#this has been in my drafts for a hundred years | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

joelsgoldrush · 9 days ago

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“lovers once a year” | 9.4k

dbf!joel miller x f!reader

SUMMARY: One always craves what is out of reach. Like the forbidden fruit that lingers just beyond grasp, tempting with its sweetness. Joel became the town’s greatest sinner, and you, his best friend’s daughter, are the tantalizing temptation he knows he should never indulge in. Your very existence marks the path to his ruin. He can't help but follow it. WARNINGS/TAGS: mdni smut 18+ cursing. drinking. dirty talk. joel’s POV. a lot of introspection. mentions of alcohol. miscommunication. no outbreak. dbf!joel. age gap (25 and 56). petnames. religious imagery. car sex. oral sex (f!receiving). fingering. unprotected p in v. riding. missionary. doggy style. orgasm denial. crying. hair pulling. thumb/finger sucking. cum shot. creampie. reader sits on joel’s lap and has hair. moodboard for aesthetic purposes only. A/N: the fact this idea has been sitting on my drafts for over a year is just crazy. i finally found the time to put into words, and i know i’m a little late to the whole dbf!joel trope, but i’m a real sucker for it... hope you like this one! <3

No one could’ve ever said Joel was a great best friend.

For one, he was terrible at remembering important dates. His mind just didn’t catch hold of details like that—never had, really. He wasn’t the sentimental type, either. At best, he’d manage a pat on the back or a firm handshake, maybe even a call on Christmas if he remembered. Emotional displays weren’t in his nature, far too used to keeping things at arm’s length.

Luckily for him, Stephen never seemed to care much about these things. They’d been friends for over forty years—which is, well, a hell of a long time, especially considering each had gone off to carve out his own life. They’d trudged through both primary and secondary school side by side, and Joel felt Stephen’s absence like a hollow ache the day his friend left for university in another state.

Technology eventually offered them more ways to connect, but it didn’t make keeping up any simpler. The years had tested them, and somehow, they’d held on to the quiet strength of their friendship—a bond they’d forged across decades and distance, held steady like the roots of an old tree.

Stephen was the laid-back type, always down for anything as long as a cold beer was part of the deal. It was rare for him to lose his temper, having a way of letting nuisances slide. Joel could bend every rule, yet Stephen’s patience never wavered. He was unflappable, hardly bothered by Joel’s mood swings, which was what made them a match made in heaven. Nothing could throw him off.

Though Joel doubts Stephen would stay so calm if he knew what he’d done to his daughter. As mentioned, Joel’s not exactly what you’d call a good friend—particularly considering he’s slept with his best friend’s daughter. Just once, to be fair. One ephemeral, impulsive encounter. Right here, in this very house, exactly three hundred and sixty-five days ago.

His gaze drifts across the room, settling on you at a smaller table a few meters away, surrounded by your younger cousins, ages five to fifteen. He watches as you scroll absent-mindedly on your phone, your brow furrowed in concentration, only tearing your eyes away from the screen when one of the kids hurls a handful of salty peanuts at you.

You press your palms flat against the tablecloth, eyes narrowing as you scowl playfully at the child, a mischievous glint in your expression. “You’ve got ten seconds to run,” you utter in a tone meant to sound ominous, tickling his sides until he erupts in laughter, his giggles filling the dining room with raw joy.

Joel’s been here for over two hours, but he can’t recall a single detail about the night’s events. All he knows is you—he’s studied your every movement, following the shape of your silhouette through the crowd. He’s accepted a few drinks, engaged in shallow conversation with your relatives, trying his best to play the part of a man with nothing to hide. But despite his efforts, despite every attempt to appear unaffected, he feels a slow burn kindling in the pit of his stomach, an ache that curls through him in a deliciously destructive way.

It’s when you look up, locking eyes with him, that he nearly mutilates the chicken breast on his plate, the knife skittering over porcelain with a screech. He quickly mutters an apology, excusing his clumsiness and blaming it on one too many drinks. Meanwhile, you don’t quit glaring at him, a hint of a challenge dancing in your stare.

This shouldn’t feel the way it does, this hazardous, risky game you’re playing. At one time, he might’ve thought this was something only seen in movies, something imagined and unreal. But here you are, and here he is, and the indisputable hunger in your eyes is as real as anything he’s ever known.

Suddenly, his memories drift back to a year ago, to your grandmother’s 84th birthday—the night it all began.

Stephen had left Austin when he was eighteen to pursue a college degree. That’s how he’d ended up in New York, and from that point on, he never came back. It’d been amazing to see him as an equal when they were teenagers, but as they grew older, the only things they shared were the white hairs scattered all over their beards and the memories of much better days.

Whenever they got in touch—which didn’t happen often—your dad would talk about you. You were just a name without a face, an empty canvas. Close to graduating, with only a few subjects and finals left. Psychology was your major—weren’t you smart? Joel remembers typing back with a string of exclamation marks to show his contentment. His best friend’s daughter was a success; how could he not be happy?

One random day, Joel’s phone buzzed late in the afternoon, flashing with Stephen’s name. It was rare for them to talk outside the usual birthdays and holidays, so seeing his name on the screen sent a small jolt through him. A dozen scenarios raced through his mind as he picked up, each one edging between concern and curiosity.

