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landologged · 3 days ago

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Track Limits | Part 1

Pairing: ex!lando x f1driver!reader (ft. love triangle w/ max)

Genre: love triangle, exes to lovers, slow burn, enemies to lovers, angst, emotional???, HORNY AFFFFF, F1, reader is the first female F1 driver in 50 years, toxic dynamics, betrayal, power shift, revenge sex, we’re fucking everyone

wc: roughly 23k

Description: You’re Formula 1’s reigning world champion—the first woman to ever do it. But the start of this season is all about what you’ve already lost. Lando left. Two years in the gutter without even an apology.

You don’t owe him a smile, let alone a glance—but when he follows you into the hallway and you let him touch you, everything breaks.

Notes: my main blog is for p bueckers @bueckets

Max doesn’t lean against the wall—he never has. It’s not in him. He stands like someone waiting for the lights to go out, back straight, arms loose at his sides, fingers twitching in his pockets like they’re used to gripping a steering wheel. He’s outside because he said he needed air, but the air in Monaco doesn’t come without strings. It tastes like spent champagne and new money, clings sweet and artificial at the back of your throat. Perfume and engine grease and too many accents pretending they don’t know who he is. He ignores the ambient glamour the way most people ignore hunger—until they can’t.

He’s waiting for you, of course he is. Every minute you’re late coils tighter in his chest. Not that he’s worried. He’s not the worried type. But there’s a knot forming just under his sternum, a tension he hasn’t shaken since the end of the season. Since you vanished.

He glances at his phone. One notification. It’s nothing. He locks the screen before it fully lights up. Tucks it away. Stares out at the glittering coastline like it owes him something.

And then—there. The white Porsche, turning the corner like a ghost re-entering its own funeral. White, pristine, arrogant in the way vintage things are—refusing to blend in. The headlights sweep across the valet station, the kind of entrance that gets registered even if it’s not announced. Max doesn’t react at first. Not outwardly. Just a subtle shift—his spine pulling taut, his weight redistributing slightly off his right leg, a flick of his fingers inside his pocket like he’s calibrating himself in real time.

He straightens a little. Not enough to make it obvious. Just enough to realign something invisible. The night exhales. The street bends. Max tells himself not to look eager. Not to stare. Not to overreact. But when the door lifts and you step out, all quiet grace and exposed skin and don’t-fuck-with-me heels, something in his throat tightens anyway.

You look– fuck– you look like sin. Like heartbreak rebuilt into something knife-sharp and exquisite. Like the kind of woman people name storms after. Your dress is white, but not innocent. Not even close. It clings at the waist, parts at the thigh, flows in soft spirals behind you like smoke from a gun that’s just been fired. The kind of gown that moves like it’s tired of being polite. The fabric kisses your calves with every step, ripples over your hips like it’s worshipping them. Your back is bare. Your shoulders glint under the light like they’ve never carried pain.

Max doesn’t do poetry. Doesn’t do adjectives. But fucking he’ll. You finally look like yourself. The you that hasn’t existed in months. Or maybe someone new—someone forged sharp in the fire of that off-season silence. A different kind of fast. A different kind of dangerous. The kind of dangerous that makes his teeth ache. The kind that hums beneath the skin, coils in his gut, and settles low—an ache he won’t name, but can’t ignore.

You see him immediately. You don’t slow down. You don’t smile like you used to. You give him that look—neutral on the surface, but full of teeth underneath. Like you’re waiting to see how he’ll handle it. If he’ll flinch.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches. Watches as you hand the keys to the valet—smooth, practiced, fingers brushing just enough to make the kid blush. Watches as you respond to his French without hesitation, with that soft warmth you reserve for strangers who haven’t betrayed you yet. Watches as you smile—not the full one, not the one with teeth and tongue and trouble—just the corner, the polite echo of it. The one that says I’m fine when you aren’t. Your voice, low and graceful, drapes itself around merci like silk falling from a shoulder.

Your dress breathes around you like it knows the air here doesn’t belong to anyone but you. And then you walk toward him. Each step measured, heel to stone, click to silence. The wind barely dares to touch your hair. You don’t rush. You don’t need to. You walk like you’ve got nowhere to be and everyone to impress anyway.

Max swallows something stupid. Something like regret. Something like awe. And somehow, you’re still not close enough. He doesn’t step toward you. Not even a little.

He holds his ground like he’s used to doing on track—tight grip, quiet posture, too still. You’re maybe three feet away now, close enough for him to catch the tail end of your perfume, something sharp and floral and completely intentional, the kind of scent that lives in the collar of someone's memory long after the body’s gone.

Max doesn’t blink. He catalogues everything the way only someone like him can. How your eyes flicker—not uncertain, not shy, but observant, scanning him like telemetry. How your hair’s styled not for effort but for effect. Soft waves, pinned just enough to look sculpted. How your skin glows like it’s been sleeping under better stars. And how your lips—barely glossed—still manage to look like trouble.

You stop two feet from him. Let the silence stretch. There’s a smirk playing at your mouth, not quite earned, not quite performative. The kind you wear when you’ve already decided how this is going to go, and you’re just waiting to see if he keeps up.

“You’re late,” he says, finally, and his voice is low and familiar and unsympathetic in that particularly Dutch way. No hello. No you look good. Just a casual accusation, flat on the surface, but already unraveling around the edges.

Your head tilts slightly. One brow rises. “I know,” you answer. There’s a pause. Brief. Charged.

You look at him fully now. Hold his gaze without flinching. You’re not here for comfort. You’re here for optics. For necessity. For Red Bull. But maybe, just maybe, you’re also here to remind the room that you still exist in every language they tried to write you out of. Max exhales through his nose. Like a laugh trying not to be born.

“I told them I wasn’t going in without you,” he mutters, as if it’s nothing. As if it doesn’t mean something.

You hum. That same infuriating, delicate little sound you used to make when he said something half-serious. Not mocking. Not kind. Just acknowledging it without letting it land. He watches your eyes flick past him, toward the entrance, and for a moment—just a flash—he thinks you might be reconsidering. Might turn around. Might vanish again like a dream punished for getting too close to real.

But then you sigh. Barely. The kind of sigh that means fine. And Max– still Max, opens the door. You don’t say thank you. You just walk past him—skin brushing the edge of his jacket, the silk of your dress rustling against the doorway—and step into the room like it’s the only place you’ve ever belonged.

His hand comes to the small of your back. Light. Barely there. But it is there. And to him, that’s all anyone needs to see.

The air inside is thicker than it should be. Low light spills down from the custom glass fixtures like honey—too warm, too intimate for a place that charges this much to breathe. The room hums with quiet conversation and the occasional clink of cutlery, but under it all, there's that undercurrent Max knows too well: tension, curated and caged. Everyone pretending not to see, not to look, not to notice you stepping into the room on Max’s arm like a reentry wound. Monaco’s elite pretending they haven’t spent the past three months whispering your name like it was cursed.

You keep your head down.

Not a flinch. Not weakness. Just focus. Max can feel the way your posture locks in, muscles pulled tight under that silk-and-steel exterior. The dress moves like it’s made of breath and water, but your spine stays straight. Your chin tilted just slightly down, like you’re giving yourself a second to survive it. Max’s hand is still at the small of your back. He doesn’t move it.

He can’t. He’s not entirely sure if it’s to guide you or to ground himself. And then he sees them.

Lando. Charles. Oscar. Carlos. Their girlfriends. Their drinks. Their eyes.

And for the first time all night, Max falters. Just a flicker. A break in the rhythm. Because Lando looks fucking stunned. Not just shocked, not just caught off guard—but actually, genuinely out of his depth. The kind of look Max has seen on rookie drivers during their first wet quali in Spa. He recovers quickly, of course. He always does. Leans back a little. Wraps his arm tighter around Magiu like he’s marking territory he doesn’t even like the taste of.

Max meets his eyes. It’s brief. Sharp. Heavy. And in that second, there’s a history of fuck-ups and fallout crammed into one glance. You fucking idiot, Max thinks, louder than necessary. Louder than smart. You had her, and you—

He doesn’t let the rest form. Because it’s not his place. Not really. Even if he was the one you called, finally, two weeks after the season ended, voice cracked open like old paint, saying nothing but Are you home?

Even if he was the one who picked up after thirty seconds of pacing because of course he was. Even if Lando dumped you like you were an expired sponsorship deal and walked straight into some glorified influencer’s glittered lap like it wouldn’t follow him. Even if Max felt that lump in his throat grow roots.

He doesn’t let himself think about why. He’s spent a month not thinking about it. Not thinking about the way his chest tightened when he saw your name light up his phone. Not thinking about the way you sounded when you exhaled into the receiver like you hadn’t done that properly in weeks. Not thinking about how he didn’t ask any questions—just left the door unlocked and cleared the guest room and made tea he knew you wouldn’t drink.

Now you’re here, next to him, and it’s real in a way it hasn’t been yet. His hand against your back, warm from your skin, feels too personal. Too right. You tilt your head just barely toward him and mutter under your breath, voice soft and close enough to touch:

“Ik kan niet naar ze kijken.”

I can’t look at them.

Max’s jaw flexes. His hand steadies on your back, thumb brushing the edge of your spine. Just once. Barely noticeable. But it’s a decision. It’s a promise.

“Ik weet het,” he murmurs. “Ik heb je.”

I know. I’ve got you.

And he does. Whatever tonight is—whatever it means—he’s not letting you walk through it alone. He’s never cared much for ceremony. But right now, with your warmth soaking into his palm and your breath catching just enough to betray your calm—right now, it feels a lot like something.

You step through the private door like it’s nothing. Like you didn’t just inhale Max’s voice in your mother tongue like a sedative. Like the tension in your shoulders isn’t three months old and fossilized. Like you aren’t acutely aware of the fact that Lando Norris is sitting in the next room, wrapped in someone else’s perfume, laughing into someone else’s throat.

You’re not here for that. You’re here for business. The room is softly lit, quiet, thick with money and influence. Long table. Frosted glass walls. A muted kind of power thrumming under everything—white oak floors, gold accents, minimalist design so curated it’s almost rude. The Red Bull principal stands at the head, his smile tight, his watch louder than his words. Flanking him are a half-dozen men whose suits cost more than most people’s mortgages, plus two women in sleek dresses and sharper expressions, their clipped nods making it very clear they don’t need to be impressed. These are the people who decide what teams look like before the engineers even touch the cars. The ones who know you by name, by number, by millions moved.

Their eyes land on you the second you enter. The silence bends. You walk like the cameras are still on. Like the championship was yesterday. Like your ex isn’t five meters away on the other side of a wall too thin for your liking. You let your heels kiss the floor like it’s a stage. Let your dress do what it was built to do—hug, whisper, glide. You keep your gaze steady, your posture regal, your expression perfectly smooth. Business now. Emotion later. Or never. Preferably never.

Max is beside you, but he’s silent. You feel him there, a familiar gravity. Still close enough to touch. Still warm.

“Look at that,” one of the execs murmurs, voice gruff but amused. “Even prettier than the headlines said.”

You give him a smile. Polished. Practiced. Sharp around the edges. Christian gestures to your seat near the head of the table. “Glad you could make it,” he says, nodding at both you and Max. “We’ll make this quick. We’re not here to waste your time. You’ve both proven you don’t need micromanaging.”

Max slides into the seat beside yours. Casual. Effortless. You follow suit, back straight, hands folded, eyes sharp.

They start talking. Money. Sponsorships. Projected figures for next season. Pay increases. You and Max are getting a bump—sizeable. You don’t blink. It’s what you’re worth. Maybe more. One of the execs jokes that with the two of you on the same team, the constructors' trophy might as well be etched already. Someone else mutters that McLaren’s upgrades are the only threat.

Because you know what they’re talking about. Not the cars. The driver. The boy. The mistake. The person you loved like he wasn’t a liability. The one who let your heart rot in his hands and then replaced you with someone who only understands Instagram captions and face angles. Your nails press into your palm. You make sure your expression doesn’t shift. You nod once. Breathe slowly. Professional. Unbothered.

Max doesn’t say anything. But you feel it—the shift in him. Like his focus sharpens the second you move. Like he’s not just watching the room. He’s watching you. You force yourself to focus on the words being said. Aerodynamic reports. Budget negotiations. Test schedules. But your mind… your mind won’t stop dragging itself back to that moment outside. The brief brush of Max’s hand against your spine. The way it didn’t feel intrusive. Or accidental. Or formal.

It felt like steadiness. Like something you didn’t realize you’d been craving until it was already gone. Like warmth in the cold hallway between past and present.

You swallow. Nod again. Someone says something about your performance last season—how no woman’s ever dominated the way you have. How the data doesn’t lie. That your cornering metrics are almost inhuman. That you might be one of the best to ever do it.

You smile again. Another trophy smile. But it doesn’t reach all the way up. Because behind it, all you can think about is the fact that Lando is five meters away. Max’s hand is still echoing on your skin. And you’re sitting in a room full of power pretending you’re not bleeding under your dress.

The room empties in increments. Slowly, like a tide receding, quiet murmurs of goodbyes and clinks of crystal echoing against the walls like afterthoughts. The chairs are pushed in with just enough noise to remind you you’re still in the land of the living. Polished hands reach for coats. Watches checked. Nods exchanged like currency. No one rushes. No one lingers.

You don’t move. You sit perfectly still in your chair, spine resting not against the leather but your own discipline, your hands laid neatly over your lap like you’re holding something fragile and invisible there. It’s over. The meeting. The dinner. The performance. And still, the tension in your shoulders doesn’t unwind.

Because the ache wasn’t in the meeting. It’s in the moments after. You feel him before he speaks. Max doesn’t move quietly. He doesn’t fidget. He doesn’t hover. He just exists—sturdy and low and immovable in that way he does when he’s trying to be casual but is actually watching the world unfold in real time. You don’t need to look to know he’s still standing at the head of the table, one hand resting lightly on the back of his chair, like he’s waiting for something.

You glance up, finally, and catch his eye. Just for a second. It feels like being caught looking down the barrel of something dangerous. There’s no smirk. No grin. Nothing sarcastic in the slope of his brow or the tilt of his head. Just Max, steady and warm and devastating in that suit that’s too sharp for this late at night, like he’s been built out of tailored tension.

Your mouth is dry. You don’t say anything. Not yet. Just lean forward slightly to reach for the water glass you never touched, and as your fingers curl around the crystal stem, your dress shifts. The silk across your chest tugs just slightly tighter, the slit parting a breath wider at your thigh.

And he looks. Not long. Not greedy. But direct. Unapologetic. Like he was waiting for you to move so he had permission. And for a stupid, brainless second, it flusters you. Not because it’s Max. But because it’s you, and you hate that your body notices. You hate that you feel warm under your skin in a room that’s already cooled with abandonment. You hate that every inch of professionalism you put on like perfume is starting to crack where his gaze rests.

You sip the water. It doesn’t help. Max finally speaks. Quiet. Clipped.

“You okay?”

The question lands gently between you, like a paperweight dropped on silk. Light. But you feel it. In your chest. Your stomach. Lower. You clear your throat and lean back, eyes on the glass in your hand.

“That obvious?”

There’s a beat of silence, and then— “No,” he says. “But I know you.”

And that—that’s what does it. You exhale slow through your nose, the kind of breath that tastes like resignation. Your fingers still wrapped around the glass, condensation sliding cool against your knuckles while heat blooms under your skin like a secret. He’s still standing. Still looking at you with that maddening calm. Like he’s the only person in the world who knows how tightly you’re holding yourself together and the exact second you’ll start to unravel.

You shift again. Cross your legs. The slit parts with a whisper. His eyes flick down. Just briefly. You wonder if he notices the way your pulse jumps in your neck. You wonder if he feels how warm the room’s gotten.

“Didn’t expect them to bring up McLaren,” you say, finally, and your voice is too smooth. Too casual. It sounds like conversation, but it’s not. Not really.

Max lets out a low sound that might be a laugh. Might be disbelief. Might be frustration smoothed out into something prettier. “They’re scared,” he says. “They should be. We’re going to fucking destroy them.”

The way he says we punches something low in your stomach. Like an old bruise pressed too suddenly. You nod. Swallow. Force a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “Let’s hope they don’t upgrade too fast.”

You don’t say Let’s hope he doesn’t. You don’t say Let’s hope I never have to see him in the rearview. You don’t say Let’s hope I don’t fucking break apart the first time he’s in my mirrors.

Instead, you say nothing. And Max doesn’t push. He just moves—finally. Walks slowly around the table until he’s closer. Not sitting. Not towering. Just there. Half-leaning against the back of the chair next to you, one ankle crossed over the other, hands folded loosely in front of him. He looks relaxed. He’s not. You can tell by the way his thumbs keep brushing together.

“You handled it well,” he says, almost absentmindedly. “Even when they brought him up.”

You tense. Your body betrays you again. And maybe that’s the point. Because Max leans down slightly, not much, just enough so that his voice is nearer to your ear when he adds, quieter now:

“I saw your hand.” Your breath catches. Of course he did. You hate that you care that he did. You hate how good it feels to be seen. You don’t look at him. Just stare at the condensation dripping down your glass like it’s an escape route.

“Doesn’t matter,” you say, voice barely above a whisper.

“It matters,” he says, and there’s something there now—low and charged and thick between his words. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

You blink. The room suddenly feels smaller. The glass is empty. The lights are too soft. Your throat is dry again.

“I need a drink,” you say, and this time it’s not an excuse. It’s a confession.

Max doesn’t move for a second. Then, “Come on,” he says. “Let’s find something good.” His hand brushes your arm as he straightens. Not an accident. Not subtle.

It’s warm. Too warm. And the feeling lingers. You step out into the corridor first, Max falling into stride beside you, the two of you cutting a sleek silhouette through the soft velvet hush of the hallway. You walk close—not touching, but close. Your shoulders brush every few steps, that easy cadence you slip into when you’re too tired to pretend there’s distance.

You don’t speak yet. Just walk. It’s a short stretch of hallway, but it feels like crossing back into gravity. The hallway lights are gold-toned and low, casting your reflections in ripples across the polished marble floors. You glance sideways at Max as he adjusts the cuffs of his suit, one hand sliding into his pocket with that lazy, practiced ease that says I don’t care and I’ve already won in the same breath.

And just like that, something tilts. You feel it in the ease of his movement, the unbothered slouch of him beside you, the heat still lingering where his fingers grazed your arm. Across the room, Lando exists. So does the girl on his arm. But they feel far away now—blurred at the edges, irrelevant. Because you’re here. With Max. And for the first time tonight, the weight in your chest loosens. You’re going to have a good night. Fuck the past. Fuck them. You’ve got better things to do.

You snort. He turns his head slightly, not quite looking at you.

“What.”

“You really leaned into that whole pensive Dutch robot thing tonight.”

“I was being professional,” he mutters.

“You were being Max.”

Max scoffs, but the corner of his mouth betrays him. “I didn’t see you doing any of the talking.”

“I’m mysterious,” you say, with just enough mockery in your voice to make it clear you’re doing a bit. “I let the mystery breathe.”

He laughs again—softer this time, just under his breath. And you feel it loosen something under your ribs. Just a little. Then, the bar. Low-lit. Intimate. Filled with the kind of soft shadows that make it easy to forget what came before. The kind of place that doesn’t forgive, but suspends. Everything gets quieter here. Closer. He holds the door open for you. You walk in like the air belongs to you now. Like it owes you. Like he does.

You’re laughing before you sit. The kind of laughter that lives at the bottom of your chest—hollow, exhausted, edged in disbelief. You fold into your spot at the bar like you’ve finally exhaled, like your body’s tired of pretending to be bulletproof. The champagne’s doing what it needs to do—cooling your tongue, softening the sharpness in your throat—and beside you, Max is slouched just enough to look like he belongs here. Elbow on the bar, knee brushed against yours, mouth curled in that dry, slow way that says he’s been holding back a hundred comments since the first minute of that meeting.

“God,” he mutters, speaking in Dutch but his tone needs no translation, “the management is so fucked.”

You snort, swirling the stem of your glass between your fingers. “I know. That one guy—what’s his name? With the comb-over—he actually suggested doing a TikTok collab with Stroll. I thought I was hallucinating.”

You let out a sound that’s half-laugh, half-sigh, and tilt your head back against the edge of the bar, eyes fluttering closed for a second. The bar’s warm. The world is soft around the edges. You could stay like this. Not forever. But for tonight.

And then, you look at him. Just a glance. Just long enough to catch the way his neck flushes a little pink above his collar, the way his hair’s slightly messed from running his hand through it for the millionth time, the way his lips are parted like he’s still chewing on a thought he hasn’t decided whether to speak.

Something in your stomach drops. Because he looks beautiful. Not magazine beautiful. Not polished, press-conference perfect. Just—real. Flushed and blinking and a little undone, like the stress is wearing off in layers, and all that’s left underneath is him. And then he turns, just slightly, his eyes catching yours, steady, clear, unguarded in a way that makes your throat tighten.

“Was your time off okay?” he asks. Voice quiet now. Still in Dutch, but softer than before. Less sarcasm. More sincerity.

You pause. Then nod, adjusting the way your fingers rest on the stem of your glass. “Yeah,” you say. “Spent most of it in Italy. On my boat. Doing nothing. Yours?”

He hums. Looks away, gaze drifting past the bar, out toward the huge glass windows that overlook the water. His expression shifts—something wistful, something gentle. His lashes are too long, and the gold light turns his profile into something carved.

And then, almost like he’s surprised to hear it leave his mouth. “Would’ve been better with you.”

You don’t answer right away. Of course you don’t. The silence feels like it was waiting for that sentence. Like it was designed to hold it. The air shifts. Slows. Thickens. The lighting overhead warps into something honeyed and cinematic, slicking across the rim of your champagne flute, clinging to Max’s lashes like it has a favorite.

You breathe, but it feels staged. Like you’re performing breath rather than feeling it. Your hand is still curved loosely around the glass, wrist delicate against the dark wood bar, but your knuckles have gone taut. The bubbles in your drink have gone flat. Or maybe they’re still rising, but you’ve lost the ability to notice. Your ears are doing that strange ringing thing they do when something lands too heavy in the center of your chest. Not painful. Pressing.

He doesn’t look at you after he says it. He says it like he means it but doesn’t want to admit he said it. Like the words slipped out of his mouth because they’d been pacing there for weeks, starved of air, and now—there they are. On the bar between you. Heavy. Unwrapped. His voice didn’t wobble, didn’t go soft. It was casual. Quiet. Like an afterthought that somehow detonated under your ribcage.

You look at the side of his face instead of his eyes. The sharp line of his cheekbone. The little hollow under his jaw that always shadows first when he’s overtired. His lips are parted slightly, like there’s more coming, but nothing follows. He’s sipping his drink again now. The glass glints. The whiskey clings to the cut crystal like it wants to stay. He looks flushed, just a little, in that way Max always does when he’s said something that cost him more than he expected.

You inhale. Exhale. Try to say something. Nothing comes. Because what do you say to a sentence like that? Because part of you wants to reach for it. Wrap your fingers around it. Feel the heat of it on your skin. The you in that sentence feels too alive, too tender, too recent. And another part of you wants to pretend it didn’t happen. Because you’re not ready. Because your heart still sounds like it’s trying to knock its way out of your throat every time Lando’s name is said.

So you do what you always do when you’re circling a feeling too big to hold.�� You whisper the truth, without looking at him. “Max… I’m not ready.”

It barely escapes your mouth. Like you’re ashamed of it. Like it costs something. It does. You expect him to flinch. Or worse—offer some perfect, gentle platitude about timing and healing and how “you don’t have to be.” Something warm but distant. Something that would leave you feeling more alone.

But he doesn’t. He just nods, like he already knew. Like he’s been rehearsing that answer in the back of his mind all night.

“I know,” he says, and his voice is low. Rough like gravel, but softer than he usually lets it be with you. And then, in Dutch—quiet, intimate, untranslatable in the way it sounds in your bones.

“De mooiste bloemen groeien langzaam.”

You blink. Look at him. He finally looks at you.

And you know. You know what he means. The most beautiful flowers grow slowly. Not flashy. Not fast. They take time. Pressure. Soil and silence and things unsaid. And suddenly your chest aches. Not in the way it did when Lando broke it.

This ache is different. Gentle, but deep. The kind that builds slowly, like heat under your skin. The kind that says: I see you. I’ll wait. Not because I have to. Because I want to. You swallow. Nod. Look down at your hand on the bar, your fingers just barely brushing his now. The contact is nothing. And somehow it’s everything.

Your fingers are still resting on the edge of his. Just barely. Just enough that you can feel the heat where your skin touches his—not a flame, not a jolt, just warmth. Lingering. Like he isn’t trying to move. Like he wants you to know he’s not going anywhere.

And then— buzz.

Your bag vibrates once against the side of your hip. You ignore it. Obviously. You don’t look away from him. Not yet. The moment’s too fragile. Like a ripple that hasn’t decided whether to become a wave. Like it might disappear if you breathe wrong. Then it buzzes again.

Max raises an eyebrow without moving his hand. His fingers stay where they are. Yours do too. You sigh. Pull back.

Not dramatically. Not like you’re breaking a spell. Just gently. Like a page being turned before the chapter’s finished.

You slide your hand into your purse, thumb already unlocking your phone on instinct. The screen glows too bright in the low amber light, and it stings your eyes, makes the bar look colder than it is. You blink against it.

Alexandra

come say hi you little freaks 😘

charles said ur making max antisocial we have wine and gossip. and ice cream 🫶

You huff out something between a snort and a laugh.

“Alex,” you say aloud, shaking your head. You tilt the phone toward Max so he can see it, and his eyes flick down at the screen, then back up at you. He doesn’t say anything at first.

“Are you up for it?”

Max groans. Not with effort. With drama. His head tilts back slightly, his shoulders slumping like you’ve asked him to run a half-marathon in loafers. “God,” he mutters, already finishing his whiskey. “I just started enjoying myself.”

You raise an eyebrow. “So that’s a no?”

He looks at you. Eyes narrowed. Then downs the last of his drink in one smooth, sulky motion. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“…We’ll stay ten minutes.”

You laugh again, softer this time. “Ten?”

He nods. “Ten. Unless someone’s annoying. Then five. If Oscar’s eating ice cream with a fork again, we leave immediately.”

You stand. Max stands with you. And for the second time tonight, he doesn’t touch you. But he’s right there. Half a step behind. Ready. The walk back feels like threading a needle.

You and Max move through the crowd with just enough space between you to say nothing’s going on, but not enough to say we’re strangers. You feel him next to you in every breath, every shift of air. But he doesn’t look at you again. Doesn’t brush your arm. Doesn’t soften his step. He’s already folding back into the shape of someone you’re not supposed to need.

You hate how well he does it. The booth is half-lit, washed in the kind of gold that makes everything look softer than it is. Alexandra spots you first, her smile blooming immediately as she tugs Charles toward the open seat beside her.

“There she is,” she sing-songs, already reaching for your wrist. “You took your sweet time, I was starting to think Max had dragged you away.”

You let her pull you in, your fingers grazing hers, your smile automatic. Controlled.

“God, you’re obsessed with me,” you say. Light. Teasing. The words fall easily off your tongue.

Charles leans in with a grin, his accent rounding everything he says like a warm hand. “We had bets. I said twenty minutes. Oscar guessed forty. Carlos said you’d never come.”

You raise your brows. “Carlos has no faith in me.”

“He has no faith in anyone,” Alexandra mutters, pouring you a splash of wine without asking. “Sit. You need a drink that isn’t whatever that neon gold shit Red Bull serves as champagne.”

You sit. You thank her. You drink. You’re performing. But you’re good at it. And Max—Max moves without ceremony toward the other end of the table, slipping effortlessly into conversation with Carlos, Oscar, and their dates. Of course he does. Of course he makes it look easy. The way his head tilts when he listens. The way he nods, hands tucked in the pockets of his slacks, posture loose like he isn’t doing calculus in his brain every second he’s away from you.

It’s not personal. It’s strategy. Because if he sat beside you, now, if he looked at you like he just did at the bar, the whole room would notice. And they’d talk. And you can’t afford that.

So he doesn’t. And neither do you. You turn back to Charles. Let him ask you about next season. Let Alexandra pull you into a story about a dinner party in Paris that involved a flaming cheese wheel and an almost-divorce. You laugh. You ask follow-up questions. You sip your wine and try not to glance down the table. Try not to search for Max.

You feel it. The shift. The weight of a gaze before you even meet it. You turn your head. And there he is.

Lando.

Seated at the far end, next to Magui, but not with her. She’s focused on Carlos, on Max, something about a joke you’re not listening to. Her hand moves when she talks. Her laugh flutters too loud. She doesn’t notice that he’s not even looking at her.

He’s looking at you. Direct. Unapologetic. Unblinking.

His eyes drag across your face like a bruise being pressed. Slow. Unflinching. His jaw ticks once. A twitch of muscle like something about you hurts. His tongue swipes across his top teeth like he’s holding something in. Something sharp. Something too late. And still, he doesn’t look away.

Neither do you. Your spine straightens. Your mouth is still parted from the sip of wine you were mid-taking. You don’t blink. You don’t move. The moment stretches—too long, too full, too familiar. And for a second, it feels like no one else is there. Like it’s just you and him and everything that was said and everything that wasn’t.

The others don’t notice. Alexandra is still laughing beside you. Charles is responding, his voice soft, affectionate. Their joy bubbles like champagne beside you, blissfully unaware that your ex is looking at you like he’s drowning in everything he threw away.

You shift in your seat. Cross your legs. Press the stem of your glass between your fingers harder than necessary.

And still, Lando looks. Like he wants to say something.Like he knows he won’t. The longer he stares, the more absurd it becomes. Like a dare. Like a joke you haven’t been let in on. His jaw is tight, lips parted like he’s halfway through a sentence he doesn’t have the nerve to say, and his whole face has that stormcloud softness—like he’s confused. Like he’s wounded.

And suddenly it hits you. The audacity. The pure, blinding ridiculousness of the man who cracked your ribs open and danced in the ruin now looking at you like he’s the one grieving. You let out a breath that’s almost a laugh. Sharp. Short. It slips out before you can stop it—just a little huff of disbelief pushed through your nose like a gunshot. You don’t even mean to do it. But there it is.

He sees it. You don’t break eye contact when you do. That’s what makes it worse. You let him watch you laugh. Just for a second. Just enough.

Then, casually—too casually—you lean over and murmur something to Alexandra. Something vague about needing to step away. She barely hears you, still caught in the glitter of whatever joke she’s spinning for Charles, but she nods anyway, and you slide out of the booth like smoke under a door.

Your hand is steady on the table as you rise. Your glass is left untouched, wine lipsticked and sweating. Your dress shifts when you stand, the slit catching a breeze you didn’t know existed, silk hugging your hip like punctuation. You walk.

Not quickly. Not with purpose. Just out. Out of the booth. Out of the moment. Out of the weight of Lando’s gaze. But it follows you.

You don’t need to look. You know. You feel it like breath on the back of your neck. You disappear around the corner of the bar, into a hallway that leads toward the powder rooms, the private terrace, the less curated corners of the restaurant. Somewhere dimmer. Quieter. Somewhere you can exhale without an audience.

You walk like you don’t hear him behind you. Like you’re not anticipating every echo of his footsteps. Like your spine isn’t buzzing with the awareness that he’s chasing after you like this is still his story.

The hallway is dim and narrow, padded with shadows and that expensive quiet—just enough ambient light from the sconces to illuminate the framed, abstract artwork that means nothing. Everything here smells like lemon balm and wealth. You hate how familiar it is. How your body remembers the scent. The pacing. The knowing.

You turn the corner sharply, pausing halfway down, just past the staff service door, just shy of the terrace entrance, right under one of those antique sconces that drips soft gold light like honey.

And then—he appears.

Fast. Breathless. Like he expected to find a locked door and instead ran headfirst into you.

He skids slightly into the corner, like he wasn’t sure where you went until he saw you stop. Like his whole body is trying to slow itself down and failing. He’s flushed, even under the low light—his collar slightly askew, hair messier than it was ten seconds ago, the top button of his shirt pulled undone like he needed to breathe. Like you took the air with you when you left the room.

He stops two feet from you. Staring. Just staring. Eyes wide. Jaw tight. Chest rising fast, then slower. Then fast again. Like he’s trying to regulate himself but doesn’t know what gear he’s in anymore.

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Blinking. Breathing. Like you’re not a person but a fucking apparition. And you just stand there. Arms crossed.

Weight shifted to one hip. Head tilted slightly in that way that says you’re waiting for him to be less ridiculous than this. But he doesn’t speak. He just looks. Like he wants to say a hundred things but can't even get past the first.

And you—God, you can’t help it—you almost laugh again. Because this is insane. Because you look like this, and he looks like that, and the last thing he said to you before he shattered everything was some halfhearted apology followed by a soft, smug “I didn’t mean for it to come out like that.”

