.

“Why are you all convinced something is wrong with me?” Lie, your mind says. Lie until you believe it too. “I have a few bad days and suddenly, I’m not good enough for you.”

“Woah,” Jason raises a hand in defense. “No one said that, kid.”

“No,” you agree, stepping out of Dick’s grasp, “but you’re all thinking it.”

“This!” Tim raises a hand and points an accusatory finger at you, looking from Dick to Jason with his brows raised. “This is exactly what I was talking about.”

A breath heaves from your lungs as you huff, face pulsing red with your embarrassment. “Oh, so you’re talking about me behind my back now?”

Tim levels you with an intense look. “I asked you what was wrong and you refused to tell me.”

“Because there’s nothing wrong,” you shout, your voice echoing throughout the cave. “God, why won’t you just believe me?”

You hate the way your voice cracks with the last statement. It’s obvious that you’re slipping.

“Hey,” Dick approaches you again, raising a hand placatingly, “Tim is just trying to help. We all are.”

Your fists are clenched, crescent-shaped marks digging into your palms. The air is so thick with tension that it is difficult to breathe.

“If you don’t tell us what’s going on, we’ll have no choice but to bench you.”

The speed at which you look up at Dick is breakneck. His jaw is set, eyebrows creased. Everything about him screams that he means business.

He’s dropped the ‘approachable-and-friendly-older-brother’ gig, branding himself the adult in the room.

“You can’t do that,” gasping, you thread your hands through your hair.

Dick folds his arms against his chest, raising his chin slightly. “I can,” he affirms, strong in his decision. “Bruce left me in charge and I know that he’d agree. You need to work through your issues before you can go back out on patrol.”

“That’s rich,” you snap, “coming from you of all people.”

Dick doesn’t take the bait of your harsh words. Continuing to stand solidly against you, he only raises his brows.

Tears come forth but they don’t fall from your eyes. You look at Jason and try to silently plead with him, but he seems just as content with this.

You tear your eyes away and trace them back to your eldest brother, looking him in the eyes. “Fine,” you concede, voice flat. You look back to Tim and glare. “I hope you’re happy.”

Confusion breaks across his face before fading into annoyance. “If it means you’re not out there being reckless— then yeah, I’m thrilled.”

You can’t control your eye roll as you scoff. “Whatever. How long is this prison sentence supposed to last, anyway?”

Dick tilts his head, something close to disappointment etched into his features. “This isn’t a punishment. You need time to decompress. Something is clearly bothering you.”

You blink at him. Whatever answer he’s searching for, you’re not giving it to him.

“Look, kid,” Jason stalks forward, his hands on his hips. “You can either save yourself the trouble and tell us now, or we’ll just wait you out. Your choice.”

“Why would I tell you guys anything?” You spit, your words setting the air around you ablaze. “You’ll only judge me even more than you already do.”

Jason shakes his head, denying it. “You know it isn’t like that.”

“Yeah,” Tim interjects. “When have we ever judged you?”

You sneer at him. “What do you think you’re doing right now, genius?”

“We’re trying to look out for you,” he snaps back, “like brothers.”

There’s a lump in your throat. And you can’t clear it. You face away from them, tears stinging your eyes. They were trying to help you and you couldn’t even let them in.

You shake your head, “You’ll be waiting awhile, then, because the only thing wrong with me is being suffocated by your constant worrying.”

The shock on their faces is evident as you take your leave, stomping up the stairs and into the manor. You regret your words, wishing that you had just come clean. It was clear that they cared about you, that maybe your insecurities were lying to you.

But what if they weren’t? What if they weren’t just insecurities?

“I know you’re angry with me,” Tim begins, following behind you down the hall toward your room— you had failed to notice his presence, “but we’re just worried about you. I’m worried about you.”

You stop at the door to your room but you don’t enter. Nor do you look at Tim.

“I hear you at night.”

That grabs your attention. Your eyes snap to him and his face is sympathetic, not judgemental. It’s worrisome, not hateful.

“What?” You ask, breathless.

“The nightmares,” he reiterates. “You aren’t able to sleep because of them.”

It’s not a question— you realize that he knows this to be true. It makes sense. He’s a detective, just like the rest of the family, but Tim is different.

He discovered the identities of both Batman and Nightwing, all on his own. Simply because he wanted to. And he obviously wanted to know what was causing you to behave this way.

“It started a few weeks ago,” you admit bashfully, voice barely above a whisper.

Tim frowns, brows lowered. “Professor Pyg.”

You nod, eyes vacant and unfocused. “All I can hear, when I close my eyes, are their screams. And then I think, ‘I could’ve gotten there faster.’”

A humorless laugh escapes your lips and your flies to cover your mouth, startled by it.

Tim reaches out, grabs your free hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. “You did the best that you could.”

Your somber eyes meet his, just before tugging your hand away. “And it still wasn’t enough.”

His expression falls as you slip away and into your room, hiding from the shadows of the manor and from the guilt you couldn’t possibly hope to outrun.

A/N: Sorry for, like, a crap ton of angst. Okay, I’m not sorry. It’s what I’m best at, unfortunately. Would yall be interested in a pt2?

[yournightmary]

Gryffindor!Ellie HCs

content warning:: fem!reader, Hogwarts!AU, reader wears a dress, nothing else I think

AN:: Is this a very specific thing that no one asked for? yes. Will I still write this? also yes. Replaying Hogwarts Legacy for the 3rd time, sorry.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ I couldn’t figure out what house she would be in but I think it would be gryffindor? At least that’s the one that makes the most sense to me.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ For anyone that isn’t really into Harry Potter, later years are set in the mid/late 90s… which makes me want to write 90s!Ellie oh my fucking god.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ gryffindor!Ellie who either has a pet rat or an ugly cat. I’m leaning towards the rat though. It’s definitely one of those albino rats with red eyes, named something like ‘Crouton’.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ gryffindor!Ellie who constantly sneaks off into the Forbidden Forest, way too often for her own safety. She’s just so mysterious and cool. At least that’s what she thinks.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ gryffindor!Ellie who is infamous for her beaten up sneakers. They’re definitely taped up in some places and she doodles on them whenever she’s bored. Which is most of the time.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ gryffindor!Ellie who wears the ugliest, scratchiest, grandpa-looking flannel shirts and sweaters. Some people say that she stole them from Filch’s closet.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ gryffindor!Ellie who is a menace to everyone the professors. Not paying attention during class but they can’t even do anything because somehow she knows all the answers/brews potions perfectly/knows how to cast spells. Girlie is naturally smart and talented.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ gryffindor!Ellie who wanted to play quidditch but flying a broom is the only thing she’s bad at. Probably fell off of it during tryouts and got humiliated:(

⇢ ˗ˏˋ gryffindor!Ellie who met you while sneaking into the restricted section in the library. She was looking for a dark spellbook to get revenge on someone while you just wanted to learn more about divination.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ gryffindor!Ellie who made you her partner in crime, whether you wanted it or not. Constantly asking you to steal something for her or distract someone while she does whatever she does.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ gryffindor!Ellie who ran out of potions class when she smelled your perfume in the amortentia. A few people have done that, so no one really paid attention. You on the other hand have smelled mint, cigarette smoke and cookies. The ones that Ellie loves… funny, right?

⇢ ˗ˏˋ gryffindor!Elllie who asked you to the Yule Ball (let’s just pretend it happens every year, without a tournament) like a day before, under the impression that no one else wanted to go with you. Rightfully, you got pissed (and a little sad that she thought no one wanted you) and declined not-so-politely.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ gryffindor!Ellie who you’ve found crying in one of the more secluded hallways late into the night of the ball. After you declined she asked some random guy just so she wouldn’t be without a date, he turned out to be a total dick and the whole experience was shit.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ gryffindor!Ellie who cried even more when she saw you in your beautiful dress, which looked way too similar to not be matching with the suit of some guy she saw earlier. A guy who asked you a full week before Ellie did, and you agreed because you thought she wouldn’t ask you.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ gryffindor!Ellie who invited you to dance once a slow song came on, even though you could barely hear it over the thick walls of the castle. Cried in your arms and acted like she didn’t after.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ gryffindor!Ellie who always sneaks you into the gryffindor common room (if you’re not in the same house).

⇢ ˗ˏˋ gryffindor!Ellie who stole fire whiskey from some shop in Hogsmeade and got you both drunk. Somehow convinced you that taking a stroll around the castle in the middle of the night is an excellent idea. You got a ton of bruises from bumping into everything while she almost fell off of the Grand Staircase. 3 week detention.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ gryffindor!Ellie who loves to duel with you. Always says she’ll go easy on you but struggles the whole time and ends up getting her ass beat.