Just like that, Stephen dropped the news without any preamble. “I’m moving back to Austin,” His voice came in clear, and there was something unusual about it, brisk but almost nostalgic. Joel gripped the phone a little tighter, processing the words. “In fact, I’m filling up the gas tank as we speak. There’s someone at home who wants to see you.”

That someone had been your grandmother. With a twinkle in her eye, she’d insisted on inviting Joel to her 84th birthday. “It’s the perfect chance for you two to reconnect,” she’d declared, her tone laced with warmth and hope. She adored Joel, practically worshipping the ground he walked on, often reminiscing about the vibrant young man he had once been.

Who could deny anything to an elderly person, especially one as cherished as her? He was strong, physically imposing, but not strong enough to resist her wishes.

The reunion was going as well as it could, given the circumstances. After all, it was a strange kind of delight, seeing his best friend for the first time in decades. Joel thought they’d do what friends do—sit back, drink, smoke, and trade stories about the good old days.

Then you walked into the room, absolutely gorgeous and with a smile that was all teeth, and you reached out to shake Joel’s hand as you introduced yourself. The contrast hit him instantly—your skin was satin-like against his, smooth where his was rough and calloused from years of handling concrete and steel. A subtle heat bloomed where your fingers touched, the chill of the rings on your hand sending a shiver through him, as if his senses had sharpened in that brief instant.

You pulled away, taking a step back, your eyes flicking between him and your dad. Joel’s arm fell back to his side, his hand forming a tight fist, the bite of his nails embedded into his palm to keep him grounded. But he couldn’t stop himself from scrutinizing you—every detail of your face, the curve of your smile, the effortless way you carried yourself. Your beauty was at fault, not him. You were completely out of reach, yet close enough to marvel at. He was no more than a man, bound to notice the charm of a pretty girl like you.

That you happened to be the daughter of his best friend—that was just a cruel stroke of fate.

“Oh, sweetie. I’m glad you got to meet Joel at last!” Stephen’s voice cut through his thoughts, an arm draping across Joel’s shoulders, pulling him into an affectionate embrace. “He’s that friend from school I’ve been telling you about.”

Stephen looked so at ease, so utterly pleased, that Joel could only swallow back the lump in his throat. What kind of sick joke was this? What could he have possibly done to deserve this twist of the knife?

With a soft laugh, you folded your hands behind your back, tilting your head to the right. “My father wouldn’t shut up about you,” you said, light and melodic, drawing him in like a lure. Joel found himself adrift in the sweet cadence of your voice, entranced by the delicate chain glinting at your throat, resting just above the neckline of your shirt, the v-cut hinting at a world of temptation.

He blinked owlishly, fighting the images clawing behind his eyelids. “Well, he’s a good man, your father,” Joel managed, his smile strained. Not because it wasn’t true, but because there was a blaring alarm in his head, warning him to get a fucking grip. He knew himself well enough to read the signs, the underlying meaning beneath these nerves, the quickened pulse, the quiet, undeniable urge to reach out and feel you.

He was gone already. He fancied you, and his mind raced with thoughts he knew he had no right to entertain. He imagined what you’d taste like, the way you might sound if he were between your legs, encouraging you to gasp his name. Yet, he was aware that these fantasies were as treacherous as they were forbidden, even more with you standing right in front of him. And your father, just inches away.

From the kitchen, someone called out to Stephen, and with a weary sigh, he unhooked himself from Joel’s shoulder. “Coming!” he shouted back, already angling himself toward the door. He glanced back at the two of you, half-smiling while rubbing his temples. “I forgot how exhausting it is to host a family birthday party. I’ll be right back. You two go ahead and chat without me.”

Fuck, no, Joel thought to himself. Don’t leave me here. Where the hell are you going?

Joel resorted to remaining silent, choosing instead to take a long sip of his beer to avoid the occasion of sin. He refused to look in your direction, fixing his gaze on anything that didn’t involve your bare legs—the same legs he’d just been eyeing in those damn denim shorts, which exquisitely hugged your thighs. But, then again, he shouldn’t even be noticing that.

As he peered down at the carpet, he couldn’t ignore the movement of your shoes as you stepped closer. He observed your fingers playing idly with the frayed edges of your shorts, your body inching nearer, and he braced himself in anticipation of whatever you might say next. When his eyes landed on yours, he was met with an aura of expectancy, a cocky smirk pulling at your lips.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you in the flesh, Mr. Miller,” you murmured, watching his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed with effort. Letting your hand linger beside your face, you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, glancing at him through your lashes. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

Joel felt the flush rise to his cheeks, and there was no mistaking it—you were doing this on purpose. Were you trying to push him off balance, to see how far he’d bend before snapping? Was this just a game for you, a bit of mischief to spice up a family gathering? The idea irritated him, but he couldn’t entirely ignore the thrill woven into the discomfort. A quarter of his mind itched to play along, but the rest of him screamed to find the nearest exit.

“Y’can just call me Joel. No needa be so formal,” he mumbled, lifting the beer bottle to his lips once again, the bitterness spreading across his tongue.

“But I like Mr. Miller better.”