And now he’s breathing like you just stabbed him. So you say it. Flat. Quiet. Weaponized.

“What the fuck do you want?” You don’t expect the first thing out of his mouth to be that. No—you expected silence. Maybe an apology, if he could stomach the shape of the word. Maybe nothing. Maybe the cliché—“You look good,” or “Can we talk?” or “I didn’t know you were coming tonight.” Something limp. Something boring. Something safe.

But not this. Not this flame to the chest. Definetly not, “Is there something going on with you and Max?”

You don’t speak. You can’t. The question lands like a slap, hard and stupid and echoing, and for a second all you can hear is your own blood pulsing through your ears. Hot. Viscous. Humiliating. It drowns out the ambient jazz leaking down the hallway, drowns out the laughter from the bar, drowns out the sound of him breathing like he just chased you out of the restaurant and into a goddamn memory.

He’s two feet away and wrong in every direction. Shirt half-untucked, hair damp at the temples. Sweat clings to the curve of his brow like guilt. His eyes are bright, too bright—reflective and glassy like they’re catching every ounce of gold light and making it ugly. He smells like spice and panic, like whatever cologne he started the evening in is already losing the war against whatever stress he’s been stewing in since you stood up from that booth. He looks beautiful, the way wreckage always does—ruined and breathless and sharp around the edges. Like something that can’t be touched without cutting yourself open.

You taste iron at the back of your throat. And you burn. Because this is what he opens with. This. After everything. After the cheating. After the silence. After the photo of him and Magui you had to see, not hear about. After the complete lack of apology—no explanation, no acknowledgment, no goddamn accountability. Just… you, gone. Him, louder than ever. And now he wants to talk about Max.

Now, he wants to stand in this hallway and pant like he ran a mile in the wrong direction and ask if your teammate is touching you?

You feel your forearm itch. Not in a physical way. In that deep, animal kind of way—like your body is rejecting the moment. Like your nerves are trying to crawl out through your skin. Your spine is too straight. Your fists curl too tightly. There’s sweat between your shoulder blades and your silk dress is clinging in places it didn’t earlier. The scent of citrus cleaner and soft musk from the air diffusers is cloying now, too clean for a hallway filled with this kind of tension. Your heel is slightly off-balance against the slate tile. Your teeth are pressing into the back of your tongue. Everything is wrong. Every sense is alive.

You speak before you mean to. Your voice doesn’t crack. It slices. “You’re actually fucking serious.”

He blinks. Like he doesn’t understand. Like you’re the one being unreasonable. His hands flex at his sides. He leans a fraction closer, eyes scanning your face like it’ll save him. “I just—he was all over you tonight.”

You laugh. You laugh. It’s a sharp, hot sound that doesn’t match the coolness of your dress or the control in your expression. You laugh like it hurts your ribs, like the sound might unhinge your jaw if you let it go too long.

“He’s my teammate,” you spit. “Are you fucking joking?”

Lando says nothing. His mouth is open. Like there are more words waiting. But none of them matter. None of them would make this better. You take a step forward, and he doesn’t move. Your voice drops. Quiet now. Controlled.

“You cheat on me. With her. You didn’t call. You didn’t explain. You didn’t look for me. You just let it happen.”

You pause. Your breath catches, hot and wet at the top of your throat, and you push through it.

“And now, months later, after pretending I don’t exist, after parading her around and you have the audacity to ask about Max?”

His jaw tightens. His eyes flick down—mouth, throat, waist—then back to your face. And there it is. That old flicker. That low heat. Desire, curling like smoke from the ashes of what he burned. You feel it hit you like it always has—low in your belly, unwelcome but familiar. Like muscle memory. Like poison you used to mistake for love.

But you don’t let it win. You step back. One inch. Enough. And then, softly. Final.

“You don’t get to look at me like that anymore.”

You say it softly. Not a whisper. Not a scream. Just truth, delivered like a blade left cooling on marble. Final, but not loud. And you mean it. You fucking mean it. You mean it even though the second the words leave your mouth, you feel the heat behind your eyes, that stupid low ache blooming in your stomach, crawling beneath your ribs like a bruise forming in real time.

Because he’s still looking at you like that. Like you’re his. Like none of it ever happened. Like you weren’t the one left with ash in your lungs and his fingerprints still clinging to the parts of you he never earned in the first place.

He blinks once. Breathes harder. His chest rises like he’s trying to say something, but the words get caught on his tongue. And then he moves.

Not fast. Not dramatic. Just one step. A single fucking step that shouldn’t mean anything but sends a bolt through your spine so sharp you almost forget how to breathe.

He’s close now. Close enough that you can see the sheen of sweat on his upper lip. The way his jaw is flexing too tightly. The pulse at his neck, visible now. Racing.

He smells like whatever he sprayed on three hours ago—something expensive and leathery and sharp—but now it’s been overtaken by something else. The smell of panic. Of want. Of a body trying to hold itself still while everything inside it starts to burn. You’re still standing there, not backing down, not giving him the satisfaction. But your skin is doing things. Twitching under your dress. Tingling at the tops of your thighs. That heat low in your belly is turning into something worse. Not romantic. Not hopeful. Worse.

Familiar. He reaches for you. Slow. Like he’s afraid you’ll flinch. Like he knows he shouldn’t. But he does anyway. His hand lifts, then hovers, just at your arm. Just at the place where your shoulder meets your bicep.

“Don’t,” you breathe.

But you don’t move. He breathes out, ragged now. He doesn’t touch you yet, not really, just lets his fingers hang there, so close you can feel the ghost of it. And that’s worse. That’s so much fucking worse.

“You look so good,” he says, and his voice is strained, quiet, like he hates himself for saying it but hates himself more for not saying it sooner.

“Fuck you,” you whisper.

You mean it. But your thighs are pressed together now. Tight. Your eyes flick to his mouth. Just for a second. Just enough. He sees it. His lips part like he’s about to say something else—an apology, a confession, maybe a lie he’s trying to turn into something beautiful. But nothing comes.

His hand finally lands. Light. Careful. The heat from his palm sears straight through the fabric of your dress. And that’s it. That’s the mistake.

You exhale like you’ve been punched. You step back again, not because you want to—because you have to. Because if he touches you like that again, you’re going to let him. And you can’t. You fucking can’t. You spin away. Your back hits the wall. It’s cool, textured, but it doesn’t help. Your breath is shallow. Your thighs are shaking.

He watches you like a man unraveling. Like he knows he lost you the second he looked away months ago, and now he’s standing in the aftermath, trying to pick through the ruins for something salvageable.

“I didn’t know what I was doing,” he says, finally.

You laugh. It sounds more like a gasp. “Then why did you keep doing it?”

He doesn’t answer. He just looks down. Then back at you. Then down again. There’s silence. There’s too much fucking silence.

You’re thinking about the last time he touched you. The last time you let him. The way his mouth felt on your neck. The way he used to say your name in the dark, like it tasted good. Like he earned it. Your hips shift against the wall. You don’t mean to.

His eyes flick there. It’s the worst thing you could’ve done. He steps forward again. And you don’t stop him.

“Tell me to go,” he says. Right there. Right in front of you. So close now that your noses could touch if you tilted your head. So close that you can feel the warmth radiating off his chest like a furnace, like punishment.

His voice drops. “Tell me you don’t think about me anymore.”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes. He looks at you like he’s drowning. Like you’re the only oxygen left in the room.

“Tell me,” he breathes, “and I’ll leave.”

And that’s the problem. You can’t. You don’t say it. You try. You really try. Your lips part like they’re about to shape it—Go. I don’t think about you. I’m fine. I’m better. But nothing comes out. Just breath. Just the taste of his cologne and regret and the electric press of skin that isn’t touching but is too close anyway.

Lando knows. The bastard knows. You feel it in the way he softens, just a fraction. The way the fight drains from his eyes and something hungrier slips into the cracks. Like he’s starting to believe this might not be the end. Like he’s seeing a window instead of a door.

Your throat burns. Your chest pulls tight, like something’s trying to claw its way out. Your hands curl against the wall behind you, searching for texture, for anything to ground you before your knees give out.

“Two years,” you whisper. It’s not loud. It’s not sharp. It’s just wrecked.

He stills.

“Two years,” you say again, and this time your voice cracks—splinters straight down the middle. Your head tilts back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut like it hurts to look at him. “For what? For who? Some girl who can’t even look me in the face?”

You open your eyes. He’s right there. You could kiss him if you wanted to. His jaw is tense, shoulders drawn in like he’s bracing for impact. His hands are fisted now. He looks like he wants to say it wasn’t like that. Like he wants to explain. But he can’t. Because it was. Because he did it.

Your chin trembles. He sees it. And then—slow, agonizingly slow—he leans in. His hand lifts again. This time it lands on your hip. Just barely. Just his fingers against the edge of your dress, the soft fabric caught between you. He doesn’t press. Just rests there. Warm. Steady.

“Don’t,” you say, but it’s air.

It’s not real. It’s not no. He dips closer. His nose brushes your cheek, soft and maddening. You can feel the heat of his breath against your jaw. You smell him—you smell him. That mix of cologne and skin and sweat and everything you’ve tried so hard to forget. Your head spins. Your mouth goes dry. Your thighs press together, unthinking, desperate for friction.

“I miss you,” he whispers.

It’s not fair. None of this is fucking fair. You squeeze your eyes shut, but he’s still there, lips just above your skin, not kissing, not yet—just hovering. Like he’s waiting for you to move first. Like he’s giving you control, when you both know he took that from you the second he opened his fucking mouth.

His mouth brushes your jaw. Once. Soft.

Like he’s memorizing it. Like he’s testing what he can get away with. Your breath catches in your throat, too high, too raw. Your whole body arches forward before you can stop it—just slightly. Just enough. He kisses it again. Lower this time. Firmer. Right where your pulse sits.

You gasp. It’s quiet. Humiliating. So utterly humiliating. You don’t think— instead, your fingers dig into the wall behind you, the plaster cool under your nails. Your knees do buckle now, just a little. Just enough that his other hand rises to your waist to steady you. And now he’s holding you. Lightly. But fully. His chest against yours. His mouth still ghosting your skin.

“I hate you,” you whisper.

He nods against your jaw. “I know.”

You breathe him in. And it’s the worst decision you’ve made all night. Because he still smells like yours. Because your body still remembers this. Because you haven’t touched him in months, and now your hands are twitching at your sides like they need somewhere to go.

He kisses your jaw again. Then your cheek. Then lower.

And then he pauses—mouth at the corner of your lips, your pulse a fucking drumbeat in your throat, your body trembling with anger and ache and everything you never got to say.

“You still want me,” he says.

Your eyes don’t close when his mouth brushes yours. They flicker. Twitch. A full-body glitch, like your nerves just remembered how this ends and still can’t stop you.

Your fingers are still splayed behind you against the wall. You could push him. You should push him. Your knees would give out anyway. You tilt your chin. Half a millimeter. He crashes into that space like he was waiting for it.

His mouth—god, his fucking mouth—lands on yours not soft, not slow, not even hungry. Starved. He kisses like it’s a punishment. Like every inch he claims is revenge for something you never did. Your teeth knock, your lip catches, and there’s a hiss between you that might be pain or might be something worse. He tastes like whiskey and ash, like every “I’m sorry” you never got. And yet, you still fucking kiss him back.

You hate yourself for it. You hate how your hands leap from the wall to his shirt like they were made for this. One fist curled in the fabric near his chest, the other sliding—grabbing—his jaw like you’re trying to break it or memorize it. Your nails scrape down his neck and he groans into your mouth, low and guttural and needy, and that’s when it slips.

That thing inside you. The part you swore you buried. You bite him. Right on the lip, sharp and vengeful, and he stumbles into you with a grunt, palm flattening hard to your waist, the other flying to the wall behind your head. You’re pinned. You’re caged. And for some reason you don’t fucking care. You don’t even think.

“Fuck,” he growls, mouth slick against yours, and you can taste blood now—his or yours, you don’t know.

“Don’t talk,” you snap.

He laughs. It’s breathless, bitter. “You came out here so I’d shut up?” You shove your hips forward just enough to make him hiss.

“Didn’t come out here for you,” you lie, panting.

He tugs at your waist like he’s going to break your spine in half. “Then why are your legs shaking?”

You snarl. “I hate you.”

“I know.” And then he does it—he drags you. Literally, hand on your arm, spins you with a snarl toward the door next to you. Unmarked. Employees Only. Doesn’t care. Doesn’t check. Just kicks it open like he owns the fucking hallway, shoves you through it, slams it shut behind him.

Click. Lock. It’s dark. It’s tiny.

Some storage closet or wine room or who gives a fuck. Shelves line the walls. A faint overhead bulb hums to life, flickers. Lando’s silhouette is massive in the door’s amber spill. He steps in like you owe him something.

“Say it,” he breathes, one step closer, “Say you hate me again.” You backpedal into a rack of coats and uniforms and god knows what. His hand lands next to your head.

Your voice wavers. Just barely. “I fucking hate you.”

He exhales, forehead lowering to yours, lips barely apart. “Then say you don’t want this.”

You don’t. You can’t. You won’t. Instead, you lunge. Mouth to his. Harder this time. Deeper. This kiss isn’t just hate—it’s grief. It’s betrayal. It’s every sleepless night you stared at your phone, knowing he wasn’t coming back. Your hands fly to his belt like a threat. His go for your thigh—no grace, no hesitation, just grab, yanking your leg up around his waist, and he groans into your mouth like you’re the first clean breath he’s had in weeks.

It’s clumsy, wet, desperate. He shoves your dress up like it’s insulted him. His hand slides under, hot and rough, fingers digging into the softness of your hip like he’s trying to erase what he did with her. You jerk his belt open, pop the button on his pants without finesse. Your breath catches on a sob that doesn’t get out, and he eats it with his tongue, one palm cupping your face now, tilting you where he wants you.

“You gonna cry for me, baby?” he pants, lips dragging along your jaw. You shove your hand down his waistband.

“Only if you come too fast.”

He snarls. Fucking snarls. Your back hits the wall with a thud. He’s fully holding your leg now, spreading you open. You’re soaking. He can feel it through your underwear, and the way his jaw clenches tells you he’s about to ruin you for that.

“You’re a fucking liar,” he mutters, thumb dragging hard over the soaked seam.

“And you’re a fucking cheater,” you shoot back, voice sharp, broken. And then—finally—he sinks to his knees.

You're not even sure how you got to this point. One minute you were hissing fuck you into his face like it was a spell, the next you’re hoisted onto a supply shelf in some hidden back hallway, dress yanked up, panties shoved aside, and Lando’s on his fucking knees. Hands tight on your thighs, fingers bruising, tongue deep in your cunt like he’s trying to crawl inside and live there.

The room’s humid with breath and sex and whatever this filthy, unholy thing is that still pulses between you like it never died. And God, it’s good. You hate that it’s good. You hate that you’re gripping the back of his head like he’s oxygen, thighs quaking every time his tongue circles your clit in that slow, cruel swirl.

You throw your head back, eyes fluttering— and that’s when you see him.

Max.

Just a flash. That quiet steadiness. That strong grip at your back. His voice in Dutch, low and constant, telling you he’s got you. And for a split fucking second, your body clenches in reflex to a man who isn’t even here.

What the fuck. Your brows twitch. Your throat burns. You’re on the edge of an orgasm with Lando's face buried between your legs, and you’re thinking about Max.

Not for long. Just a flicker. But it’s enough. You feel guilty. Not for Lando. Not for the cheating. But because Max—Max didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve to be in your head while you’re getting your pussy eaten by the man who shattered you.

Lando doesn’t notice. Hes lost in it. He groans into your cunt like your taste just wrecked him, hips grinding into the air like he’s fucking you with his face, tongue flicking fast, fingers now inside you. Two thick ones curling up like they know where that sweet spot is, and—

You break. Your thighs clamp around his ears and you’re coming, spasming on his tongue with a scream torn raw from your lungs.

“Fuck— Lando—fuck— you fucking—cheating bastard—”

He doesn’t stop. He keeps sucking, dragging that orgasm out like it’s punishment. You’re sobbing now. Half in rage. Half in bliss. Your nails dig into the shelf behind you, the world blurred through wet lashes. He pulls back, chin and mouth glossy with you. He’s panting. Eyes fucking wild.

“You taste so fucking sweet when you’re mad,” he growls. “I missed that cunt. Missed this fucking pussy so bad I was getting hard looking at your goddamn photos.”

You slap him. Not hard. Just a stinging smack across the cheek. His head snaps sideways He smiles.

He fucking smiles.

“Still wanna hit me? Do it after I ruin this pussy.”

Then he stands. His cock’s already out—veiny, hard, flushed at the tip. And so thick. You’re drooling at the sight of it, even as you grit your teeth like you’re not. He fists it once, slow, the head smearing pre-cum across your inner thigh as he lines up.

“Say you want it.”

“Go to hell.”

He slams in. No warning. No slow. Just full tilt, no condom, raw and brutal. Your scream bounces off the walls, drowned in his growl.

“Fuck, you’re still so tight. Like this pussy missed me too.”

Your arms fly around his neck, legs locking high around his waist, and he starts to thrust. Hard. Deep. Every motion sending your ass crashing back into the wall, the shelf behind you rattling with every wet slap of his cock inside you.

“Say it,” he snarls into your neck. “Say this cunt still fucking belongs to me.”

You sob.

“No.”

He fucks you harder. Your dress is soaked. His shirt’s half off. Your tits spill free and he bites one, groaning as your pussy clenches around him.

“Fucking liar,” he pants. “You love this dick. You need it. You’re dripping on me, babe—you’re soaking for the man who ruined you.”

Your head hits the wall. Your eyes roll back.

“God, fuck, I hate you—”

He laughs, breathless and wrecked.

“You hate this cock too? Huh?” he grunts, pounding into you. “You hate this fat cock splitting you open like it never left?”

Your orgasm crashes over you without warning. Your scream echoes, thighs shaking, cunt spasming around him so hard he chokes. He loses it.

“Shit— I’m gonna cum—fuck—I’m gonna fill you up, yeah? Gonna fucking—paint this pussy, remind you who fucked it best—”

And he does. Buries himself to the hilt, slams his cock deep one last time, and moans. Hot and broken, like he’s falling apart inside you. Cum spilling raw and endless, thick and messy as he pulses into your cunt with a strangled groan. Your head lolls against his shoulder. You’re trembling. His grip is the only thing keeping you from sliding off the shelf in a pool of sweat and cum and sin.

You breathe. Once. Twice. And then his mouth finds yours again. Slower this time. Hungrier. Wrecked. Like he’s still not done.

You’re still full of him. Still trembling from that first, frenzied, hate-fueled high. His cum is leaking out of you, warm and slick between your thighs, your legs trembling around his hips.

He hasn’t moved. Not really. He’s still inside you. His forehead is pressed to yours, breath hot and ragged, and everything’s quiet now. The kind of quiet that feels like it’s daring you to speak.

You don’t. You can’t.

Because suddenly his hands are gentle. One smoothing up your back. The other trembling against your jaw. His thumb traces the corner of your mouth like he wants to kiss you there—not to shut you up, but to taste the things you’re not saying.

Then he does. Soft. Too soft. A kiss so careful it hurts. His lips press into yours like an apology, like a confession, like he still thinks he has the right to be tender. And it shatters you.

Because that’s not what this was supposed to be. This was supposed to be violence. Payback. Carnage. But now he’s rocking into you slow. Steady.

His cock’s still hard—buried inside you like he’s home. Each thrust now is long, deep, aching. His hands slide under your thighs, lifting you higher, cradling you like something breakable. Like something he wants to keep.

“God,” he whispers, lips brushing your cheek. “I missed you.”

Your heart jerks. Don’t you fucking say it.

“Missed this pussy,” he murmurs, forehead pressed to yours. “Missed how you sound. How you breathe. Missed your fucking body—”

He chokes. Like it’s too much. Because it is. Because outside this door, his girlfriend is laughing. With Carlos. With Charles. With Max.

You see Max’s face again. His steady eyes. The quiet way he said I’ve got you without ever touching your skin. His voice still echoing in your chest when you close your eyes.

Your eyes sting. Lando kisses you again. Softer now. His hips move in slow, deep rolls, cock dragging inside you like silk through an old wound. Lando kisses you again. Softer now. His hips move in slow, deep rolls, cock dragging inside you like silk through an old wound.

It hurts. Not from pain. From how good it feels. How slow. How full. He thrusts like he’s still tasting your moans in his mouth. Like he’s trying to memorize what forgiveness would feel like if you gave it. Each grind of his hips presses deep into your core, filling you so completely you swear you can feel the shape of his regret curling around your womb. He noses at your jaw. Kisses your cheek. Doesn’t speak. Not yet.

You’re not moaning anymore. You’re not even crying. You’re just letting him. Letting him move inside you. Letting him pretend. His hand drags along your ribs, fingers splayed, like he’s never touched you before. Like he forgot how soft your skin was. Like it kills him to remember.

And then—quiet. He murmurs, lips brushing your collarbone.

“I don’t want to see you this season.”

Your breath catches in your throat. His hips still don’t stop. The rhythm stays the same—deep, slow, like fucking in molasses.

“I mean it,” he whispers. “If I see you in the paddock—on the track—fuck, I’m gonna fall apart.”

Your brows knit. Confusion tangles with disbelief. “You’re fucking serious?”

He presses his forehead to yours, eyes shut. You can feel how hard he’s clenching his jaw.

“I can’t watch you,” he breathes. “Can’t see you with Max. Laughing. Acting like this—” his thrusts get harder now, more insistent “—like this— we didn’t fucking happen.”

You bite back a sob. “You fucked someone else.”

He doesn’t flinch. He just groans, deep and wrecked, and sinks in again—slow, grinding, like it’s punishment.

“I know. I fucking know. But I didn’t feel anything. Not like this.” His hand slides up your side, thumb brushing the curve of your breast. “I never stopped feeling this.”

You close your eyes. Because if you look at him, you’ll scream. He pulls out halfway, then pushes back in so deep, your breath stutters. You gasp, nails digging into his back, and he moans.

“You still feel like mine,” he whispers. “Still fucking perfect. Still so fucking warm and wet and—fuck—tight.”

He kisses you. This time it's desperate. Open-mouthed. Lingering. He fucks into you with long, dragging strokes now, slower still, like he’s trying to come without ever leaving you.

“I dream about this pussy,” he grits out. “Wake up hard. Fuck her from behind and still pretend it’s you. Every fucking time. I see your face.”

Your body twitches around him. Reflex. Your core tightens, clenches. His breath hitches.

“Do that again,” he whispers. “Please. Fuck—squeeze my cock just like that.”

You do. Unintentionally. Because your body still remembers him. Still responds. Even now.

“Jesus,” he groans, hips faltering. “You’re gonna make me cum already.”

You shake your head, voice hoarse. “Not yet.”

He swears under his breath. His hands shift under your thighs, lifting you higher, adjusting the angle, and then—oh god—he starts again. Long, slow strokes. Every inch dragging, pulling, teasing. Your slick coats his cock like honey, and he’s fucking you with the patience of someone who knows this is the last time he gets to.

“Let me watch you,” he begs. “Let me see your face.”

You do. You look. And he looks wrecked. Eyes glassy, mouth slack, sweat-damp curls falling over his forehead as he thrusts into you like he wants to stay there forever. And then—his pace changes. Just slightly. More focused. More intentional.

“I should’ve picked you,” he says. It’s not a whisper this time. “I should’ve fought for you.”

You want to scream. Instead, your nails score down his back. “You didn’t.”

He groans. “I know.”

His forehead presses to yours again, thrusts slowing to a torturous rhythm, cock sliding deep and so warm, and his voice breaks when he says:

“I don’t know how to let you go.”

You do. You do. You just haven’t done it yet. You kiss him again. And again. And then you fuck him like it’s goodbye. Because it is. Even if you don’t say it. Even if he can’t. He’s thrusting again—slow, rhythmic, chasing the high you gave him once, twice, now desperate for a third like it might rewrite time. Your body’s caught in it, hips rolling to meet him, lips parted, moans dragging low from your throat that sound too much like regret.

He’s buried to the hilt, forehead on your shoulder, fingers digging into your ass like he’s afraid you’ll float away when he cums. And maybe you will.

“Don’t want to leave,” he breathes. “Just want to stay like this. Stay in you.”

You laugh, rolling your eyes “Of course you do.”

He groans. A low, needy sound in your neck. “You feel so good. Still perfect. Still fucking—fuck—made for me.”

“No,” you breathe, voice tight, cunt fluttering around his cock because your body hasn’t caught up to your head. “You gave that up. You gave me up.” He thrusts harder. Once. Twice. Deep enough your vision blurs.

“Let me fix it,” he pants. “I’ll end it with her. I swear to God, I’ll fucking drop everything.”

You look down at him, eyes burning. “You already did.”

His face crumples. The rhythm falters. His hips still, cock twitching deep inside you.

“You said it was a mistake,” you whisper, voice shaking. “But it wasn’t a moment. It was months. You kept her. You chose her. And you only came running when you saw me with Max.”

His head falls against your shoulder. His arms tighten.

“I was scared.”

You shake your head. “You were weak.”

He tries to kiss you. You turn your face. “I still love you,” he chokes.

You bite your lip, feel the sting of everything behind your teeth—and push your hips against his, hard.

“Then remember this,” you whisper, breath trembling, “because it’s the last time.”

That pushes him over the edge. He cums with a broken groan, face buried in your neck, cock jerking inside you, hot and thick and wrong. You feel every pulse, every desperate spasm of a man trying to hold onto something he already lost. He’s panting when he slumps against you. Soft now. Dripping down your thighs. Sticky with remorse.

You press your palm to his chest. Push. Harder. He finally pulls out, groaning as your cunt lets go of him with a wet, final pop. You slide off the shelf, dress falling back into place. You don’t wipe the mess. You don’t fix your hair. You just look at him—shirt half-off, flushed and fucked and wrecked—and feel nothing but clarity.

“I’ll see you on the track,” you say, smooth, even. “And nowhere else.”

He opens his mouth. You’re already at the door. Your hand’s on the handle when you stop. One glance over your shoulder.

“I hope she tastes it,” you say. Quiet. Deadly. “Every time you kiss her.”

Click. You walk out. And the door doesn't close behind you. It slams. The hallway’s cooler than it was ten minutes ago. Or maybe it’s just you. Skin still humming, thighs still slick, the ache still fresh between your legs. You walk like you’re made of marble. Slow, deliberate, like every part of your body was poured back into its mold and polished to a high-gloss finish. Your dress falls back into place effortlessly. Your lips are swollen, but only if someone’s looking. And no one’s looking. Not like that.

You reenter the restaurant like nothing happened. Like you didn’t just fuck your ex in a dark back room while his girlfriend sat ten feet away laughing at a story Max was probably pretending to care about.

Your heels kiss the tile. Your posture doesn’t waver. The moment you step back into the dim glow of the dining space, it’s like a veil drops. The laughter. The sparkle of glasses. The low murmur of Monaco’s elite pretending they don’t breathe the same air as the rest of the world. The weight of your entrance is lighter this time, almost lazy. As if you were just reapplying your lipstick. Not rearranging your soul.

You don’t go back to your seat. You just stop by the edge of the table, where the laughter is loudest now. Oscar’s flushed. Alexandra is howling at something Charles just whispered in her ear. Even Magui is smiling, relaxed, her hand curling around her wine glass in that curated, influencer way. She looks at you and doesn’t know. None of them do.

That’s the power. You lean forward slightly, voice soft and cool. “I think I’m gonna head out,” you say.

Alexandra pouts. “You just got here.”

You smile. “I know.”

Charles nods, easy, warm. “Send me that song you mentioned earlier.”

“Of course.”

Your eyes flick sideways. Max is already looking. He straightens, barely. Sets down his glass with a soft clink. Adjusts the cuff of his shirt. Like he knew. Like he always knows. He pushes off from the booth, smooth and unhurried, nodding politely at Oscar, at Carlos, at someone’s girlfriend who says something about next week’s race. He doesn’t look at Lando. He doesn’t need to.

You don’t wait for him. You just turn. He follows. As if nothing happened. As if you hadn’t just made the worst, most intoxicating mistake of your season. The cool night air hits your skin like absolution. Not quite enough to erase what just happened, but enough to start dulling the edges. The breeze lifts the hem of your dress, tangles in your hair, kisses your neck like it doesn’t know Lando was just there. Like it wants to claim that space for itself.

You stop just short of the valet station, eyes scanning the street like you’re pretending to orient yourself. Like you don’t already know exactly where you parked. Max walks up behind you a beat later, slow, quiet, like he’s learned how to match your rhythm.

You glance at him. Just once. His tie’s loose now. His eyes are still flushed with champagne. The good kind. The kind you can feel in your cheeks and the tips of your ears. The kind that makes your teeth feel warm and your tongue too honest.

“I fucked up tonight,” you say.

Max’s brow lifts, but he doesn’t interrupt. He waits. You turn to him, slowly, the streetlight catching the curve of your shoulder, the shimmer still left on your lips. And then, softly you say. “Wanna come back with me?”

He pauses. Just a blink. Then he smiles. Small. Crooked. Devastating.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, okay.”

You don’t look at him again as you hand your ticket to the valet. You don’t need to. He’s already there, standing just a little too close, hands tucked into his pockets like he’s trying to keep them to himself. Like he knows. The Porsche rolls up a minute later, clean and white and sleek like nothing dirty has ever happened inside it. You get in without speaking. Max follows.

The doors shut. The engine purrs to life. And then—you drive. You drive like you’re trying to outrun the memory of his hands. Of Lando’s breath in your ear. Of the sob that nearly broke out of your throat when you came and he said I miss you. You drive like you’re chasing down silence. Like speed might bleach the shame from your skin.

Max doesn’t say anything at first. He just watches the city blur past his window, one hand braced against the center console, the other relaxed over his thigh.

The roads are mostly empty. You take the turns sharp. Not dangerous. Just fast. The wind slips into the car through the barely-cracked window, pulling your hair into your face, cooling the sweat at your temples. Your foot presses down harder. The speedometer ticks up.

You feel free. Then terrible. Not all at once. Just in pulses. Like your body can’t decide if this is survival or self-destruction. You don’t know what this looks like from the outside. The white car, the woman driving too fast, the man in the passenger seat who doesn’t flinch. The way his knuckles brush the edge of the gear shift sometimes, like he’s holding back from reaching for your knee. You don’t say a word until the city lights start thinning out behind you.

And even then—you just exhale. Quiet. Like the part of you that still wants to scream finally gave up. The roads curl as you climb. Sharp turns and silver lights and the sea flickering below like a memory you can’t quite shake. The kind of drive that would feel lonely if it weren’t for the warmth humming between the seats. Monaco thins out as you rise, the glamor traded for silence, for altitude, for real estate so expensive the trees are pruned to match the neighborhood’s collective ego.

Through it all—Max. Still. Watching you. Not in a way that demands your gaze. Not like Lando. There’s no performance in it. Just that quiet, relentless Maxness. Like he’s looking at a storm he’d rather walk into than run from. Like he knows it might break him but he’s choosing it anyway. You glance sideways. Quick. Just a flick of your eyes. But it’s enough to catch it.

That look. The one that doesn’t belong here. Not tonight. Not after what you did. It’s not lust. It’s not hunger. It’s worse.

It’s hope. That wide, open, dangerous look like he’s seeing a version of the future where this ends differently. Where you don’t break. Where he’s the one who gets to hold what’s left of you.

Your throat closes. You want to say something. To ruin it before it becomes real. To rip it out of his hands before he gets comfortable holding it.

But you don’t. You just keep driving. Keep pretending you don’t feel your heart curling in on itself like paper in flame. Keep pretending the thought of Lando’s whisper and falls promises doesn’t linger in the back of your head.

#f1 #f1 fanfic #lando #lando x you #lando norris #f1 x reader #f1 fic #f1 imagine #max verstappen #max vertsappen fic #lando Norris fic #lando norizz #Lando smut #lando angst #lando fluff #Max smut #max fluff

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youunravelme · 3 days ago

Text

meant just for you // part one

author's note: long time no see! i'm (somewhat) back! i'm really excited to share this story with everyone, but it wouldn't be possible without bestie girl @thewintersoldierdisaster who has helped me tremendously along the way. thank you so much, p! this is for you :)

summary: you have a history of dating around and hooking up. after seeing your teammates start to settle down, you and mat make a bet to see who can fall in love first.

pairing: mat barzal x pwhl!reader

warnings: mentions of sex (though no actual smut because i can't write that to save my life), cursing, toxic boyfriends

the meeting

being selected for the all star pwhl 3 on 3 showcase was an honor in and of itself, one you didn't take lightly. it was even sweeter since it was held in your hometown, ubs in elmont, new york.

you worked hard to get where you were today, not coming from money. sure your parents would be upper class anywhere else, but on long island? middle class. add on the extra expenses of skating lessons, goalie gear, and club fees on two teachers’ salaries, there wasn’t much cash left over when it was all said and done.

safe to say, your mom and dad shed actual tears when you were drafted to the sirens. whether they were tears of joy or tears of relief (from the fact that they hadn't wasted money on a career that would never be), you weren't sure. they probably would've cried regardless of what team, but knowing you were just across the river was a huge relief for them.