My brain is fried and I hate what I wrote.

[waldau]

hihi!! hapoy 500 followers, i would like to request with mingyu for the prompt "this is where i live" pls make it funny, you know who mingyu is, he can be a natural joker 😂

i suppose this is what i am supposed to do?? i think yea?? thanks for accepting my request if you do, i will be waiting and please do your best + no worries <33

“this is where i live” + mingyu

yes this is exactly what you're supposed to do! thank you so much, anon. i had fun writing this :)

“somebody once told me…” mingyu singsongs, your hand in his as he swings them like a child, almost.

“the world is gonna roll me?”

“no,” he says, turning to you, his eyes twinkling. you’ve seen this look in his eyes thousands of times before, but sometimes you still find it hard to believe that it’s just for you. “somebody once told me you have a crush on me.”

he has that goofy grin on his face, and you know better than not to play along, otherwise you’re going to be stuck with a grumpy kim mingyu all night long.

which isn’t that bad, either. he’s easily bribed with kisses and cuddles, but you kind of want to see where this is leading.

“oh? who was this someone?”

“not telling you,” he says, resuming swinging your hands together. you have to bat at his hand to tell him to slow down a little because the way he’s moving will probably have you flying if he’s not careful enough. “but is it true?”

“that i have a crush on you? hmm…”

“hey,” he pouts, and you love that you can hear it without even looking at him.

“i think they’re right. i do have a little crush on you.”

“a little? just a little?”

“depends on what you feel for me.”

“i…” mingyu pretends to think, slowing down to a stop in front of the door. “i don’t know if i should be saying this so soon, but…” he takes in a dramatic breath and looks you square in the eye. “i think i love you.”

you let out a mock gasp. “mingyu! you can’t…say that.”

“but it’s true!” he exclaims, dragging out the last word, and you know it’s your cue to get him to change into sweats and his favourite shirt and cuddle away the hangover that’s incoming. “i know what i feel for you. and i love you. so much.”

“well, if you’re being so sweet about it,” you say, brushing your knuckles against his cheekbone, “i think you should know that...i love you too.”

mingyu lets out a loud whoop that has you smacking his chest. “shush, baby. don’t want anyone hearing you this late at night.”

“but i love you,” he says, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and pulling you into himself, swaying the slightest bit. “shouldn’t everyone know that?”

it’s the way he’s so…carefree with his affection, that you don’t say anything. of course you’d rather he didn’t proclaim his love for you in front of the neighbours only to be met with a noise complaint in the morning, but the fact that he’s so open with his love just makes you realize, not for the first time, how lucky you are to have him. as yours, and to be his.

“i think,”  you say, de-tangling yourself from the mess of the limbs the two of you have become, “i’ll let it slide. just this once.”

“you should always let it slide. you’re my baby,” he sniffs, kissing your head before searching for his keys in your pocket. you wait patiently as he slots it into the hole, turning the key and opening the door. when you don’t step in right after him, he turns around and his eyes light up.

“i have something to show you,” he says, chest puffing out proudly. “i think you’ll like it.”

“yeah? what is it?”

“this,” he says, gesturing to the…door behind him, “this is where i live. and i’d like you to stay the night with me.”

“just the night?” you ask, pouting like he does. he folds so easily.

“no,” he whines grasping your hand again and dragging you with him, “not just the night. every night. for the rest of our lives. like you promised.”

“i did, didn’t i?” you ask, standing on your tiptoes to kiss his cheek. he beams at you. “you’ve got a lovely house, gyu.”

“and the best thing is,” he says, grinning down at you so beautifully that it’s enough to almost make your knees buckle, “it’s yours, too. happy fourth marriage anniversary, baby. i love you.”

“i think you’ve wished me that a hundred times today,” you say, patting his chest. “but happy fourth anniversary to you too, gyu. i love you so much.”

“just a hundred? okay, here’s another. happy fourth—”

“kim mingyu!”

[ollie-monster]

In Gaza, a child is not really a child. Our eight-year-old son, Yazzan, has been talking about fetching his toys from the ruins of our house. He should be learning how to draw, how to play soccer, how to take a family photo. Instead, he is learning how to hide when bombs fall.

I don’t want to hug anyone, because I don’t want to believe that I am leaving them. I kiss my parents and shake hands with my siblings, as though I am only going on a short trip. What I am feeling is not guilt but a sense of unfairness. Why can I leave and they cannot? We are lucky that Mostafa was born in the U.S. Does it make them less human, less worthy of protection, that their children were not? I think about how, when we go, I may not be able to call them, or even find out whether they are alive or dead. Every step we take will take us away from them.

We are about to pass the checkpoint when a soldier starts to call out, seemingly at random. “The young man with the blue plastic bag and the yellow jacket, put everything down and come here.” ... They’re not going to pull me out of the line, I think. I am holding Mostafa and flashing his American passport. Then the soldier says, “The young man with the black backpack who is carrying a red-haired boy. Put the boy down and come my way.” He is talking to me.

The soldiers blindfold me and attach a numbered bracelet to one wrist. I wonder how Israelis would feel if they were known by a number. Then someone grabs the back of my neck and shoves me forward, as though we are sheep on our way to be slaughtered. I keep asking for someone to talk to, but no one responds. The earth is muddy and cold and strewn with rubble. I am pushed onto my knees, and then made to stand, and then ordered to kneel again. Soldiers keep asking in Arabic, “What’s your name? What’s your I.D. number?”

One by one, we are forced into a truck. Someone who is not moving lands on my lap. I fear that a soldier has thrown a corpse onto me, as a form of torture, but I am scared to speak. I whisper, “Are you alive?” “Yes, man,” the person says, and I sigh with relief. When the truck stops, we hear what sound like gunshots. I no longer feel my body. The soldiers give off a smell that reminds me of coffins. I find myself wishing that a heart attack would kill me.

Another man, maybe talking to himself, says quietly, “I need to be with my daughter and pregnant wife. Please.” My eyes fill with tears. I imagine Maram and our kids on the other side of the checkpoint. They don’t have blankets or even enough clothes. I can hear female soldiers, chatting and laughing. Suddenly, someone kicks me in the stomach. I fly back and hit the ground, breathless. I cry out in Arabic for my mother. I am forced back onto my knees. There is no time to feel scared. A boot kicks me in the nose and mouth. I feel that I am almost finished, but the nightmare is not over.

When we exit the truck and my name is called, I am temporarily given my I.D. card. I feel a prick of hope. Maybe they are going to release us. Inside a building, my blindfold is pulled off. A soldier is aiming an M-16 at my head. Another soldier, behind a computer, asks questions and takes a photo of me. Another numbered badge is fastened to my left arm. Then I see the doctor, who asks whether I suffer from chronic diseases or feel sick. He does not seem interested in my pain. Back at the detention center, blindfolded again, we kneel painfully for hours. I try to sleep. A man moans nearby; another is hopeful that he will get to go back to the doctor. Late in the evening, a soldier calls my name. The shawish leads me to the gate, and a jeep comes to take me away.

When I wake, a soldier says something in English that I cannot believe. “We are sorry about the mistake. You are going home.” “Are you serious?” Silence. “I will go back to Gaza and be with my family?” “Why wouldn’t I be serious?” Another voice chimes in: “Isn’t this the writer?” Back at the detention center, as I fall asleep, I think about the words “We are sorry about the mistake.” I wonder how many mistakes the Israeli Army has made, and whether they will say sorry to anyone else.

On Tuesday, about two days after I left the school, the man with the megaphone teaches us how to say good morning in Hebrew. “Boker Tov, Captain,” we say in unison. Some new detainees have arrived in an enclosure nearby, and the soldiers overseeing them seem to be having fun. They sing part of an Arabic children’s song, “Oh, my sheep!,” and order the detainees to say “Baa” in response.

After an hour, some soldiers approach. One has my I.D., and another drops a pair of slippers for me and tells me to walk. Then one of them says, “Release!” I am so overjoyed that I thank him. I think about my wife and children. I hope that my parents and siblings are alive. I spend about two hours at the place where I was interrogated, with the Hebrew music. I am given some food and water, but the soldiers never find my family’s passports. I climb into a jeep, surrounded by soldiers. After two hours, I can see around my blindfold that we are getting close to Gaza.