His mind conjured all those images of fire and damnation, of being dragged to some dark, smoldering pit. Rotting in hell, he could already see himself within the flames. Tugging at the collar of his flannel, now too tight and hot, he gave a rough, clearing cough. “M’gonna—go find your dad.”

He was glad you didn’t try to approach him in public again. For a few hours, he felt something close to tranquillity—not fully, though, as he could still hear echoes of your voice in the silences. Every so often, out of the corner of his eye, he’d catch you orbiting near him, lurking in his peripheral vision, even though you sat at a different table.

Later in the night, he wandered upstairs in search of the bathroom, instead stumbling upon your father’s childhood bedroom. The door was slightly ajar, and he took the liberty to enter it, a familiar scent filling the room. He ran his fingers over the walls, still papered with posters he recognized well. It was as if time had paused there—everything remained as it had the last time he’d been in this very room. The framed portraits, the worn bedspread, and Stephen’s desk, scattered with foreign bills under a layer of glass, each one a memento from the different countries he had visited.

It was only a matter of time before you found him, a light knock on the open door drawing his attention. Joel turned on his heels, catching sight of you, acknowledging your presence with a slight bow of his head. You ambled toward him, curiosity alight in your steps, twisting the chain of your necklace, a restless gesture that betrayed the energy simmering beneath your calm exterior.

He scratched the back of his head, offering a half-hearted smile. “This isn’t the bathroom, right?” he joked, attempting a casual tone. The joke was a weak one, admittedly, but you laughed anyway, a nonchalant sound that showed the gleam of your teeth.

“No, I don’t think it is,” you replied, sliding onto the edge of the desk with an effortless ease. “What brought you here?”

“Birthday parties can be a bit overwhelmin', dontcha think?”

“Totally.”

And then you went back to watching him, your eyes tracing his features with an almost stubborn intensity.

“You gonna stop doin' that?” he asked, the words coming out sharper than he meant, though they didn't make you flinch.

“Doing what, exactly?”

“Lookin' at me all doe-eyed.” His voice didn’t waver, but he advanced in your direction. His knees nearly brushed against yours, the weathered denim grazing your bare skin, and only then did a flicker of uncertainty soften your confident stance. “Whatever it is you’re after, it’s not gonna happen. So quit tryin’.”

You drew in a slow breath, pushing yourself to your feet. “You sure about that?” Before he had the time to react, you were standing inches from him, your chest pressing against his, just close enough for him to feel the soft weight of your breasts. “Should I pretend, then, that I haven’t noticed you’ve been half-hard all night?”

Joel's jaw tightened, his teeth gritting almost painfully. His fists flexed by his sides, his entire body feeling heavier, muscles pulled taut by some invisible thread. "Watch your mouth.”

“Or what?” You hooked a finger inside his belt loop, tugging him that much closer. Your breath, fresh and minty, mingled with the faint scent of your perfume, and he inhaled both, heady on the mix. “You’re gonna teach me a lesson?”

There was only so much patience a man like him could summon, and you were a thorn in his flesh, determined and unyielding. He leaned in, voice gruff as he uttered three words that made your brows knit together. “Close the door.” You stayed frozen, lips parting in surprise. “Did y’hear me? M’not into exhibitionism. Close. The. Door.”

You did as he asked, obliging, stepping back to close the door before returning to your place. Without warning, he turned you around, pressing your palms flat against the cool glass of the desk, a sharp chill that made you yelp. His hand settled firmly on your back, guiding you down until your chest was flush against the surface as well. In one swift motion, your shorts were gone, followed by your soaked panties, a damp spot where your arousal had begun to seep through.

He slipped his fingers inside you first, his hand covering your mouth to stifle the needy whimpers escaping your lips. The roughness of his beard grazed your cheek as he hovered over you, his breath hot in your ear as he spoke. “Bein’ too fuckin’ loud, doll.” Matching the rhythm of the slow drag of his fingers, his hips pressed forward, grinding against the curve of your ass, each movement making his mouth go dry. “Y’want this cock that bad?” He nipped at your throat, and you, against his sweaty palm, mumbled what could have only been a muffled Yes. “Then I need y’to keep real quiet for me, alright?”

His jeans and boxers hung around his knees, his cock leaking and throbbing at the tip. Joel realized what true desperation felt like, dangerously close to busting his load at any given moment before even getting the chance to be fully inside you. On top of the desk, your body trembled, and you reached back, pulling your top higher up to bare more of yourself to him. He unclasped your bra with one hand, while his other guided him to your entrance, his lips pressing reverently against your spine as he pushed inside, savoring the heat of your walls wrapping around him for the first time. It certainly didn’t feel like anything he’d ever experienced in his fifty-six years of life.

It had been short, and harsh, and fast. Borderline animalistic, what experts would label as a quick fuck. The moment he breached your entrance, you begged for more, fucking yourself back onto him until his thighs met your skin. You acted as if possessed by a greater entity, diabolic, though Joel didn’t mind it. He relished it, welcomed it. But he couldn’t let you take the reins. He asserted his dominance, snapping his hips forward with a force that drew moans from the depths of your lungs. He was the one in control, driving himself deeper and deeper within you. Suffice it to say you seemed to love it, if the sounds he elicited from you were anything to go by.