“proud of you squirt,” your dad said into your hair. “it’s time for you to start carrying your own goalie bag and peeling your oranges, now.”

you rolled your eyes. “i've been doing that for years, dad.”

“not the oranges,” your mom chimed in.

you grimaced. “i don't like the feeling of the peel getting under my nails. it’s gross.”

safe to say, you were ecstatic to tell your parents you were playing in the 2026 pwhl showcase. your parents had squeezed you so tightly in a group hug that you were sure some of your ribs cracked.

“you’re gonna be great!” your mom cheered.

“we can rent out our driveway to lazy tourists!” your dad said. you pulled back and gave him a strange look, but he didn't even look the least bit sorry. “i’m trying to earn back all the money i spent on your goalie gear, squirt.”

you'd rolled your eyes at the time, thinking it was just an over exaggeration, but when you saw how bad traffic was in elmont, you were grateful for the reserved parking for players.

you pulled into ubs’ reserved parking area, feeling the excitement hit you all at once.

you were at ubs for the all star red carpet event you'd grown up watching from the rug in front of the tv in your parents’ house. sometime that week, you’d be on the ice instead of watching the islanders from the stands like you had the last few years. you grew up down the street, and later that week, you would play on that ice in front of thousands of hockey fans.

you could feel the excitement singing in your veins, you were bouncing on your toes, tapping your feet in your heels as you got out of the car. you straightened your teal patterned pant suit and black corset top, before pulling your phone out of your pocket.

you: are you here yet?

you texted jessie eldridge, not sure if she arrived with everyone else. for the first time ever, you were running late. the anxiety (and probably the undiagnosed adhd) meant you spent more time fretting at your parents’ house than you anticipated, hence why you were arriving at the very end of the pwhl segment of the red carpet.

you’d have to apologize to your agent later.

now that you’d arrived, more anxiety started setting in. the cruel, self deprecating words inhabiting your brain told you to go home, that you didn't belong among “real hockey players.”

jess: not yet. pulling up now! traffic is insane!!!

you sighed and tried to touch up your lipstick in the reflection of your car window while telling yourself mentally that you could be brave, you could do hard things. you were the starting goalie on one of the six inaugural teams in the professional women’s hockey league, you were used to fear, or not feeling like enough. there was a reason you didn't check the comments on tiktok or instagram, or the replies on tweets after the games. people were cruel.

despite the shaking in your knees, despite the anxiety threatening to swallow you whole, you remembered the tears in your parents eyes when you got drafted, the hugs they gave you after each game.

you remembered the little girls you'd seen in the crowd with signs and your jersey on. that had to mean something, even if there were sexist pigs out there who didn't.

before you started walking, another car pulled into the parking lot and parked a few spaces away. you paused, recognizing the car, and waited for your teammate to get out.

jess eldridge popped out of her car, smiling wide as soon as she saw you. “long time, no see,” she joked, considering you saw her earlier that morning for practice. her eyes widened as she took in your outfit. “jesus fucking christ,” she said. “tryna get laid tonight?”

you grinned like a child and waited for her to catch up before you both started walking towards the red carpet. “we’re at a work function, jess,” you chided, knowing good and well that had never stopped you before. “how was the drive?”

jess shrugged. “traffic was not fun, you're lucky your parents live around here.”

“did everyone else ride on the bus?”

“they did if they’re from out of town.” jess pulled out her phone and checked the time. “i think we might be the last ones here. which, i’m always late, but you being late is unheard of.”

you shrugged. “i figured i could be late this one time. i’m early to every other event.”

the two of you walked towards the fan area, smiling as the noise levels increased. you started bouncing on your feet once more, grinning from ear to ear.

there were little girls who gasped when they saw you both. you pointed out a little redhead wearing jess’ jersey and the two of you quickly made your way to her.

sharpies were being pushed in your line of sight, it felt like there were so many people yelling at once. the announcer said your name, followed by jessie’s. little girls were asking for your autographs, social media interns were interviewing sarah nurse and emma maltais, there were random cheers at random intervals.

it was overwhelming.

somewhere along the autograph lines, you lost sight of all the other girls, only realizing when you looked up from yet another jersey and noticed you were standing alone.

an assistant called your name and gestured you down the line to take a few photos. you were on your way when a shoulder hit yours and nearly sent you sprawling on the ground had it not been for a firm grip around your bicep.

you glanced to your left and saw a man with a dazzling smile you knew all too well through the screen of your parents’ tv and your social media.

mat barzal.

“sorry,” he grinned. “didn't see you there.”

you weren't sure how, you two were standing eye to eye, it wasn’t like you were as short as emma, you were pretty tall, even without your heels on.

“oh,” you said. “you're mat.”

he nodded and stuck his hand out to shake before saying your name. you must've looked surprised because he laughed when he dropped his hand from yours and gestured to you. “you play for the sirens, right? goalie?”

you smiled and nodded before an attendant was ushering you down the carpet. you fully expected him to wave bye, but he kept up.

“you watch our games?” you asked.

he nodded again. “went back and watched the shut out you had against montreal. it was impressive, especially going against poulin.”

you beamed under his praise, remembering the amount of times you tapped the goalposts for blocking shots you couldn't or the twelve cherry starbursts you ate before the start of the game like you’d done since you were seven.

the game before, you only had eleven and lost by two goals. you weren't taking any chances anymore.

another attendant rushed you to stand in front of the banner to take your photo. mat caught up with you again after his picture was taken. “it’s nice to meet you,” you started when he was close enough to hear you. “my parents love you.” you blinked. “i mean, i grew up with islanders fans for parents.”

mat’s eyebrows rose, a small smirk on his lips. “really?”

you smiled. “grew up right down the street actually.”

he gave a low whistle. “bet that’s convenient.”

“my dad joked that he was gonna rent out the driveway to lazy tourists.”

mat threw his head back and laughed as the two of you continued down the carpet, stopping to sign autographs along the way.

“your teammates here yet?” he asked.

“i was definitely like the last one to arrive. jessie eldridge showed up around the same time but i don’t see her...” you noted for the first time that you'd lost her somewhere along the way. “whoops,” you said. “are any of your teammates here? is sorokin?”

“big fan?” mat snickered.

but your mind was already moving on. your eyes widened as you grabbed the sleeve of mat’s suit. “oh my god, is patrick roy gonna be here?”

he shook his head, still grinning like an idiot. “he’s taking the bye week to ignore our phone calls.”

you huffed.

the closer you got to the end of the red carpet, the more you realized you were going to have to leave mat, the handsome stranger who wasn't really much of a stranger considering how much you knew about him already.

he was starting to get tugged in different metaphorical directions by the fans reaching out for an autograph while it was obvious your popularity was nowhere near his.

“i’ll see you later,” you said.

mat’s brows pulled together. “you're leaving?”

you jabbed a thumb over your shoulder. “gotta catch up with the girls before the game tonight.”

“you feel good about it?”

your fingers twitched against your legs with more excited energy as you backed away from him, a smile on your face as you shook your head. “uh uh, nope. i don't talk about the game before the game, goes against my beliefs.”

mat cackled. “i’ll see you around, good luck!”

you spun on your heel and walked off the carpet. you walked until you saw familiar faces. emma and jess were standing at the end, looking at you and smiling as they talked among themselves.

“when i asked if you were planning on getting laid tonight, i didn't think you were going to go after barzal,” jess laughed.

you shoved her shoulder good naturedly. “we just ran into each other.”

emma snickered and shook her head. “he's hotter than all the other guys you've hooked up with, twitchy. why not give it a shot?”

it was true, you and emma went to ohio state together before being drafted to two separate teams. she was your roadie roommate and often saw the guys you'd swiped right on.

she was also the one who gave you what some might consider the offensive nickname of twitch.

“you keep spazzing out and twitching before games,” she noted.

“i’m practicing my eye and hand movements,” you said before popping a red starburst in your mouth.

you rolled your eyes but a smile was still on your face. “i don't hook up with hockey players.”

“why not? they’d be the perfect match, they'd understand your schedule, the intensity of the game. they could make a great boyfriend...” jess replied.

but you shook your head. “hookups are the only relationship i can commit to right now. i’ve got too much else going on. and hooking up with a hockey player just seems like bad news.”

emma and jess shrugged before you followed the two of them to your seats.

winter olympics - milan

the lack of travelling you did for the all star week was made up when you flew to milan for the winter olympics. it was a beautiful city to be in, no doubt about it. though, by the time you got to your room, you weren't interested in doing anything but collapsing face first into your bed. the six hour time difference and the flight immediately after all star weekend was starting to catch up with you.

safe to say, you felt like death heated up.

you shared a room with alex carpenter, your alternate captain. you loved alex like the older sister you never had, she was the picture perfect roommate.

except you were staring at her sleeping body like a weirdo because you were wide awake. how the hell had she fallen asleep so fast? it felt like your body was still in new york.

you finally accepted that you weren't going to sleep anytime soon, and instead of scrolling on tiktok and waiting for sleep to hit you in the face (and risk waking alex up), you grabbed your phone, your bag, and headed outside towards the dining hall.

it wasn't too long of a trek, though you were wishing you'd put on more than a pullover and leggings when the wind blew too hard. when you finally made it in the dining hall, your cheeks were both warm from the blood rushing to them, and cold from the wind.

you looked around the large room, for what, you weren't sure. maybe it was for people you knew, or the food options, but you had red starbursts in your bag so you weren't too concerned on the food front. still, you wandered around, looking at the food anyway, just to see if anything piqued your interest.

you'd gotten to the dessert section when a mop of dark brown hair caught your attention. at first, you weren't sure if it was him, so you approached him in a way one might back away from a lion in the safari: slowly. it wasn’t until you saw his jawline and profile that you knew for sure

mat barzal had a stack of cannolis on his plate when you moseyed up next to him.

“i feel like four cannolis at two in the morning is a bit excessive.”

to his credit, mat didn't jump when you spoke. “leave me alone, we burn like thousands of calories doing this shit.” he piled another cannoli on his plate before turning on his heel and searching for what you assumed was a table (and hopefully not more food). “what're you doing up?”

“my brain says it’s only 8pm. i didn't wanna wake alex with my doom scrolling,” you said as you followed him to a table.

mat set his plate down and pulled out his chair, gesturing to the one across from him for you to sit. “jet lag is a bitch,” he said. his head tilted when he saw the bag you placed in the chair next to you. “what’s in the bag?” he asked before taking a bite of one of his cannolis.

your eyes lit up as you smiled. “glad you asked.” you reached in and pulled out a starburst stick before ripping the top of it off with your teeth. you frowned when a pink one fell out. “dammit,” you grumbled, letting the pink starburst rest on the table. “pink is the worst.”

mat eyed you and the starburst for a moment before reaching for it. he unwrapped the paper and popped it into his mouth.

you did a little dance in your seat when the next starburst was red. it took no time for you to unwrap it and pop it into your mouth much like mat did with the pink one.

mat stared as he took a sip of his water. “is there something i’m missing? bringing a whole ass bag for just one thing of starbursts seems a little excessive.”

“you are correct,” you said, a smug smile on your face as you reached into your bag and pulled out a box. “i’m actually glad i ran into you. i was hoping i’d get to use this while i was here.”

mat blinked. “you brought battleship to the olympics?”

you nodded eagerly. “wanna play?”

mat sighed and shook his head, a smile on his face anyway. “you're so weird.”

maybe it should've hurt your feelings, but you'd been called weird all your life, this was no different. you shrugged. “maybe, but you didn't answer the question.

mat stared for a minute before pushing his plate aside. “no cheating.”

by 3am, you'd beaten mat twice and were on your way to your third win. “a7,” you said.

mat rolled his eyes and groaned. “you're definitely cheating. there’s no fucking way you're not.”

you laughed and fell back into your seat. “how would i cheat, mat?”

“i—i don't fucking know!” he sputtered and pointed an accusatory finger. “but i know you’re doing it! no one is ever this good at this stupid fucking game.”

“i played a lot as a kid,” you said like it was an explanation. “sometimes by myself.”

“how the hell did you play with yourself?”

you snickered, the joke was coming out of your mouth before you could stop it. “vibrators exist, you know.”

mat looked at you like you'd grown another head before bursting into laughter. “i fucking hate you,” he managed to squeeze out between wheezes. “you win.”

you giggled a little at his reaction, preening at the attention. “what do i get for winning?

mat slid the plate across the table to you. “pick a cannoli, any cannoli.”

you looked at the cream filled pastry, the way most of the cream had cooled to room temp and lost its volume, looking rather melted and unappealing. you twisted your face into a look of disgust. “i beat your ass three times and all i get is melted cannoli?

mat rolled his eyes, though the small smile on his lips betrayed his fake annoyance. “what do you want?”

you thought about it, thought back to the last few weeks, and what the next two weeks would look like. “you have to peel my oranges for the rest of the olympics.”

“...that's not a euphemism, is it?”

you cracked a smile. “no, i don't hook up with hockey players. my dad would peel my oranges because i hate the way the peel feels under my nails and oranges are my favorite fruit so it poses quite the problem.”

“so whenever i see you with an orange, i’ll peel it for you?”

you nodded.

he nodded and stuck his hand out. “you've got yourself a deal.”

you didn't see mat until two days later when you ran into him at the figure skating pairs event. well, “ran into” might be a bit dramatic. in reality, you were sitting in the stands with alex and emma when an unfamiliar (yet growing more familiar) body plopped down next to you.

before you could even react, a peeled orange in a ziploc bag appeared in your line of sight. “want it?” mat asked.

your eyes lit up when you saw it, your hands immediately reached out for the bag. “oh my god, i’m starving.” you did your best to not snatch the bag from his hands in your hunger, but you shoved three pieces in your mouth almost immediately after opening the bag.

mat cackled. “were you hungry?”

“starving,” you said through a mouthful of fruit.

emma laughed from her spot next to you. “oh my god. did anyone ever teach you not to talk with your mouth full?”

you shrugged. “i don't know, men are usually too busy getting the best head of their life to complain.”

alex choked while emma threw her head back laughing. mat froze next to you.

“you’re insane, twitch,” emma managed to say between laughs. “absolutely batshit.”

but you shrugged and kept eating your oranges.

“twitch?” mat said after a moment. “who’s twitch?”

you raised your hand like you were sitting at a desk at school. “that’s me,” you said after swallowing more oranges.

mat blinked. “why?”

emma piped in. “in college, she would look like she was twitching—”

“—i was practicing my hand and eye movements—”

“—in college?” alex interrupted. “she still does it.”

“and hence the name twitch was born,” emma concluded.

you rolled your eyes and looked at mat. “they're exaggerating.”

he only smiled and shrugged. “more creative than our nicknames.”

“well, the bar’s in hell then,” you said.

“barzy! we gotta go!” all four of you looked over and saw bo horvat standing at the end of the aisle, gesturing for mat to get up.

mat, to his credit, looked a little sorry to leave, even as he stood up. “i’ll see you around, twitch,” he said.

your friends, to their credit, waited until he was out of sight to start elbowing and shoving you around.

“he brought you a peeled orange? how did he even know to do that?” emma pestered.

once again, you rolled your eyes. “it was my reward when i beat him in battleship.”

“battleship? when did you have time to play that?” alex asked.

“the other night when i couldn't fall asleep.”

“are you gonna hook up with him?” emma bounced in her seat, her blonde hair falling around her face.

“i don't hook up with hockey players,” you said. “too close to home. besides, there are plenty of men to sleep with while i’m here.”

you found yourself making out with (and fucking) a french snowboarder before the night was over. he wasn't bad, he used a lot of tongue, that was certain. which begged the question: was it a french kiss in france? or was it just a kiss? you'd never know, you forgot to ask him.

alex was getting in bed by the time you got back to the room, your hair mussed and lips swollen. “eventful night?” she asked.

you shrugged and changed into your pajamas. “you could say that.”

“how was he?”

“sloppy kisser. how’s steph?” you asked.

a smile you could only describe as soft graced alex’s lips. “great, we spoke an hour ago. she told me to tell you good luck.”

“she’s so sweet.” you groaned as you fell back into your bed. “none of the guys i’ve been with have ever been that nice.”

the room was silent, yet so loud. “twitchy,” alex started. “they're hook ups, not boyfriends.”

you sat up in bed and looked at alex. “what do you mean?”

“hook ups have no emotional investment, twitch. why would they care if you did well or not?” she asked. and the truth stung a little, you weren't going to lie about that. after a beat of silence, she continued. “could it be possible the hook ups aren't enough anymore?”

you shrugged and fell against the bed. “i don’t know,” you groaned. “it’s not even like the sex is good anymore. i mean, it’s not bad, but it’s like i have to give a beginner’s lesson every time.”

“that is a benefit of a committed relationship. you're not starting over every time you have sex.”

you turned your head and saw how alex was scrolling on your phone. you weren't sure how she could do it when you were having a slight crisis. “but i don't know that i have time for a boyfriend and hockey. how the hell am i supposed to manage that?”

alex turned to look at you. “if he wants to be with you, and if you want to be with him, you both will find a way to make it work. but you have to get over this fear of commitment for it to work.”

you turned back to look at the ceiling and said nothing.

alex fell asleep shortly after your conversation ended like she didn't just wreck your worldview. and like a few nights ago, you got up and went to the dining hall, except this time without battleship or your bag of starbursts.

you should've been surprised when you saw mat again, but instead of focusing on why he was stuffing his face with cannoli, you just plopped into the chair across from him.

“do you ever wanna settle down?”

mat coughed and choked on a cannoli. “w—what? with you?”

you rolled your eyes. “no, just in general. aren't most of your teammates married? do you ever want that?”

he swallowed and nodded, taking a sip of water before speaking. “i mean yeah, eventually. why?”

you fell back into your chair and sighed. “i feel like my friends expect me to grow up at some point. i mean i’m almost thirty, shouldn't i be committed to someone by now?”

he shrugged. “i don't know, should you?”

“don't your teammates ask you about that?”

“i don't know, maybe. but i just ignore them.”

“you do?”

“...no. okay? no. it gets to me too. but it is what it is. i can’t manage hockey and—”

“—dating, right?”

he nodded.

“what if we made a deal?”

“a deal?” he leaned in. “i’m listening.”

“you and i, we both want to stop being single, right?”

“right.”

“but we’re athletes, we’re competitive. so what if we made this a competition?”

mat took a bite of cannoli. “so what’re you thinking?”

“first person to fall in love wins. we try dating around and finding our people but the first person to fall in love wins.”

mat’s eyes widened. “just like that? we’re going from an inability to commit to falling in love?”

you nodded eagerly. “it’s like exposure therapy! grabbing the bulls by the horns.” you inhaled.

“what does the winner get?”

you hummed. “a favor that can be cashed in at any time.” he nodded, looking lost in thought. “so what do you think? are you in?” you stuck your hand out, ready for him to shake it, but anticipating that he won't.

a moment passed. mat ran a hand down his face. “god i must be desperate,” he mumbled before he shook your hand. “i’m in.”

guy one: paul

you were soaked in sweat and your lungs were burning. with the water bottle attached to the back of the goal, you sprayed yourself in the face, the cold liquid doing wonders to cool you off.

you skated off the ice and towards the locker rooms. you shucked your jersey and chest protector off almost immediately.

“you in a rush, twitchy?” jess said from her locker across the room. “hot date?”

“maybe,” you replied.

truth be told, yes. you were meeting this guy named paul that you met on hinge. he seemed nice enough. granted, the bar was in hell. “nice enough” was the result of him not sending you a dick pick within the first three texts. he had yet to send an inappropriate text or photo, which gave you a little bit of hope.

so when you looked at your phone, you expected to see a message from him. but it was mat’s name on your home screen.

mat barzal: what time is your date tonight?

after that night in the dining hall, you and mat exchanged numbers. it was his idea, saying it’d be better if the two of you didn't leave meeting up to chance anymore. you'd hardly call meeting at two work events “chance” but you weren't going to protest.

you: 7, why?

you continued undressing until you were just in a pair of spandex shorts and a sirens shirt.

mat barzal: just curious.

mat barzal: you ready to hang it up?

you: hang what up?

mat barzal: your hoe stage. may she rest in peace.

a snort came out before you could even think to stop it.

you: i’ll hang mine up if you do the same.

mat barzal: i thought that was the deal.

you liked the message and locked your phone.

jess slid into the spot next to you and tried to peer over your shoulder. “what’re your plans for tonight?”

you shrugged and began untying your skates. “hinge date.”

her eyes widened as she smirked. “ooo with who? the mystery man you were texting?”

you rolled your eyes. “no, that was just barzal.”

it was almost like someone had used a clorox wipe on jess’ face, because any trace of her smugness was gone in a flash. “barzal? barzal who? barzal as in mat barzal of the new york islanders?”

you blinked. “yep.”

her jaw dropped. “when did you get his number? is he the one you're going on a date with?”

as if the word “date” was a beacon in the night, every single one of your teammates’ heads turned your way. “you have a date tonight, twitchy?” ella shelton asked. “who is it?”

“mat barzal!” jess replied quicker than you could.

it was silent for just a moment before a million questions were fired your way. since when were you dating him? how did you two meet? when was your first date? is this your first date? why didn't you tell us?

“we’re not dating,” you said over the noise.

“then why is he texting you?” ella asked.

“because we made a bet.” the girls leaned in. “whoever falls in love first, and by proxy gets someone else to fall in love with them, wins.”

alex carpenter blinked. “why?”

you blinked back. “why what?”

“why make it a competition? i thought you weren't interested in dating?”

you glanced around the room, most of your teammates were in committed long term relationships with someone and those who weren't had just gotten out of one. then there was you, and maybe one or two other stragglers left to go bar hopping with the potential of taking someone home.

sleeping around was fun, but maybe you were ready for someone to understand you, to not laugh when you say you love sleeping in socks. you were tired of falling asleep with cold feet anytime you wanted the other side of your bed warm.

but how could you say that? a post practice gossip session was not really the place you wanted to lay your heart bare.

“maybe i just wanted some consistency.” you gestured to alex. “i mean, i see steph at nearly every game. it would be nice to have someone show up for me other than my parents.”

the mass interrogation dispersed not long after that confession, with you heading off to the showers before heading home to your one bedroom jersey apartment. to pass time, you took a nap while watching gilmore girls.

you met paul at the chipotle not too far from prudential. he suggested it and though you'd had chipotle plenty of times that week, you agreed because it was easy enough.

you filled your bowl with your usual and watched as he only got chicken and white rice. part of you tried to brush it off by thinking maybe he had food allergies, but why would he suggest a place where he couldn't eat most of anything on the menu?

he picked a table in the middle of the restaurant, which was also odd, but you went along with it. he was already seated and mixing his dry ass bowl together by the time you made it to the table with your drink.

it was weird, you'd admit. it wasn't like you expected him to pull your chair out for you, but you did at least expect him to wait until you sat down to start eating. maybe his family was different than yours.

“so,” you started as you mixed your bowl with your fork. “what do you like to do for fun?”

god you were horrible at this.

he shrugged and stuffed his mouth full of rice and chicken. “i’ve been reading rich dad poor dad.”

oh god. he was even worse at this than you were.

okay, okay, maybe this date could still be saved. “so you like to read?”

paul shrugged again. “sometimes.”

you blinked and took a bite of your burrito bowl while you waited for him to ask you a question.

he kept munching on his chicken and rice.

“so,” you started. “do you have any hobbies?”

“running.”

more silence.

“what do you do for work?”

“i’m an accountant.”

you stabbed your bowl with a little fierceness, but tried to taper your frustration. “i play in the pwhl.”

you waited and watched, hoping if he didn't understand what you did, that he'd at least try to act interested. but he just kept eating.

“have you ever run a marathon?” you asked.

“no.”

the date continued on like that, your questions answered followed by painful silences that served to exacerbate how one sided the whole experience was. at the end, he stood up to throw his things away without saying a word. you followed, because you were ready to say goodbye and end the disaster you were ashamed to call a date (god you can’t believe you shaved for this).

the two of you stood on the sidewalk, letting people move around you.

“we should do this again. this was fun,” he said.

and without even thinking about it, you said, “was it?”

paul blinked. “why wouldn't it have been?”

you laughed until you saw he didn't join in. “oh,” you stopped, “you're serious.”

paul just stared like nothing had happened. before meeting him, you weren't sure what a blank stare looked like, but after seeing it on his face, you could safely say the lights were on but no one was home.

“paul, you didn't ask me a single question, the only reason we didn't sit in silence was because of me.”

he blinked like he was getting paid to do it. honestly, at that point in the night, it seemed to be the only thing he did.

“you have nothing to say?” when he didn't respond fast enough, you rolled your eyes. “bye paul.”

before you could stop yourself, you started the drive to elmont to see your parents. you could go back to your apartment tomorrow, but you really needed to touch grass after that date, even if it was the small yard behind your parents’ house.

you were at a stoplight five minutes from your parents’ home when your phone rang.

mat barzal.

you squinted at your phone but picked up anyway. “hello?”

“hey! are you currently at a stoplight?”

that was an odd coincidence. “yeah?”

“about two blocks from ubs?”

“...yeah.”

“okay cool, i see you.”

you look around alarmed until you saw a hand waving in the car next to you. you couldn't help the smile on your lips when you saw him sitting in the car to your left. his phone pressed to his ear with one hand, his other waving at you. “what the fuck are you doing out and about?”

mat jabbed his thumb over his shoulder, like he was pointing at ubs’ general direction. “just had a game. you? i didn't think you lived on the island.”

“visiting my parents. i need to touch grass, my date was rough.”

mat grimaced.

the light turned green and you half expected him to hang up, but he kept the call going. “what happened?”

“i would’ve rather watched paint dry than relive that date again. he was the most boring person i think i’ve ever met. i asked him questions and he'd give me one or two word answers and then wouldn't ask me anything. and then at the end of the night, he said we should go out again because it was ‘fun.’ and then he had the audacity to be surprised when i told him it wasn't!”

“how boring could he possibly have been?”

you groaned. “his order at chipotle was white rice and chicken.”

“and what else?” mat asked.

“that’s it. that’s the only thing he ordered.”

“oh my god.”

“and he reads fucking rich dad poor dad for fun i guess. and he likes to go running. he’s also an accountant, but don't ask me for any more information because i think he’s allergic to details.”

mat cackled through the phone. “what was his name again?”

“paul.”

“hate to break it to ya, twitch. with a name like paul, you really should've expected it.”

before you could stop it, a laugh bubbled out of your chest. “that’s super judgmental.”

“and maybe if you were as judgy as me, you wouldn't have gone on a date with the human equivalent of wet cement.”

you turned your blinker on and got into the turning lane for your parents’ neighborhood. “not all of us can be as discerning as you.”

“hey, if you wanna run your hinge matches by me next time, i’ll gladly provide my expertise, free of charge.”

“i’ll keep that in mind for next time, barzy. thanks for listening to me bitch.”

the smile on his face was audible when he spoke to you. “anytime, twitch, anytime.”

guy two: nathan

the second date only happened after an extensive vetting process, aka sending screenshots and screen recordings of hinge profiles to mat and jess (in separate threads of course. there was no way you were starting a group chat with the both of them).

jess had been more forgiving than mat had, which surprised you. she pointed out her fair share of red flags, but it was nothing compared to mat’s.

mat met you outside sweetgreen where you went inside to collect your mobile orders. to his credit, he did have a beanie (for once, it wasn’t islanders related) and sunglasses on in a sorry attempt to not be spotted. it was clear the attempt didn’t work because there were two kids asking for autographs when you came out.

you stayed back far enough where it wasn’t obvious you were with him and waited for the kids to leave with their parents.

“i swear i’m not trying to attract attention,” he mumbled to you when the coast was clear.

you handed him his order and rolled your eyes. “you're one of the most recognizable faces on long island, and you thought a beanie and sunglasses would save you?”

he shrugged before popping a pickle chip in his mouth and started walking down the sidewalk. “do you have any updated matches you wanna show me?”

without even responding, you handed mat your unlocked phone.

“oh immediately no,” mat said, looking at some guy named jonathan.

“what's wrong with him?” you asked, peering over his shoulder.

mat flashed your phone at you for a brief second. “he has a neck beard!

you grabbed your phone and looked at the photos again. huh, you hadn't noticed that before. “he can shave it!”

it was mat’s turn to roll his eyes. “he posted that picture because he thought he looked good in it, he's not shaving that fuckass beard.” he continued swiping through your matches and scoffed at most of them.

“this one has too many group photos, and i guarantee you, he's not the guy you think he is.”

two minutes later, mat scoffed and said fishing photos were a bad sign.

“it’s just fishing.”

but mat shook his head and offered no explanation. “didn't your friends tell you these things?”

“jess and ella were looking at the answers and content more than photos, i think they’re concerned about my safety.”

“and neckbeard passed the test?” mat’s eyebrows practically raised into his hairline. “twitch you are way too hot to be dating neckbeards and men whose only personality is fishing.”

“how is that fair to them? my only personality is hockey!”

you stumbled over the uneven sidewalk before mat’s hand steadied you by your elbow.

“try to stay on your feet, twitch.”

you stopped walking long enough to give him a look of disbelief. “i know you're not talking to me about staying on my feet. you fall down like four times each period.”

part of you expected mat to get defensive, but he smirked instead. “aw, you watch my games?”

you glowered and kept walking.

that was two days ago. you were currently getting ready to go on a date with nathan who had (somehow) managed to be approved by your board of trustees as mat called them. ella, jess, and mat couldn't seem to agree on anyone collectively until you matched with nathan.

he graduated from penn state law before he moved back to new york. he was the oldest of three boys and had played football since he was a kid. he doesn't play anymore now, you figured, but still got together with his friends at least once a month to play in prospect park.

it seemed like a good fit. ella pointed out how having friends was a good sign. jess said that he seemed to be passionate about his line of work and lighthearted. and judging by the dms you’d been sending each other, nathan was also way more charismatic and entertaining than paul, which was a win.

you met him at a coffee shop in manhattan, he didn't pull your chair out but he did stand when you walked over with your coffee in hand. which was fine, you weren’t old fashioned or anything, it was more than paul had done.

“hey,” he greeted with a thousand watt smile.

dear god, he was handsome.

it’s okay, you told yourself, you had marie philip-poulin shoot pucks at you a million times before, and she was way scarier than any man.

“hi,” you smiled back.

the two of you took your seats.

“hi,” he said again. “you look great!”

“you do too, handsome, i mean.”

he nodded and took a sip of his coffee. “what did you order?”

“mocha frappe,” you smiled. his face pinched in a small frown before it was covered up with yet another smile. “what about you?”

“americano,” he said. “i like it bitter.” he took a sip. “so i saw you're a fan of hockey, what’s your team?”

“oh, i’m actually a professional hockey player,” you gently corrected. “so, my go to team is the new york sirens, but if we’re talking nhl, my parents are huge islanders fans so i’ve been pulling for them as long as i can remember.”

his eyes lit up. “oh cool! i didn’t know you were a professional hockey player, i wasn’t aware they had a league for women now.”

“yeah! the inaugural season was last year, but we didn’t have official team names until this year.” you took a sip of your frappe. “what about you? do you follow the nfl closely? i know your profile said you played football.”

he smiled sheepishly. “unfortunately, i’ve been a jets fan since birth.”

you grimaced. “yikes...”

“take pity on me, i’ve been through a lot, my trust is damaged.”

you snorted before you could even think to stop yourself. your eyes widened as you made eye contact with nathan whose shocked face did nothing for your confidence. an apology was about to come out of your mouth before he changed the topic and pretended like nothing happened.

the rest of the date went so well, you exchanged numbers at the end of the afternoon. it was a little odd when you saw his phone, it looked older than you thought it should’ve, but maybe he was an old soul and didn't want the newest iphone just because he could have it.

on the second date, a week later, you met up on your side of the hudson. you were fresh from practice while nathan took his lunch break to see you.

his phone kept buzzing on the table, but he brushed them off as work emails, which made sense. he was a lawyer, he probably had hundreds of emails to answer on a regular basis. when his phone started ringing, he held it kind of awkwardly in a way where you couldn't see who was calling. he held a finger up at you and excused himself from the table.

you watched as he paced up and down the sidewalk, confused as to why he was so agitated. sure, you hadn’t known nathan long, but he didn't seem to be the type to frustrate easily.

your own phone vibrated on the table, and since nathan was on a phone call, you checked it.

mat barzal: when are you free next? i have raya matches and i need a girl’s perspective.

you: don't you have teammates?

mat barzal: they’re all practically married.

you: i’m failing to see the disqualifications

mat barzal: they’re all dudes, they don't know what they're talking about

you: and i do?

mat barzal: you’re a girl, aren't you?

you: i’m not even going to dignify that with a response

mat barzal: photo attachment

when you opened the text, it was a picture of what you assumed was child mat in hockey gear.

mat barzal: would you say no to this face?

you: i’m on a date, but when it ends, i’ll call you.

mat barzal: :)

nathan came back in, looking more flushed than usual. “everything okay?” you asked.