The soldiers get out, smoke, and return fully armed, wearing their vests and helmets. I am thinking about the man I recognized in line, and what he said about human shields. I am starting to wish that I could go back to the detention center when they give me my I.D. card. Standing against a wall, I tell the closest soldier that I am scared. ���Do not feel scared. You will leave soon.” My handcuffs are cut, and the blindfold is removed. I see the place where I had to take my clothes off. When I see new detainees waiting there, sadness overwhelms me.

I take off my slippers and start to run. Passersby are staring, but I don’t care. Suddenly, I spot an old friend, Mahdi, who once was the goalkeeper on my soccer team. “Mahdi! I’m lost—help me.” “Mosab!” We hug each other. “Your wife and kids are at the school next to the college,” he says. “Just turn left and walk for about two hundred metres.” I cry as I run. Just when I start to worry that I have lost my way, I hear Yaffa’s voice. “Daddy!” She is the first piece of my puzzle. She seems healthy, and is eating an orange. When I ask where the rest of the family is, she takes my hand and pulls me as if I were a child.

I learn from Maram how lucky I was. She used my phone to inform friends around the world, who demanded my safe release. I think about the hundreds or thousands of Palestinians, many of them likely more talented than me, who were taken from the checkpoint. Their friends could not help them.

[jjunieworld]

01. oh “dear diary” ⸝ ˚⋆

↳ half written, half texts. word count: 1.7k

— SOCIOLOGY CLASS, 5:45PM —

class seemed to be going on forever, you felt as you rested your head in your hand.

the teacher was going and on about who knows what now. you glanced at the clock on the wall. it read 5:45pm. the soft clicks taunting you. 15 more minutes and you can finally see your friends.

nobody shared your last hour and a half class with you. none of them minored in sociology. everytime to stepped into class you regretted it instantly.

you slid your phone out from your bag, positioning it behind your laptop.

“remind me to never take another sociology class again,” you typed to the group chat. a few seconds later and your phone buzzed with a reply from yeonjun.

“you say this every time you have the class,” he replied with a laughing emoji.

glancing up to the clock again, you sigh. 5:50pm. you could make it another ten minutes. you tune in to what your teacher is saying and realize he’s talking about some dog his wife got and how now they have to keep it because their children have already become attached to it. you look around the class to see either people half asleep or close to it. the teacher either doesn’t notice or doesn’t mind as they’re talking a mile a minute on a rant with their hands flying everywhere.

you slide your phone back into your bag and start to clean up your supplies. by the time you put your last notebook in your bag the bell rings. the class is suddenly alive. you close your laptop, sliding it into your bag and stand up, flinging the bag over your shoulder.

your phone vibrates as you walk down the hallway and you pull it out, telling your friends that you’re on your way to the cafe now. hueningkai and jake text that they already have the table saved.

a voice startles you out of your messages, “honestly, remind me next semester to not take another late class. i'd rather take morning classes and get everything over with.” yunjin complains as she walks up next to you, her hair is a little messy and she has lines on her face that shows she just woke up from a nap. you laugh a little and she looks over to you.

“what?” a smile creeps up on her mouth and you point to her face. she opens her camera on her phone and begins to look at herself, then let’s out a small gasp.

“oh my god!” she flattens her hair and rubs at her face a little, but stops when she realizes that it’s not making the marks go away. she mutters a “whatever” under her breath. she turns to you again.

“so…” she trails off and giggles a little, “anybody compliment you on the outfit?”

you laugh and shake your head, “everyone was too busy sleeping to bother to look at me.” the two of you stop at the elevator to go down to the first floor before yunjin’s face lights up.

“fuck!” she yells. “i forgot to get my textbook!” she turns on her heels and books it down the hallways back to her last class. you shake your head at her, laughing a little.

you move to the side of the elevator, out of the way of all the other students. a couple minutes past and yunjin still isn’t back.

she must’ve gotten into it with her teacher, you think.

“are you waiting for the elevator?” you hear a voice speak.

you look up from the game you were playing on your phone to see none other than the most popular boy in your college. choi soobin, resident golden boy, and the guy who you unfortunately have a crush on like almost every other girl in the school.

you can feel your cheeks heating up. the words to reply to him seem stuck in your throat. his eyes bore into yours and it feels like flowers are blooming in your heart after years of darkness.

“y-yes.. no!” you quickly reply, stuttering and accidentally shouting the last word. you clear your throat hastily. “yes,” you start again, “but i’m waiting on my friend.” where is yunjin, you think.

he nods as if considering your words. you glance up at the LED screen that shows what elevator the floor is on. floor five, and you’re on floor three. and the rickety old thing takes forever to get from floor to floor. they really need to fix it.

it’s quiet for a moment between the two of you. you’re too nervous to get back on your phone, not wanting to seem rude and also wanting to seem attentive if he starts speaking again.

“so… you major in sociology?” soobin speaks. you raise your eyebrows in shock and before you can ask how he knows you take sociology he continues. “your textbook,” he points to your bag where half of the textbook is falling out from you moving too quickly, “sorry, didn’t mean to sound like a creep.” he lets out a small laugh and you swear it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever heard.

you adjust the bag on your shoulders and laugh a little. “minor… and it’s okay, i didn’t think you were being creepy.” you mentally smack yourself. did that sound weird to say? did you just ruin your chances to talk to the person you’ve been crushing on since you got to this school?

if soobin thought your reply was weird he didn’t say anything about it. he takes a step towards you and your breath catches in your throat. you hands start to feel sweaty as you tightly grip the straps of your bag.

“i’m actually trying to take a sociology class next semester!” soobin exclaims with a sheepish smile on his face. he runs a hand through his hair and looks down. “how’s the class? i heard mr. lee is kinda intense.”

“it’s not that bad actually…” you trail off. and it isn’t. when mr. lee isn’t going on a tangent, the information you learn is actually really useful. “i wouldn’t take the late class though, he tends to start rambling a lot towards the end of the day.”

soobin nods and thinks your answer over. a smile spreads on his mouth. “i don’t know if this is a weird ask, but do you mind if i get your number?”

your heart completely stops and you struggle to think if you heard his words right. he wants your number? you of all people? this has to be a fever dream.

“…for questions on the sociology subjects?” soobin continues. you try and subtly take a deep breath to get the blood in your body flowing again.

“of course!” you smile softly. he pulls his phone out and scrolls on it for a second before handing it over to you. it’s already on the ‘new contact’ page, empty and ready for you to put your information into it. you take it carefully, trying not to let it show how your hands are shaking. typing in your name and number, quickly checking it over and making sure to only put your name and nothing else, you give a slight nod to yourself and hand the phone back to him.

soobin beams and thanks you. the elevator beeps and then creakily opens. you look around again for yunjin and see no sign of her. you start to curse her in your head before remembering that if she was here you would have to get on the same elevator ride as soobin.

thank you yunjin. i love you and you’re the best and i’ll never doubt your ability to get in trouble again, you think to yourself.

soobin walks in the elevator and turns a little, “coming?” embarrassment shoots through you and you shake your head a little.

“my friend…” you start to say before soobin cuts you off with an “oh yeah! sorry about that! it was nice talking to you, i hope to see you soon.” and as the last word comes out his mouth, the elevator doors shut.

finally you feel like you can breathe again. there’s no way that just happened. absolutely no way. shakily you open the messaging app on your phone and type out a message to your friends, demanding that they all come to the chat this instant.

your phone buzzes as yunjin comes barreling around the corner. “sorry! so sorry!”

as she runs down the hallway she continues, panting and out of breath, “stupid bitch was telling me off for forever for sleeping in class and forgetting my book. as if everyone in that forsaken class wasn’t asleep. that’s a problem with her as a teacher and not me as the student.” her phone is in her hand, open to the group chat.

she doubles over and breathes heavily for a couple seconds before lifting her phone up and shaking it a little. she stands up straight and manages to breath out a “what?!”

“i know!” you say, excited and nervous all at once. you tell yunjin exactly what happened, not leaving out a detail, and telling her your inner thoughts. you can’t help but think about how out of a movie this all feels. the popular and unpopular girl and boy. it almost too on the nose, and you wouldn't have believed it if it hadn’t just happened to you.

the hallways are long deserted and you and yunjin boast each other on the what ifs that could’ve happened as you wait for the elevator to make its way back up to your floor.