It was what you wanted, what you needed. One way or another, he’d caught onto what those lingering glances throughout the party had signified. Every glance you’d thrown his way had been leading to this—a silent promise that whatever was happening had been destined to be the night’s climax.

You bit down on his palm as you reached your peak, tightening around him, and perhaps it was the thrill of it all, the knowledge that he’d need far more time to become well acquainted with your body, that had him chasing after you. Holding back until you came had been a feat, pulling out seconds prior to his release, stroking his length once before painting your skin with his seed. A low, primal groan escaped him as he slid his length between your cheeks, prolonging his high, each heated pulse marking you in a way that felt undeniably his.

As he regained his composure, he watched you swirl your thumb along your lower back, collecting a trace of his release, and bringing it to your lips to have a taste of him. You softly laughed when he cursed under his breath, turning your face lazily to the side. “Damn minx y’are,” he rasped, closing the gap between your mouths, his claiming yours in an urgent kiss. Your mewls faded beneath the insistent press of his mouth as he sought to suppress the strange pull in his guts, reluctant to confront the unfamiliar sensations churning within him.

Things wrapped up quickly after that. You both returned to your places, resuming the roles you’d stepped out of briefly: Joel had been in the bathroom; you had been on the phone with a friend. When he reappeared downstairs minutes after you, no one thought twice about his slightly damp hair.

For the remainder of the party, the two of you exchanged no further words. The time for him to leave came, and he offered only a nod of his head across the packed living room. It was a farewell only Joel would give, a subtle acknowledgment that left you wondering about its meaning. There were no explanations, no parting words.

The next time he saw your father, the mere thought of seeing you again terrified him. If it’d happened once, then the temptation would still remain undiminished, strong enough to awaken the lust and the longing veiled in silence. But you weren’t there anymore—back in New York, focused on finishing your semester at college. The surprise must have been evident on Joel’s face, a bewilderment that prompted Stephen to place a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Remember I told you she hasn’t graduated yet?”

“Yeah, yeah. I remember now,” he said, wishing to convince both your father and himself.

You were out of the picture, no longer around. Yet, the two of you now shared a secret. You still do, to this day. He’s no stranger to the notion that some things never seem to change. After all, he’s a creature of habit—same breakfast every morning, same brand of bread he’s been buying for years. Like all his other preferences, he’s come to realize he likes his women a certain way. And though he hates to admit it, you fit the bill perfectly.

Betty, Stephen’s mother, was turning eighty-five tonight. A seat with Joel’s name was saved at the big table; they wanted him there, his best friend and his best friend’s mother. How nice it was to actually feel wanted. He liked that feeling. Still, he’d had to bite his tongue when your father mentioned you’d be there, too. You had graduated at long last, with your birthday having been just a couple of weeks ago.

“Can’t believe she’s twenty-five already,” Stephen muttered with a chuckle, taking a long drag from his cigarette.

Sitting beside him, Joel gripped the arm of his chair, sinking his nails into it. “Me neither, man.”

His choices had led him to this moment. The clinking of glasses rings in his ears, blending with laughter and the rich aroma of food that fills the air. None of it manages to distract him. He can't help but track you down, eyes scanning the room, relentless in their pursuit of yours. The need to see you goes beyond any shred of restraint he might have faked to have. Joel can’t muster the decorum to feign indifference—God, not when you’re near, when the pull toward you feels like gravity itself. He’s keenly, almost painfully aware, that he’s not even pretending to be indifferent, his interest etched plainly in the way his gaze persists, refusing to pull away.

It’s his first time seeing you in a year. A lot can change in that span of time. He can’t help but be amazed, because you look just the same as you did back then. Only your hair’s a touch shorter. He wonders if it’s even noticeable, or if he’s just spent so long memorizing your features that he’s losing his sanity. He bets it’s the latter.

A light pressure on his shoulder makes Joel jump, breaking down his reverie. He turns quickly, eyes widening. "Betty," he exhales, patting his chest with a smile, eyebrows lifted. "Jeez. Y’scared me."

“Y’alright, Joely? Y’look a bit pale.” The older woman reaches up, pressing the back of her hand to his forehead with a gentle familiarity. Through her lens, he’s still young. “Doesn’t seem like you’ve got a fever, though.”

"That’s ‘cause I’m not sick." Joel takes her hand in his, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "How’s everythin’ goin’ so far? Got all these people together just t’celebrate ya’."

"It’s a wonderful night, sweetheart. So happy y’found the time t’be here," she replies, pinching his cheek in that affectionate way that earns her a quiet laugh from him. Her eyes then catch sight of a familiar figure. "Oh, look who's here. If it isn’t my beautiful granddaughter."

He stops smiling. In fact, he thinks he even stops breathing for a second as you intrude yourself into the scene, settling yourself beside your grandmother, flashing him a knowing grin. “I was getting kind of bored with the little ones.”

“Y’know Joel, right, dear?”

“Yes.” A pause, a beat you draw out between breaths. “Yes, I do.”

Betty leans his way, her warm hand still on him. “Have y’heard the latest news? This young lady just graduated.”

“Stephen told me,” he answers, looking up at you with a reserved nod. “Congrats, kid.”

“Thank you, Mr. Miller.”