“huh? oh, yeah, just a work thing.”

you blinked. “seemed a bit intense for work...”

he shrugged and took a bite of his sandwich. “it’s just a lawyer thing.”

the lunch continued for another twenty minutes before he rushed off saying he had to get back to work. he pressed a sweet but brief kiss to your lips and promised to call you.

there was no reason to not believe him.

as you walked out of the restaurant, you pulled up mat’s contact and called him. he picked up on the second ring.

“hey! are you free?” he asked.

“just left my date.”

“oh...sorry, did i interrupt?”

you smiled despite yourself at the slight apologetic tone in his voice. “no barzy, you did not, he had to go back to work.”

“oh...so you’re free? right now?”

“yep, just headed back to my apartment. do you wanna come over?”

“yeah, just send me your address.”

an hour later, you were buzzing mat up to your apartment. he immediately started scrutinizing the space. it wasn't much, probably nothing like he was used to considering the giant salary gap between the two of you, but it was lived in. your grandmother’s quilt lay across the back of the couch you saved for. you'd thrifted the floor lamp and the rug (and the money you saved on it went to getting it professionally cleaned). on the coffee table was a candy jar full of only red starburst, the others were in a gallon sized ziploc bag in your pantry.

“cozy,” mat said.

“i know it’s not much—”

“do you like living here?” he asked.

you nodded.

“that’s what matters. that it feels like home.” he pulled his phone out and pulled up raya. “can you help me with this? the guys keep mentioning wife material and telling me i’m not gonna meet a wife on a dating app.”

you rolled your eyes. “your teammates have also been dating their wives since high school so i wouldn't take everything they say so seriously.” your thumbs began scrolling through his matches, taking mental notes of the girls flying across the screen. “not this girl,” you said, showing him a picture of a red head.

mat’s eyes widened. ”what? why? she volunteers at the animal shelter!”

“taking a picture at the animal shelter and volunteering at the animal shelter are two different things. besides, it’s the fact that all her group photos are with guys, not a single girl spotted.”

“so? she says she's one of the guys.”

“and in girl words, that means she’s dealing with a lot of internalized misogyny and might be a pick me. she’d probably see any woman in your life as a threat.”

“huh.”

“and this girl,” you showed him another one of your matches. “she seems nice, but if you look in the background of one of her photos, there’s a rangers jersey on the floor.”

mat physically recoiled like you'd just slapped him.

“but the other girls seem fine, especially this grace girl, she seems cool.”

“thanks, twitch,” mat said reaching for his phone.

you picked yours off the coffee table and plopped down on the couch. “wanna watch a movie?”

mat nodded and watched as you put on the mighty ducks. sure it was a bit on the nose and the two of you had already been submerged enough in hockey culture, but you were ready to turn your brain off and just be a kid again. besides, the two of you would probably end up scrolling on your phones most of the time anyway.

you opened instagram and saw a dm notification from an account you didn't follow. hesitantly, you clicked on the message and promptly felt you stomach drop to your ankles.

hey girl, the message started. the guy you’ve been seeing, nathan, is my fiancé, we’ve been dating since high school. i would really appreciate if you ended things with him.

“oh my god,” you mumbled.

“what? have you never seen this movie before? it always starts like this,” mat laughed. his laugh stopped short when you showed him the message. “shit.”

“yeah,” you said. “shit.”

mat’s girl one: lauren

the final buzzer sounded, signifying the end of the game, a 4-2 win over toronto at prudential. alex skated over to you first, wrapping you in a hug and patting your helmet. “good job, twitchy,” she smiled. your other teammates followed suit.

jess was last, embracing you as tightly as she could with both of your pads in the way. she skated alongside you back to the locker room. while you loved being one of the three stars of the game, you were glad you weren't chosen that night because nothing sounded better than showering and going home.

after the game debrief in the locker room, you rushed to the showers to scrub the layers of sweat off your body. only when you felt human again, did you get dressed into your sirens sweatsuit. sure, maybe you should've put your cute outfit on again, but you could already feel how exhausted your body was and couldn't imagine putting on an underwire bra and real pants after the game you just had.

on your way to your car, you checked your phone for the first time since getting to the arena. your mom and dad were the first texts you saw, both apologizing for not being able to make the game tonight and inviting you over to dinner the next night.

the most recent text was from emma maltais who told you to let her score next time just because you used to be on the same team in college. after all, weren’t you both forever buckeyes?

but it was the fourteen texts from mat that caught your eye. they all ranged in length with most of them being short exclamations and questions. the last text just read:

mat barzal: can you call me asap? i think i’m losing my mind.

as soon as you got in your car, you called him.

he picked up on the second ring.

“do i need to go to college?” he asked immediately.

what. the fuck.

“huh?” was the only intelligent response you could give him.

“do i need to go to college?”

“mat, what the fuck are you talking about?”

a loud sigh echoed through your phone as you pulled out of the parking lot. “you know how i went on a date tonight?”

“yeah, with that lauren girl, right?”

“mhm, have you read any of the texts i sent you? i feel like that would make more sense.”

“i’m driving right now, i just saw your text asking me to call you, i hadn't had time to go through the rest of them. why? what happened? was she secretly a serial killer?”

“what? no! she said hockey is barbaric and started quoting cte statistics to me.”

“what the fuck? who does she think she is?”

“she’s about to graduate from med school.”

“and she was on raya?”

“...she has a following on tiktok doing ‘days in the life of a med student.’”

if you weren't driving, you would've face palmed. “and she was telling you about how unsustainable a hockey career is?”

“she said i’d retire at thirty-five and probably have a mid life crisis that would be exacerbated by head injuries and how rough i’ve been on my body so it’s probably best that i look at going to college to find a real job.”

“oh my god—”

“so should i go to college?”

you sighed as you pulled up to a stoplight. “mat, how long have you known this girl?”

“...um, a week?”

“you're gonna let a stranger convince you to spend money on a degree you probably won't use? you get chirped a thousand times a night and yet you're not contemplating quitting the game just because someone you've played against for years says you suck.”

he paused, the only sound on the other side of the phone was his breathing. “okay okay, you're right. god i don't know why i freaked like that.”

“i don't either, you don't know this girl, you don't owe her anything.”

“what’re you doing tomorrow?” he asked, suddenly changing the subject. “do you wanna come to my game? i’ll get you a ticket.”

“i’m getting dinner with my parents tomorrow—”

“your parents can come! i’ll get the tickets for all three of you, if you think they’d be interested.”

if they’d be interested? what a joke! your mom and dad had been isles fans as long as you'd remembered. when you were growing up, your dad said you should play for the isles if they weren't going to make a women’s league.

“first woman to play on an nhl team would be quite the honor, don't you think squirt?”

“i’m sure they would love to be there, mat. thank you.”

you could hear his grin through the phone and imagined seeing his eyes squint from his big smile.

“i’ll send you the tickets.”

you woke up the next morning with a text from mat with the tickets enclosed; you shot back a quick thank you, and that you'd see him later.

when you called your parents the night before and gave them the news, they were ecstatic, asking a million questions about how you knew mat barzal, why he was giving you tickets, why you hadn't told them you knew him earlier. you'd told them you'd drive to their house after morning skate and you could walk to ubs together.

more than anything, you were excited to see sidney crosby playing up close. mat had gotten decent tickets after checking to see how close to the ice you'd want to be. he even told you to meet him at ubs before heading to your parents so you could get the family passes to come to the locker rooms after the game. you weren't sure why he was being so nice, but you weren't about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

you waited in the parking lot of ubs, leaning against the driver side door when mat sped into the lot and parked, rather chaotically, two spaces away.

he hopped out in his game day suit with mostly dry hair and three passes in hand.

“hey,” he smiled. and if nathan’s grin was a thousand watts, mat’s could power the entire island alone. “here are the passes.”

you took them from his hand with a matching grin. “thanks, mat.”

he shrugged like it was no big deal. “no problem. you got the tickets, right?”

you nodded. “they’re in my phone.

“great! i’ll see you later then?”

“try not to fall down this time, barzal.”

“no promises,” he said. “is that what you're wearing to the game?”

you glanced down at the black sweatshirt, jeans, and black and white dunks. “is this not fashion forward enough for you?”

“i don’t know, black’s not really an isles color...” he teased. “if you need any gear, i’m sure i can find a jersey—”

“i’m sure my dad has a t-shirt i can wear if it would really mean that much to you.”

mat slapped a hand over his heart. “would you do me the honor of not wearing the colors of the team i’m playing against? i would really appreciate it.”

“you’re so dramatic.”

“only for you, twitch.”

you laughed and shook your head. there was a moment where it looked like mat lit up at the sound of your laughter, but you were probably reading into things.

“i’ll see you after the game?”

he nodded. “see you then.”

you left him in the parking lot and headed down the street to your parents’ house. to no one’s surprise, they were both fully dressed and ready to go to the game that didn’t start for another four hours.

“how do you know mat barzal, sweetheart?” your mom asked as soon as you got settled on the couch. “i don't think you ever really explained it.”

“we met on the all star red carpet fan event. i was late, he was early.”

your dad cocked an eyebrow. “and he gave you tickets to a game after one interaction?”

you shook your head. “we ran into each other at the olympics, started talking more after that.”

“well, i think it’s very nice of him to invite us to his game tonight,” your mom replied, but there was a tone in her voice that had you looking at her suspiciously.

“you're not dating him are you?” your dad asked flat out.

you choked on your own spit, hacking and coughing until you felt like you could breathe again. “what?! no! we’re just friends.”

“hm.” your parents hummed in unison.

it used to unnerve you how many times your parents did things in sync. walking, talking, humming together, they did it all. but they’d been married for thirty years, maybe it would've been odder if they weren't so in tune with each other.

the three of you watched a rerun of ncis before you started walking to ubs together. the walk was only twenty minutes, but the wind was brutal that evening. by the time you made it in the arena, you couldn't feel your face.

you made your way down to your seats and watched as the kids gathered in the space in front of you. mat wasn't fooling around, they were great seats, right behind the bench, across from the penalty box.

the area had cleared out mostly by the time the game started, leaving you and your parents to freak out about being so close to one of your childhood heroes, patrick roy.

god, you'd have to see if mat would let you meet him.

the game itself was an ugly one, ending in a win for the islanders, but it didn't really feel like one. it didn't take you playing hockey your whole life to know that there were penalty kills that should've never happened, sloppiness on both teams. hell, you probably didn't even have to be anything more than a fan to realize that.

nonetheless, you and your parents made your way down to the locker rooms where you saw a crowd of blonde women and their children. you could feel their eyes on you, but it didn't feel judgmental, just curious if anything.

there was no telling how long you waited before players started coming out of the locker room and greeting their partners. you recognized them all, but had never met any of them but mat, so you kept to yourself and your parents, looking up occasionally to look for mat.

when he finally walked out, you called his name and waved, cheesing like you did for your kindergarten school photos. in real time, you watched his face light up as he walked over to you.

“great game,” your dad greeted.

mat immediately stepped up and stuck out his hand to greet your father. “thanks, sir. it’s nice to meet you, i’m mat.” he looked at your mom. “and you must be twitch’s sister.”

on cue, you could’ve sworn your mother swooned. you rolled your eyes.

what a charmer.

you watched with a smile as your dad and mat talked about the game. your dad, while quite knowledgeable, was sensitive enough to not mention the multitude of mistakes made that night.

“we definitely need to clean up a little during practice this week,” mat started. “i think roy is gonna address it...”

you couldn't hear another word after he said patrick roy’s name, like you suddenly remembered mat was being coached by your childhood hero. you tugged on mat’s arm like a child asking for another cookie.

“mat,” you started. he immediately turned to look at you, his brows pulled together in confusion. “can i meet coach roy? please?”

“oh lord,” your mother said. “you’ve started it now, mat.”

“squirt, he's probably busy, mat’s already been kind enough to invite us—”

mat glanced over his shoulder to the locker room, then looked around the hallway, like he was taking attendance. “you wanna meet him?”

you nodded emphatically, bouncing on your feet.

mat placed a hand on your back. “i’ll introduce you.”

your parents eyed mat’s hand but said nothing. you were too busy hearing the rush of blood in your head to fixate on it. “squirt, we’ll meet you at the house, you too mat! join us for dinner if you’re not too tired!” they turned on their heels and headed out of the tunnel towards the exit.

mat led you towards the locker room, but made you wait outside while he glanced around to make sure there were no naked men inside. when the coast was clear, he gestured you to come inside.

you were practically skipping into the room.

patrick roy stood by one of the lockers talking to anders lee when you entered the locker room. your jaw dropped at being so close to the man whose film you watched over and over again on youtube.

“don’t be weird,” mat mumbled. “he's just a guy.”

“you shut the fuck up,” you mumbled in reply. “he’s patrick fucking roy.”

as soon as anders finished talking to roy, he started towards the exit, nodding at you (albeit a little confused) and clapped mat on the shoulder.

the hand on your back pushed you forward until you were just a few feet away from mat’s coach.

“barzy? what’s up?” patrick roy asked before his eyes landed on you.

mat pushed you forward a little more. “coach, this is twitch, she’s the goalie for the new york sirens.”

“you're literally my hero,” you blurted out. “you made me wanna be a goalie.”

to your relief, he smiled and stuck his hand out. “it’s nice to meet you, how’s the season looking so far for the sirens?”

“not too bad, we could definitely be doing better.”

“sounds familiar.” roy’s eyes cut to mat in a sarcastic way.

“well, you met him, we gotta go, though,” mat said, already leading you away from his coach. “don't wanna keep your parents waiting.”

roy’s eyes twinkled and his lips slid into a smirk, like he knew something you didn't. “it was nice to meet you, twitch.”

“you too!”

the hallway was mostly empty when you and mat exited the locker room. you glanced up at him and smiled. “oh my god thank you! i don't think anything will live up to this moment.”

he shrugged like he didn't just do the biggest favor for you. “don't worry about it.”

“do you think i could meet sorokin next time?”

mat guffawed and lightly shoved you. “don't get ahead of yourself, that would require you to come to another game.”

“deal.”

the two of you walked towards the parking lot mat parked in. “i’ll drive you home,” he said.

“you really don't have to come for dinner, i know you’re probably tired.”

he scoffed. “and miss out on the chance to get a home cooked meal and look at your baby pictures? never.”

“you're not gonna see my baby pictures.”

“i'm sure your mom would pull them out if i asked nicely.”

you shook your head. “nope. nope. nope. invitation rescinded. you can't come over.”

“not your house, you can’t rescind an invitation you didn't give.”

you groaned. “this isn’t fair, it’s not like i can go to your childhood home and look at baby mat pictures.”

he shrugged and opened the passenger door of his car for you. “you can always visit during the summer.”

you thought about it. “summer in vancouver doesn't sound bad...”

he smiled and shut the door behind you before walking around the front of the car to get in the driver’s seat. “just let me know, i’m sure my mom would be happy to have you. she’s always happy to host my friends.” he pulled his phone out. “can you put your parents’s address in?”

you typed in their address and handed the phone back to him while you picked at the dirt under your nails. mat pulled out onto the turnpike and down a few side streets until you were pulling up to the house.

“i’m sorry your date didn't work out.”

mat turned towards you. “huh?”

“your date,” you explained. “with lauren.”

“oh,” he said. “it’s fine. tonight made up for it.”

it took your mom no time at all to sell you down the river (read: pull out the photo albums). as soon as dinner was over, mat asked, and your mom immediately went and grabbed the albums without hesitating.

mat was all too giddy to see your photos, he was nearly bouncing in his seat when your mom came down the stairs, armed with blackmail material.

“this was when she was six months old,” your mom started, pointing at different photos. when mat cackled and smirked at you, you knew he'd found the bathtub pictures.

a few pages later and mat’s eyes went wide as saucers as he looked in your direction. “why’re you dressed as an amish woman?” he cackled.

your dad smiled. “she went through an amish hyperfixation after we went to pennsylvania and saw an amish family riding in a horse and buggy.”

mat pulled out his phone and snapped a few photos, snickering to himself all the while. “this is so cute,” he said, pointing at a photo he wouldn't let you see.

your dad continued. “she even asked us to have candlelight dinner for her birthday because the amish don’t have electricity.”

mat couldn't stop laughing.

you shrugged, not even the slightest bit embarrassed. everyone had their weird fixations, yours happened to be the amish. “i tried wearing the dress with my goalie gear and cried when i couldn't,” you said.

mat continued to scrutinize the photos, flipping pages as he smiled. “you were so cute.”

for some odd reason, heat flooded your cheeks. but you brushed it off as a side effect of the glass of wine you had with dinner.

it was nearing 1am when mat finally said goodbye. you walked him out, not noticing the smug look on your parents’ faces.

“thank you for letting me crash your dinner tonight,” mat said, leaning against his car. “it was nice. your parents are great.”

you shook your head and smiled. “thanks for the tickets and the passes. the game was really fun, and i know mom and dad appreciated it.”

a cold wind blew that made a shiver run down your spine. mat took a step closer, then a step back, like he thought better of it.

“when’s your next date?” mat asked.

“not sure,” you said, scuffing the ground with your shoe. “haven't found anyone yet. you?”

he shook his head. “trying to focus on getting to the playoffs, can’t afford any distractions.”

you nodded emphatically. though his playoff run started before yours did, the urgency was still the same.

“let me know if you wanna come to another game,” he said.

before you could stop yourself, you were already shaking your head. “mat you don't have to—”

he held up a hand to quiet you. “you can make it up to me by giving me tickets to see you play.”

you smiled and couldn't stop. even as he got in his car and drove out of sight, you wore that smile inside, missing the knowing looks from your parents.

“he’s nice,” your mom said, a strange tone in her voice that you paid no mind to.

“he’s pretty great.”

mat’s girl two: grace

when mat texted you that he had gone on a date with a girl named grace and was planning another one with the same girl, a strange sinking sensation happened in your stomach. you weren't overly familiar with the feeling. you just assumed it was because you hadn't eaten much.

when he facetimed you a few minutes later, you were shoving a handful of spinach and cheese in your mouth.

“what the fuck are you doing?” he asked. his cackle echoed through your kitchen

“it’s dino time,” you said through a mouthful of spinach.

mat blinked. “‘dino time?’ as in dinosaur?”

“what else would it be for?” you scoffed. “c'mon mat, i know you grew up in canada, but you should've learned this in kindergarten.”

“okay sure, but why?”

“why what?”

“why are you eating a handful of lettuce?”

“...it’s spinach.”

mat dragged a hand down his face and sighed. “okay so it’s spinach. why are you eating a handful of spinach?”

“i saw a girl on tiktok doing it.”

“huh. and you do whatever people on tiktok do?”

you rolled your eyes. “oh get off your high horse, mat. i’m only doing it to get more veggies in. it’s not like i’m snorting cocaine because i saw the wolf of wall street.” only after you shoved more spinach in your mouth, did you ask another question. “why did you call anyway?”

“i was wondering if you'd be able to get two tickets to your game tomorrow.”

“who’s going?” you asked with your mouth still full of leafy greens. “you and bo? duclair? lee?”

mat rubbed the back of his neck. “i was actually planning on taking grace, if that’s okay.”

“oh,” you said, swallowing your spinach. there was that strange sensation in your stomach again. it was odd though, because you were eating, so the feeling should’ve been gone by now, right?

right?

“yeah,” you nodded. “yeah i can get some. i can also see if i can get passes so you can come down to the locker rooms after the game.”

he smiled brightly. “you’re the best, twitch. i’ll talk to you later?”

“mhm.”

he ended the call shortly thereafter, leaving you with your bag of spinach and a quiet room.

he planned on taking grace to your game.

suddenly the greens didn't taste as good anymore. but you had no idea why.

“you’re jealous,” jess deadpanned in the locker room a few days later.

you scoffed. “i’m not jealous. i’ve just been feeling weird.”

“and that all happened to coincide with when mat got a girlfriend?”

“one date hardly makes her his girlfriend.”

jessie eyed you, but you kept taping your stick as if you didn't see her in your periphery.

there was no way she was right. you still texted the tickets to mat. but instead of meeting him outside like he did for his game, you sent one of the attendants out to give him the passes. your reasoning was simple: you weren't feeling well for some reason, and the idea of seeing grace in his passenger seat only made your stomach twist more.

“listen, all i’m saying is you might have a little crush. it doesn’t have to be devastating.”

devastating? devastating?

devastating was losing 4 to 5 to toronto. devastating was smiling through the irritation and disappointment when emma maltais skated over after celebrating with her team.

devastating was not looking over at mat and who you assumed was grace standing at the glass, close enough that you wanted to vomit.

you were only halfway listening to your coach’s lecture after the game, knowing damn well it would lead to bag skating tomorrow. the idea of even touching the ice made you want to slam your head against the wall until you forgot about the game you just played.

when you showered, you originally just stood there, letting the water drown you briefly before you actually washed your hair and body. there was no shot you were drying your hair, you were willing to risk getting a cold if it meant leaving that godforsaken arena as soon as possible. so you slapped a sirens beanie on top of your wet hair and walked out of the locker room.

only to be met with mat and grace standing outside.

fuck.

you'd forgotten about the family passes after three periods of shitty goaltending. the last thing you wanted to do was see mat after your performance that night. the only thing that could top it was meeting grace.

of course she was lovely, smiling at you and offering her hand when mat introduced her. you weren't an asshole, so you shook her hand and did your best to smile even though you wanted nothing more than to go home and sleep off the loss.

however, you did your best to look as interested in the conversation, you pretended to be genuine when grace said you did a great job, that she had fun at the game. all her words should've lifted your spirits, but you didn't know her from a can of paint and you weren't up for conversation. maybe after the next game (that you'd hopefully win) you'd be more up for talking.

“hey,” mat nudged his foot with yours. “it’s not your fault.”

you rolled your eyes, even though they started stinging. “i should've blocked that last goal.”

“and your team should've scored or kept the puck away from you,” he said matter of factly. “the puck has to get through three forwards and two defensemen before it gets to you.”

“but if i—”

mat shook his head and placed his hands on your shoulders, his thumbs rubbing the bones there. “you're gonna keep yourself up all night overthinking this.” he leaned his head down to look you in the eyes. “it’s not your fault, you've gotta let it go.”

you scoffed. “i can’t just ‘let it go—’”

“you can, and you will if you wanna prevent yourself from making the same mistakes.”

you nodded. “thanks mat,” you mumbled, standing there in the moment until you remembered grace was right there. “it was nice to meet you, grace,” you said, doing your best to smile at her without it looking like a grimace. “maybe next time, we’ll win and i’ll be in a better mood.”

she smiled so bright that it nearly blinded you. “no worries, i look forward to your next game.”

“i’ll see you later, mat,” you said. with your goalie bag on your shoulder, your tired legs started to carry you down the hall towards the parking lot, but a hand reached out and slipped the bag off your shoulder.

“i’ll walk you to your car.”

“but grace—”

“she can come with, right, grace? we’ll drop twitch off and then i’ll drive you home?”

you and mat glanced at her, she seemed frozen in her spot, but she slipped a smile on her face with minimal faltering. “that’s fine,” she said.

mat carried your bag all the way to your car and tossed it in the trunk without breaking a sweat. when he closed the trunk door, he shoved his hands in his pockets. “text me when you get home,” he said.

“you're the one with the hour long drive, mat. you should text me when you get home.”

he laughed and tugged on the ends of your hair. “will do. let me know what your schedule looks like this week!”

you nodded as he walked away and watched as he took grace’s hand. your stomach lurched again, but you wrote it off as a side effect of losing that night.

but the sight of mat and grace reminded you of the bet you'd made at the olympics.

you still had some falling in love to do.

guy three: peter

when you were in high school, you watched a movie called serendipity and fell in love with love. the idea that the right person could be in front of you the whole time made your sixteen year old heart beat like wild.

so when you ran into your ex, peter, at a coffee shop in manhattan, you knew it was your moment.

he was the one.

he had to be.

god and to think you two broke up in college and somehow found your ways back to each other? it had to be a sign.

“it’s not a sign, it’s a coincidence,” emma said over facetime.

you rolled your eyes. “how else would you explain him being in manhattan now? i met him when we were at osu.”

“just because you exchanged numbers again doesn't mean you should date him.”

“we ran into him in the most densely populated city in america, emma. i don't think that’s by chance.” you inhaled. “besides, i think he’s changed. i know i have. maybe it was the right person at the wrong time.”

emma blinked like she didn't believe you. “what does mat think?” she asked.

that was an odd question.

“what do you mean? why would he care?”

she shrugged. “i just thought you two were talking to each other about your dates. thought he might have an opinion on the matter.”

“eh, haven’t spoken to him much.” and truthfully you hadn't. between practicing, games, and dates with peter, you two hadn’t spoken in about a week and a half. which, for anyone else, wasn't that deep, but for you and mat, it was a little strange.

“maybe you should fix that,” emma said.

almost like he knew you were talking about him, mat texted.

mat barzal: would you be up for a double date? you, me, grace, and pete?

that sounded like a comically bad idea.

you said yes anyway.

peter chose the restaurant after mat suggested meeting in manhattan, a suggestion he probably made with you in mind. it was a bit fancier than you would've liked. you were fully expecting on finding a little mom and pop hole in the wall with some indoor seating and calling it a day, but you should've known peter was more refined than that.

you were in a black dress with his jacket draped over your shoulders when you walked in the restaurant. mat had texted you earlier to let you know he and grace were already seated.

peter’s hand was on the small of your back as he led you back to the table. he plastered a polite smile on his face and whispered in your ear. “why did you agree to this?”

you shrugged. “thought it would be fun.” you glanced back with a smile on your face. “i think you'll really like mat, he's cool. and grace is nice too.” though, admittedly, you didn't know as much about her as you did mat. after all, he was the one you quieted the anxieties you were feeling about this date entirely.

“it’ll be great!” mat said as the two of you walked around a park. “you and i already get along,” he passed back your now peeled orange. you immediately shove three pieces in your mouth. “it would only make sense that our partners would also get along.”

not even peter’s cynicism could put a damper on your mood.

mat and grace stood as the two of you approached. mat hugged you first, then shook peter’s hand. you and grace waved at each other before you took your seats. mat pulled grace’s seat out before he sat down, peter was seated before you could even blink.

you shrugged it off, pulling out a chair wasn't that big of a deal. but you saw mat’s lips pull down in a frown before it was gone entirely.

“what’s good here?” mat asked. “i've never been.”

you glanced at the menu, your mouth started watering already. “the lobster ravioli looks good,” you noted. “god my stomach is growling already.”

peter made a noise in the back of his throat. “have you looked at the salads?”

you froze. in the corner of your eye, you saw mat’s head snap up from where he sat diagonally from you. “why would i look at the salads?” you asked. “i want pasta.”

peter shrugged. “just think the salad would be healthier.”

“so you can get a salad. i want pasta.”

“if i’m paying, i think you should get—”

“it's on me tonight,” mat interrupted. his eyes met yours. “get what you want, twitch.”

you closed your eyes and sighed when you felt peter tense up next to you at the mention of your college nickname. in your head, you said a little prayer that he would drop it, or at least wait until the two of you were alone to address it.

grace cleared her throat and smiled at you. “has your season gotten any better?” she asked.

grateful for the sudden change in topic, you smiled back. “it has, i feel much better now. sorry that you caught me on a bad night.”

“it wasn't that bad, twitch,” mat said. “it was an off night for everyone. you did the best you could.”

you shot him a grateful smile right as peter cleared his throat. “how’s your season going, mat? i’ve been trying to keep up but you play so many games and so does this one,” he nudges you. “it’s hard to keep track.”

mat shrugged. “we have to get better at putting pucks in the net, that’s for sure.”

“don't let his modesty fool you, peter,” you started. “mat’s on an eight game point streak right now. he’s killing it.” mat looked up and smiled at you. on reflex you smiled back at him until peter cleared his throat.

peter blinked, then gave mat a smirk. “must be cool playing for the rangers,” he said. “has to be the greatest team in new york.”

your brows furrowed right as mat’s jaw clenched. you'd told peter about mat, how he was a forward for the islanders, and was a strict rangers hater. so it was a mystery how he confused mat for a rangers player at all.

“i don't play for the rangers,” mat replied coolly.

“my mistake,” peter shrugged before taking a sip of water. “i assumed your team was the winning team.”

your eyes widened and you nudged peter in the arm. “can you chill please?” you mumbled.

grace, sensing the tension, turned the conversation back towards you. “mat told me you grew up on long island, is that true?”

you nodded and smiled widely, grateful for the topic change. “yes! right down the street from ubs. my parents and i walked to the arena to see mat play not too long ago.”

“it’s like a five minute drive,” mat chimed in.

grace nodded, then froze. “how do you know that?”

he shrugged. “we ate dinner at her parents’ after the game.”

you could cut the tension with a knife. based on grace’s thinned out lips, she wasn't necessarily enthused about the idea of mat eating with you and your parents. granted, you didn't think anything of it, but maybe it was cause for concern for her.

thankfully, the server came over and took your orders. you told the server you wanted lobster ravioli before peter could order for you and sipped your water as he rolled his eyes.

when the food came out, you were too busy eating to notice the looks mat and peter were sending each other or the way grace kept glancing back and forth from you to mat. the lobster ravioli was just too good to focus on anything else.

when the time for the check came, peter scowled when mat paid for it, but said nothing. your mood soured the longer peter was grumpy. by the end of the date, you were rushing him out the door, but not without waving goodbye at grace and hugging mat.

peter didn't say anything until you got into his car. “i didn't know mat had met your parents.”

you blinked. “i didn't think it was worth mentioning. do you want me to tell you that jess and ella met my parents on draft day?”

“that’s not the point and you know it,” he scowled. “and why is he calling you twitch?”

you shrugged. “because it’s what everyone calls me. he heard it from emma and jessie and it’s stuck since then. why is it a problem?”

he huffed. “i never said it was a problem.”

“you're acting like it is.”

“that’s because you're too old to be going by a college nickname. when you meet my coworkers, can you just give them your real name?” he asked.

there was a sinking sensation in your stomach that you hadn't felt since you were twenty. “sure,” you tried to smile. “if it’ll make you happy.”

two days later, you were drying your hair after a 2-1 loss against montreal. peter had texted you earlier that week asking for days you were available to hang out with him and his friends.

truthfully, you didn't want to, especially after losing. but peter was so sweet last night. he brought you flowers, though you weren't really a fan of daisies, a bottle of his favorite wine, and pizza from a place down the street from your apartment. he let you pick the movie out and said you were beautiful.

you were willing to endure a night with his finance bro friends because he sacrificed his free time last night to see you.

you put your walk in outfit back on and sighed when you looked in the mirror. the last thing you wanted to do was go to a bar where you only knew your boyfriend.

but love was about sacrifice, right?

you drove home and ordered an uber to the bar in manhattan. when you finally arrived, it took you a second to realize where your boyfriend was.

he was propped against the wall while one of his friends was shooting pool. peter kept talking and didn't notice you walk up until you were right next to him.

“oh hey!” he kissed your cheek, which made you grin just a little. he was so sweet and you loved the affection. “how was your game?”

your smile faltered. “you didn't watch it?”

a light bulb went off in his mind. “oh, i mean, they had the islanders game going on, so i didn't get a chance to see it. i’m sorry, babe. i would’ve if i could’ve.”

you nodded, not wanting to fight in public. because your game ended over an hour ago, and peter, according to your texts, had only been at the bar for forty-five minutes.

he seemed to take your silence as a sign that you were okay and ushered you forward towards his friends. “guys, this is my girlfriend,” he said before looking at you, expecting you to introduce yourself.

you waved and said your name. peter’s friends nodded back at you and got back to their game. peter was cheering as one of his friends, whose name you didn't know, shot a ball in the hole.

“peter,” you said over the loud music. “peter!”

he finally glanced at you, eyebrows raising like he just remembered you were there. “yeah?”