“what if when i grabbed his hand to put my number in, he pulled me to him and kissed me!” you squeal. yunjin makes an ‘O’ face and points to you, “that would’ve been so good! and then it’s all like ‘time stopped even though it was only a couple seconds.’” she puts her hands over her heart. “‘and the elevator dings as we go into our happily ever ever!’”

you both giggle as the elevator does ding and you step on to it.

masterlist.

summary: choi soobin has always been the popular kid surrounded by his popular friends. y/n… not so much. one night, soobin and his friends make bet that soobin can’t get y/n to date him in a month. unfortunately for y/n, they’re a hopeless romantic.

A/N: first written chapter! and so the bet begins… how did you feel about the chapter! enjoy!

taglist: @imagineyour-kpopboy @gothgyuu @carengene (if your name is bold it wouldn’t let me tag you!)

— kipo <3

[misc-obeyme]

Petite and oftentimes calm mc that can fling them across the room if upset. With the 7 brothers

(Can you do a masc mc for this? I don't mind gn either)

Hi there, anon!

Okay I wrote their reactions to being flung across the room because I find that idea sooooo funny. I definitely had masc MC in mind when I wrote it, but I think it's hard to tell since I'm still using the you/yours pronouns and such. Hopefully it turned out okay!

Anyway, I quite enjoyed writing this! Thank you for the request!

Brothers react to being flung across the room by petite masc!MC.

Warnings: Well... the bros get thrown around a little bit, but nobody gets hurt lol

Lucifer

The first time you get upset enough to throw him, he’s so surprised he almost crashes into the wall. Almost. He just barely manages to catch himself by shifting into demon form and using his wings. He certainly wasn’t expecting you to react that way and he was not expecting you to have the strength to do something like that. Completely shocked.

When he recovers, you’re going to have to deal with his hurt pride. Especially if you were around others at the time. How dare you do something like that to him, MC. Are you prepared for the consequences? Don’t back down. Point out that he’s the one who upset you. It isn’t your fault if he underestimated you.

Since you’re normally so calm, he understands that he really must have crossed a line to push you to such extremes. He assures you that he will not be making that mistake a second time. That’s about as close as you’re gonna get to an apology. Still he’s definitely going to be more careful. And he never does upset you that much again.

Now that he’s aware of what you can do despite your small stature, he takes pleasure in watching you do it to other people. Warns people ominously if it looks like they’re about to piss you off. They never take the warning though and he can't help but find it entertaining when you react accordingly.

Mammon

Definitely the first one to push you to this point. You’re always so chill, he thinks he can get away with anything. And yeah he can get away with a lot, but when he finally pushes you too far, he finds himself flying across the room.

Woah. Woah! MC! Since when have ya been so strong?! You totally took him by surprise. Once he gets over the shock, he blushes. A lot. Suddenly he can't quite look you in the eye. Turns out he kinda liked it. He's not happy that you're upset, but damn… it certainly gets him riled up.

Mammon can cause this reaction from you frequently, but he doesn't do it on purpose. He forgets about it and just goes about his usual trouble making ways. It doesn't happen often since it takes a lot to get you really upset at him, but when it does it flusters the hell out of him every time.

He gets good at dodging you, though. He's known for being a fast runner, but he only makes you chase him for a little bit. In the end, he lets you catch him. He doesn't want to make you even angrier. And he always apologizes.

Leviathan

Rarely upsets you enough to cause this reaction. Not expecting it when it happens even though he’s aware of it due to his brothers already experiencing it. He’s completely disoriented by it. What just happened? Where is he? What’s his name again??

After getting back his bearings, he switches to full on apologizing. Profusely. He's so sorry, MC! Please forgive him! Seriously, you should probably forgive him or his anxiety is gonna kick into high gear.

Actively tries not to upset you enough for it to happen again. He likes how calm you normally are, it helps him stay calm too. But since it takes quite a lot for you to get upset, he doesn’t always realize it’s happening until it’s too late.

Will always try to make it up to you somehow. Swears he will never underestimate you again. When he’s afraid of something, he’s going to hide behind you. Knows you’re strong enough to handle what he can’t. This is confusing to anyone who doesn't know you well. Is that the Admiral of Hell's Navy hiding behind some human guy? Something isn't adding up here…

Satan

Normally he's the one who loses his cool. Definitely not used to having someone upset enough with him to fling him across the room. He's going to be dazed a bit before coming back to his senses. Then his reaction could go one of two ways. Unlike him, it takes a lot for you to get upset. Knowing this might be enough for him to calm down, too. However, he might also just get angrier.

It's pretty clear to everyone at this point that you can hold your own against demons. So if Satan's anger intensifies, you're ready to meet him head on if you have to. You can be sure the other brothers are gonna try to get involved, though. This has the potential to devolve into complete and utter chaos. Your best bet is to leave and let yourself cool down.

If it goes that way, he will find you later when he's not angry anymore and apologize. He knows how he is and he's embarrassed that he let it get that far. If it doesn't escalate like that and he actually calms down after you throw him, he will apologize right then and there. You've stunned him into it.

When he has a moment to think about it, he's impressed with how strong you are. Appearances can be deceiving. You appear small and calm, but you have quite a bit of power, don't you, MC?

Asmodeus

Distraught at first. How could you do that to him, MC? What if he had broken a nail? Once he has confirmed that he still looks as fabulous as ever, he’s a little overcome by how strong you are. Gets naughty ideas because of course he does.

But he realizes that you’re upset and that's not good. He’s sorry, darling! He didn’t mean to upset you! He’s going to do whatever he can to make it up to you.

Now that he’s aware of how strong you are, though, he’s gonna come up with excuses to get you to flaunt it. Oh no, he’s hurt his ankle! Won’t you carry him to his next class? If you try to carry him on your back, he’s going to hop into your arms instead. Now you’re carrying him bridal style through the halls. He is loving every second.

He gets what it's like to be underestimated based on how you look. And he won't be able to stand it if other demons do it. He won't wait for you to get angry enough to take action, he’s just gonna take care of these lowlifes himself.

Beelzebub

If you actually manage to pick up and throw this giant, it’s going to shock everybody. Your name becomes legend because how is that even possible? He’s completely flabbergasted. It makes no sense. You’re just a little guy. How did this happen?

Beel is impressed. He’s not used to being on the receiving end of such strength. He’s usually the one carrying everybody else around. Thoroughly ashamed that he pushed you to this point though. Apologizes. Takes you out to lunch.

Teach him your ways. He wants to be able to throw people three times his size too. Not that he’s likely to encounter such a person, but you know. That’s not the point.

When nobody else is around, he might sheepishly ask you to pick him up. Likely just wants cuddles. Set him in your lap and he’ll get comfy and content. It’s just not something he’d ever expect anyone to be able to do, let alone you.

Belphegor

Startled so bad he shifts into demon form without realizing. Tail twitches as he blinks rapidly in confusion. What did he miss? Something's not right here. You’re way too small to have been the one to just launch him across the room… right?

After the surprise wears off, though, he gets it. You are calm most of the time, but Belphie is also a brat most of the time. He pushed you to your limit and it turns out you’re a lot stronger than you look.

Pretty annoyed with you at first. You really messed with him just now, you know? He might have deserved it, but still. You can’t just go around throwing people, MC. But he won’t protest for long, eventually apologizing.

Now he has two crazy strong people he can rely on. He already gets away with a lot but he sees this as an opportunity to threaten others. He’ll tell on his brothers to you in hopes he’ll get to watch them fly through the air haphazardly. He can’t help it, it’s funny when it happens to someone else.

masterlist | Thank you for reading!

[brotherblaze]

quicksand —gojo satoru + geto suguru

summary: Five months after exiling yourself from jujutsu society and fleeing Japan, Gojō and Getō finally track you down. And they’re not going to let you slip through their fingers for a second time.

word count: ~3,5k

warnings: n/a

The evening breeze is cool.

You’re sitting on the grassy area, just in front of the small strip of sand on the shore, legs outstretched in front of you, heels digging into the sand. There are cows grazing a stone’s throw away from you, fenced in and kept up by the city council. The newspaper said they’re here annually, every summer from April to late September. Waves lap at the shore.

The hair on the back of your neck rises on its ends. Familiar cursed energy wraps around you like a vice. You don’t look back to meet their eyes, instead you look at the cows. There are a few calves amongst the herd, fluffier than the fully grown cows.

Footsteps approach and a warm body stops right behind you. Warmth emits from him like he’s a furnace and his cursed energy is all too familiar, almost suffocating, and oh, the irony of forgetting how formidable a person the Gojō Satoru is.