There’s that damn name again. Were he alone with you, he’d laugh in your face, but he can’t. Under the scrutiny of family and friends, he knows he’s cornered. Joel’s starting to believe you think you’re untouchable, that there are no consequences to your actions. You might look the same, maybe a little older, but that teasing, provocative spark in your eye hasn’t changed a bit.

“Always so polite, my child,” Betty says, cupping your cheek with a light pinch, a grandmotherly gesture perfected over the years which she seems to repeat often. “Any boyfriends back in New York?”

This would, without a doubt, be the perfect moment for him to excuse himself and stand up—a conversation he’d rather not be privy to. But with you positioned right in front of him, escape isn’t an option. “Still single, grandma,” you respond unfazed, as if you know exactly what you’re doing. “No one to worry about. Better like this, anyway.”

“But what’s the problem? There aren’t any boys y’like?”

He doesn’t even know what makes him say it—some impulse, some hidden tension surfacing—but he jumps in, his voice carrying a slight, sardonic edge. “Boys are more foolish than ever these days, Betty. Surely y’wouldn’t want her to settle for the first idiot who crosses her path.”

Betty clutches his arm, shaking her head in feigned shock. “Oh, not at all! It’s all about waitin’ for the right person. There’s no rush, for either of you. You’re still on your own, Joely?”

Time to drink again. He drains the last drops of alcohol remaining in his glass, feeling your eyes on him, intense and searing, and then he clears his throat, swallowing down the words he’d rather say. “Affirmative.”

“Well,” she sighs contentedly, patting each of your hands as though binding you both with some invisible thread. “Just means y’two have to wait a bit longer, right? Time has its way.” She chuckles, eyes soft with memory, turning to you. “Darlin’, this man here was quite the heartbreaker in his day. He and your dad would find all kinds of trouble with the ladies!”

“How so?” You cross your arms, playfully tilting your chin up. “Joel Miller, the charmer of the town?”

“Guess I’ve been known t’make a fool of myself,” he shoots back, silently cursing the moment he missed his chance to slip away. “Stephen got more fans than I did, though.”

“I did what?” Joel feels an elbow nudging his back, and there’s his friend, grinning in his usual easy way.

Joel's luck in life had been more bruised than blessed, a string of hardships that seemed amplified compared to what most people experienced. Being drawn in by you—in which category did that fall? Good luck or bad? He couldn't decide. Every glance and delicate smile you aimed his way stirred something reckless within him. Was it pure thrill, or a warning?

He laughs every time Stephen cracks a joke, but he’s barely listening, his mind half-tethered to the present. It’s like he’s watching himself from afar, observing his reactions as if he were an outsider. He isn’t stoned or drunk, just acutely mindful of your presence. He catches himself peeking up at you from where he sits, jaw tight, his brow creased. You meet his gaze with a slight squint, a polite look that hides something far more dangerous.

Boys are more foolish than ever these days. He’s sure of that much. They’re young, untested. But what about him? He’s no model of virtue, either. He’s made his share of mistakes, left good women behind—women who were willing to love him in spite of his flaws. They’d seen through the layers he wore like armor, and yet, in the end, he couldn’t hold on to any of them. He carried the ghosts of every past life, fragments of who he’d been and what he’d left behind, and he knew those shadows weren’t for everyone.

A thought pierces through him, sharp and sobering: what would Sarah think? His lovely daughter, grown and settled into her own life, would likely be mortified to know her father’s infatuation with a twenty-something. The weight of that realization sinks into his chest, and that seems to be his last straw.

He can’t possibly take it anymore. Rising from his chair, he mutters something to Stephen about needing fresh air and makes his way to the backyard door, exhaling deeply and gripping his car keys. The cool night air hits him, stepping outside, a temporary relief as he heads toward his truck.

Just as he’s about to open the door, he hears your voice. You call his name, your tone soft but distinct. He doesn’t turn, only lets out a long, weary sigh. “What?”

“Where are you going?” You stop a few steps behind him, watching the way his shoulders visibly tense. “Are you mad at me?”

“What?” He faces you, almost snapping his neck in his rush to look at you. “Why would I be—I’m not mad at ya’.”

“Then what’s wrong? Why are you leaving so early?”

He scrubs a hand over his nape, fingers pressing into the tension gathered there. “Would y’like me t’break it down for ya’, how messed up this is?” His gaze drops to the ground, unable to meet yours. “I’m riskin’ the only real friendship I’ve had here for… for somethin’ that I can’t even wrap my head ‘round. This isn’t okay, no matter which way I look at it.”

In that moment, it’s as if reality pulls you under. The mask of subtle, practiced arrogance falls apart, scattering in fragments around you. He watches, waiting for you to gather them up, to hide behind that composed veneer again. But you don’t move. You leave the pieces where they lie. Instead, you confront his gaze, unguarded, and ask, “Do you regret what happened between us?”

Another question. You seem to be full of them. They just keep coming, one after the other, as if you already had them prepared. I don’t, he thinks to himself, but would it do you any good if you knew it? “Don’ start with those mental games.”

“Then come back inside.”

“I know myself well enough to know what’s gonna happen if I do that, darlin’.”