“i’m going to get a drink,” you said.

he nodded before turning back to the game.

your heart sunk as you walked to the bar, dodging bodies like your teammates did on their way to the net. in your backpocket, you could feel your phone vibrate. you reached back and pulled it out, smiling when you saw a text on your screen.

mat barzal: do you feel as shitty as i do?

you pulled up the nhl app and saw the score. a 4-5 loss against the rangers.

stupid fucking rangers.

you: i feel like absolute dog shit. like the kind i would have to pick up when i took benny on walks.

mat barzal: who’s benny?

you: my childhood dog, sweet as can be, but took massive dumps on every walk.

mat barzal: what’re you doing now?

you: at a bar with peter and his friends.

mat barzal: ...that’s fun?

you laughed at his message.

you: if only, but i’m hopeful it’ll get better.

mat barzal: where are you right now?

you dropped him a pin.

you: why?

mat barzal: i’m like five minutes away, would it be weird if i joined you?

probably yes, given how mat and peter’s last interaction went, but you glanced back at your boyfriend who was laughing with his buddies. he didn't notice you'd been gone for almost ten minutes now.

so maybe you were feeling petty, but you didn't care at that point. maybe you'd pay for it later, but the price of not feeling alone in a dive bar was worth any tension that would inevitably come.

you: it wouldn't be weird! i’d actually appreciate some company right now.

mat barzal: bet.

you were alone for another seven minutes before you saw a mop of dark brown hair walk through the doors. you watched as his eyes searched the room until they landed on you. it was like someone flipped a switch, the way his face immediately lit up at the sight of you. the very sight made your stomach twist in a way that had you buzzing in your seat.

mat shoved his way through the crowd of people before he flagged down a bartender and took the seat next to you.

“hey,” he huffed, out of breath.

you laughed. “did you run here?”

he shrugged, even as his cheeks turned pink. “maybe. that’s not the point. what’re you drinking?”

you held up your half empty cup. “moscow mule.”

“you want another?”

you let mat buy you another drink. you let him pay for it. you let him ask you about how the game was and in turn, you asked how his went. you let him tell you about bo’s kids as well as matt’s, how the bet was going, how grace was doing.

he seemed ambivalent to that last conversation topic, the spark in his eyes when he talked about his teammates died quickly.

“i don't know,” he said, tracing the bar top with his pointer finger. “things are good.”

“but?” you asked.

“but i thought falling in love would be different.”

your heart lurched in your chest, your stomach twisted like you were about to vomit. there was no reason for it though, maybe it was the alcohol?

“you're in love with her?” you managed to get out.

he shook his head, and the pressure building in your chest lessened. “no, but maybe i should be.”

mat’s eyes looked past you, when you turned around, you saw he was staring at peter and his friends. “do you love him?” he asked quietly, just loud enough for you and only to hear.

the truth was, you used to when you were in college. you thought he hung the sky, the moon, and the stars. you thought he put the earth into motion. he was your sun. but now things were different, he was different, you were different. it was like a piece of a puzzle that almost fit but not completely, like you were forcing it into a spot and saying it was close enough.

“i don't know,” was the answer you settled for. “maybe in time, i will again.”

mat let out a breath. “but you don't right now?”

“not yet.”

he nodded.

a beat later, an arm slid around your waist that had you tensing until you heard his voice. “hey sweetheart, you'd been gone for a moment, i got concerned.” you could hear the tension in peter’s voice as he spoke to you. if you were a betting woman, you'd gamble your bottom dollar on mat being the reason for it.

“pete, hey,” mat said with a wave.

“it’s peter,” your boyfriend said. “hope you’re not feeling the sting of a loss too bad, mat.”

you whipped your head around to look at peter, confusion written all over your face. “you watched the game?”

peter shrugged like he barely heard you. he wasn't looking at you anyway, his gaze was locked on mat. “we pregamed before coming here.”

“you watched the rangers play but couldn't watch my game?”

but he didn't even acknowledge what you said. “it was nice seeing you mat, but me and my girlfriend are going to go play pool. have a good night.” peter steered you away from the bar and back towards the pool tables.

it was like someone was draining the life out of you like one would tap a tree for sap.

“i think i’m gonna go home,” you said, pulling away from peter. “i’m really tired and i have practice tomorrow.”

peter’s brows pulled together, he frowned. “but you just got here. i barely got to see you.”

“that’s because you were playing pool with your friends. i’ve been here for over half an hour, peter. i lost tonight and i just wanna go home and lay on the couch and watch trashy reality tv.”

“fine,” he huffed. “i’ll see you later.”

you went on your tiptoes to press a kiss to his lips, but at the last minute he turned his head away so your lips met his cheek instead. you stepped back, a little hurt before you spun on your heels and headed for the exit.

“you're leaving?” you glanced over your shoulder and saw mat shoving past people to get to you.

“yeah,” you said. “i’m tired and wanna get in bed.”

“have you ordered an uber yet?”

you shook your head.

“let me ride home with you, i don't want you going home alone.” you were already shaking your head, telling him to catch uber back to long island, but he held a hand up. “it’s late and i don’t want to have to tell your mom that i let you catch an uber back to your apartment without making sure you got there safely.”

you held up your phone. “i can give you my location.”

“not good enough. i need to see you walk into your apartment building.”

“seriously, mat, i’d feel bad that you're adding more time to your commute.”

he shrugged like it was no big deal. “don't think of it like that, just think of it as me wanting to spend more time with you.”

the ride back to newark was short, but you felt bad knowing that mat had an hour trip back home because of you. but he shrugged your worries off and said he'd text you when you got home.

that night, after your second shower, after crawling into bed to watch the bachelor, you went to sleep smiling.

your mood over the next two days fluctuated, with you rarely hearing from peter. if you got any response, it was strictly five words max per text message. and each message took him at least thirty minutes to reply.

safe to say, when you arrived at prudential for another game, you were ready to devour the red starbursts you saved in your goalie bag.

except the bag was empty.

and really it shouldn't have been that big of a deal, but you'd been eating red starbursts before every game since you were six and your mom stopped caring about red dye 40. your shaking hands reached for your phone and hit peter’s contact.

the phone rang and rang and rang and rang only to go straight to voicemail.

so you called again.

same thing.

so you called again.

same thing.

you called one more time and it went straight to voicemail.

peter: can you chill? i’m busy.

you: i need red starbursts. do you think you could bring me some?

radio silence.

so you waited five, ten minutes. and not a single reply.

you: peter? will you?

peter: i’m busy. why don’t you get that?

tears welled up in your eyes. you were starting tonight, you couldn't afford to not have the candy. what if you lost because you didn't have them? would the whole team blame you? you know you would.

you walked into the hallway and scrolled through your contacts. you hit the contact of the person you were searching for.

two rings.

“hello?”

“mat,” you sniffled, trying to keep the crying to a minimum, thankful you'd gotten there early enough, no one else was in the locker room. and no one was in the hall.

“hey, you okay? are you crying?”

“can you do me a huge favor?” you asked.

“anything.”

“can you bring me red starbursts? i tried asking peter but he’s busy and my parents are at work still and—”

“i got you, don't worry. where do you want me to meet you?”

a sob escaped your lips as relief crashed over you. “thank you thank you thank you, mat. just call me when you get here, and i’ll meet you.”

he was there in forty-five minutes with a ziploc bag stuffed full with your favorite candy.

you about tackled him in the hallway. “how did you get down here?” you asked, bouncing on your feet as he handed the bag over.

“apparently my face is familiar,” he joked. “when i told one of the social media interns i was here for you, she led me down here.”

without even thinking about it, you wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him in for the tightest hug possible. “i owe you one. seriously.”

when you pulled back, his cheeks were a light pink, something you could've read into had jess and ella not come bounding down the hallway.

“twitch! who is this?” they asked, wide smiles on their faces.

“no,” you mumbled. “mat, run.”

you tried pushing him away, but he turned around and smiled at your teammates. “i’m mat,” he said.

jess’ lips formed a smirk. “i’m jess, the best friend.”

“ella, the other friend.”

“are you staying for the game?” jessie asked, mirth rolling around in her irises.

“he can’t he's busy—”

“sure,” mat smiled. “i’d love to.” he turned back to you. “are your parents coming?”

you nodded, a little sheepishly. “they have my tickets—”

“you can have mine!” jess cut in. “they should be next to yours anyway.”

“you really don't have to come, mat—”

but he shrugged. “i’d love to. do you think your mom would cook again tonight?”

“i’m sure if you asked, she’d make a five course meal just for you.”

you missed the looks passed back and forth between jess and ella, only focused on the way mat’s lips curled up into a smile. “then i’ll see you out there, twitch.”

as he walked away, jess and ella smirked at you, waiting until he was fully out of sight (and earshot) to shriek at you.

“he’s eaten dinner with your parents?!”

“shut up,” you groaned, walking back into the locker room. “it’s not that deep.”

“girl, what was he even doing here?”

you held up the bag of starbursts. “i ran out.”

jess paused. “...and he brought you some?” she reached for the bag, testing its weight in the palm of her hands. “girl, this is like several packs worth of starbursts.”

you shrugged it off, like it was no big deal. “he was being nice.”

but when you skated out for warm ups and saw him sitting next to your parents, you could see the blue of the sirens jersey he was wearing, you could see your number 26 on his sleeves. he was leaning down to listen to what your mom was saying when you skated past their seats.

your parents were sporting a homemade t-shirt of you in goalie gear at the ripe age of six, if you had to guess. on any other day, you wouldn't have felt the heat flooding your cheeks, but something about mat standing next to your parents wearing those shirts felt a little too intimate. it felt like something peter wouldn't be happy about if he found out.

the same peter who brushed you off, you reminded yourself.

suddenly, you cared a little less.

you skated to the crease and started scuffing it up before prepping for the rest of the warm ups.

by the time the game ended, you were exhausted. it ended in a win, something you were grateful for. ottawa put up a good fight, but you felt every one of those twenty-three shots on goal in your bones. you were so tired, you didn't even bother checking your phone, you just shoved it in your back pocket and walked outside of the locker room.

what you saw in the hallway had to be some sort of nightmare. standing with your parents was mat, jess, and ella all of whom were pointing at the homemade shirts they wore.

you immediately started walking towards them.

“you have to make me a shirt next time,” mat quipped.

““no—” you cut in.

“of course, mat! if you come over afterwards, you can pick which picture you want on your shirt!” your mom crooned.

your eyes widened. “mom no—”

but mat was already smirking and cutting you off. “i have just the picture in mind.”

jess’ eyes brightened, like a lightbulb went off above her head. “is it the amish picture?”

he shook his head and smiled. “nah, i got a better one.” when ella and jess opened their mouths to ask, he shook his head again. “and it’s a secret. you'll all find out one day.”

you laughed while your teammates rolled their eyes. it wasn't long before they were saying their goodbyes and walking out while you, your parents, and mat just stood around.

“you know, mat,” your dad started. “the offer still stands if you want to come over for a drink.”

mat’s eyes met yours. a silent are you going? passing between the two of you.

you thought about how you should probably go home, how you'd be better just going to your apartment instead of driving an hour to your parents’ house.

but your parents made cute shirts and sat in the arena cheering you on like they had been doing for years.

“your call, barzy. but be warned, we will probably play spades. so if you're game—”

“i’m down,” he smiled.

which is how you ended up throwing cards at mat because your parents set the two of you in the card game.

“what the fuck mat!” you yelled, but it was drowned out by your parents cackling and mat groaning.

“language!” your mom chided.

mat threw his hands up at your accusation. “i've never played this before! your parents have been playing together for years!”

“not an excuse!”

“oh c'mon, squirt, don't be such a sore loser, it’s mat’s first time playing.”

you huffed and sat back in your chair, crossing your arms. “i don't remember being this bad,” you said.

“you were a concussed fifteen year old, i doubt you remembered much from that time,” your dad quipped as he shuffled the deck of cards.

mat choked on a laugh that he quickly stifled when he saw your glare. you opened your mouth to retort when your phone started vibrating in your back pocket.

peter.

you sighed and held your phone up. “i've gotta take this, i’ll be back.” you pointed at mat. “make sure they don't cheat.”

mat held his hands up. “i wouldn't even know how they could cheat at shuffling cards, but okay.”

you stepped into the living room, just far enough for a little privacy, but close enough to monitor what was being said by your parents. “hello?”

“where are you?” peter asked immediately. “i tried ringing your doorbell but you haven't buzzed me in. i’m freezing my ass off, here.”

“huh?” you asked, wondering if you heard him wrong.

“i’m outside your apartment,” he sighed.

“wait,” you said. “why?”

a moment of silence and then a deeper sigh. “to apologize. i feel like you were angry with me earlier. so i wanted to make things better.”

you blinked. “so you're at my apartment?”

“with daisies, your favorite. so, are you going to stop ignoring me and let me in? it’s way too fucking cold for this, baby.”

you grimaced at the idea of telling him the truth. “i would peter, but i’m not in jersey right now. i’m in elmont, with my parents and—”

mat’s loud ass laugh cut you off.

the silence on the phone was deafening.

“is mat there? was that him?” peter’s voice was cold in a way you hadn't heard before.

“yeah,” you said, not seeing an issue with it. “he's here. we’re playing spades.”

a long pause. “why?”

“why what?”

“why are you at your parents’ house with another guy? can you tell me how that makes sense?”

you pinched the bridge of your nose and moved upstairs to your bedroom so your parents and mat couldn't hear. “we’re just playing a card game—”

“why is he there?”

“because he came to my game,” you said.

“why was he at your game?”

“because he didn't hang up on me when i asked for red starbursts, peter.”

“oh my god,” he groaned. “i was in a meeting! you seriously can't be mad at me for not getting stupid candy for you this one time.”

“well, you asked why he was here and i told you. he brought me red starbursts, jess gave him one of her tickets, and my parents invited him over for dinner.”

“why?”

he couldn't be serious.

“because they're my parents, and they've never met a friend of mine that they didn't like. which you would know if you'd had more than three conversations with them.”

“oh don't turn this around on me, sweetheart. you’re the one with a guy at your parents’ house right now.”

“you know what?” you started. “i’m not even gonna entertain this bullshit. why did you stop by my place again?”

“to apologize!”

“for what?”

“i don't know,” he admitted. “i could tell you were mad and probably blamed me so i came to apologize for whatever i did to piss you off.” you could practically feel the sarcasm in his voice seeping through the phone.

“okay peter,” you said. “i’m going to hang up now because you're being an ass and if we continue this phone call any longer, you're going to be single. i’ll talk to you when i’m back in jersey.”

before he could say another word, you hung up and took a deep breath to steel your nerves. you took a moment to pull yourself together as you headed down the stairs and back into the dining room.

“everything okay, squirt?” your dad asked.

you nodded and did your best to smile. “just peachy.” you walked back to your seat and pointed at mat. “don't fuck this up for me, okay?” you said. “i have a lot of pride riding on this game.”

“language,” your mom scolded.

but mat smiled anyway and slapped your hand out of the air. “wouldn't dream of it.”

mat left around 2am and you were asleep in your childhood room by 2:15.

#mathew barzal imagine #mat barzal #mathew barzal #mat barzal blurb #mat barzal x reader #mat barzal imagine #nhl blurb #nhl imagines #nhl imagine

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l0s3rd0wnt0wn · 2 days ago

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"WILL YOU BE MY PROM QUEEN?"

Jack Quinn (OC) x Red X!Reader

(This is @invincibledc oc, and I love their work. I wanted to write one of the characters; that's all! PS: The reader is androgynous but also wears feminine and masculine clothing.)

They're the weirdest couple you have ever laid eyes on; they don't make sense, yet they do make sense at the same time. It's like watching Avatar: The Last Airbender and seeing those weird animal combinations. Turtle Ducks would be a good idea, but it's not a Turtle Duck—something more sinister. Two of you tried to kill each other at one point but ended up kissing in the end. You got cheap clown makeup on your face when Jack came back home a mess, and the crazy thing is it happens repeatedly. You guys try to beat the shit out of each other, and it ends up in a makeout session. It's like this weird kind of love language: "I'll stab you in the neck," "weird marriage proposal, but I'll take it."

At school, it's a whole different story. I like to think you and Jack go to the same school. You're the popular kid, with cheerleaders and jocks falling head over heels for you, while poor Jack, on the other hand, is bullied relentlessly. And of course, you do join in now and then, but when your friends leave, you're always there to pick him up—maybe even give him a Band-Aid or two and apologize for laughing at him. But he better not get the wrong idea. The two of you are friends; your crushes and dreams can change within an instant. But if a single girl shows interest in him, you're quick to stomp into the girl's bathroom and ruin her. That's just how it is.

But behind this mask, it's an entirely different story. You rejected him and laughed when he asked you to the prom, but Red X, on the other hand, put him on the school rooftop. You had to dash out of your dressing room just so you could meet him on time, struggling with your suit's armor. That night, he begged you to show him your secret identity, but you wouldn't dare. But if Jack is robbing Gotham's riches out of a gala with his goons, you won't hesitate to flirt with him as your civilian identity, and he's honestly quite confused. But if it means that the person he has a crush on, who's not only a Wayne, then he'll go down to the floors—he'll do the same for you. If he's in his civilian identity, acting like a blushing mess, he says, "He's so cute." "You mean the guy that just robbed me?" Tim shouts at you.

What year in? Too much of a lovesick, dazed relationship makes zero sense but makes too much sense. What can I say? The two of you are perfect for each other.

#x black reader #black!reader #black fem reader #black male reader #x female reader #x fem!reader #fem!reader #x male reader #male!reader #dc oc blog #dc oc #dc x reader #red x #dc comics x reader #jack quinn #dc fanfiction #x gn reader #gn!reader #gn reader

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tumblehomekeys · 11 hours ago

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(TW bad people, child abuse, alcoholism, kidnapping, suicide)

I'm no contact with both of my parents, who were (and probably still are, let's be honest) abusive alcoholics who referred to me as a servant and a possession regularly

(But they were just *joking* because it's so funny to upset someone, that's what a joke is, it's even funnier if you can make them cry)

They spanked me and my brothers, beat us with the belt, the wooden spoon, on one memorable occasion a two by four

(This made me believe that I deserve to be injured if I ever make a mistake, that love means you're allowed to hurt that person and they can't ever stay no)

The closest they've ever come to apologizing was "I'm sorry for whatever it is you think I've done" which is... not an apology

They tried to convince me to give them my son because they "finally felt ready to be parents" and decided they could just lie and say their grandson was actually their son, erasing the four "mistake" children in the intervening generation

And when I said no, because that's obviously absurd, they kidnapped him

(But it doesn't count! They gave him back eventually so that doesn't count)

Getting pregnant does not make someone a good person, full stop. Bad people can have kids just as easily as good people, and growing up unwanted - with parents who tell you that you ruined their lives - fucks you up.

"That's your mother, you only ever get one mother" well thank fuck for that, if I had to deal with two of her I probably would have joined my brother in suicide.

it's ok to not like or forgive your parents. In fact, it's ok to hate them.

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sourcherrybites · 2 days ago

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Loops and looms

Character: Arranged! Bruce Wayne x Fem!Reader

Submission by @mourakitana "Please, I want Bruce's reaction if he was forced to marry MC and in one of the missions he discovered that she was a superhero like him (please explain how he would find out and what his reaction would be) + please also add if she was jealous of Catwoman+tysm💕💕💕💕💕"

Disclaimers: No proofread, we die. Same universe as "Silly Billy scenario." I just wanted to post this so I could keep focusing on more submissions.

A/n: apologies for the delay and the... very sloppy ending. BTW reader is not white, don't let my Pinterest picks fool you, WE LOVE WOC IN THIS ACC

Word count: 2,003

Masterlist

Being married to Bruce Wayne was nice. Though you were bothered that people assumed that 1: you were a gold-digger, your own family had worked their asses off to reach where they were now and 2: you were just another brainless, spoiled little girl. You were a successful physicist in the middle of getting your PhD in quantum physics!! But anyways.

For the first months, it was a silent but comfortable time; you were just trying to get used to each other. Still, we know you weren't the best at hiding just how attracted you were to your sweet, buffed, kind husband, his soft, patient blue eyes, and the fact that he found his new form of entertainment, teasing you. He would wrap his arm around your waist during the night, his hand sprawled on your stomach as he nuzzled against the back of your neck, his stubble would definitely leave a rash behind by morning.

— "Did you even shave well today?"

— "I'm pretty sure I did..."

He'd mumble against your neck, pulling you closer.

A 'Mornin', honey,' and a kiss on the cheek. His warm hand on the small of your back and a smile on his lips as you talked about the string theory, how you talked about everything, every little molecule being connected, as if the universe was a big, colourful loom.

It made your heart flutter; it made you forget about the fact that you missed your hometown and the thrill of vigilantism, and it somehow soothed the ache for adrenaline, the itch you felt on your body when you left your powers unused for far too long — but it didn't quiet down that little, quiet voice in the back of your head.

Well, you knew. You were not offline — The hot, trendy romance between Bruce Wayne and Selina Kyle? The most stylish, trend-setting couple in all of Gotham circles? You weren't stupid to think you wouldn't be compared to Selina Kyle, she was freaking selina Kyle for crying out loud— you looked up at her too!! And, of course, you knew that there would be some die-hard fans of the couple in the comments of your social media ever since the engagement was made public, even if everyone knew or suspected it was an arranged marriage. But the comment saying that the only reason Bruce agreed to marry you was because you looked like Selina...

You absolutely didn't! At all! Your hair, your eyes, your body, it was all different!! You were a bit less defined, with darker eyebags... not as skinny... your skin was covered in scars, either from fights or as a result of your teenage acne... less... pretty? No, of course not! You were just as good! Just not ... better. It was a pointless comparison— you were you and Selina was Selina. Did you even want to look like her? Absolutely yes no.

Bruce noticed that there was something wrong with you, and he tried to do his best to cheer you up. Spending more time listening to your ramblings about your PhD, trying to get home sooner so you could talk more, sending you small gifts like chocolates to the university; everything but actually talk about it. Because you didn't want to talk about it, Because talking about it made it real.

"Anything in your mind, honey?" He asked one time as you two watched a movie on your big matrimonial bed, his arm wrapped around your shoulder while his fingers played with your locks damp from a recent shower. He wanted to talk about it.

—"I'm fine, Bruce, just thinking about the project..."

You smile softly, leaning against him. Once again, you didn't.

One of those nights you decided to just explore the city, maybe the adrenaline of running on top of buildings would clear your thoughts; and it certainly did, in some part. The feeling of the cold Gotham breeze on your skin was calming, it gave you a sense of home and familiarity, even more than Bruce's warm embraces did — your feet moving quickly against the concrete rooftops, your fingers digging into the hard material like it was sand as you climbed, it was fantastic.

But you were s bit out of practice after a few months out of business, so you sat down on the rooftop of a particularly tall building, trying to catch your breath, that until you heard a faint sound nearby and your stomach turning — it was quiet, like a gasp, probably a couple getting frisky in the middle of the nights with a weird exhibitionist fantasy, or maybe it was something else, you didn't loose anything by investigating, right?

A particular part about your powers was that you could spot people from a mile away, remember how you said the universe was one big, colourful loom? People were like drawings, it didn't matter how much they changed clothes or appearance, they were made of the same material, the same bright thread that you always thought was their soul.

And you could recognise Bruce's with one look, even under his Kevlar suit.

Why were you even mad? All of his affection felt like a cruel performance, a façade for the sham that was your marriage— platonic, fictional. But how he touched and kissed Catwoman was everything but. It was real. His hands had a purpose; he never touched you like that, so desperate and with an unspoken hunger. His lips had a purpose, desire emanating from their heated encounter. There was clarity in his actions that stung, a painful reminder that what he shared with her was everything you craved but could never have.

You counted one Mississippi, then Two Mississippi, then Three, four, five more until you couldn't look for a second longer.

You got back to the Manor with a speed you didn't know you had, and the comforting cold breeze of the night became painful, burning your lungs with every breath you took. You couldn't even cry or listen to the sound of anything other than your heart beating painfully faster and louder than you'd ever felt — you didn't even hear Alfred's voice calling you out and asking if you were okay. And you didn't even hear when Bruce got into bed with you like he did every night.

You just knew you didn't want him to touch you anymore.

And Bruce was worried, to say the least — he was used to the quiet of the manor, even with his new wife, but this was different. It wasn't the warm, comfortable silence he was used to; there was too much of it. You didn't ramble about your research, you came home late, or pulled away from his touch. It was like you couldn't stand the thought of him touching you, and it felt so, so painful.

The usual kiss on the cheek he gave you every morning made you tense, not in a good way, more like it repulsed you, that was if he even got to greet you in the morning. "Mrs. Wayne has left early" Became his usual morning routine, and it didn't get any better — He would barely even see you, and when he did, you either were just too lost in thought or you'd find a way to sneak away.

To make matters worse, something was causing too many strange phenomena around the city; some abandoned warehouses had walls that looked torn — not damaged over time or missing some bricks, but as if they were a big piece of fabric that had been crudely cut with a blade, threads, literal threads floating around the affected area. And they had collapsed more than once.

He had looked it up; there had been similar events a few years back in your hometown, an urban legend of a figure that could dissolve anything into thin air and impart justice for years in the night, creating and pulling the imaginary strands of everything.

"Maybe you should ask your wife," Selina suggested as they both sat on the edge of a building. "Strings, string theory. Ain'tthat her major?" She asked, "That's if she even decides to talk to me." He groaned, causing Selina to chuckle, "What did you do this time?"

The thing is that he didn't know what he did or didn't do, and she notices it

— " You should talk to her."

— "You think I haven't tried to?"

He is frustrated. Everyone has told him to fix it, but what can he fix if he doesn't know what's broken? Even the soft rain pouring over Gotham seemed to be avoiding him as well, like it was too repulsed to touch him just like you were. Hold on-

The rain fell normally over the rest of the city, but not on the space he sat on; droplets fell like thin strands of clear water. He raised a hand, touching one of the strands, and it burst and dissolved in the air with a sparkling sound; it reminded him of small diamonds or what fairytales describe as stardust.

Bruce stood up slowly, looking upwards to the tall building in front of him, when a faint 'Go home' left his lips — His hook stuck in the top edge of the building and inertia jerked him upward — and there you were, his beautiful bride on the other edge of the rooftop, in all your ethereal glory. Your hair in the wind, dancing just as the raindrops did once they touched your skin, stretching and splitting into cosmic strands that sparkled as brightly as the diamond in your wedding ring.

You looked… so melancholic, your tender face tired with grief, arms outstretched at your sides and hands constantly writhing from the cold, but it didn't seem to be important to you. Why were you doing this? How long have you been able to do that?

He has a rule: No metas allowed. but you are his wife, and you are so magnetic - even when defying the unspoken rules of the universe - His name left your lips like a soft prayer, just as he finally walked up to you, and when you turned to look up, he knew you knew.

— "Why are you doing this?"

His voice is soft; that's Bruce talking, and he hopes you finally do as well.

— "I just... why? When?"

— "When were you planning on telling me you still see Selina?"

You mutter, barely above a whisper, and he reacts by closing his eyes shut, taking a deep breath. So that's why you've been distant.

— "Don't change the subject."

You want to laugh, but you're just way too worn out for it. He doesn’t even seem to have the words to justify himself. "Do you even realise how reckless your actions were? Someone could’ve been in those warehouses," he starts, his voice heavy with concern. You can feel the weight of his words pressing down on you, but you cut him off, your voice barely above a whisper: "Are you really going to leave me?"

Leave you? No, not a chance. He wouldn't leave you for anything in the world. He cares about you, and he knows how important this marriage is for you. Your hands ball into fists, the strands of rain water moving quicker and more violently. "Because I lied? Because you love another woman?" You choked out.

Bruce grabs your wrist, pulling you closer to bring you back to reality. "How long have you been doing this?" He inquires again. "Years? It hurts when I don't." You reply softly.

"Are you going to leave me?" You ask again. "No... that's not what this is about. It's about how much danger you could've put people in." He laces his fingers with yours. "Why did you do it?" He questions again. "Were you too upset?"

You nod softly, pulling away to wipe a tear from your cheek. "Can we go home now?" you mutter. Yes, you can. You can talk later. It'll be alright. He just needs you to calm down and stop tearing the universe apart.

"Yes... Yes, we can, honey."

You had a lot of time to talk.

©sourcherrybites 2025

#sour cherry thoughts #batfam #batfam x reader #dc x reader #dc batfam #dc bruce wayne #dc batman #bruce wayne x you #bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne

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onlyquinns · 2 days ago

Note

Maybe how Clayton keller would react when you two are fighting and you flinch thinking he's gonna hurt you but instead fix his hair or something

he's annoyed. he's annoyed that you saw that he'd called and left no response in return. but clayton is mostly annoyed at himself for not backing down when he knows to.

the two of you have been arguing for half an hour, not raising voices but talking with venom. you're tired, tried to explain that you didn't have time to send him a text, that just because his season--his work--is over doesn't mean that yours is. and he won't listen.

you turn away from the cutting board on the kitchen counter, make a point to put the knife down while making eye contact with him. "clayton, how many times do i have to repeat myself?" you grumble, hands on hips, eyes fiery with aggravation. "i couldn't respond because i had a work emergency, okay?"

clayton huffs, nostrils flaring. he looks wild; his eyebrows are pinched together and his hair is pushed back from his face. "what emergency? i'm concerned and you telling me you had an emergency at work doesn't help!" his voice raises in pitch, and you have to take a deep breath to ground yourself, to keep the frustrated tears at bay.

"clay, i can't tell you," you mumble, because it's true--working as an elementary nurse makes it hard for you to talk about your work; every kids personal information and accidents are private, and clayton doesn't understand.

clayton groans, tipping his head forward, annoyed that the argument has gone full circle and brought the two of you back to the beginning. when he looks up, his hair is in his eyes and blocks his vision. he reaches up to push it back. the sight of him raising his hands put you in fight-or-flight. you take a step back and brace for impact--eyes shut tight and arms coming up to brace yourself, to protect your head.

clayton freezes, arms hanging in mid-air at the sight of you curled up in on yourself. "baby?" he whispers, anger and annoyance leaving his body immediately. he slowly lowers his arms, and you open your eyes a little to make sure he isn't tricking you or trying to come at you. "baby, i'm... i'm not going to hurt you." he takes a small step forward and you hesitate, stumbling backward an inch.

"are you sure?" you ask, and the fear on your face makes clayton mentally berate himself.

he nods, "yes, baby--i'm not going to hurt you. i promise." you let him get close to you. "i'm sorry, baby. please, believe me." his words wobble, cracking as he speaks--as he pleads.

you nod slowly and take a small step toward him, letting him embrace you. you're tense for a second, fearful he might change his mind and hurt you. he holds you tighter, whispering in your ear--soft apologies that wobble as he says them, words tight with emotion, with the idea that you thought he'd ever hurt you.

"i'm sorry," he whispers over and over, and your body relaxes in his hold. you tuck your face into his chest. "i would never hurt you, baby, i'm so sorry i scared you; i'm so sorry." he cries against your shoulder and you press further into him, wiping unshed tears into his shirt.

"i know, clay, i'm sorry; i know you would never hurt me," you tell him. "i'm sorry i didn't text back, baby. i promise i'll--"

clayton shakes his head, "no, it's my fault. i was being stupid. i know how much those kids mean to you and you're incredible for keeping their shit safe. it was stupid of me to get upset at you, i'm sorry." he squeezes tightly, keeping you in place. "i love you," he murmurs. "i love you so fucking much."

you wrap your arms around his waist, holding him to you just as tightly as he holds you.

the apartment smells like warm soup, like clayton's shampoo and cologne. and you feel so incredibly ridiculous to think he'd hurt you, because your clayton would never.

you inhale deeply, closing your eyes. "i love you, too, clay. so much." and you hold onto him even tighter to prove it.

#val’s reqs 🧃#nhl x reader #nhl imagine #nhl blurb #nhl fanfiction #nhl fic #clayton keller imagine #nhl #clayton keller x reader #clayton keller #clayton keller blurb #clayton keller x you

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baocean · 7 hours ago

Text

piss off your parents

note from the author - ok sorry guys there is barely any photos in this one and i know it’s long i apologize i know this is an smau stick w me tho

chapter thirty one - the L word

he doesn’t remember leaving the restaurant.

he remembers janey talking and laughing. he remembers nodding, smiling, lying. janey asking, “you love her, don’t you?”

and then, suddenly, he was outside. then in his truck.

now he’s halfway to your house, and it’s all hitting him at once. that stupid look you gave him the last time you spoke, like you were waiting for him to say something he couldn’t.

the way you folded your arms across your chest, like it would protect you from the fact he was breaking your heart. the silence.

the way it’s been eleven days, and he still checks his phone, hoping he’ll see that stupid bunny emoji he saved for your contact and still looks at the photos you didn’t know he took of you.

he sighs, muttering to himself, “this is stupid. you said it was done. you both agreed. you’re over this. you’re—”

he sees your house. and suddenly, he’s not over it. not even close.

he’s furious. at himself. at you. at how easy it was for both of you to throw away the best thing you’ve ever had just because neither of you wanted to go first.

you’re in bed when you get his stupid two word text text, ‘im outside’.

you’re actively coming up with ways to yell at him as you fly down your stairs. but when you get outside and lock eyes with him, it feels like the opening of that stupid love song you want your first dance at your wedding to be to, every warm morning where the sun touched your face as you woke up, and every salty wave that pulled you under for more when you were swimming as a child. something sweet, something bitter, something suffocating.

but looking at him hurts, and you’re not going to hide it anymore. it’s cold out. he looks wrecked. you don’t care, you cross your arms.