“Get up,” he says. His voice is stern. Cold, even. What a contrast. He’s like a siren, luring you in with body heat to chill you to the bone with his words. You ignore him at first, and instead, take a long breath in, hold it for a few moments, then exhale. It does little to soothe the buzzing in your veins and stop the thoughts racing through your head. Too many to keep count of — all of them centered around them. There’s a headache blooming, too.

Slowly, you unfold your legs and stand, dusting the sand off your pants. You turn to him, keeping one foot rooted on the corner of the yellow picnic blanket to keep it from flying off with a gust of wind. You raise your eyes to Gojō, then over his shoulder to where Getō stands, just a few strides away. The bitter taste of shame crawls up your esophagus as your eyes meet for a moment and you quickly avert yours to stare at the Jujutsu High button on Gojō’s uniform. Uniform. Straight from a mission, then. But it’s hard to tell; they have an uncanny ability to evade the blows of the opponent, never looking disheveled — no, not uncanny, a testament to their prowess, of their ranks as Special Grades. The créme de la créme of the jujutsu world.

“Well?” Gojō’s head is cocked to the side ever so slightly, hands in his jacket pockets, eyes obscured by bandages. Still, the feeling of being watched overwhelms you. You level your gaze with his and attempt not to get spooked by the intensity of his gaze and yet you’re unsuccessful. He definitely notices the subtle flinch of your shoulders. So, you raise your eyes to the treeline behind both of them. He calls out your name and you ignore the instinct to look, to give him the satisfaction of yet another flinch.

“I was a danger to everyone around me. So, I ran.” Cool wind from the sea caresses the back of your neck. You grind your foot deeper into the sand as the edges of the picnic blanket curl up. “It doesn't concern you, by the way, so don’t worry your pretty little head about it.”

“It does concern us when you disappear for months!” Gojō argues, swinging his hand to the side.

“How’d you find me, anyway?”

“You took my credit card,” he says, “three, actually.”

You swear under your breath. That fucking donut shop in town, right. Great donuts, no way to pay in cash.

“So you had to run over here? I’m fine, I was fine, everything was fine. You should’ve just moved on with your lives.”

“I think we have a right to know what’s going on, no?” Getō speaks up. Your eyes meet again but this time it’s harder to look away. In fact, you can’t force yourself to avert your eyes. “We tried to do right by Amanai and we’ll extend the same courtesy to you.”

Unlike Gojō, Getō’s voice is soft. It curls around you invitingly, like it wants you to spill all the secrets you keep close to your heart.

“No,” you say. The word is so bitter in your mouth you almost want to drink down handfuls of salty ocean water to taste anything, anything other than that. You ignore the intensity of Gojō’s gaze, ignore the twinge in your body that’s pulling you back towards them but that ache somewhere deep in your bones, the one that wants you to step closer to chase the warmth of human intimacy you’ve deprived yourself of for the past five months — that crawls up your spine and you almost take a step closer. “Just… leave.”

Gojō grabs the collar of your jacket and yanks you up to face him. You hiss a ‘no’, one hand clawing at his bare wrist, toes barely scraping the ground to kick up a clump of grass and dirt. You expect not to reach him, only Infinity, yet you do, and sink your nails into his flesh. He doesn’t even flinch. This is Gojō Satoru, the very peak of everything, he doesn’t skirt around the subject and he doesn’t accept any efforts at skirting around the subject.

“What do I have to do to make you trust us—”

His right hand collides with your left, already reaching for his throat, and fire licks up the length of your forearm. The distinct sound of metal snapping under immense pressure bounces against your eardrums. The next moment, the glint of the evening sun off metal shards, and the next, a piercing pain in your left cheek. Your knees give in.

Three of your fingers are lying on the pasture grass, glowing blue liquid seeping out of each one.

He seems to realize when you do because his grip on you goes slack and your knees collide with the ground. Your vision is blurring with tears as you reach out to gather the pieces of metal that were your fingers only moments ago and stuff them into your jacket pocket because they were organic once. They can be slotted back, right? They’ll be fine, right?

You reach around yourself for the yellow picnic blanket, shake it free of the stray grains of sand, and sloppily wrap it around your left hand. The bright blue liquid begins to seep through the layers almost immediately.

When you stand, you pointedly ignore both Getō and Gojō, sidestep them both without even glancing at them, and begin the trek back to civilization down the forest trail that leads to the daycare at the edge of the woods. Their footsteps, so silent you almost miss them, follow. They don’t speak, either, as if that will make you forget about their presence and the suffocating force of their jujutsu. Your headache is now fully present and making itself known, wrapping around your brain like barbed wire.

The forest trail melts away abruptly into a stone-paved road. It runs along the perimeter of the daycare and diverges in two up ahead: on the left, the daycare itself and its adjacent indoor swimming pool, on the right, more woods and the parking lot.

You continue ignoring your shadows and climb into the passenger seat of your car. Something vaguely human-shaped is sitting in the driver’s seat, its body littered with eyes. It just stares at you as you pull the car door closed.

YOUR DIVINE MAJESTY…

“What now?” You pinch the bridge of your nose and squeeze your eyes shut to clear your vision.

APOLOGIES FOR MY INTRUSION, BUT WOULD IT NOT BE BEST TO HAVE THEM ON HAND? It tightens its grip on the steering wheel for a moment as if it's forming a nervous habit. Maybe. You’re not sure if they can even feel human emotions.

You glance at the side mirror. They’re still standing there, a few feet from the car. They don’t have any intention to move, either, you think.

THEIR DIVINE MAJESTY NEED NOT WASTE TIME OR ENERGY ON COOKING AND CLEANING. THEY CAN FOCUS ON REVERSING THE BARRIER.

“What barrie—”

You bury your face into your free hand with a loud swear. The headache pulses behind your eyes and your vision blurs with tears. Fuck. You push the car door open and slide out—

“You!” A few long strides are all it takes to reach Gojō and you rear your fist back for a swing at his blurry face. Something catches it and you yank yourself out of Getō’s hold, yank yourself away from both of them, and take two steps back. Gravel crunches under your feet. “I told you to leave, but no, you’re Gojō Satoru and you know better than everyone, right?”

“How is any of this my fault?”

“I asked you to leave! If you’d just left, we could’ve all left and gone our separate ways but no, of course not!” You turn on your heel and stomp back to the car, pulling the back door open. “Shut up and get in the car.”

You don’t wait for their answer and climb into the front seat.

They’re willing to hear you out, you’ll give them that. The curse in the driver’s seat growls from its throat when Gojō and Getō sit and buckle in.

“I need a driver, not a dog,” you remind it. It spits a swear under its breath and puts the car into drive. It jostles as it drives over the speedbump at the entrance of the parking lot and you lay your left hand onto your knee.

Blue bleeds through the picnic blanket and stains your pants and fuck, does this mystery liquid even come out of clothes? Can you even throw it into the washing machine or will it carry the disease onto the washing machine? You groan, imagining a washing machine with a sonic cannon mounted on it. What if this thing is corrosive instead, and by the time you arrive home to wash it out, it’s eaten through both fabric and skin, maybe even muscle, or bone? Will it spread there, too? It shouldn’t, it should be non-viral by now, but maybe its virality only applies if it’s hopping host organisms and won’t spread in its’ first host even if it is viral. And fuck if you have to quarantine yourself in Limbo again—

“Hey.”

A hand lands on the junction between your shoulder and neck, digging into it with just enough force to feel relaxing. Getō presses down on the muscle knot and you place your free hand in front of your mouth to stifle the groan that wants to escape. You lean your head to the left, temple resting against the seat headrest to give Getō’s hand more room to work. Human contact is one hell of a drug.

“You’re panicking.”

You make a noncommittal sound in the back of your throat.

“Breathe.”

“We’re trapped here.” The hand that’s moved on to pull the knot out of your shoulder abruptly stops its administrations. “I read the Book of the Damned, I set a boundary spell. It triggered when you grabbed me.” You turn your head slightly to find Gojō in the corner of your eye. “And I have no idea how to undo it.”

“How’d you put it up?” Gojō asks. His voice is even, but it’s missing the edge it had earlier. More than anything, he sounds tired. You shake your head slowly.

“I don’t remember.”

“That’s dumb.”

“Satoru,” Getō says.

“What does the barrier do?” Gojō ignores Getō’s warning and leans forward in his seat. He’s fully in your field of vision now, all-encompassing. There’s something about him that draws the eye.