Neither of you breaks the silence that’s settled between you, thick as the night air. You slip your hands into the pockets of your jacket, shoulders slightly hunched, head hanging. Once again, like all those times before, he’s struck by how young you are compared to him. The difference stretches between you like a chasm, bridged only by these stolen moments. The weight of his years presses down on him, the choices he’s made—the mistakes and the half-hearted attempts to mend them. He’s got decades on you, three of them to be precise.

Joel never thought of himself as an ever-lasting free spirit, the kind of man who clings to youth or pretends to be something he’s not. Right now, with you here, he feels reckless, like a boy again. Stupid, impulsive, like the foolish young men he used to shake his head at—the very ones he’d warned your grandmother about.

“You left without even saying goodbye last time,” you mumble, low but clear, as you scuff the toe of your shoe against the grass. “And now you’re doing it again.”

He inhales sharply, clenching his keys, feeling the edges of the brass biting into his palm. For a moment, he thinks the sharpness will give him something to hold onto, but he knows the sting is nothing more than a weak anchor. “You’re a smart girl. Don’ need me to spell this out.”

“I know exactly what you mean, trust me. I get it.”

“Then why do you keep pushing?” His pent-up exasperation slips through despite himself, and he can see the hurt flicker across your face, the way your forehead barely puckers as his words hit harder than intended.

Even as you look away, a trace of that hurt fading, you stand firm. You shake your head after a beat, seemingly trying to brush off your doubts and confusion. Joel can’t decipher if you’re feigning innocence—if you are, he thinks, you could be one hell of an actress. “I don’t know. I guess I want to see how far this can go.”

You take a small step forward, testing the waters. Your feet move cautiously, not aiming to scare him off. Each step draws you nearer until there’s only a whisper of space between you, close enough for him to catch your scent, and he has to force himself to peer down to meet your eyes. They hold a quiet intensity: pleading, wide and earnest, already trained on him. Gleaming like two lone stars cutting through a moonless, empty sky.

It baffles him, the question forming unbidden in his mind. He goes even further, can’t help but wonder: why him? What is it that you see in him? What makes you keep coming back for more? You’ve already had a taste, a story you could tuck away, a secret to be shared with your friends someday around a campfire. So why, he would like to know, are you still here, seeking something from a man like him?

“I like you,” you blurt out, fingers drifting to skim over the worn fabric of his flannel, almost hesitantly. That tentative gesture sparks something raw in him, a low rumble of desire that feels like it’s been lying dormant for too long. Heat pulses through him, hot blood racing through his veins, awakening every nerve, each beat of his heart more insistent than the last one. “I think you like me, too.”

“You’re insufferable,” he bites out through gritted teeth, his jaw clenching so hard it nearly hurts. He closes his eyes, half hoping you’ll disappear, that he’ll find some reason, any reason, to call this off. Though when he opens them, you’re still there, waiting, unshaken. “I wish I knew how to stop this. How to walk away.”

“That’s not what you want.”

“We don’ always get what we want, kid. You’ll figure that out soon enough.” He means it as a warning, but even he hears the way his voice falters, his defenses crumbling in the face of your unflinching state.

You let out a slow sigh, your arms falling to your sides, eyes roaming over his features as if you’re memorizing every line. Your focus dips to his mouth. “Maybe,” you murmur, and he feels the warmth of your breath against his skin. “But some things are worth fighting for. And sometimes, those who don’t give up… get the best in the end.”

With a gentleness that stuns him, you lean in, bringing your lips to his in a featherlight kiss. You pull away, and he helplessly notices the way your lips part, how your breath hitches, and for a split second, the guilt becomes palpable, the significance of wanting a woman he knows he shouldn’t. You stand there, chest rising and falling, skin tingling, a faint trail of goosebumps visible where your neckline meets your chest.

Apart from the glint in your eyes, he catches the persistent, quiet ache of want. He isn’t sure if it’s just physical attraction, if it runs deeper, or if that’s all it is for him, either. He doesn’t need to know. The simplicity of it all is a short-lived relief. It’s an easy escape, though, this bare minimum of understanding—you want him, he wants you. Let it be enough for one more moment, for tonight, just another memory he’ll have to lock away. Yet he’s aware, deep down, of his own pattern: promises broken just as easily as they’re made. He’s only fooling himself. The part of him that knows this isn’t something he’ll let go of so easily sits there, silently taunting him, daring him to make another compromise he won’t keep.

From where you remain frozen, he’s certain you can practically see the gears turning in his head as he weighs every possible outcome. “It’s gonna happen, isn’t it?” Your voice is barely above a whisper, and before you can react, his arm slides around your waist, pulling you flush against him, and turning you toward the car door. The cool metal pressing against your back startles a gasp out of you, but the suddenness only heightens everything—the heat of his body, the toughness of his hold.

He doesn’t waste time with words, having always been a man of action. His hand cradles your face, inspecting your features to later crush his mouth against yours. Your tongue finds his without hesitation, seeking him out, hungry and unrestrained. He savors your eagerness, the way your hands roam over him, clutching at his shirt, tugging him closer by the belt until your lower halves are pressed tightly. The taste of beer and mint clings to your lips, and a husky groan rumbles from him as your fingers find their place in the longer strands at the nape of his neck, twisting and pulling him impossibly closer.