“must’ve taken a wrong turn. janey’s house is the other direction,” you say, voice even.

jj’s jaw tightens. he nods once, like he expected that. maybe he even wanted it.

“yeah. okay. this was a mistake.”

he turns away and takes a few steps towards his truck, but then he freezes.

“no. you know what? no, i’m not doing this again.” he turns back around, taking three brave steps towards you.

“you really think i did all this because i gave a shit about where you went to college? or because i wanted to hook up with janey? you think i sat through awkward dinners with your parents, let your friends talk down to me at every single party because it was fucking fun?”

he lets out a short, humorless laugh.

“you have no idea how many times i bit my tongue. how many times i pretended this wasn’t anything or let you keep me at arm’s length. you think i liked any of this? i didn’t. i hated every second of it.”

so he was just telling you how much he hated it? great, you already knew that. you open your mouth to fight back, to give him something that’ll make him regret even showing up, but he cuts you off.

“even after our fight. i still hate it. seeing you with max donahue and you asking me to be friends. no, yn, i don’t want to be fucking friends with you.” he says bitterly.

you look down in shame when he brings it up.

“i did it because i loved you. that’s why i fucking stayed. that’s why i kept playing along. it’s why i’ve hated every second, because it was agony. because i was in love with you.”

you freeze. the words hit harder than you expect. you look up at him, and he’s angry. it’s visible on his face and the shake in his hands. at first, you’re just... stunned. your lips part, and you stand there, unsure of what to say.

“then why didn’t you just say it? why’d you let it end like that?” your voice softens, like maybe you’re scared to know the answer. the confusion, the hurt and unanswered questions all appearing on your face through your forehead line.

“why didn’t you? because you were scared?” he waits for you to answer, you look down and when you look back up at him, you nod just enough for only to him to see it, like you’re letting him in on a secret.

“yea, me too. i was scared shitless. i didn’t know if you felt it too. and if i kept pretending it didn’t matter, maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much when it ended.”

his voice shakes, but it’s soft, and his eyes are full of vulnerability. he looks at you like he’s already lost. like he knows it.

“but it still ended. and it still hurts. and i’m still in love with you.”

he threw his arms up a shrug, then let them fall against against his sides.

“you don’t have to forgive me. i just… i needed you to know. that i loved you. that i love you. and i’m sorry i couldn’t say it when it would’ve made a difference.”

you blink, and everything stings. your throat, your eyes, your heart.

“i’m the one who should be apologizing.” you take a shaky breath.

you pause, like you’re searching for words that still feel safe to say. but safe is what got you into this mess in the first place. “i didn’t fight for us. i shut down. i shut you out. and i knew what i was doing, and i still did it anyway.”

“i was selfish and i was a coward. i made you feel like you were the only one who cared, and that wasn’t fair. it wasn’t true, either.”

he looked down at his shoes, scraping a pebble against the driveway.

he looked back up at you when you said, “you should probably hate me,” accompanied with a weak version of a laugh.

jj blinks once. then shrugs like it’s obvious, like he’s already tried. “can’t.”

you shake your head, but you can’t help it, a smile creeps onto your face. you exhale, then, as if you’ve been holding your breath for too long. “i love you, jj.”

his breath catches in his throat. jj takes a step closer. then another, not too fast. he’s giving you time to pull away.

you don’t, not now, not ever again. you nod instead.

he lifts a hand to your face, fingers brushing your cheek like you’ll disappear if he touches too hard. his thumb rests just below your eye, soft, warm. you lean into it like it’s a second nature.

when he kisses you, it’s not a rush. it’s not frantic or wild or messy.

it’s gentle. it’s slow. the kind of kiss that says i missed you. i know you. i still love you.

you kiss him back like you’ve been holding it in for eleven days, or maybe longer. maybe forever.

when you pull away from him, he doesn’t let you get far, pulling your body even closer against him and only leaving enough room for your lips to move into words.

“i’m sorry for walking out, for hurting you, and not just saying what i meant.”

“you’re forgiven, bunny. just don’t ever, ever walk out on me again.” he gives you a serious look, before dimples reappear and he’s kissing you again.

her phone

masterlist | next chapter

taglist - @dr3amgrlll / @murdockcastleslut / @jjmaybankmylovee / @smokahontas-113 / @abigailoveszsz / @enchantedstarfish / @reeseswirl / @lmaowhatt / @moonywhisp3rs / @dylsdaily / @idli-dosa / @bloodofadoll / @cokewithcameron / @mariamadison6-blog / @rrosiitas / @always-reading / @sunflouer04 / @bambigirl10 / @mirellef2001 / @wasiasproject / @bee-43 / @kissesandmartinis / @gublerstylesobrien1238 / @isinpfortvdmen / @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account / @mjwashere / @sideboobrry11 / @ameliacione13 / @wrtzia / @sanriobuny / @dramagodesss / @luvrclub / @yesshewrites1 / @ayy1234567 / @doesnt-care / @rainingcecilias

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clouduru-chan · 2 days ago

Text

Hi! How are you? English is not my first language, so I apologize for any spelling or translation errors.

I hope you like it.

Não sei mais editar nessa buceta-

Mark Grayson Variants with a Cynessa!Reader

Mark Grayson

- He thinks you're a complete freak. Damn. You're wearing a corpse as clothes;

- You're a planet eater, of course you're a threat. The dumbest threat he's ever dealt with;

- Mark can't stand the smell of rotting flesh and the metallic, bone-shattering sound his body makes;

- Fighting you is a struggle, even though you're a piece of rotten meat it's hard to take you down easily. He can even rip your head off, you can put it back on like it was nothing. You're a damn cockroach;

- The disturbing fact that you say you'll love tasting his meat, because you've never tried viltrumite meat;

" You were fighting for half an hour, Mark looked around intently, expecting at any moment the reader to teleport in front of him as if he were a damn computer bug. Soon he heard a metallic sound, yellow glitches appeared behind him, when you teleported in front of the invincible with a huge smile on your face that tore the flesh and muscles of your rotting cheek.

Mark turned around quickly, grabbing you by the neck, looking at you furiously through the lens of his mask's glasses, you had a manic look and a big smile on your face as you looked at him with amusement.

"Why are you so angry?" he asked sarcastically, his voice distorted, robotic and glitchy, it sounded like his voice box was broken. – "sarcastic laugh" – this damned failure to speak his actions left him disturbed – "relax, when you're done... I'll love to taste your meat... You know, I've never tasted viltrumite meat" – this was not a warning.

Mark was disgusted, the smell disturbed him, blood and oil dripped down that failed replication of fucking Frankenstein.

"shut the fuck up"."

- Mark after restraining you, he was intrigued, you were a threat, for sure, you couldn't leave any technology near you, as there was a high chance you would corrupt it. But damn... You're a misfit idiot;

- When you are confined in a prison that prevents you from using the solver, Mark always visits you;

- He wants to understand this grotesque aberration;

- You're always complaining, but you like the visits from the invincible one, he's a fool... but a nice guy;

- You keep drawing him and you (like awkward sticks on paper) holding hands;

- Mark now keeps buying you hair bows, you have terrible hyperfocus with it;

- You keep complaining that you want to devour the earth and you have the ability to do so, but it would be a total pain if you killed him to achieve your goal. Since it wouldn't be cooler if Mark wasn't with you... He considers it a step forward;

Sinister Mark

- At first he hated you, you're a damn pest;

- It was hard to kill you, you could rip your limbs off, but you would regenerate or even put them back in place. It was impossible to actually hurt you, and you kept that damn shitty smile;

- You were fast and physically strong, he had to admit, and to make matters worse you had the absolutesolver ability, which always threw you;

- Mark loves meat, obviously he does, but damn you were rotten, he would just kill you;

- But after all that destruction, you didn't die, one of two things: he gets incredibly angry or he admires you;

- If he gets angry, he will do everything he can to kill you;

- If he admires you, he will stop fighting with you, he will ask you what the hell you are;

" Mark's yellow cape flapped behind Mark's back, he glared at Reader. You were a slut, and you were testing Mark's patience.

"What the hell are you?" he asked, you just appeared causing more chaos than he caused on earth. You smiled broadly, showing your deformed teeth – "What am I? Intelligence of absolute absotura, the void, the exponential end." – the aberration says what it was while several strange codes appeared on the creature's face.

Mark arched an eyebrow beneath his mask. "What?"

- You're a fucking piece of shit, how can a planet eater, in your words "The intelligence of absolute absolution", be a complete imbecile?;

- Let's say you became friends, but there's no way he's going to give you the land to devour;

- Let's say you had a nice cup of tea and used severed fingers as spoons to stir the contents in your porcelain cups, while the owner of the fingers cried in front of him;

- He felt incredibly chic drinking tea;

- You are a fun freak.

Omni Invincible

- He fucking hates you;

- You are weird and unnecessary, you shouldn't exist;

- Its existence is a mistake;

- Mark is fast, he wants to incapacitate you, but baby, you are unstoppable;

- He finds the tricks of holograms to deceive him unbearable, it's a dirty game, he hates it;

- Can't stop the void;

- Even if I dismember you, it seems impossible to kill you, but of course you are a damn robot that wears a human body like a fancy dress, that would be like asking for the sense in you;

- He can tell you're having fun;

"The buildings were destroyed around him, Mark flew above the rubble, his cape slowly swaying behind him, giving an aura of seriousness. While you were on the floor looking at him with a huge smile on your face.

"It seems like I irritated you.... Giggle... Hehehe I am so naugthy" – You laugh in amusement, finding his frustration hilarious. The Viltrumite growled at that smug attitude of yours, how could you be so annoying?

Angry, he advanced towards you, punching you in the face and throwing you into the wreckage. The sound of flesh tearing, bones breaking and metal crumpling from the impact was not a pleasant sound, it was far from a pleasant sound. It was grotesque.

You got up with difficulty, the solver regenerated you instantly, but your smile remained on your face.

"Just die soon" – he growls in irritation."

- You didn't die and now you're chasing him like a plague;

- You gave up on consuming the planet, and now your life goal is to make it hell;

- You jump on his back and put a hair tie on his head, telling him that look suits him;

- He obviously hates you for this.

Mohawk Mark

- You two are a freak, but you outdo yourself;

- You guys fought a lot, but you got bored quickly and started teasing him;

- Mark found it amusing when you pinned him against the wall with one of your crab claws that emerged from your back while you glared at him manically;

- Its smell is unpleasant, but bearable;

- You two are little shits;

- He wants to expand his empire and you want to devour planets, the unlikely dynamic is fun;

- The healthiest game you two can have is playing volleyball with a severed head;

- Your friendship is the basis of violence;

"You are now Mark's best friend, and you have decided to break into a guest house to play one of your violent pranks. You entered, kicking the door open with your strength, even though you are a "corpse" you have very brute strength.

You decided to sing a silly and grotesque song while destroying the place and killing the people who were there.

"Violence! Violence! You're the one for me!"– you rip out the heart of a random human who tried to run away from you, the heart still beating through one of your metal hands – "I'll steal your heart!" – you squeezed it crushing it – "And then I'll crush it into smithereens" – You throw it on the floor as if it were nothing, and climb on the table finishing your song. – " You're my special fella. We'll slaugther all our enemies. And send'em staight down to hell" – Mark thought it was fucking funny, you're a clueless idiot. He flew towards you, both of you covered in blood. – "Damn that was awesome!"

Violence brought you together"

- He loves to have fun with you, even though you're a big idiot.

No Goggles Mark

- You're so fucking funny;

- You both share the same neuron when it comes to violence;

- He loves the fact that you want to devour him, you bite him and tear off pieces of his flesh, it's fun;

- É engraçado quando ele arranca sua cabeça e você vai atrás dele pra pegar de volta;

- Your two favorite game is who can kill the most people in a short period of time, and he always wins, because you always take a break to devour your victims;

- He likes to play with you;

" Mark saw you lying face down on the floor, in front of you was a Sylvanian Families dollhouse, in your hands were two Sylvanian Families dolls, they were two bunnies.

You were hitting each other, it looked like you were kissing, it was adorable if you didn't know the context.

"Are you playing house?" – he asked, you just nodded – "Are they kissing?" – Grayson asks in a provocative way, so you answer in a simple way – " no... They are fighting to the death ".

Mark found it funny and amusing, he also lay down on his stomach and took one of the dolls from your hand, and the two of you began to play.

The two little rabbits were crushed in his hands."

- You two are unpredictable, this makes you extremely dangerous;

- Mark loves it when you put multiple hair bows on him.

Viltrumite Mark

- You deceived him, and that's why he kind of doesn't like you very much;

- He was on Cooper 9, as there was no life on the planet, it was easier for him to obtain its natural resources;

- But you were there, pretending to be a human wearing a spacesuit, and you were on that planet (which was a colony of Earth) and was responsible for fixing the problem that arose with an anomaly;

- In fact, you were the anomaly. You were there to get rid of an antivirus patch that could kill you, and with Mark there, it would be easy to get past security;

- He pretended to be a good Samaritan and so did you;

- He was the first to betray you, "killing" you at the first opportunity;

- But you stood up, put your head back on your body, and removed your spacesuit, revealing the dead body you wore as clothing;

- Mark was surprised and disgusted by you, obviously you fought;

- He wanted that planet for the Viltrumite Empire, what about you? Get rid of the fix patch and devour the planet;

- His arm went through his chest, ripping out his heart (its core) and crushing it;

- But it didn't kill you, it just made things worse for him;

"After crushing his heart the reality around him was adulterated, Mark was attentive. The colors disappeared, gravity wasn't working, and soon a black hole expanded, swallowing them, everything was dark, Mark didn't understand anything that was happening around him.

There was a small yellow glow over his hand where he crushed its core, a small black hole.

Soon he heard grunts, flesh tearing, and metal grinding, slowly approaching, his wrist was held tightly with one of his hands.

He saw his black eyes, oil and thick blood running down his cheek, nose and mouth. His grunts were terrifying to hear.

The Viltrumite didn't have time to react, you lifted his hand and put it in your mouth, swallowing the black hole.

"LET ME GO" - He was disgusted by her attitude, feeling her metallic tongue on his heated skin.

You removed his hand from your mouth, his hand was covered in thick black liquid, which made him feel sick.

His eyes now returned to those neon yellow X's, and his smile widened as reality returned to normal."

- Now you torment him.

I hope you liked it, I would have liked to have done it about the other variants, but my creativity died hahaha. Maybe I'll do part two.

By the way, there are some more projects to post here.

For example:

• Mark Grayson with reader who has Andrew and Ashley Graves as brothers (maybe I'll put the variants).

• Mark Grayson and variants with J! Reader

• Mark Grayson and variants with Brazilian reader;

• Mark Grayson headcanon nsfw.

(edit: KKKKKKKKKKKK EU ESCREVI ERRADO, EU SOU BURRA KKKKKKKKK)

#murderdrones #mark grayson #mark grayson x reader #mark grayson x you #invincible variants #invincible #invincible x reader

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plaidcowboy · 3 days ago

Text

kansas anymore ( the longest goodbye ) — role model

( notes ) eeee omg i’ve been wanting to do album themed bot release for so long! this is literally my favorite album these past months, i love tucker down. i did a lot of characters that ive never done before trying to spice things up. i’d love to have feedback on this. thank u all sm for the support. i love u!

track one — ( writings on the wall )

୨🌪️៹ donnie darko — ‘dads on the phone and he’s lecturing me, ‘bout a girl that he met back when he was nineteen.’ donnie, his father and his bestfriend all having a realistic conversation about his toxic girlfriend.

track two — ( look at that woman )

୨🌪️៹ patrick bateman — ‘damn honey, look at you go. look at that woman, breaking my heart.’ watching his ex from a distance at a business party, still so deeply in love with her.

track three — ( scum bag )

୨🌪️៹ jonathan byers — ‘i’m a scumbag, i’m a setback, im a stain on the kitchen floor. but you stand by me.’ getting high sometimes means all your thoughts coming to light, especially jonathans thoughts of insecurity.

track four — ( oh, gemini )

୨🌪️៹ spencer reid — ‘i’ll remember your face from time to time, i’ll remember that taste of cheap red wine, i’ll remember those days i called you mine.’ visiting the bar where you had your first date, spencer runs into his ex, both of you here for the same reason.

track five — ( frances )

୨🌪️៹ benedict bridgerton — ‘at the end of the day, i’m just happy i could say she was mine.’ after your parting due to status issues, benedict releases a poem book, every word being publicly read all about you.

track six — ( superglue )

୨🌪️៹ rafe cameron — ‘we’re gonna make it through. a little bit of superglue, stick by my side.’ gentle apologies and reassurance as rafe finally notices the crumbling of your relationship, wanting to make things right.

track seven — ( the dinner )

୨🌪️៹ felix catton — ‘swear they wouldn’t even notice if i never even showed, take me home.’ going to your boyfriends house for dinner to meet his parents for the first time reveals the difference in your status, felix in a cold rich family and you in the exact opposite.

track eight — ( deeply still in love )

୨🌪️៹ patrick zweig — ‘i’m sorry but i’m deeply still in love, in love with you now. yes ma’am.’ pathetic man crashing your wedding, getting down on his hands and knees to beg for your love back!

track nine — ( slut era interlude )

୨🌪️៹ bruce wayne — ‘i don’t like you, but i’d like you to spend the night. i’m going through it girl, could you do it girl?’ pulling himself out of bed to go to the club, trying to recover from his heartbreak as he brings home a random hookup.

track ten — ( so far gone )

୨🌪️៹ michael berzatto — ‘if you wanted me to go, you should have told me. so far gone, so lonely.’ mikey picking you up shitfaced drunk from a club, beer being your self remedy to a heartbreak. crying in mikey’s car.

track eleven — ( slipfast )

୨🌪️៹ jj maybank — ‘oh my god what i’d pay to just, run away from this. let me pay for it later.’ leaving behind your responsibilities and honestly bad-for-you boyfriend to spend the day with your bestfriend. slipping away from your duties to live in the moment.

track twelve — ( compromise )

୨🌪️៹ hughie campbell — ‘you deserve a happy ever after don’t you? after all the tears you’ve cried, don’t you compromise.’ not wanting you to settle for anything less than what you deserve, hughie changes himself for you.

track thirteen — ( something, somehow, someday )

୨🌪️៹ will graham — ‘he’s a loose cannon, foolish man who needs some medication. she’s a shoe-tied, bluesky honeymoon vacation. but i believe they’re meant to be.’ crying in your lap about what he feared the most being brought to life, not being good enough for you.

track fourteen — ( old recliners )

୨🌪️៹ natalie scatorccio — ‘i remember when the days were long, old recliners in the yard. kicking heels up to her favorite song, all the boys were playing cards.’ living with your ex after her return from the wilderness, battling with your own romantic emotions.

track fifteen — ( sally, when the wine runs out )

୨🌪️៹ anakin skywalker — ‘i’ll buy a couple of rounds. don’t let me think i’m enough, then disappear when the wine runs out.’ taking a break from the brutal jedi training to have a drink. spotting a cute, possible hookup.

track sixteen — ( some protector )

୨🌪️៹ sam winchester — ‘am i still worried about you? why, yes i am and i always will be some protector.’ sam watching you from a distance, the alcohol bringing him straight to your house in the late hours of the night.

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trashedsunsets · 2 days ago

Text

Spoiled Honey

Chapter 2: Local Honey

***

Summary ~

Small towns need big personalities to compensate. If only overworked ER doctors knew that.

wc ~ 1k+

a/n ~

thank you for the love on the previous part! made my heart swell and confirmed that I wanted to do a series :) updates??? whenever I can lol. happy to answer any questions!

prev chapter

“My daddy said he’d buy me my next horse when I make him a million dollars at the store.”

It’s you, the cashier from the store, stood with your feet on the first rungs of the corral fence leaning over to look at the grazing foals.

Mrs. Talbot had convinced the men staying on her property to come to the famers market on the weekends at the edge of Main Street. Meaning that Jack had to convince Michael who was more than happy to stay in at the cozy farm property.

“You have a horse?” Robby can’t say he’s not intrigued by this girl, the pair had only just arrived at the event and she was already on them. “Of course I do, got my sweet girl Custard when I was eight.”

Soft kissy noises are heard as you call for one of the foals to come over to you, hand already extended for sniffs and pets. A curious caramel colored one makes their way over pushing their snout into your palm. Amused the men watch as you love on the baby horse cooing and rubbing the soft mane. Eventually you give your final pets to the foal then hop off the fence making your way closer to Robby and Abbot. “Alma said you boys are ER doctors. Is that true?”

“Alma?”

“Boys?”

Soft giggles leave you at their confusion. “Mrs. Talbots first name is Alma.” You stand up a little straighter sincerity taking over your face. “And I don’t mean to assume calling you both boys, I know in this day and age you should never assume. I apolog-“

“No no you’re fine. But don’t you think we’re a little too old to be called ‘boys’.” Abbot dismisses your worries with an easy hand wave. He nudges Robby lightly glancing to see if he heard that. The only response he gets is an eye roll, but there’s a smile twitching at the corners of his lips unspoken flattery at being referred to as young.

The crease in your forehead is replaced by a smile, a shrug of your shoulders before speaking again. “Well I don’t think you’re that old. I’m sure there’s some spritefulness left in you two.”

“Yes we are doctors sweetheart,” your previous question answered by Robby lights up glimmers of interest in your eyes. “and as for ‘spritefulness’ well… not so sure about that.”

“Aren’t we lucky to have such esteemed guests in our town then,” your voice is warm, inviting, but your gaze is just past them. A flicker of a frown graces your lips while one of your hands makes a discrete shooing motion by your side. Then your focus is back on the men a guiding palm extended in the direction of the market stands, “why don’t we go this way. I’ll be your own personal tour guide of all the best vendors.”

Abbot glances behind them to spot a group of girls about your age, giggling and waving at you. “You got some friends over there?”

“Uhh yeah but they can wait I see em all the time. Come on then.” Nodding your head to the path you want to take before stalking off confidently without letting them get another word in. For whatever reason they do follow you listening as you launch into a spiel about all the different stands. You’re very knowledgeable, but curious too. Head tiled as you lean against a display of products fingers tapping lightly.

“What’s the oldest age you’ve ever operated on?” While Abbot is deciding what loaf of sourdough bread to get. “Ninety-Five.”

You mouth the number back to yourself quietly in shock. He’s chuckling as he’s exchanging money with the baker.

At the strawberry stand you’re crouched petting the owners corgi, Butterball, when you look up at Robby, “On average how many stitches do you have to give a woman after she gives birth naturally?”

He shakes his head in disbelief but the look in your eyes is so earnest he answers you truthfully instead of scolding you. A warmth in his chest at the scrunched look of pain on your face when he tells you the number.

“Have you ever performed an amputation?” The pair share a glance before Robby gives his own response before turning the questions to you. “Sweetheart what’s your favorite jelly from here?”

Your eyebrows furrow before starting to explain that the booth sells jams not jellies, then explaining the difference between the two.

You’re clearly popular as the vendors eagerly greet you by name smiling as they chat with you. Before the pair knows it they’ve picked up a couple of things mainly(all) at your insistence.

In the middle of you describing all the variety of recipes people make with rhubarb there’s a sharp whistle that catches your groups attention. A pair of young men at the leather goods stall calls your name. The men you’re with stop but you roll your eyes hard feet quickly moving intent on passing them by. “Come on darling, lemme take you out. I’ll even buy you a new dress for your collection!”

From you a hand raises in protest. “A no once is a no a million times Jeremiah.”

Mocking a wounded grip to the heart the young man is undeterred with a snarky smirk. “You’ll give in one day princess.” The boys are laughing together delighted as if making you upset was a prize.

Disapproving glares are given by both doctors as they follow your haughty strut away. Silently deciding it’s more important that you’re okay before causing problems with the locals. Unfortunately for the older men you’re pretty quick managing to put considerable distance between you. When you’re almost at the edge of the market near the last row of stalls is when you turn around. There’s a look of surprise on your face upon spotting the pair of men, they followed you. Other emotions are faster to take over though, an angry huff escaping you. Pacing back and forth with your arms crossed you look pretty pissed. “Don’t you just hate it when people don’t listen! Especially when you tell them several different times on several different occasions. Like I hate to call people stupid but I think rejection is a very simple concept!”

Robby steps up palms raised ready to defuse the situation his deep understanding eyes taking in your emotional state.

Mrs. Talbot is suddenly calling your little group over to her own stand clearly very excited the men decided to come. In an instant your demeanor changes, the pacing seizes, your posture straightens out. But your smile is a little tight as you make your way over to your neighbor. The men follow seeing no other option as you greet Mrs. Talbot waving them over. “Hi there Michael and Jack! I see you’ve met Honey Belle already!” The older woman is smoothing your hair with familiarity as a rosey heat comes to your cheeks at her words. “Alma…”

“What? I can’t compliment the prettiest girl in town?! Oh— I’ll be there one moment.” You shake your head fondly as she shuffles away to help a customer. Looking up the men’s eyes are on you with amused expressions, Abbot opens his mouth first. “Honey Belle?”

“Okay well if you haven’t noticed everyone calls me honey,” they did notice but they thought it was colloquial around here “she is the only one who calls me ‘Belle’ because she said she thinks I’m the prettiest but I told her she can’t say that. She says she’s old so she can say what she wants with her time left. We’re working on it.” Your face is slightly exasperated but there’s no lack of fondness.

“Like the princess then?” Robby questions, meanwhile Abbot is unable to hide his laughter at your predicament. Your face twists with the reaction of the second man, nose lifted in the air with displeasure.

“Yes. Like the princess.”

Nudging his partners good foot then nodding to you.

Stop upsetting the girl would you?

Is said in a glance.

Looking back to you a smile tugs Robby’s lips. “She’s got a good eye then.”

Quickly as it came your bristled demeanor dissipates at the compliment with a quick nod. “When she remembers to wear her glasses sure.”

Flinching slightly from the light swat to the back of your head as Mrs. Talbot reappears by your side. “Calling me old are you Honey?”

Grinning lazily as you glance to the side then back at the boys, a silent plea to keep a secret. “Oh nothing my dearest Alma.”

credits to @olenvasynyt for the dividers!

btw the pics at the top aren’t meant to describe readers looks, purely for vibes/setting the scene!

#the pitt #the pitt fanfiction #michael robinavitch #dr michael robinavitch #dr robinavitch #dr robby #dr michael robinavitch x reader #michael robinavitch x reader #jack abbot #dr jack abbot #dr abbot #dr jack abbot x reader #jack abbot x reader #dr michael robinavitch x dr jack abbot #michael robinavitch x jack abbot #michael robinavitch x jack abbot x reader #not proofread #not beta read

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miiyoshi · 2 days ago

Text

slow down

kuroo x reader -- cw: suggestive themes but nothing explicit, clothed touching wc: 772/ an: kuroo just wants you to be happy :)

the lamp is dim in your room, the atmosphere hot and tense. the temperature itself feels comfortable, but his proximity has you sweating against the fabric of your clothing.

kuroo is on top of you encasing your frame with his broad shoulders on the bed, head in the crook of your neck as he peppers soft kisses to your neck, jaw, cheek, and eventually lips. you're positive your sheets will smell like him in the morning.

"tetsu.." you whine against his lips. your mind is spinning faster than you can even comprehend as his name repeats endlessly in your head.

"yes angel? what are you thinking?" he says softly, bringing his body up to take a good look at you. one arm is beside your head holding himself up while the second gently grips your hips, rubbing soft circles with his thumb where your shirt has ridden up to expose a sliver of your skin.

you open your lidded eyes to look at the soft expression painted on his face, reflecting nothing but his admiration for you.

this isn't the first time things have started to get heated between the two of you, and you must admit it's not like you haven't been thinking about what it's like to see his fully unclothed chest after feeling his abs through his shirt for so long, but so far everything physical has not advanced past heated make out sessions and heavy petting over the clothes.

nothing is objectively holding you two back, just that you didn't want to rush. that word comes up a lot in your relationship. before you two even started to formally start dating, the shared principle of 'taking it slow' was emphasized a lot. the world around you two just seemed to move so fast, it feels like nobody takes time to get to know others anymore. the behaviour of rushing into something is so common amongst both your friends, family, even in the media through television shows and movies. kuroo always reassured you that he would go at your pace, and if that pace was extra slow and cautious, then so be it as he wants nothing more than to make you happy.

"baby, what's wrong?" kuroo snaps you out of your thoughts, his brows lightly furrowing in confusion and concern

"nothing!" you quickly chirp back, sitting up on the bed while kuroo is now off of you and facing your upright body with his.

"you can tell me if something's wrong, you know that right?"

"i know tetsu, i'm fine really," you grab his hands in yours to prove your words.

"but...?" god it's borderline frustrating how well he knows you.

"but..it just felt like everything was happening so fast. don't know if i'm ready for that yet. i'm sorry tetsu." you weakly mumble a response and your boyfriend frowns at you.

it's more than okay to want to stop any type of physical activity, kuroo knows this. he would never get upset or hold it against you, so why was it that you were apologizing for simply communication your emotions?

"sorry for what, my love?" he is always so sweet with his pet names, "what are you apologizing for? you know i couldn't care less if we take it further or not."

"just worried that you'll get sick of it kuroo. i'm always the one putting a stop to things, what if you get tired of my rejections one day?"

now kuroo looks confused. he quite literally has his head tilted to the side at an angle like a confused puppy.

"tired of your rejections?" he repeats your words, "you're just voicing your boundaries, why would i ever get tired of that?"

his words don't seem to be effective enough as you still don't raise your head to look at him, fumbling your hands with his in your lap.

"angel, look at me," kuroo lifts your chin gently with his hand, cupping your face. "i don't ever want you to apologize for having your own boundaries. no matter what i love you and nothing can change that. i'd rather have you tell me a million times than to have you do something you're not ready for."

you're able to look at him in the eyes now, relief washing over your body and a new found confidence filling your heart.

"really tetsu, you mean it?"

a deep laugh rumbles from his chest, "you're too cute. of course i mean it!"

he pulls you in for a hug and kisses your temple. kuroo continues, "forget about all that, i'm satisfied to just be in the same room as you."

#bun is writing #kuroo tetsurou #kuroo x reader #haikyuu kuroo #kuroo tetsuro x reader #haikyuu #haikyu x reader

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ceratedfish24 · 3 days ago

Note

Thoughts on renscott or majorbeans??

MY DRAMA NERDS!!! Ren is the guy on the football team who got the lead in the play because he’s a big strong man, except everyone then found out that he’s actually really into theater and knows a lot about it. Scott got the other lead, and they ended up kissing about it. Everyone went “Oh, it’s just a showmance” and then a month passes. And then another month passes. And then the school year is over and they’re still in the honeymoon phase. And then it actually makes a lot of sense. Of course Scott would be into a football player who’s genuinely into theater and is actually a really sweet, humble, and hard working dude. Of course Ren would be into the confident and popular pretty boy who’s actually really caring and clever and knows what is and isn’t worth his time.

Also, can we talk about Simple Life? “You’re a red name.” “I am.” “You could kill people.” “I could kill you.” “But you wouldn’t want to do that.” “I don’t.” Okay. Homosexuals. Ren might not be the first person many of us would think of when it comes to Trafficblr violence, but he is Red Winter. He is the Red King. He is a loyal knight of the Fairy Fort who craves blood. Ren doesn’t usually like to fight head on, but Scott showing 0 concern or defensiveness whatsoever threw him off so hard that Ren went from wolf to puppy dog so quickly. which. might be Scott’s special talent, honestly.

Let’s make one thing clear: There is only one moment in the entire Life Series that could be evidence of the canon temperature of Scott’s hands. and. it. is. Dangthatsalongname’s Wild Life Episode 7 32:47 “Scott, you got really warm hands, by the way.” - Rendog, Nov. 30th, 2024. (On a side note: I wanted to be sure that I got Ren’s channel name right, cause his username is “Renthedog”, so I looked him up, but the youtube search bar recommended “rendog face reveal”. I got curious and clicked it, and the first video that came up was a clip of Scott saying “he knows I’m gay, right?” in TommyInnit’s collab with Grian and Mumbo. I don’t know why. Could be a sign.) This is the only mention of the temperature of Scott’s hands. Contrary to all Smajor headcanons based on his ESMP S1, Scott has “really warm hands” at least in Wild Life.