“Loser dies, winner gets out.” You shrug your shoulders. “I panicked and the Book gave me a spell; ‘s how it works.”

“Stop reading that cursed thing,” Gojō says, falling back into his seat, arms crossed over his chest. You blink once, twice, then turn straight in your seat, too, and pull away from Getō’s warm hand.

The rest of the drive is silent. Street lights are flickering on the farther you drive. Stores are long closed by now, neon, and lit brand signs hanging on the front of the passing buildings. Dusk paints the sky in a soft lavender. June is nice here.

Eventually, the curse behind the wheel parks the car in the half-finished garage adjacent to a small blue house. Silence lingers in the car as it’s shut off, and the key is deposited in your open palm. The drenched rag that was once a yellow picnic blanket squelches in your lap as you adjust your hand and fire licks up your left arm. You stifle the sound of pain that wants to escape, and turn to the curse. It stares at you with the array of eyes littered throughout its entire body.

“Get lost.”

The figure blinks at you with its many eyes and then slowly, like a sandcastle destroyed by the waves, it melts away.

You climb out of the car, digging into your jacket pocket for the house key and spare a moment to curse under your breath. If the barrier really is impenetrable, you’re all stuck here. They will probably refuse a hotel or whatever to keep an eye on you. That means two more copies of the key, more food, more cooking and cleaning, and more reasons for your shitty neighbors to spy on you. All that on top of trying to piece your fingers back onto your hand — a very, very not human hand — maybe you’ll get lucky and your body will reject the repairs and kill you of lead poisoning or something. You stare at the now-dripping ball of fabric. Is there even lead in this?

Pain twinges again when you forget and try to grab the handle with that hand. You pull away with a hiss but the door cracks open nonetheless and you finish the job with the nudge of your foot. They’re so close you can feel the heat of their breaths on the back of your neck and you hurry inside, teeth gritting together to keep yourself from making a stupid comment that will earn you their hovering for the rest of eternity. The door creaks when Gojō pulls it shut behind him and you wince at the sound. You toe your sneakers off and wander into the house. The flowers strung along every interior wall of the house bloom when you approach. They cast just the right amount of illumination without melting your brain into soup.

Gojō and Getō are still lingering in the open hallway, taking in the interior of the house. It’s more spacious than it looks on the outside. There are two doors to their right, one up ahead, right next to the brick oven, and an open kitchen and a living room to their left. The glass coffee table you seat yourself behind is well within their line of sight.

The fingers clink when they hit the glass table. You slowly unwrap the blue-soaked picnic blanket and place it on the farthest end of the coffee table. It leaves a dribble of blue liquid on the glass.

There is movement in the corner of your eye. You ignore it to stare dumbly at the fingers. You place your metal hand on the glass and attempt to align the fingers to their respective stumps. The movement sloshes the blue dribble around and smears it along the glass surface. Can glass be corroded? It would be a pain in the ass to have another glass table delivered.

Getō gathers your hair and ties it back. You fight to keep a sigh from leaving your lips and instead, swallow around the lump in your throat. His touch is soft and doesn’t tug on any strands and you tilt your face down the moment he’s done, ignoring the lurch in your heart when his warm hands leave your skin. A few strands of hair fall in front of your eyes and you huff. The hair dangles back and forth as if it’s mocking you and you narrow your eyes at it.

“You got a headband somewhere?”

“Shelf next to the bathroom sink.” You jerk your chin forward. “Straight across from the front door.”

You watch him until he disappears behind the brick oven and turn back to the table. Your heart shoots into your throat when Gojō’s face appears in front of yours and you realize he’s crouched down on the other side of the table. He moves quietly, you remind yourself. Be aware of your surroundings, you remind yourself.

Gojō picks up one of the fingers lined up on the glass and slowly turns it between his own. He doesn’t say anything for a long time, his attention solely on the metal digit in his hand.

There are hands on your head and you jump again. Getō makes a soothing hush as he fits the headband over your head and then pulls it up over your bangs. He brushes a few stray baby hairs back with his fingers but they spring up again almost immediately.

“Thanks,” you say stiffly and reach to pluck your finger from Gojō.

“What happened?” He asks and you glance up at him just as he’s pulling the bandages over his head. His hair falls down over his eyes. Beautiful eyes — terrifying eyes. You think you might get lost in the depth behind them if you don’t look away immediately. So, you do, and clear your throat.

“Some piece of shit curse user infected me with some sort of transmutation virus; anything organic becomes animate technology.” You wipe away more of the pooling blue liquid, and line the fingers up again. It seems off somehow. You swap the middle and ring fingers. Still off; it’s hard to tell which finger belongs where and you grit your teeth together and swallow the taste of tears in your mouth.

Gojō leans in and carefully swaps the pointer and ring finger. You want to argue, tell him that you know your own body better than he does but this thing buried into your flesh is new and confusing. Inhuman. Maybe his Six Eyes allows him more knowledge than you will ever have.

In the corner of your eye, Getō moves to the space between you and Gojō, and sits down on the rug, too.

This might be the most people this house has seen since you moved in. Something about it feels right, something about it tears a gaping hole into your heart.

The headache pulses behind your eyes again and you squeeze them shut. When you open them, the world is swimming again. You force down the discomfort of Gojō and Getō’s silhouettes fraying at the edges and return your attention to your hand. Where there once was muscle, hidden by layers and layers of blood vessels and skin, there is a layer of softly illuminated cables hidden under a layer of thin metal with grooves and dents that adjusts itself as you move your arm. You take a breath in and wait for your vision to focus again before you pick up a finger and press it against its corresponding stump.

The cables underneath the metal plating mold together with a low hiss. blue liquid dribbles onto the glass tabletop. You repeat the action once, then once more.

Slowly, you crook one finger, then the other, and the third one. It’s not quite the same as your still-human hand, but it’s a feeling of sorts. It even emits warmth. The luminescent cables bend under the movement.

Gojō lets his impulsive thoughts win and reaches out to press a finger against the soft tissue with his finger.

“Do you go around shoving your dick into people’s gunshot wounds, too?” You slap his hand softly and he pulls back.

“How far does it reach?” Getō asks. You purse your lips and shrug your jacket off, and fold it onto your lap. The metal runs all the way up to about mid-bicep, where it burrows under the scarred skin.

Getō’s hand jerks on his thigh, as if he wants to reach out to you. Instead, he balls his hand into a fist around the fabric of his pants until his knuckles turn white. You don’t want to look up to face him, so you pointedly ignore his eyes as you shimmy closer and raise your arm towards him. There’s a moment of hesitation from his end before his fingers uncurl and ghost over your skin. His touch is gentle, like he’s terrified you’ll shatter if he exerts the smallest amount of pressure.

“Did it hurt?” He asks, the pad of his thumb smoothing over the scar tissue.

“Worse than the sorcerer killer.”

His fingers trace the metal plates of your arm, over the exposed cables in the crook of your elbow, all the way down to your hand and the newly re-attached fingers.

“Satoru, have you seen anything like this before?”

Gojō leans in and takes your left hand in his. He turns it one way and then the other, silent all the while. You glance at Getō who shrugs his shoulder minutely.

“Never,” Gojō says finally. He turns your palm to face him and laces his fingers between yours. He gives your hand a squeeze. “But we’ll figure it out. I promise.”

part two.

[captainnameless]

I humbly ask for Nando babysitting cheeky little Lando 🙏 cuz every Nando and Lando crumb I see is honestly too cute

no because i can see it!!! Nando claims he’s too old to be “doing the babysitting” *gestures vaguely*

but Daniel’s at his wits end, Lando will not fall asleep, it’s a Sunday night post race which means they’re both knackered. Lando however, has decided he wants Carlos. Carlos who had to fly out the same night because of commitments and has no cell service on the plane.

so Lando’s been crying, wailing really. desperately clutching onto Daniel with “want Papa!”, overly tired but not giving in.

Daniel doesn’t know what to do really, Lando’s finally quieted down a little, but he’s blinking big red rimmed eyes at Daniel that don’t look like they’re gonna shut any time soon.

Lando’s voice is rough from crying, and so Daniel tries room service for some tea, only to find out they don’t have 24 hour room service, Daniel’s almost desperate enough to use the “do you know who the fuck I am?” card; considering the price they’re paying per night and how badly he needs Lando to fall asleep, but hoists both him and Lando out of bed after being told there’s a self service floor that has a coffee machine that serves boiling water too.

he holds Lando’s hand in hopes of preventing a tantrum when they step into the hallway, Daniel praying no one else is awake at this ungodly hour.

to his surprise, they almost bump into Fernando when the round the corner who gives them a just as a surprised look.