He could lose himself in this, the simple, electric thrill of kissing you, how you fit so perfectly against him. Hours could slip by, and he wouldn’t mind, but then reality pulls him back; it’s too exposed here, right outside his truck where anyone could stumble upon you. “Get in the car,” he rasps, pulling back just enough to catch his breath, fumbling to unlock the door. It takes him three tries, and he chuckles, feeling the warmth of your laughter beside him as you tease him.

Once inside, his mouth finds yours again, this time more urgently, his hand pressing against your back, tracing the line of your spine through the clothes. “Tell me y’want this,” he breathes, his kisses trailing down your throat, latching onto the tender skin there. “C’mon, baby. Tell me y’want it. Tell me y’want me.”

A soft, breathy sound escapes you as his mouth fixates on that sensitive spot just below your ear. You tilt your hips instinctively, craving contact in search of relief, and he shifts you onto his lap, guiding your thighs to settle over his. Desperately working to undo the buttons of his shirt, yearning to uncover him, you pant against his cheek. “J-Jesus Christ, I need you. Please, touch me. Anything will do. Just—”

He’s silently grateful for your choice of a dress tonight. It makes things easier for him, and he gets right to it, bunching the fabric around your waist, hands roaming over the soft skin of your hips before moving his fingers lower, tracing teasing lines over your clothed center. He can’t fully make out the murmured words you breathe into his ear, but your voice drives him like a lighthouse guides a sinking ship, and he adjusts his movements, pressing with more intention. The only sounds filling the car are his ragged breaths and your gasping moans, and he holds you close to his chest, cooing softly as you start to rock into his hand, asking for more.

His fingers find their rhythm, circling your clit in deliberate flicks. Joel watches as you unravel, trembling in his arms, a hint of drool spreading over his shoulder from your parted lips on his skin. His grip tightens as he tugs your underwear down your legs, grinning when you kick them impatiently to the floor of the car. Now, as he strokes his digits up and down your folds, you turn to putty on his lap. In another world, he’d have you laid out in his bed, enjoying each inch of your body. But here, in the cramped, dim backseat, he keeps the lights off. He knows it’s reckless, yet that barely slows him down. His cock throbs at the very risk of getting caught, at the edge he’s walking just to have you like this.

“Goddamn, you’re soaked, aren’t ya’?” He doesn’t expect you to answer, at least not in any coherent way. He sinks his middle finger into your bare heat, searching your face in the dark, contemplating the fluttering of your lashes. His hand weaves into your hair, a firm tug guiding your gaze to his. Your head tips back, a moan spilling from your lips at the new sensation, rolling your hips into his palm with earnestness. “It’s gonna be a tight fit, huh? If this is how you’re grippin’ my fingers, I can’t imagine what that cunt’s gonna feel like wrapped ‘round me.”

Studies suggest that in those final, fleeting moments of life, memories flood the human mind—a last journey through a person’s years before crossing over. If he were to die after tonight, he knows your face would be there, etched into his last breath. He can almost picture it: struggling for air, teetering on the edge, with that reddish, towering figure of mortality looming over him. But even then, he’d find solace in the thought of you, thrown into oblivion. You’d grant him a last-minute reprieve, easing the ache. You’d be the one who’d hold back the shadows. This constitutes the apex of his life, and he knows he should be worried, yet intellectual dominance doesn’t stand much of a chance when confronting the heart of a man. Not when that heart, so long starved of its pulse, has finally found someone worth remembering.

He makes space for himself, thrusting his long fingers into you until he’s got your slick coating his palm. One hand settles firmly at the small of your back, guiding your movements, while he feels his collected composure faltering. You mouth at the rough stubble along his jawline when you start to get close, breathless whimpers clouding his thoughts. “Joel,” you call out to him, as if that alone would make wonders. “Oh, fuck. Please, I waited a whole year. I need to come.”

A whole year. You were his once a year, and he was yours, a bittersweet ritual bound by time. He never would’ve thought this party could bring him such pleasure, though he can’t pretend he’s against it. Last time, he hadn’t taken the chance to pull you under and make you fall apart as many times as he’d wanted. He’s intent on making up for that missed opportunity, determined to make you enjoy every moment.

He withdraws his fingers abruptly, and a sharp laugh nearly escapes him at your reaction. You reach instinctively, grabbing for his hand, trying to guide him back to where he belongs between your legs. But he’s already moving, maneuvering you down until you’re lying on your back, fully under his command. He lowers himself, replacing his fingers with the warm insistence of his mouth. The sound that escapes your lips as his mouth presses against your center is nothing short of a scream—a wild cry that fills the space around you. He’s grateful he parked far from the other guests, because that sound would turn more than a few heads.

Joel laps at your arousal as if it's the fountain of youth, the very essence of everything pure and precious in the world. He presses down on your thighs until they rest on either side of him, unclamping your legs from around his head. The suppleness of your skin feels divine under his fingertips, and he brushes his thumbs over your trembling form, coaxing you into calmness, to let him have his way with you at his own pace. It's an absurd paradox—aiming to soothe you while his mouth continues its fervent worship, tracing intricate patterns against your most sensitive flesh. His beard, streaked with gray and freshly trimmed, glistens with your slick, and Joel smolders with all-consuming passion.