Ren plays guitar and sings, and Scott also likes to sing. Their life would be so very full of music. Scott sings to himself in the morning while blearily making breakfast for the both of them, and Ren comes up behind him and wraps his arms around Scott’s waist. It’s too early for him, and Scott’s voice is putting him back to sleep. When Ren is tuning his guitar, Scott drops everything to listen in. Scott sings when he’s deep-cleaning the house, and Ren stands in the doorway and melts. The two of them take turns with the aux in the car, and they make playlists for each other and build playlists together. They sing each other lullabies before bed and hum old melodies while the other is brushing their teeth. Scott whisper-sings into Ren’s hair, as they fall asleep at night.

Majorbeans, okay, look. I’m not a fan of toxic relationships. I understand the appeal, but I am here for escapism where everything is good and okay. I like vanilla, and many of y’all like mint chocolate chip, basically. In other words, I’m not gonna talk about the toxic depictions of Majorbeans, because I know that I will be out of my element. It’s simply not territory that I am well versed in. However, I do particularly love Majorbeans from the angle of friends to lovers. I love the idea of Scott letting Joel get away with being more of a menace than anyone else because he trusts Joel to know where the line is and to apologize properly if he accidentally crosses it, and I so dearly love the idea of Joel knowing Scott better than anyone ever has.

When I think of Majorbeans, I think of old friends whose relationship isn’t really changed much by the labels “couple” or “boyfriends”. It was just the natural progression of their friendship. They’re still having stupid pillow fights and poking fun at each other when the other is bad at a video game. They’re still bickering about the same petty argument they had twelve years ago. They’re still competitive when pit against one another. They don’t really expect more from one another than they did before they started dating. Scott and Joel may not be the kind of couple who goes everywhere together, but they do get excited about getting to go home to one another. When they get married, it’s very literal when they say “I’m marrying my best friend”. I mean, that’s the person who gets them the best, who never judges, who knows when to be playful and when to be serious, who knows when to address an issue and when to nod and agree. That’s the person who they trust the most to be honest with them when it really matters.

To expand more on my thoughts about Scott and Joel not being the type of couple to spend every second of every day together, I’m not saying that they would get sick of each other. They’re just both generally confident enough to be fine on their own, and they’re both very competent people. I don’t think that they would worry too much about the other under typical circumstances. They’re just not super co-dependent on each other. They both value their relationship, but they naturally don’t feel a need to lean on it for validation or security. They can find what they need in themselves and their communities. Being around each other is just something they mutually treasure.

Joel and Scott are both people who like to play up their confidence, but I think that they’d be comfortable enough to be more vulnerable when it’s just the two of them. I think Scott wouldn’t bother to upkeep his appearance quite as much, though Joel still rolls his eyes and scoffs and blushes at how effortlessly and annoyingly pretty he finds Scott to be with bedhead in his laundry day clothes without make up. In turn, Joel is more earnest and forward about his intentions in his day-to-day activities when he’s talking with just Scott. Communicating properly with Scott just feels more natural in the moment, even if it makes Joel complain to Grian and Jimmy about how “grossly domestic” Scott makes him. He knows that, when making plans for the day, Scott appreciates his earnestness moreso than a bit Joel’s done a thousand times and will continue until he’s six feet under, and the bit is not so important to Joel that he would intentionally inconvenience Scott over it.

Finally, in Simple Life, Joel gave Scott a bouquet of dandelions. This is symbolic for a number of reasons. Firstly, dandelions are typically used to symbolize resilience, something that I believe both Joel and Scott to have in spades. It feels like an act of respect, for Joel to give Scott so many dandelions like that. Additionally, the way that Joel handed the dandelions off to Scott felt symbolic to me. He was just clearing his inventory to make room for an item Scott was giving him, but he also didn’t frame the action like he was just throwing his trash at Scott. It was a very practical action, something that just makes a lot of sense for their dynamic, particularly in Simple Life. Lastly, dandelions are a symbol of hope and childhood innocence. I didn’t grow up in a place with any dandelions, but, as a child, I always imagined what it might feel like to make a wish on one. To me, Joel giving Scott a bouquet of dandelions, in my little headcanon lore, was a way of saying “I wish you well, old friend”. I love that for them.

Thank you for the ask!!🩵🩵

#trafficblr #smajor #smajor1995 #scott smajor #rendog #renscott #smallishbeans #joel smallishbeans #majorbeans #trafficshipping #fish asks #i just think they're neat :)#🩵

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feygaleh · 3 days ago

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I’ve been thinking a lot in the past two years about the whole “Next Year in Jerusalem” aspect of Pesach and coming to terms with it as someone ideologically opposed to Zionism. It seems like every year people like us are demeaned and called oxymoronic because “Next year in Jerusalem *obviously* always has to mean Zionism and cannot be reinterpreted ever.”

I find this kind of literalism especially troubling within the Reform movement, as going by their own general philosophy regarding the interpretation of religious texts they would be the last people I would expect to take anything so painfully at face-value. However, for me personally this is something I have been wrestling with for some time and I think I have finally come to a new interpretation that I think best suits my moral values.

Have you ever wondered why Reform synagogues are called Temples? I did, and I found out that the reason for this was due to the movements initial stance of anti-Messianism. They called their places of worship Temples because they wanted to reinforce that they were going to be active members of their communities in the diaspora and that they wouldn’t just run off to another nation when the Temple was restored. And so, symbolically they built their own Temples, their own Jerusalems where they already were— it was this piece of history that greatly inspired me and made me think of that end-of-seder saying much differently.

Combining the Temple idea with the Bundist concept of Doykeit, I believe that my community in the diaspora is *my* Jerusalem, and that it will remain my Jerusalem for generations to come, I will work to build and maintain this home, and so every passover I say “Next year in Jerusalem” next year in my Jerusalem, and the Jerusalems of everyone throughout the diaspora, in the hope that their lands will be prosperous and kind to them and to all people. I hope that my Jerusalem will one day be a land of true egalitarianism and social justice, free of hate and violence of all kinds, that so it can become like a Zion restored.

Apologies if this seems a bit rambling, I tend to have issues structuring my more original ideas into well-formatted breakdowns.

definitely not a ramble my friend!!

this is very insightful and i appreciate everything youve shared. it’s why i love the reform movement so much and i find such quick fallacies in pro-israel jews saying their gotchas

“next year WHERE?”

it’s just… if anyone would just read up on judaism at all you’d know where. next year HERE. this is my jerusalem. i love my community. yes there are many jews where i live that i don’t agree with intrinsically but at the end of the day they are jews and they are included when i say next year in jerusalem.

next year in my city the jews will feel safer. next year in my city the homeless will have shelter. next year in my city my shul can afford to do repairs. next year in my city the kids can run safe in the parks. next year in my city the students can afford to go to school. this is jerusalem. that is my temple.

next year in jerusalem we can fight for human rights together.

it truly is disheartening to see fellow jews treat this like such a foreign and new concept. thank you for your message as always. every day i have a new reason to love being jewish in the south

#mine #jumblr #judaism #jewblr #ask #reform judaism #traumaticemphaticfantastic

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blainesebastian · 15 hours ago

Text

not my type

word count: 12,775 ship: Nick Leister x reader rating: R (for sexual situations and expletives) summary: But maybe you should know better that there’s a fine line between not being able to stand someone and fizzling attraction.(essentially an 'enemies' to lovers fic) notes: really appreciate all the kind comments, likes, reblogs and everything in-between 🥰 glad you all are digging these. notes2: gifs from here, masterlist here

When you first met Nick, it started off on the wrong foot, something that’s never quite been corrected. An uncoordinated dance, an imbalance of snarky commentary and obscene gestures (you love giving him the middle finger with a grin, and he loves being less than a gentleman any chance he can get). Your small friend group keeps you in one another’s orbit, but that doesn’t mean you have to like eachother. He just…he gets under your skin in the worst fucking way.

But maybe you should know better that there’s a fine line between not being able to stand someone and fizzling attraction.

Nick may be gorgeous, which he seems to know, but he’s also a giant pain in your ass. And he likes being that just a little too much.

—

Your first interaction consists of bumping into one another, literally, on the dance floor. You’re carrying drinks back to Jenna and her boyfriend Lion, attempting to settle into your new life after moving from New York to London. It hasn’t been the easiest transition to say the least, but your parents work with Jenna’s, and the moment you met her, you two hit it off. You’re extremely grateful for having someone to talk to, to invite you out, to get along with.

If only you knew it was going to include this briar patch of a person.

You’ve heard of Nick Leister, of course, before the unfortunate meet-up—his reputation precedes him. Successful at seventeen, a lot handsome, a little arrogant, and altogether frustrating. He looks down his nose at you when drinks are jostled in your hands, a sharp hiss leaving your lips when some spills onto your red party dress.

“Should probably come with a turn signal in close quarters like this.”

You scoff, seriously? “You bumped into me.”

“Anyone would bump into you with your elbows out like that.”

Your mouth falls open, pink staining your cheeks and heating the back of your neck, “That’s got to be the worst apology I’ve ever gotten, congratulations.”

He crinkles his nose—it shouldn’t look so attractive, and you quickly toss that thought away, “I don’t owe you an apology.”

You’re about to toss one of these well-balanced drinks into his face when Jenna pushes her way through the crowd, “Oh Y/N!” She grins, “I see you’ve met Nick.”

Nick’s gaze bounces between Jenna and you, a look of annoyance flittering across his features as he realizes that his friend is your friend…and that he won’t be rid of you so easily. For some reason, that awareness fizzles like water dripped onto hot coals in your stomach. But instead of giving him the satisfaction that you’re bothered, you tip your chin and give him your brightest smile,

“Yep,” You pop your ‘P’, “Utter pleasure.”

There’s the tight flicker of amusement in the browns of his eyes, gone almost as soon as it appears. The corner of his mouth tilts up, as if pulled by an invisible string, “Pleasure is all mine.”

—

Your friend group keeps you in similar circles, you spend time hanging out, getting to know one another, but you’re not sure you would call him a friend. The real problem is? When you’re wrapped up in distractions, when you forget the prickling animosity between the two of you…Nick’s someone you don’t mind spending time with. He makes you laugh, you like the passion that kisses his syllables when he talks about something he cares about…and you’re not going to try and deny that you’re attracted to him. At least not to yourself.

He’s got a boxer’s body, long lines and a sturdy tone, the muscles in his biceps defined, strength behind how he moves. He’s balanced, graceful, a beautifully contained force. You think about his hands far too often, how they form fists, how they might feel on your skin. Nick’s a tactile person, he speaks with his hands, there’s purpose in every touch he makes. A brush of his fingers along your arm, a hand pressed to your lower back when moving through a crowd, squeezing your hand when he helps you down from a high spot.

It’s frustrating, really, because he gets so easily under your skin. And yet you find yourself drawn to him nonetheless. The strong shape of his jaw, that smirk tugging his full lips, the pleasure and warmth sometimes in those brown eyes.

Completely unfair.

You lean back into your poolside chair and sip on your pineapple flavored drink, a small smile on your face as Lion and Nick toss a ball back and forth in the pool. He begins to swim towards the edge when Lion misses a throw, a laugh slipping out of his chest. He pulls himself out, water cascading down his skin and dripping onto the pavement.

Your eyes flicker over his chest and arms, tracing pretty line tattoos, wondering why he’s gotten each of them, if he wants any others. Chewing on your straw, your gaze lingers over the Roman numerals under his shoulder blade—

“Eyes are up here, sweetheart.”

And you feel your face go red as he catches you. Fuck. You huff out a sound, trying not to feed into the fucking satisfaction that’s already written all over his face.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Would you rather I call you something else?”

Your thoughts spin in your head like a washing machine stuck on a rinse cycle as he grabs a towel, running it over his hair and down his chest. You’d rather pretend like the last three minutes didn’t happen.

Straightening your shoulders, you decide to go with denial, “I know this is maybe sore for your ego, but just because you’re here without a shirt on, doesn’t mean someone is checking you out.” You motion to your sunglasses which have, thankfully, shaded your eyes and their traitorous direction from him.

He’s just guessing. (He’s right, but that’s besides the point).

Nick smirks, humming a little as he moves to sit down on a lounger next to yours, Jenna getting up from your other side to join Lion in the hottub. “My ego’s just fine, but it’s cute that you’re concerned about it.”

“I’d be more concerned about your belligerent personality.” You smile sweetly, “Not going to get a date that way.”

“So you are concerned about who I date?” He asks, raising his eyebrows. He leans forward as if intrigued, his elbows resting on his knees. The dick.

“No.”

You must say it far too quickly, because he’s smiling again, something slow and annoyingly handsome. Like a cat that’s caught a canary. “Oh you are,” He hums, “Well, you’ll be happy to know that you aren’t my type.”

A scoff slips out of your throat and despite heat curling in your veins, you try not to take offense and rise to the commentary leaving his mouth. He wants to bother you, upset you, you’re not about to give him that gratification, “And who’s your type? Blonde, emotionless and rude? Quite the pairing.”

Nick licks his lips, drawing in a soft breath as he sits with what you’ve said, “Anna and I are just friends.”

And fuck—you didn’t even mean to describe Anna. Not exactly. You just…sort of flashed upon those personality traits in your mind, came to one conclusion. You’ve only had a few interactions with her but it’s been more than enough. She’s nasty in a way you didn’t realize another girl could be, and you barely know her? You can’t figure out why she’s been so unwelcoming.

“In case you’re concerned about that too.” Nick smiles, eyes roaming over your face, playfully pushing your sunglasses up the bridge of your nose before standing to get himself a drink.

You let out a slow breath, trying to tell yourself that it doesn’t matter what Nick’s told you about him and Anna. That you could care less about who he’s dating or interested in or…anything like that. Why would that matter to you?

You pointedly ignore how your lips have twitched into a smile, that tell-tale flush working its way down your chest.

—

You’ve decided you want to go home. A little drunk and a lot tired, you’ve overstayed your limit at the latest underground car lineup. That’s what you like to call these little get togethers—when everyone shows up in their fanciest car and shows them off, maybe even races. You’re here because of Jenna, to have a good time, to drink a little too much and dance in the coolness of the parking garage, the music vibrating the concrete and reverberating in your chest. Admittedly, you love it a bit more than dancing in a club or someone’s house.

Jenna playfully tugs you away from someone you’re dancing with, the guy all hands, but handsome, long legs and a grin that gives a dimple. But apparently he was trying to take you back to his place and Jenna’s got her wits about her to not let that happen.

“Think it’s time for you to head home, sweets.” She laughs as you wrap your arms around her, resting your chin on her shoulder.

“But I want to dance more.” You pout.

She cups your cheeks, planting a kiss on your forehead. “And as much as I love seeing you dance, your knees are as wobbly as Bambi right now.”

You huff, even though in the back of your mind, you know she’s right. You got a ride with her, so at the very least you don’t have to worry about leaving your car here. But you also don’t want to ruin the rest of her night, it’s still early?

“I can see if Zach—”

“I can take you.”

You blink, turning to see Nick standing near the trunk of Jenna’s car and…when the hell did he pop up here? Your eyes tick over his form quickly but it’s not missed by him however, because there’s a twinge of a smirk on his lips. He looks good, and that’s annoying within itself.

“Uh, no thanks.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Oh, you going to walk back?”

Your eyes narrow into a glare. “I don’t need your help.”

He smiles, far too handsome, Jenna stepping forward to pat your head. “Babe let him take you home, okay?”

There’s a soft grumble in your chest because the last thing you want is to lean on him for help, to smell the pristine leather of the seats in his car, the rumble of the engine encompassing your body, the sensation of him far too close. You’re not my type vibrates in his timbre against your eardrums, your nose crinkling at that conversation.

“I’m not exactly thrilled about it either,” Nick says, misreading your expression, “I got a lot of other things I’d rather do.”

You scoff, as if he didn’t offer in the first place, but disentangle yourself from Jenna, your knees a little unsteady, “Well I’d hate to interrupt your very busy night,” You throw back, voice dripping in sarcasm, “I’ll find my own way home.”

You turn, far too quickly, and practically tangle up your feet. You don’t faceplant though, as you suspected, and land right against a firm chest. Nick’s arm wraps around your waist, helping you keep your balance, and you wish he didn’t smell like that—expensive cologne, laundry detergent, something purely him. He smells good.

“Thank you,” He replies and fuck—you did not mean to say that last part outloud.

“I wasn’t talking to you.”

Nick smirks, tucking your hair behind your ear and out of your face, “Sure, okay.”

“Bye babe,” Jenna grins, reaching over to press a kiss to your cheek before disappearing around her car to find Lion.

You pull a little bit away from Nick, insisting on not needing him to walk, and his arm leaves your waist. His hand slips down, squeezing his fingers around your own, letting you lead even though you have zero clue where he parked his car.

Eventually, through some of the crowd, he begins to tug you in the direction of where you need to go. When you pass the dance floor, one of your favorite songs on, you stop short. Nick jerks to a halt, an accidental yank on your arm as he turns around to look at you.

“I want to dance to this.”

His eyebrows draw together, glancing towards where people are moving to the beat of the music. You bounce a little on the balls of your feet in anticipation, “And I want to be unbothered the rest of the night—that’s not going to happen until I get you home.”

You huff and Nick’s lips twitch, an almost smile he tries to hide, “One dance.”

He’s immovable. “No, I’ll carry you if I have to.”

Your mouth falls open, taking a step back even though his fingers have automatically laced with yours. You didn’t even notice until right this very moment. How long have they been like that? “You wouldn’t dare.”

Nick raises his eyebrows and the glittering in the depths of the brown tells you that he’s accepted that challenge. He purses his lips, looking away for a brief moment before he moves—in one fluid motion, he places his arm along the back of your thighs, hauling you up over his shoulder.

You choke out a squeal before slapping him on the ass, “Put me down.”

A laugh empties out of his mouth before he quickly walks in the direction of his car. Fuck, you cannot believe he fucking picked you up like some sort of caveman. You try not to squirm but it feels like he’s barely holding on as it is, jostling you as he weaves through other parked cars,

“Nick!” You snap out, one of your hands gathering the material of his shirt to ground you. Jesus, being upside down is making you even more dizzy, “I can walk—I swear to God, let me go.”

He stops suddenly, though you’re not sure if you’re at his car—either way your stomach bottoms out as gravity gives way. Nick does let you go, assisting your tumble to the ground. A squeak leaves your lips and you land right on your ass, an unladylike oof leaving your lips.

“Are you serious?”

“Just proving a point,” Nick smiles, something so amused that there’s laughter wrapped around his syllables when he speaks, “I can’t figure you out. You wanted down and now you’re upset you’re on the pavement?”

You kick your legs a little, boots on your feet echoing the clacking heel noise around you. There’s a pout on your lips as you look up at him, “You dropped me.”

Nick shakes his head, but he’s still smiling, crouching down so that he’s eye-level with you. He gives you a onceover, making sure you’re okay, “You need help up?” He offers his hand, to which you smack away. He smirks, “Alright then.”

Your mouth, you swear, is completely disconnected from your body. You proved that by telling him that he smells good (he does) —but the longer you stare at him, the more you feel like asking him something that you haven’t been able to get out of your head since he told you. The words spill out of you before you can reign them in—

“I’m not your type?”

Nick’s eyebrows draw together in soft confusion, like he can’t quite understand how you got from point A to point B. He then sighs out, reaching over to adjust the strap of your dress so it’s back on your shoulder and not halfway down your arm.

“You’re still thinking about that?”

You shake your head slowly, “...no.”

Nick smirks but doesn’t press. You notice he doesn’t respond to your question, either, just reaches both his hands out to you, palms up. “Can I help you up?”

You look at his hands, the silver rings on some of his fingers, the chain-link bracelet hanging from his wrist. Things that, for some reason, make your chest ache before you nod. He shifts forward to hook his arms underneath yours, hauling you up from the ground. The garage spins a little and you have to grab onto his arm to steady yourself.

“Okay?” He asks, waiting until you nod. He guides you to his car, opening up the door, “You gonna be sick at all?”

“Just sick of your face.” You mumble, bending to get inside the car.

Nick laughs, something warm and altogether too bright. “Feeling’s mutual.”

Yet his actions don’t match his words, even when they’re said in teasing. He buckles your seatbelt for you and brushes his thumb along your collarbone before closing the door.

—

You hadn’t exactly been going for drunk given the last time you drank because your hangover was fucking awful. Being a bit tipsy feels safer, in which the room spins a bit in a rose-colored glaze. Not too over the top, but still having fun. You’re looking to avoid what happened last time, your cheeks heating with embarrassment when you think about you and Nick eye to eye—

You’re still thinking about that?

Dumb, so dumb. You’re glad that he hasn’t mentioned anything, so you’re allowed to pretend it never happened. You push those thoughts aside, thinking about tonight instead.

Jenna is one of your favorite people to dance with and Lion has been teaching you how to play pool, and your goal is to spend the rest of the night in the hot tub after drinking some water to balance yourself out.

Adjusting your swim top, you come out of the bathroom and make a b-line to the kitchen, opening up the fridge to grab a cold bottle of water. You hum softly, resting the cold plastic against your neck, leaning against the counter.

“Like that swim top.”

You open your eyes, glancing over at someone you don’t know, a tall guy with auburn hair and freckles on his cheekbones. You give a small smile, curling your hair around your ear, “Thank you.” You unscrew the cap on the bottle, taking a long swig. The guy moves closer to you and your stomach flutters in discomfort, but you don’t move.

He licks his lips, “Blue’s definitely your color.”

You draw in a breath, “Thanks, it’s my favorite.”

And maybe it’d benefit you to start heading out of the kitchen, or put some distance between you and whoever this guy is. You can tell his gaze is slightly glassy, the intentions of what he’s after written all over his face. You nearly know what’s going to come out of his mouth before he says it—

“Wanna grab a drink?”

You’re not sure if he means right now or later, but either way, “Oh uh,” You shake his head, “No thank you.”

He takes a step closer, nearly crowding your space and you hate that you’ve practically backed yourself into a corner in the kitchen, nerves beginning to fray as you realize you’ll have to push past him to leave. He’s not that much taller? But he feels like he towers over you.

“C’mon, just one drink.”

“She’s not interested.”

The guy pulls back and when his body disappears from your field of vision, you see Nick leaning against the doorframe of the kitchen. His body is relaxed but it conflicts with the muscle flexing in his jaw, a sharp light in his brown eyes. You let out a soft breath as this guy steps out of your personal space, Nick wandering into the kitchen to grab another drink for himself.

Tall guy no longer seems interested once Nick is there, and mumbles whatever as he turns to leave. You roll your shoulders back, turning a little to speak to Nick, maybe even thank him for saying something? But what he says next douses a cold bucket of water on you.

He gives you a onceover, eyes lingering on the cloud-print that’s on your bikini top, before his eyes meet yours. “You’re too nice.”

You blink—what? That’s the last thing you expect him to say. There’s a prickle of annoyance underneath his tone and your mouth opens a bit in surprise as you realize…it’s not directed at the guy who was practically folding you into the counter when he walked in, but that it’s towards you. He’s frustrated with you.

What…is that supposed to mean? “That’s coming from you? Someone who thinks glaring and grunting are personality traits?”

A twitch of a smile, but not quite. He turns towards you and wanders over with his beer, setting it down on the counter. He’s standing close, but not as close as that other guy. Not yet, anyways. You can feel the heat from his skin and smell his expensive cologne—it draws your heartbeat up into your throat. You tip your head back a little to meet his eyes, refusing to back down.

“See,” He comments softly, motioning to your eyes, “Where was that?”

Your eyebrows draw together, “What?”

“Where was that fire in your eyes? That attitude you seem to only have with me.”

A laugh stutters forward, “You ever seem to wonder why that is?”

Nick closes the distance between you, creating a cage around your body with his arms as his hands press into the counter. Your stomach flip flops, your eyes boring into his own, and you force yourself not to look at his lips—even when he speaks.

“You’re too nice,” He repeats, “What would have happened if I hadn’t walked in?”

You’re not sure why it matters, why it’s any of his business, why he cares. Yeah, that guy was making you uncomfortable, but you would have…he would have gotten the point, right? “I was just about to tell him that he wasn’t my type.”

Low blow—so much for not thinking about that.

Nick doesn’t take the bait, however, even though there’s a glimmer of recognition in his eyes. “I don’t believe you.” He says softly.

Heat kisses the back of your neck, goosebumps spreading along your skin when you feel the fabric of Nick’s shirt brush along your arms.

“You need to stick up for yourself Y/N, put your foot down when you deserve something. Tell someone to fuck off if they’re getting under your skin.” You swallow over a foreign emotion in your throat. The words bubble on your tongue just to prove a point—but he’s not agitating you, not really. He’s right. He’s right and that’s why you’re annoyed. You weren’t going to say anything.

And even if you had? That guy was never going to listen to you, no matter how many times you told him, nicely, that you weren’t interested. You’re so worried about hurting someone else’s feelings that you never look out for your own.

“You’re not a doormat,” Nick lifts his hand, playing with a strand of hair near your ear. Your stomach hits your knees when his finger brushes your cheek. “So stop acting like one.”

It should piss you off, what he’s saying, but you find yourself utterly distracted by the nearness of his body, the way if he leaned in just a little, your lips would brush.

You tilt your head up and don’t miss the way that Nick goes still, like he didn’t anticipate this, like he wasn’t expecting you to lean into his touch. You’ve caught him by surprise. Your noses bump, and Nick draws his lower lip into his teeth as he looks down at yours.

Something heated slides down between your legs as his knuckles rests along your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip.

“Nick,” You whisper, hand resting on his chest.

And just when you think he might lean in and kiss you, you push on his chest, sending him a bit off balance. “Fuck off.” Your voice has bite, fueled by his advice, his proximity, the fact that he sees you without trying.

You hate that. (Or perhaps it’s because you don’t hate it at all).

He draws in a breath, letting it out through his nose as you walk past, amusement and something you can’t name dancing on his handsome face.

How’s that for not being a doormat?

—

The next time Tall guy comes around at the party, trying to slide up against you while you’re outside the hot tub with Jenna, you turn and give him a firm I’m flattered but stop bothering me. He straightens, huffs out an annoyed sound, but turns and leaves you alone. Period. No room for interpretation.

When you turn your attention back to your friend, you spot Nick watching nearby, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

—

“What’s going on between you and Nick?”

You turn a little towards Jenna, your friend’s eyes bright and open as you linger in the kitchen of Nick’s place, intent on going back out to the pool. Just a day to waste time, planning the next trip to Ibiza and the like. You wish it was just the four of you, but somehow Anna got invited, along with her insufferable friends. You’re trying to keep it friendly, but you’re pretty sure your emotions are clear on your face.

“Not sure what you mean.”

Jenna gives you this look, like don’t bullshit me and you…suppose you understand what she’s talking about. There’s been this odd heat that seems to fizzle between you and him—like you’re always ten seconds away from catching on fire. Though you’re not sure what that means. It’s hard to tell whether it’s mutual attraction or something worse.

You might want to kiss him, mostly just to shut him up, but how much trouble would that be really worth?

“You don’t get what I mean?” She asks, skeptical, “There’s obviously something there, babe, otherwise you wouldn’t look like you’re sucking on a lemon because Anna’s here.”

For fuck’s sake. “Or it’s because Anna has the personality of a leather couch.”

Jenna grins, tossing an arm over your shoulder, “Whatever you say.” She sing-songs.

You chew on your lower lip, debating for a moment whether you should voice what you’re about to. But…at this point, it’s sort of become a thing for you. So what does it hurt mentioning it to Jenna? Or at least seeing what she says.

“He said I’m not his type.”

Jenna smiles but bites on her lower lip, like she’s trying not to laugh, “And that bothered you, huh?”

You roll your eyes, groaning as you cover your face with your hands. “He gets under my fucking skin.”

“You don’t sound broken up about that.”

“What does that even mean? I’m not his type? Maybe he’s not mine!”

Jenna smirks, “I’m sure Nick likes to think he’s everyone’s type.”

You let a slow breath out of your lips. Is his ‘type’ based off looks? Personality? Their taste in music or movies or cars? You hate that you’ve given this so much thought.

“Maybe he just wants someone as rude and snarky as he is.” You grumble but even as the words leave your mouth, you know they’re not fair.

A knowing hum leaves your friend’s mouth and she puts an arm over your shoulders again to guide you outside, “Nick may seem prickly on the outside, he certainly loves a verbal spar as much as tossing his fists. But he’s a good guy.”

“Deep down?” You mumble, even though there’s no heat to your words. You don’t mean it and you know it’s not. You’ve seen him be someone kind, considerate, thoughtful. Even though that kitchen conversation rubbed you the wrong way, you know the words themselves came from a place in which he cared—otherwise he never would have intervened, never would have said anything.

She smiles, almost knowing, playfully tugging on a strand of your hair, “Not that deep.”

There’s a moment in which you really take in what she’s saying and consider giving him that chance. You’ve known Nick long enough to understand that he’s complex and so is your relationship—there are layers that he’s never seen of you, so maybe it’d be fair to say the same about him.

But as you turn past the corner of hedges, that thought goes right through the sky when you see him pressed against Anna in the pool, whispering something into her ear. Something green and sickly curls in your stomach and you have to pull your gaze away so quickly that you nearly topple right into your friend.

On second thought? Maybe only knowing one layer of Nick Leister is more than enough for you.

—

You can’t remember the last time you went to one of these bare-knuckle fights at Lion’s warehouse gym but you’re quickly recalling why the gap in attendance existed in the first place.

Wincing as Nick takes another hit to the face, you tear your gaze away, a sharp breath gathering in your lungs. You try to convince yourself that it’s the violence itself that bothers you and not the fact that Nick is getting hurt. Granted he’s winning but…that doesn’t make it any easier.

Rubbing the back of your neck, you glance up at the fight in front of you, the roar of the crowd drowning out the grunts of the fighters. This is the last round, though you’re not even sure why it’s needed. The guy across from Nick is taking wild strokes, obviously tiring out, sometimes landing something, most of the time not. You know Nick’s stance well, at this point, he’s letting him get hits in.

When time finally ticks down and it’s over, you feel like you can breathe again, smiling just a little (though it feels too tight on your face) when Nick’s win is announced. As the crowd begins to dissipate, you follow Jenna back to the locker room where Lion is discussing payout. You stand nearby, leaning against a set of lockers, arms crossed over your chest.

Nick is seated on one of the bleachers, listening to Lion, an amused stretch to his mouth as Lion practically beams with pride and being 20k richer.

“Celebratory drinks at my place,” Lion comments, his hand coming down on Nick’s shoulder, and you don’t miss the soft wince that passes over his features. As he playfully tugs Jenna with him when he leaves, talking about tossing fifties in the air tonight like confetti, you draw in a soft breath and try not to let annoyance seep out of your pores.

One of the only things you wildly disagree with when it comes to Lion is treating Nick like some sort of prized racehorse. You know that Nick can stand up for himself, can say no if he really wanted to, but that doesn’t mean you have to like the idea of him getting slapped around in the ring.

Watching him struggle with antiseptic and cotton balls, you step towards the bench. “Here, let me help.”

You straddle the bleacher, inching closer to where he’s seated sideways. He pauses, glancing up at you as you sit down, handing over the first-aid kit. You put it on the floor, rifling through it for clean cotton balls and more antiseptic wipes. It feels incredibly intimate like this, sitting so close to him, the empty echoes of the locker room, him with his shirt off and a light sheen of sweat on his skin.

“Nothing’s broken right?”

Nick shakes his head, watching you fiddle with the antiseptic wipes. You finally manage to tear one open and hold out your hand so you can look at his knuckles. They’re not too bad…you look up at his face, your stomach doing a somersault when your eyes meet his. Suddenly you feel too overwhelmed having him this close, the heat of his body reaching through the layers of your clothes.

You reach up and gently run your fingers through the front part of his hair, even though you don’t have to, pretending to look at a bruise forming on his one eyebrow. You then give your attention to his cheek, his lip, where there’s cuts. Nothing that needs stitches but definitely need cleaned.

Your one hand moves to cup his jawline, tilting his head back towards the lights on the ceiling, beginning to swab the jagged line on his cheek. He jerks a bit, letting out a sharp breath.

You raise your eyebrows, smiling a little, “Don’t be a baby, I’ve barely touched you.”

You continue cleaning his cheek until you’re satisfied, moving on to his lip. Your thumb brushes his lower one, trying to ignore how soft it feels beneath your touch.

“Having trouble finding the cut?” He asks, voice a touch low as he definitely notices you getting caught up.

Heat spreads along the back of your neck and your thumb moves to press along the corner of his mouth where it’s red, just a touch bloody. His reaction is immediate, a hiss between his teeth and the heat that was in his brown eyes suddenly sparks with indignation.

“Found it.” You smile sweetly.