“You’re up?”

Daniel sighs, pulling Lando into his side when he can hear the sniffles start up again. “We’re having a bit of trouble falling asleep, huh Bub?”

Daniel can see Fernando melt a little at the sight of Lando, soft despite the tough reputation.

“Niñito.” Fernando coos. “It’s late, little boys should be asleep.”

Lando simply whines, tears gathering in his eyes again. “Papa.”

Fernando looks up at Daniel, who mouths “Carlos” to him and he nods knowingly.

“Entiendo.” Fernando says and then reaches out for Lando, who, to Daniel’s surprise, goes willingly.

Fernando wraps Lando’s up against his chest and Lando melts into the touch so much he even brings his legs up.

Fernando hoists him up with little effort, Daniel’s not surprised. He’s seen Fernando’s workout routine and has definitely never won an arm wrestling match.

Fernando start humming something in Spanish then, speaking words Daniel does not understand and gently swaying Lando from side to side.

He sings no longer than 5 minutes and so when Fernando turns to Daniel and asks “Is he out?” while turning around fully so Daniel gets a look at Lando’s face mushed against Fernando’s shoulder he’s ready to be met with wide open eyes. But Lando’s out. Out cold even, mouth slightly open and drooling onto Fernando’s shirt.

“What the fuck.” Daniel says, loudly. Then clasps a hand over his mouth, terrified he’ll wake Lando again.

Fernando laughs, turns back to face Daniel. “Figured that would work.”

“What did you do? Did you hex him?”

Fernando laughs again. “It’s a lullaby, a classic really. I figured Carlos might sign it to him, lucky guess.”

Daniel slumps against the wall, rubbing his hands over his face. “Congratulations.” Daniel says. “You’ve just been upgraded.”

[thewintersoldierdisaster]

a/n: hiiii miss me? sorry about the lack of posting but june was a batshit crazy month for me and i’ve been dealing with a bit of writer’s block. i hate this title but 🤷🏼‍♀️ @making-it-big had prompted a fic where andrei was facetiming the kids while he’s away and this is what came of that idea! hope you guys enjoy 🥰

word count: 3k

tw: none! this is just some soft family cuteness

summary: while he’s on the road, andrei never misses a facetime call with you and the kids

The one thing you never forget though, is the nightly FaceTime with Andrei when he’s on the road. Every single road game is different when it comes to the call - sometimes they’re late at night and shorter, other times he’ll have time to talk for a while before they leave for the airport. It doesn’t matter where Andrei is, he FaceTimes you and the kids every day.

Tonight, the team’s in Columbus, after flying in from Detroit earlier in the afternoon. They have the night off before their game tomorrow. You only know the schedule because you have it all written out meticulously on the giant calendar in the kitchen. You had made fun of the calendar when some of the other older and more experienced WAGs had told you about it, but now it’s your saving grace. Otherwise you’d have basically no idea where in North America your husband is unless he’s next to you.

The kids are buzzing, excited to talk to Andrei and update him on the past few days. Evie and Alina jostle for their favored positions on the couch, eventually deciding that Alina gets to be wedged against the arm and Evie gets the other 2/3 of the couch cushion. You’re not sure how that ended up being the deal, but you’re not about to get involved in the careful negotiations between sisters. Kira, the ever unbothered middle child, wanders in and out of the den, various toys and snacks coming and going with her. “Hey,” you call out to her, stopping the five-year-old in her tracks. She looks up at you with wide eyes. “That’s the last Oreo,” you point at her, raising an eyebrow and crossing your index finger over your heart, your code with the kids that you’re serious and that they better promise to listen.

Kira blinks innocently at you and chirps, “yes, mommy!” in a tone that has you getting up from your squatted position at the coffee table and moving into the kitchen to take the family-sized pack of Oreos from a lower cabinet and moving it to a cabinet above the fridge. Kira pouts at you, clutching her remaining snacks in her hands.

“Remember when your tummy hurt because you ate too much cake at D’s birthday party and you puked on Daddy’s lap?” You ask, adjusting Maks in the carrier attached to your chest. The three-month-old yawns and presses his cheek to your chest, little eyelids fluttering shut.

“Oh,” Kira pulls a face, looking just like Andrei, “I didn’t like that. Puking was gross.”

You point at her, grinning, “too many Oreos before bed will make your tummy hurt and you might puke again.”

She looks scared, her eyes opening wide, and you almost feel bad for her. But then she looks down at the two Oreos clutched in her hands and shoves them both in her mouth, spewing crumbs as she shouts, “I don’t wanna puke, Mommy!” while running back into the den and around the dining room table.

“Your sister is such a little weirdo,” you murmur affectionately to Maks. The baby burrows his face close to your chest and you check the time over the stove - 6:43 - which means he’ll be up for a feed soon enough. Hopefully he’ll be awake while Andrei’s still on the call. Turning back to the den, you start to say, “girls, let’s give Daddy —“ stopping short when none of your children are in sight. Evie and Alina are gone from the couch and Kira isn’t in the room, although you can hear her singing to herself from behind a few walls. If you had to guess, she’s doing princess twirls in front of the full length mirror in the foyer.

You shake your head and mutter, “where the hell did they all go?”

Dimitri toddles into the room, blocks clutched in his chubby little baby hands. “Mama!” He shouts, holding the blocks up. “Yook!” You grin at his little speech impediment - he can’t say his Ls yet and they all sound like Ys. “Bocks”

“That’s right, buddy, blocks! Were you building something?” You take the blocks he offers you, holding the pair of them in one hand and taking his hand in your free one, leading him over to the couch so you can hopefully get this FaceTime call started.

“Bi’ding for mama,” he says proudly and you press a kiss to the top of his head, inhaling the scent of baby shampoo.

“Mama loves your building, but how about we call Papa?” You pitch your voice higher, infusing excessive excitement into your tone. Dimitri giggles and claps his hands.

“Papa! Papa!” He chants and while he’s distracted you reach over and tap at the screen of the iPad, swiping Andrei’s contact information and bringing up the FaceTime screen. Dimitri fidgets on the couch for the entire thirty seconds it takes for Andrei to answer, but once he sees Andrei’s face fill the screen, Dimitri shouts, “Papa!” and his face splits into a huge grin.

Andrei’s face is wearing a matching grin and he shouts back, “Dimka! How’s Papa’s big boy?”

You lean against the back of the couch while Dimitri babbles to Andrei, watching as your husband’s entire face lights up while they chat. Dimitri is Andrei’s little clone, if the baby pictures Elena sends are any indication, and when their faces are side by side like this, you can totally see it. Every so often, Andrei’s gaze slips over to look at you and he smiles, winking. You return the expression, one hand resting over Maks’s back. Dimitri could chatter about anything and everything, using his limited toddler vocabulary, and you shout up the stairs for the girls, still wondering where the older two went. Maks continues to sleep soundly, even after you’ve shouted for them twice - the fifth kid really learns to sleep anywhere and under any conditions.

“Coming!” Evie shouts back and then there she and Alina are, traipsing down the stairs in too long sweaters that you recognize from Andrei’s closet. They’re holding the hems of the sweaters in their hands like they’re princesses wearing ball gowns and it’s adorable. Both girls are tall for their age - the Svechnikov genes at work - but even still the sweaters hang to their ankles when they release the knit.

“What are you two doing?” You ask, pulling Alina back by her shoulder so you can twist her long hair up into a bun on top of her head. The seven-year-old is always wandering around with her hair in her face and you hate it, always worried she’s going to fall down the stairs because she can’t see anything.

Alina struggles under your hands, trying to get away from the bun, but you’re faster than she is and tie it off quickly before she runs off to the den, throwing herself onto the couch and interrupting Dimitri so she can start telling Andrei all about her day.

You turn to Evie and she looks a little shifty, but also extremely pleased with herself while she twists her fingers in the sleeves of Andrei’s sweater. “We just wanted Dad to know, like, because he wears the bracelets me and Al and Kira made for him when he plays in other places so we know that he misses us. We wanted to wear his sweaters when he calls so he knows we miss him,” she explains in a rambling, breathless monologue that has your tearing up with the sweetness of her gesture.

“How did we get so lucky with you?” You murmur, cupping her chin and kissing the top of her head. “Sweet as iced tea.”