“Your bedside manner could use some work.” He grumbles.

Humming, you run your thumb along his jawline, almost in apology. You then begin to disinfect his lip in soft silence, making sure to get all the dried blood. You chew on the inside of your cheek in concentration before a thought wanders into the forefront of your mind.

“Why were you letting him get punches in?”

Nick raises his eyebrows, maybe almost impressed that you could tell he was doing that. He shifts on the bench, “I’m surprised you noticed, any I time I saw you in the crowd, you had your head down.”

I don’t like seeing you get hurt, is what you want to say, but those words never make it out. “Why?” You ask again.

He breathes out, shrugging his one shoulder, “He doesn't have the best record, he was going to lose the minute he stepped in the ring.” An eyeroll from you—cocky. “Figured the night shouldn’t be a total waste for him.”

You shake your head, “No one is going to want to date you if you look like a potato.”

You’re joking, of course, but Nick’s hand suddenly comes up and wraps around your wrist. You swallow as his thumb drags across your veins, the air seeming to crackle around you as he says, “That’s the second time you’ve been concerned about who I’m dating.”

“I was…” Words, “I was just pointing out that no one is going to date you with your face all…like that.”

He smiles, just a little, a twitch of his lips. “My face like what?” He licks his lips, glancing down at yours. “‘No one’?” He tosses your words back at you, “I don’t know about that.”

A shiver runs down your spine, something Nick can definitely feel based on his proximity. You don’t remember leaning closer to him, but you do, noses bumping, lips brushing—

And then the door to the locker room slams open. “Oi!” Lion calls out, “Can’t celebrate without you! Let’s go!”

You practically fall off the bench you back up so fast, Nick’s eyes light with mirth and something else. Something you don’t wait around to identify before muttering you have to go, passing Lion on your way out.

—

Shivering as you cross the street, you tug your phone out of the pocket of the dress you’re wearing to call Jenna to see if she’ll come pick you up from this fucking awful date you were on. This is your own damn fault, you know that, but you’re pissed nonetheless. You have no idea why you talked yourself into this (yes you do) but you decide there and then that you’re not going on any more dates unless you know the person. This is a guy that you interacted with once at a party and that should have told you all you needed to know.

Jenna doesn’t pick up on the first call and you close your eyes, tipping your head back towards the night sky because this is also a rookie fucking mistake. You let the guy pick you up, drive you to the bar that’s now across the street.

“Idiot,” You mumble to yourself, trying Jenna’s cell again.

Honestly? This is all Nick’s fault. He’s got you fucking twisted up in a way you cannot explain or sus out your feelings for. Seeing him close with Anna in his pool, patching him up and nearly doing something regrettable like kissing him, listening to his advice about not being a doormat… it just. It all builds up.

You’re not my type.

You let out a harsh breath—this is how you’ve ended up out on the sidewalk, trying to call a ride home.

You told your so-called ‘date’ to stop trying to kiss you, that you weren’t even sure you wanted to finish the night out, let alone kiss him at the end of it. One point for standing up for yourself. Negative one point for your date telling you to fuck off and find your own ride home.

Charming.

“Fuck,” You pull your phone away when Jenna doesn’t answer for the third time.

Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you debate ordering a ride but…the last thing you want to do is spend more time with a different strange man tonight. There’s another name that your thumb hovers over and you already hate yourself for wanting to tap on it.

He probably won’t pick up anyways.

But, of course, he does.

Before he can even speak, you try to explain, “I tried calling Jenna three times but she’s not picking up.”

Nick lets out a breath through his nose, “What’s wrong?”

You wince, not wanting to tell him. You begin a slow pace, back and forth, across the edge of the sidewalk. “Uhm. I was on a date and…turns out he fucking sucks, so, I need a ride home.”

Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you almost spill into a tangent about how you can order a ride or maybe…call someone else? Try Jenna again. You expect Nick to make a wiseass remark about calling so late, or give a scornful comment on how it sucks that your date was terrible.

He surprises you by doing neither of those things, “Where are you?”

You blink, opening and closing your mouth, “I’ll drop a pin.”

Despite the silence, he stays on the phone with you until he turns onto the street, the familiar sound of the rumbling engine a comfort you can’t explain as he pulls alongside where you’re standing. Tugging the door open, you slip inside, a soft sound leaving your lips at the warmth of the leather seats.

Nick’s in a pair of sweats, a plain white t-shirt, zip-up hoodie. When he sees you trembling, he turns the heat dial up, his hands resting back on the steering wheel as you put your seatbelt on. You’re not sure if he was at home or…somewhere else, but you’re grateful he showed up. Regardless of the tumultuous relationship the two of you have, he came to get you. That means a lot.

The bruises and cuts on his face are healing quite nicely from his tussle in the ring. In about a week, it won’t even look like he was fighting at all.

“Thanks,” You sniffle, rubbing the end of your nose with the back of your wrist. “You know, I really don’t understand guys. I mean—you seem to have a few good conversations with them and then they jump right into being a jackass when you won’t kiss them. I mean, what the fuck?”

You glance over at him as he pulls out of the parking spot, the muscle in his jaw flexing, knuckles a bit white as he grips the steering wheel.

“He didn’t even take me to dinner before the bar,” You shake your head. “I’m starving.” Not that you’re expecting to be completely wined-and-dined and everything but…what ever happened to good food, good conversations and a late-night drink?

A soft huff leaves your lips, leaning back against the seat and wrapping your arms around yourself.

“He tried to kiss you?”

You blink, looking back over at Nick as he drives. His eyes are on the road, but the tone of his voice envelopes you like a warm blanket, causing a shiver to course down your spine. You’re almost confused he asks because…you weren’t even on that topic anymore, moreso on your rumbling stomach and wondering what you’re going to make to eat when you get home.

“Yeah,” You shrug, “Wasn’t happy when I wasn’t into it. Told me to fuck off and find my own way home.”

Nick lets out a short breath, stalling the car at an intersection even though the light isn’t red. There’s no one behind him but your eyebrows draw together as he seems to debate making an illegal U-turn.

“It’s not too late—I can turn around, go back, punch his lights out.”

You find yourself staring at him, at the open display of protectiveness, how pissed he sounds. On your behalf. You almost have no idea what to say for a moment, not expecting this reaction. For him to offer to turn the car around and…

Letting out a slow breath, you reach over and gently touch one of his wrists, smoothing your thumb along the tree of veins there until he visibly relaxes. He presses his foot against the gas, getting the car going. You appreciate the gesture, as fucked up as that might be. But he doesn’t need to hit anyone for you.

Both of you are quiet as he drives, until a soft giggle climbs up your throat, “You know…punching him might have only done him favors, feel like he wasn’t very handsome to start.”

Nick rolls his eyes but there’s a gentle tilt to his lips, a smile that wants to happen but doesn’t quite get there. “Would have made me feel better.”

You hum softly, “Because he ruined your night?” You’re not sure what he was doing before you called, but you’re sure it was probably better than this.

He licks his lips, putting his turn signal on, “Because he ruined yours.”

Heat flushes over your cheeks and suddenly, you’re not feeling so cold anymore. Every time you think Nick’s not capable of surprising you, he says something like that. The sentiment dips into your chest and squeezes your ribs, releasing butterflies from their cages and fluttering them all throughout your system.

It has you thinking about what Jenna said, that Nick’s a good guy. You suppose it’s something you’ve never doubted, just…never got to see much of it angled in your direction.

When he puts the car into park again, you realize it’s not outside your place, but instead… “A diner?” You raise your eyebrows, turning a little to look at him.

Nick takes his keys out, pocketing them before glancing at your abdomen. “They can hear your stomach grumbling a city over.”

You grin, quickly getting out of the car, excitement spurring you forward as Nick follows you inside. The smell of grease and fried food greets you like an old friend and you grab a menu to look at as you wait for the hostess to come back from seating another couple to put you at a table as well.

And just when you think Nick’s done surprising you, you feel the warm weight of his zip-up hoodie land over your shoulders as he tells the hostess that there’s two of you. You look up at him but he’s not paying attention to you, smiling at the older woman as she grabs silverware and says that she has the perfect booth for the both of you to sit at.

Absentminded. Like he does something like this all the time—putting his hoodie around your shoulders and bringing you to a diner after a bad date. You press your arms through the sleeves, the warm fabric that smells like him is almost completely overwhelming.

Something changes between you two, you can feel it. You’re not sure you can name it or even grasp it between your fingers, but a transformation nonetheless.

Before you sit down on one side of the booth, you lean over and plant a kiss to Nick’s cheek. It’s quick, almost a distracted movement, but you mean it. He hesitates in sitting down, watching you take a seat. You can feel the warmth of his skin against your lips, and you resist the urge to touch your mouth as you take a look at the menu again as if it’s the most interesting thing you’ve ever seen.

“What was that for?” He asks, finally sitting down across from you.

“Just because.” You reply and enjoy the feeling of his legs leaning into yours under the table as you decide on what to order.

—

Something shifts. It’s in small smiles, snarky comments, the brushing and grazing of your hands. It’s in the way you tug on Nick’s curls or the way he squeezes your waist in a spot he knows you're ticklish. It’s when he calls you softie as an insult, but he’s smiling. It’s in how you haven’t given him his hoodie back since the night you were at the diner. It’s wearing it in front of him and he makes no move to take it.

It doesn’t have a name, just a feeling, an emotion that’s heavy and weightless all at the same time.

—

You knew today wasn’t going to be the best day when you rolled over and saw that your phone died. On a normal Saturday? That wouldn’t be such a big deal, but of course today you promised to help your mother set up for this charity event she’s been talking about non-stop. Again, usually not a big deal? But this afternoon is also the deadline for a summer art program that you've been wanting to sign up for. You can admit it’s your fault for leaving things to the last minute (your portfolio is done, but the essay portion is not). Also? It’s your fault for being interested in such a pain in the ass prestigious program in the first place but…getting into this program could open doors for you that were never even a possibility before. Doors that you didn’t even know existed.

You have to get in.

But your alarm not going off because your phone died because you forgot to plug it in creates a domino effect that successfully throws off your whole fucking day.

You’re flustered getting ready so you burn your hand by pouring coffee on it. Because you’re late to the venue, there’s no parking, so you have to find a spot even further away. The heel of your shoe snags on an uneven patch in the pavement, and you fall straight down, barely catching yourself in time. Sore and late, your mom wants to hear zero excuses when you finally find her amongst circular tables and place settings.

She keeps you longer than she promised, punishing you for wasting her time this morning and by the time you make it back home? The deadline for submission has passed.

You just kind of stare at your laptop in disbelief, a red banner with the words SUBMISSIONS CLOSED staring at you like a slap to the face. You draw in a soft breath, trying to laugh over the comedy of errors you suffered today, because what else can you do? You try to tell yourself that there’s always next summer and other programs and…your art is capable of speaking for itself. You don’t need a fancy program to tell you things you already know or to create networks for you.

You don’t need it.

You distract yourself with friends, heading over to Jenna’s place to have a bonfire and maybe go skinny dipping. Something a little wild, distracting, fun. You head back inside to make yourself a coffee because there’s a bit of a chill in the air, trying to ignore the slightly red skin on your hand from the coffee mis-hap earlier in the day and draw in a deep breath to attempt to mellow yourself out.

You’ll settle back outside with your hands wrapped around warm ceramic, listen to Giles tell another ridiculous story about how when he was younger his parents put him into boarding school, and try not to watch how pretty Nick’s features are with the orange glow of the fire on them.

Tugging your phone out and ignoring a particularly scathing message from your mother about how you did something wrong with the place-settings for the charity gala, you tap open Instagram. Your parents have never been supportive of your art, so it’s not surprising that your mother doesn’t care that you missed out on this art program. She thinks you’re wasting your time and need to plan for a future that’s more guaranteed, lucrative. You bite down, hard, on the inside of your cheek.

You mindlessly scroll through posts of Instagram accounts you’re following…but then come across a video about the very same summer art program—all the opportunities you’ll be missing out on. You let out a harsh laugh, the sound sneaking up on you, because of course you’d wander onto this after the day you’ve had. You quickly close the phone, but not before your fingers start shaking, a fragile sort of hurt feeling that’s been building up in your chest since this afternoon finally breaking free.

Trying to breathe through it, you take in a soft breath in through your nose, letting it out your mouth…but your lips are wobbling. And the next intake of air is sharp and painful and you squeeze your eyes shut against the onslaught of tears. A choked sob leaves your chest and you cover your mouth with your hand, attempting to stop this breakdown before it really gets going. But a part of you knows you just need to cry about this in order to feel how you feel and to move on.

That’s what you’re about to do, turning to head to the bathroom when you hear voices down the hall. They’re walking too fast for you to make it to your destination and suddenly you just have nowhere to go. You straighten your shoulders, quickly turning away to face the coffee pot as Nick and Giles enter, talking about needing more wood for the bonfire.

You sniffle, wiping your cheek, keeping your back to them. There’s a sudden silence before, “I’ll meet you back outside.”

Giles makes a noncommittal noise before the sound of his footsteps disappear. Meanwhile, you feel Nick come closer to you before his hand gently wraps around your elbow. You attempt to hide the tears from him but there’s no use. Wiping a hand over your cheek does little to help.

“Hey, what happened?” He asks softly, his thumb dipping along your inner elbow.

That simple question cracks open your chest and your face crumbles, chin dipping as your shoulders hunch. All the day’s wrongs just bubble up and over. Nick moves quickly, taking a step forward to wrap his arms around you, drawing you to lean against his chest. You press your face into his shoulder, all the frustration and disappointment just pouring out of you. You can feel your tears dampen his sweatshirt, but the entire time, Nick doesn’t seem to mind.

Instead, he’s more concerned with his hand rubbing up and down your back, his fingers threading through your hair, a soft shh against the shell of your ear until you calm down. Until your breathing isn’t so labored.

He doesn’t pull away until you’re ready, reaching for a few tissues near the sink to place into your hand. A hiccuped sniffle follows and you feel utterly spent from letting yourself go. Distantly, you know you’re a little better, despite that hollow sensation still sitting heavy in your ribs. Nick moves your hair over your shoulder, his hand resting along your neck, thumb brushing back and forth.

He’s patient, waits until his gaze catches your own before he repeats himself, “What’s wrong?”

You shake your head, cheeks splotching a bit in embarrassment at having a small meltdown against his chest. You gently touch the fabric of his sweatshirt, sniffling, “Ruined your hoodie.”

His eyebrows draw together before he gently waves you off, “I don’t care.” The fingers that are still on your neck dip back, putting pressure along your shoulder blades.

Nick doesn’t ask again, but you know he’s waiting on an explanation. So you take a moment to draw in another breath, concentrate on your voice not shaking, “Today’s just been a really…shitty day.”

He hums lightly, doesn’t press, even though it’s obvious that there’s a lot to this bad day. You lean against the counter, playing with the tissues between your fingers, and he moves his hand from the back of your neck to trace his thumb across your cheek.

“I get it,” He replies, “Sometimes I like to have a good cry in the weight room at my house.” It takes a moment for you to realize he’s joking—teasing you, “Good acoustics in there.”

You can’t help but smile, a soft laugh leaving your lips and Nick’s thumb dips to your lower lip, the corner of his mouth tugging up too. “There we go.” He whispers, like getting you to laugh was his only intention.

You’re both quiet for a few moments, nothing filling the kitchen except the sound of your shared breathing, the hum of the refrigerator, the gentle hiss of the coffee machine after your coffee is brewed.

“Why don’t you head outside,” He offers, “I’ll grab that for you.” He motions to the coffee with his chin and you nod, finding yourself too tired to deny him.

—

That feeling that doesn't have a name? You're starting to be able to describe it in words that make sense. But those words are kept to yourself, silent commentary, afraid that speaking them outloud will shatter their meaning.

—

Turns out, Nick knows exactly how you take your coffee. You didn’t even realize he paid attention to that sort of thing. He hands you the mug as you sit in the grass on a blanket, wearing his zip up hoodie. You assume he’ll find another seat but he places himself behind you, his hands settling on your shoulders. You expect yourself to tense, to feel uncomfortable…but you don’t.

Instead you notice you lean back into him, into his hands, especially when they start massaging your shoulders. His thumbs press into the tight muscles of your upper back and your head tips a little as your eyes close. If anyone notices that you and Nick are sharing this blanket in front of the bonfire, no one bats an eyelash. You can feel Jenna’s eyes at you at one point across the flames, but it’s gone as quickly as it appears, a small, knowing smile pulling at her mouth.

You gravitate towards Nick’s touch until you’re tucked back between his legs, his hands still working the tense muscles of your shoulders. You can’t remember the last time you’ve felt so relaxed, at ease, almost falling asleep with this mug of coffee in your hands under his ministrations. Everything seems to fade around you, all the other noise, all the other conversations.

Your head tips back a little to look at him and his fingers pause, “I can stop.” He offers, because this isn’t…something you normally do with one another. This is part of that something shifting—the fact that Nick has always been a handsy type of person, but now there’s this. Something close and altogether intimate and new.

You shake your head, appreciate the offer but, “Your touch feels good.” You admit softly, a small smile tugging the corners of Nick’s mouth from your response.

He nods, continuing to rub your shoulders. That point of connection between your bodies makes your stomach flip and you allow your eyes to close for a few moments, enjoying the warmth of Nick’s body along your back while the heat from the fire kisses your face.

“You know that summer art program I’ve brought up before?” You mention quietly after a few moments. “I didn’t get my submission in before the deadline closed.” You swallow, running your thumb along the rim of the mug in your hands.

“It’s my own fault. I procrastinated and then…my whole day was thrown off. Just couldn’t get it done in time.” You chew on your lower lip for a moment. “And I know it’s not like…the be-all, end-all of doing my art but…I was just really excited about it.”

“You should still apply,” Nick says after a moment, “I’m sure there’s an email or something in which you can send everything in.”

“Yeah, maybe. But what’s the point? They closed submissions.”

You can feel more than see Nick shrug his shoulder. “Things change all the time. You never know.”

Your lips twitch, “That’s very optimistic of you.” You turn just a little to look at him, your breath catching in your chest as it’s confirmed that the orange glow reflecting against Nick’s skin makes him all the more breathtaking. You resist the urge to trace the dark golden rings, almost like honey, in his curls.

“Think someone is rubbing off on me.” He mumbles with an eyeroll that is completely for your benefit.

“Careful,” You smirk, “Wouldn’t want to start calling yourself nice, now would you?”

Nick purposely bumps your noses together, a laugh sounding through mostly air leaving your nose. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

—

You do what Nick suggests—you create a submission anyways and email it. You’re not expecting anything out of it, no need to get yourself wound up in disappointment all over again. Except, then you get an email a week later—apparently there was an extra spot, a place for you, your submission has been counted. You’re in. You’re in the summer art program.

You stare at the screen for so long that your eyes water. You then jump out of your chair, rushing towards the door to your bedroom. It takes you fifteen minutes to drive to Nick’s house, oddly the only person you want to see to tell this news. You’ll unpack that feeling later, but when you’re let into his place and take the steps two at a time to his bedroom, knocking—

“Did you run all the way here?” He asks, leaning against the doorframe as he watches you catch your breath.

“I–got—in.” You lick your lips, a grin spreading across them after the fact.

He raises his eyebrows but he doesn’t look surprised. “You got in?”

“Yes,” You’re beaming now, like you’re holding the sun in your mouth. Your one hand reaches out and touches his forearm, “The summer art program,” A giggle slips, “I submitted things like you suggested and I got an email, I got in.”

“Oh so you’re saying you listened to me?” He asks, a smile tugging the corners of his mouth.

“This is what you’re getting out of that?”

He shrugs, “Pretty good message—listen to me more often.”

He’s such a shit but you’re in a really good mood, you don’t even care. You take a step forward and press yourself up on your toes, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. He takes a step back, not expecting the momentum, but he squeezes his own along your waist. He then picks you up and does a half spin, another giggle slipping from your throat before he sets you down.

When your feet hit the carpet, you’re looking up at him, grin wild on your face, chest pressed against his own. He’s smiling too, his hand cupping your cheek, tracing the corner of your mouth with his thumb. Your heart ricochets into your chest at the simple action and you wish you could blame what you do next on your good mood.

You lean the rest of the way up and kiss him.

It’s far too quick and far too soft, you wait for that tell-tale moment where Nick pushes you away. But he doesn’t. Instead, he dips his head down, capturing your lips more firmly, arm that’s still around your waist picking you up against his body.

Your fingers weave into his curls, tugging, keeping him as close as you can. His hand cups your cheek, slipping down to the back of your neck, his tongue teasing the seam of your lips until it’s rolling against your own.

A soft noise leaves your throat and that’s all the encouragement he needs to back up into his bedroom, closing the door with his foot.

—

You end up on Nick’s bed, laying on your stomach, Nick on his back. You’re shoulder to shoulder, your fingers playing with one of the curls in his hair. Your lips are still tingling from kissing him, a smile you can’t quite get rid of playing with the corners of your mouth. Regardless how often you and Nick seemed to clash, it felt right, your body against his own like that.

He turns his head a little to look at you and you brush your thumb along his temple.

“Sorry I just showed up out of the blue, I was just…excited.” And I wanted to tell you.

Nick shakes his head, “I’m glad you came here.” He turns to lay on his side, his fingers brushing yours. “What are you excited about the most, with the program?”

You breathe in, thinking about all the things the summer program has to offer. Different art classes, resources, networking opportunities—you’re not sure which one is standing out to you the most. “I think I’m just looking forward to doing my art in a place that feels like…it sees me.” It’s a quiet admittance. You have your friends, of course, who have always been supportive but…your family? It’s never been like that.

Nick brings his hand up, brushing it through your hair, tucking it around your ear, “I see you.” He says quietly and you tip your head into his touch. The way he says it sounds a lot like I’ve always seen you.

A small smile tugs the corners of your mouth as you look at him. “I know.”

You touch his cheek, playfully pinching his chin between your thumb and pointer finger. He smiles, leaning forward to press his lips to yours.

___

There’s a set of words, a phrase said in a teasing tone, that lives in the back of your mind, springing forth in the most inopportune times. It conflicts with the fluttering feeling in your chest, clipping wings and sinking to your knees.

You’re not my type.

___

When you tell Jenna and Lion, they’re just as excited for you, Jenna rounding the counter in her kitchen to hug you. You squeeze back before pulling away, reaching for the bowl of snacks she has set out to bring outside for the small friend group gathered. Everyone is mostly doing their own thing but the goal is to project a movie outside tonight after the sun goes down.

“I’m just glad I listened to Nick. Submitted something.”

Jenna hums warmly. “Never thought I’d hear you say that.”

You roll your eyes but you’re smiling. “I know, don’t mention it to him again. His ego is big enough.”

She purses her lips, leaning her elbows onto the counter as she pops some almonds into her mouth. “Speaking of, doesn’t Nick’s dad donate a lot of money to that program?”

You blink, your mouth opening a little but then closing. Wait. “To the summer art program?”

Jenna tugs her phone out of her back pocket, doing some googling until she comes across the website for the program, nodding. “I recognize that logo,” She sets her phone down. “Mr. Leister funds some of that with charitable donations.”

What feels like a stone tumbles into your stomach, a sinking sensation. Did Nick…have his dad pull strings for you? While you want to be…honored and grateful, and yes you are those things, you also wonder if money just bought you a spot. That you earned nothing on merit, late submission or not.

“You alright?” Jenna asks, “Y/N?”

You blink, coming back to focus, that sinking feeling swirling into something sick. You feel your heartbeat tick up, nerves biting into you about this whole thing. The excitement and pride you once felt now seems kind of cheap. You just…if Nick spoke to his dad about this, you’re not sure why he wasn’t just honest with you about it.

“Yeah,” You smile a little, lying through your teeth, “Yeah, I’m okay.”

—

You are not okay.

And it must be something that’s plain on your face because Nick brushes his hand down your arm, gently tugging on your elbow to step to the side of the patio as everyone begins to sit to watch the movie in the yard.

He gently guides you towards the back door, where it’s more private, and you can hear the beginning of whatever film is put on, the chatter of Lion tossing out snacks.

You don’t meet his gaze for a moment, even though you can sense Nick dipping his chin as he tries to get your attention. When you don’t, he reaches out and clasps your cheek, tilting your head back with his thumb until you’re looking at him.

“What’s wrong?”

You could deny it, but you know he wouldn’t believe you anyways. You draw in a soft breath, carefully removing yourself from his touch, “Did your dad buy my spot into the summer art program?”

Nick goes still, his hands returning to his sides as he draws in a breath, your name said in a gentle reply. But it tells you everything you need to know.

“Oh my god,” You scoff out, running a hand over your cheek. “He did.”

“It’s not like that,” Nick replies quickly, “I came home in a mood because you were so upset, when my dad asked what was wrong—he was just trying to help. He called the program to ask about spots, realized he could pull some strings. It was a favor.”

“Nick—”

“He did not buy your spot.”

“It’s the same thing!” Your voice raises, your cheeks flushing as exasperated tears fill your eyes. You draw in a breath, trying to keep your words from shaking. “I didn’t get in on my merit, on my art.”

“They wouldn’t have even looked at your art if my dad hadn’t called,” He keeps his voice level, smooth, even though frustration is printed on his face. “Sometimes everything boils down to who you know.”

Something ugly crawls into your chest, pent-up sourness from previous conversations, from being afraid to trust him, from not quite understanding what you are to one another. You’re upset that he didn’t tell you, that it feels dishonest even though you know he was just trying to look out for you, that he cared you were upset.

“The point is that you didn’t tell me,” Then without any connection whatsoever, that ugliness spits from your mouth like venom, “Oh I see—is your type not someone who values trust?”

Nick visibly bristles, his jaw working as you seem to hit a nerve. “For someone who keeps bringing it up, you’ve never outright asked me who my type is.”

“Tell it to someone who cares.” You snap, moving to pull the backdoor open to head in the house, to leave out the front.

Nick reaches for your elbow, and even though his touch is gentle, you wrench your arm away, “That’s bullshit.”

“I’m not interested in someone who lies to me.”

Before he can get another word in, you close the door in his face, moving quickly and with purpose to head to your car to go home.

—

You take space and Nick gives that to you. He doesn’t try to chase after you or show up at your house to try and talk. He doesn’t call or text or mention anything to Jenna and Lion. Which is…which is fine. You think you need that radio silence to really figure yourself out.

Because you’re wrong on so many counts.

You are interested in Nick and maybe in a way, you always have been. That feeling you could only describe with words finally has a name to them—a few, actually.

Endearment, fond, smitten—

love-struck.

—

You head to Nick’s place, a cup of his favorite coffee in your hands, and you’re let inside. Apparently he’s on his way back from visiting his sister, but you can wait in his room if you wish. You do so, taking the steps two at a time and winding your way towards the familiar bedroom. You swallow over an emotion stuck in your throat, pushing the door open. His room is pristinely put together, bed made, everything in its place except for a hoodie tossed onto the bed. You catch whiffs of his shampoo and cologne as you sit down on the edge of the mattress and wait for him.

When you hear the front door open and close downstairs, you’re almost worried he’s going to turn you away—you suppose you wouldn’t blame him if he did, given how the two of you left things. You draw a breath into your lungs and stand as he rounds the corner, pausing as he sees you.

“I uhm, I should have texted,” You realized, “Or called or something.”

He stares at you a moment, licking his lips as his gaze falls to the coffee.

“Brought you your favorite, it…might be cold now.”

Nick nods softly but doesn’t take it, glancing past you towards where his closet is. He says nothing as he walks towards his intended destination, leaving you alone in the space. You close your eyes a moment before putting the coffee down on his bedside table, turning to follow him. He’s moving around his closet, clearly getting things out to change into, going about his business like you’re not even there.

You wring your hands together in front of you, gathering all the strength and nerve you can not to back down and leave, “I’m sorry,” You blurt out.

Nick lets out a slow breath, turning a little to look at you. His face is stoic but…you think there’s something in his eyes. A warmth there, maybe, which encourages you to continue,

“I know when you talked to your dad about the summer art program that you just wanted to help,” You take a step towards him, “My pride took a bit of a hit but I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.” You draw in a soft breath, scared that you might have fucked this up. You reach out for his hand, brushing your thumb over a finger that has a silver ring on, “I’m really sorry.”

“What about the other part?” He asks softly, turning his hand a bit in your grip so that his fingers nearly slot with your own, “That you don’t care who my type is.”

You huff out an embarrassed laugh, your cheeks feeling hot, “I think we both know what you said is true—utter bullshit.”

If anything, you think you care a little too much.

Nick’s quiet for a few moments, his thumb brushing over yours. He doesn’t speak until your eyes find his, “I didn’t think you were my type,” He crinkles his nose, “Any time we watch a movie that has an animal in it, you look up to see if it dies,” Your mouth falls open a little, sort of giving him a slow blink because— “I’m pretty sure you’re at least ten minutes early with anywhere you go—”

“Uhm, there’s nothing wrong with being early—”

“Even though being on time is perfectly fine. You’re too nice,” He talks over you, squeezing your fingers, “I thought you were going to become best friends with the woman who made your latte the other day.”

“Carole had a great sense of humor.”

“She was seventy.”

You huff, “So?”

“You’re absolutely wigged out by scary movies, yet you watch them anyways and always want to watch them.”

“I feel like this is turning into a list of things you don’t like about me.”

Nick steps closer, crowding your space, so you take a step back until you bump into the storage block that’s in the center of his closet. His hands rest on either side of you, creating a cage with his arms.

“You’re sweet and passionate and stubborn,” You let out a soft breath, your heart beginning to beat wildly in your chest from what he’s saying and how close he is. “You’re a lot of things that I’m not.”

“I wouldn’t sell yourself short,” You say softly, your noses bumping, “You’re plenty stubborn.”

He smiles a little, lifting his hand to cup your cheek, “You took me by surprise—made me want things I didn’t know I could want.”

Brushing his thumb along your lower lip, your oxygen stutters in your chest, making your body feel warm all over. The press of his own against yours, the heat of his skin, the scent of his cologne mixed with something purely him, the slight height difference he has over you, the way he’s leaning down, the way you feel tucked up against him perfectly. Your gaze zeros in on his mouth—

“You’re my type in every way that matters.” Nick barely finishes that sentence before your lips crash into his.

A soft groan rumbles in his throat and his restraint crumbles, he pulls at you, picking you up into his arms. He holds you easily, supporting your weight against his chest, carrying you somewhere—

“Where are we going?” You laugh softly against his lips.

“Where I was headed before you got here,” He nips at your lower lip, “Shower.”

But he doesn’t take you to the glass shower he has in his bathroom, instead, he gently deposits you right in front of the tub. You raise your eyebrows in soft amusement, running your hand along the edge of the white clawfoot tub. Nick leans over to turn the faucet, feeling the tap and putting the stopper in.

“What, no bubbles?” You tease, grinning up at him as he shifts over to you. His fingers curl underneath your shirt.

“Can I take this off?”

You nod, lifting your arms to help him. The fabric is pulled off in a flourish, tossed to the side before he tugs you closer by curling his fingers into your belt loops. A laugh tumbles out of your chest, your arms loosely wrapping around his waist.

“What about you?” You ask softly, playing with the fabric of his shirt between your fingers.

He nods and you work it off his body. A soft sigh leaves your lips, lifting your hand to trace some of the tattoos on his skin, brushing over the silver chain resting on his chest. You lean into him, planting a kiss to the Roman numerals under his collarbone.

Nick dips his head down, a kiss placed in your hair.

You stand there together for a few moments, slowly undressing, eventually getting into the tub—and Nick does add bubbles, bright and pink, that smell like roses. An amused smile tugs the corners of your mouth as he sits down first, encouraging you to sink between his legs. A shiver courses down your spine when Nick leans forward, when you can feel the heat of him press into your back, when he plants a kiss on your shoulder. As you lean back against him, you can feel more than hear him sigh, his hand slipping around the front of you, down, down.

Time spent in that tub is definitely not used for getting clean.

—

Leaning against the edge of a pool table, you watch as Nick and Lion mix drinks, a small smile tugging the corners of your mouth as you wait with Jenna across the room at another hang-out. Jenna follows your eyesight and playfully nudges you with her elbow.

“Who knew?” Jenna grins. "Don't get me wrong, I love Nick, but he's different from you in a lot of ways." And sometimes, you know, opposites don’t attract.

You laugh because she's not wrong. He can be brash, a hothead, a twinge of arrogance wrapped together with pride. But you've also seen him be sweet, gentle, protective and thoughtful. You love the duality, the way he keeps you guessing.

Nick begins to wander over to you, making his way through the crowd, “He's just my type.” You tell Jenna and kiss him once he's close enough.

#nick leister #nick leister x reader #my fault london #my fault: london #my fault london x reader #my fault series #matthew broome #matthew broome x reader #mccall writes things

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