She beams, happy with your praise, and runs off to join her brother and sister. You can hear her interrupt Alina’s story, talking over her sister to tell Andrei that she picked the sweaters special because she’s the oldest. Kira appears from somewhere, a juice box in her hand, and you shake your head. The four kids are piled on the couch, all talking over each other and not letting Andrei get a word in edgewise. From your spot behind the couch, you have a full view of his face and the completely adoring expression on his face. He’s smiling and laughing, trying to pay attention to all four of them at once and making it look easy.

Maks fusses against your chest and you look at the time, nearly 7:30, so while the kids are distracted and with Maks still strapped to your chest, you adjust so your breast is out and Maks can eat, wincing a little when he struggles for a second before latching on. The general chaos coming from the couch starts to cool off and one by one, the kids run out of things to say, starting to peel away from the screen. Kira disappears, as is her M.O. as the middle child, and Alina wiggles to the floor to start doing somersaults.

Dimitri is flat on his back on the couch, kicking his feet in the air, dangerously close to Evie’s head while she recounts the play date she had the day before. “And Mom said we get to watch the game tomorrow at Auntie Nykki’s so we get to see Gigi and are you suuuuure we can’t get a dog?” she finishes, deploying giant puppy dog eyes.

“I’m sure,” Andrei laughs, shaking his head. “It’s not fair to Mama, to have to take care of a dog and you crazy little goblins.”

“Buuuut….” Evie winds up to start begging, but you cut in.

“Eve, we talked about this. No puppy until you’re older, now time to say goodnight to Dad and head off to bed,” you ruffle her hair a little, bracing your hand against the back of Maks’s head when you lean forward a bit.

Andrei jumps in before Evie can protest, “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay zaychik? Spokoynoy nochi.”

“Spokoynoy nochi,” Evie replies, blowing kisses through the screen. Alina and Kira appear for virtual goodnight kisses too and you hoist Dimitri onto your hip and give Andrei the “one-minute” gesture while you usher the girls upstairs and get their teeth brushed and tucked into bed.

With Dimitri still clinging to you like a koala and Maks fast asleep in a milk coma, you finally return to the den and drop down onto the couch. “Hi,” you grin at Andrei. Dimitri rests his head on your thigh and runs a toy car over the cushion, clearly fading but reluctant to sleep. He’ll be out in a few minutes and you’ll transition him to his bed.

“Hi,” Andrei grins back. “Miss you.”

“Miss you too,” you card your fingers through Dimitri’s fine blond hair. “They were on something different tonight. And just so you know, both girls are sleeping in your sweaters.”

He shifts from sitting on the hotel bed to lying back against the pillows, tucking one hand behind his head and hiding the colourful braided and beaded bracelets that Evie, Alina, and Kira had made him. A soft smile makes his dimple pop. “We got lucky with them,” he says.

“We did,” you adjust Maks in the carrier, pulling aside the fabric covering the back of his head so Andrei can see him a little better. You’re getting warm having sixteen pounds of baby strapped so close to your chest. “How’s Columbus?”

“Boring,” he snorts a laugh. His smile turns a little sly. “What are you wearing?”

You laugh a little, until a new and familiar voice chimes in. “Oh fuck no,” Martin Necas yelps. “You’ve got five fucking kids, don’t tell me that you’re still chatting her up like a twenty-something idiot.”

Marty’s been your husband’s roommate on the road for years now, but you didn’t realize that he’d been around while the kids were talking to Andrei.

On-screen, Andrei smirks, a cocky expression taking over his face, “how do you think we got five kids? The stork?”

A towel flies into view from off-screen, whacking Andrei in the face while he laughs. You giggle at their antics and Neci comes into view, poking his head in front of Andrei’s phone. “Don’t let him talk to you like that, you’ve got all the power. He’s fucking whipped,” he teases, ruffling his hand through damp hair.

“Don’t worry,” you grin. “I’ve got babies attached to my hip and spit up all over my shirt. No chance he finds this attractive.”

Andrei’s expression turns hungry and he scrubs a hand over his bearded chin, the rasp of his fingers over the hair sending a shiver down your spine. “Neci, cover your ears, I want to say something adult to my wife,” Andrei teases. “It’s not for the ears of children.”

“Fuck you,” Marty whips a pillow from his bed at Andrei. It lands with a hollow noise on Andrei’s stomach and he exhales heavily. “One, I’m older than you and two, your literal children are right there. You’re gonna be disgusting in front of them?”

You smother a laugh with your hand. “Dimitri is passed out,” you say, angling the iPad down so they can see the conked out toddler spread out starfish style on the couch, toy car held loosely in one hand. “And Maks is definitely out.” You show them the infant, his little rosebud mouth gaping open and his eyelids twitching as he dreams. “So you’re good to say whatever you want.”

“No, do not encourage him,” Marty groans. “I have to share a room with him.”

Andrei tosses the pillow back, but Marty was expecting it and catches the pillow in mid-air. “You know, I’m the Captain. I don’t have to share a room,” Andrei says.

“You’d miss me too much,” Marty grins, waggling his eyebrows. “If you two are going to be disgusting, I’m leaving.”

“Good, leave,” Andrei deadpans.

You click your tongue, “be nice! What kind of leadership are you displaying?”

“Yeah, listen to your wife,” Marty teases, getting out of bed and shoving his feet into a pair of slides. “I’m telling Roddy that you’re a shitty Captain.”

He shoves at Andrei’s shoulder on his way out, waving to you. The door clicks shut behind him and you shake your head at Andrei, “you two are terrible.”

Andrei waves a hand in the air, grinning. “Neci’s dealt with worse from me on the road. I ever tell you about the food poisoning incident?”

“No,” you wince, “and I don’t want to know.” You yawn and apologize. “Sorry, baby. I’m exhausted.”

“I’m sorry I’m not there,” he replies, rubbing at his chin again. He pauses and you’re both quiet for a bit, just soaking up the other’s presence. Dimitri’s hand goes completely slack and he drops the toy car to the floor. You kick it slightly under the coffee table so you don’t step on it later. Andrei coughs a little, “it’s only been a couple days, but it feels like they’re different. Bigger.”

“The only one that really grew this week is this guy,” you pat Maks’s diapered bottom. “Gained another pound from his last checkup.”

Andrei grins. He sits up and pushes his hair off his forehead, leaning closer to the screen. “That’s my boy,” he chuckles. “How big is he now?”

“Sixteen pounds,” you laugh, shifting him against your chest. “He’s in the eightieth percentile for his age, Drei.”

“Big boy,” Andrei replies.

“Takes after his Daddy,” you blow him a kiss, yawning again. “I know it’s not even nine, but I really need to sleep for a bit before tiny Hulk wakes up for his next feeding.”

Andrei nods. “I know, I’m sorry I kept you up. I miss you.”

“I miss you too,” you tuck Maks back into the carrier so you can bring boy boys upstairs easier. “But you’ll be home in two days and then I’m happily passing off parenting duties to you.”

“I can’t wait, solnyshka,” Andrei says seriously, eyes twinkling at the prospect of being back home. “And once I handle parenting, I have a few things I’d like to do with you.”

You laugh, “those adult things that you kicked Marty out of the room to say?”

Andrei hums and affirmative. “I never even got to say them.” His lower lip pokes out in a pout, a childish expression in direct contrast with his beard and blown pupils.

“I’ll use my imagination,” you assure him. “I love you.”

“Love you,” he puckers his lips at you in a kiss and you tap the screen, ending the call. You skimp back against the couch for a minute, resting, before you get to your feet and lift Dimitri’s toddler dead weight into your arms to bring him up to bed. Once you’ve checked and reassured yourself that all five kids are asleep and tucked in bed, you finally crawl into your own bed and pass out for a bit before getting up to feed Maks. You’re so ready for Andrei to come home.

When he does come home, two days later, he bounds through the front door full of energy, swinging you into a kiss that makes you laugh and swooping the two closest children - Kira and Dimitri - up into his arms. They squeal with excitement that Daddy is home. The older two girls are at school and Andrei insists on being the one to pick them up, buckling Kira and Dimitri into their car seats and taking the fully loaded Navigator to the school.

He has the windows rolled down and the three of them wave at you while he backs down the driveway. Andrei at the wheel of the Navigator with all the children in tow is a much different picture than Andrei behind the wheel of his string of ugly coloured Lamborghinis.

His grin though, that full, missing-toothed, dimpled smile? That grin is the same on your thirty-six year old husband as it was on the twenty-one year old golden retriever of a boy you fell in love with.