When his friends had told him to go out more, maybe find someone to date, he's certain they didn't mean this. The smart choice (scratch that: the correct one) would have been to pursue a woman his own age. But fuck it—he's spent a lifetime doing what's right. Every road he might've taken would've led him here, to this moment, with you. Part of him believes he must still have something left, some spark of appeal. To have a pretty little thing like you, so eager, so willing, offering yourself to him? He has to have something. His knees ache from where he kneels on the unforgiving surface, but the burn is inconsequential, and he’ll endure anything to be what you need.

Joel trails his hand up your body, over the curve of your breast, before gently groping it, his palm covering yours in a shared grip. He runs the tip of his tongue along your folds, his saliva mingling with your wetness, aquiline nose grazing your sensitive bud. “You’re tellin’ me you’re this tight ‘cause you’ve been savin’ yourself for me? You do know what t’say t’make a man happy.” He spreads you open slowly, his gaze lingering on the way your cunt glistens, a sense of satisfaction rippling through him. You remain silent, your breath shallow. “Still with me, sugar?”

“It’s just that—I’m so close.” You bite back a moan, nails digging into the soft leather of the seat. Joel hums in response, his lips closing around your clit. Agitation flickers across your face as you try to grind your hips against his mouth. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—”

The pressure is gone as he notices your thighs quivering again, his movements halting immediately.

“No, Joel. Please—”

“You’ll come when I tell ya’.”

He’s having the time of his life. Damn right he is.

He suddenly realizes he's still dressed from head to toes, the heat building in his body becoming too much to ignore. With a frustrated grunt, he undoes his belt, yanking the metal zipper down, longing to rid himself of the constricting denim. A strangled noise escapes him as you suck on his neck, fisting his base, giving him a few purposeful tugs.

“Now, you’re gonna ride me,” he murmurs, making a pause to shrug his shirt off, letting it fall to the floor of the car, “and you’re gonna like it. Don’ want you t’hold back this time, understood?”

His back ends up against one of the fogged-up windows. The air is thick with the apparent scent of sex—a phrase he’d only ever heard in movies, but now, it’s undeniably real. Joel holds his cock, aligning the tip with your entrance as his lips crash against yours in a hungry kiss. A deep groan escapes him, vibrating over your mouth, nipping at your lower lip. The sensation intensifies when your wet interior welcomes him, velvet walls molding to his size. Your brows scrunch together at the stretch, a choked whimper catching in your throat. As your hips sink fully, your ass flush against his thighs, your body clenches around him, that abrupt tightness drawing a stuttering gasp from him.

“For God’s sake,” he exhales, the words rough as his forehead bumps into yours. His hand splays over your ribcage, fingers curling slightly. “Sweetheart, you’re—killin’ me here.”

“I can feel you everywhere,” you huff, your arms looping around his neck to pull him closer, holding your breath. He takes the moment to capture your nipple between his swollen lips, leaving a shiny trail of spit in his wake. You lift yourself, the motion teasing, before sinking back down onto his lap, taking him in fully. “Can feel you in my stomach.”

When you begin to move, Joel loses track of everything else. Time seems to stretch, bending and reshaping itself each time his tip finds some hidden place inside you. He’s fifty-six years old, yet in this moment, his soul feels infinite. Invincible. He brings his hand to your lips, thumb grazing over them before slipping inside. Your warm tongue envelopes it, and when you start to suck dutifully, muffling your moans, his body jerks in response. His eyes drift to your glistening chest, where a sheen of sweat makes your skin glow in the dim light. You’re the most captivating woman he’s ever seen, and he knows he’ll never look at anyone the same again. He can’t tear his gaze away, mesmerized by the way your body merges with his, the way you undulate your hips on top of him.

You move back and forth, and he drives into you, filling you to the brim with every calculated thrust. He thrusts upward, stealing the air from your lungs, the sharp motion making you sputter as your body struggles to keep up with his.

“That’s it.” His voice is a husky growl as he wraps his arms tightly around your back, your chests sticking together with sweat. His pace quickens, the rhythm becoming more insistent. “Takin’ it like a good girl. You feel exquisite, baby. Makin’ me lose my fuckin’ mind.”

“So big inside me,” you pant, your own pace faltering as you surrender to Joel’s unforgiving tempo. His hooded eyes flicker to yours, catching the way your pupils have swallowed up your irises, dark and blown wide with desire. A shiver runs through him as your fingers dig into his shoulders, your grip leaving faint crescents in his skin. “Missed your cock so much, Mr. Miller.”

Fuck, not that shit. If it’s possible, he grows impossibly harder. He pounds into you with renewed intensity this time, his singular goal to leave you speechless, boneless, completely undone. He wants you limp and shuddering, with nothing left to give. “Enough of that.” His hands find their place on the soft globes of your ass, molding and squeezing until the pressure has you mewling, the sweet sound shooting straight through him. His lips ghost over the shell of your ear. “Responsive everywhere, honey. Have any idea how much fun I’m gonna have with ya’?”

Who would’ve believed him back then? It proves this isn’t some once-in-a-lifetime fluke. It happened before, and now it’s happening again. He might as well surrender to it—accept his fate and move through the motions like a man resigned to what’s already written.

There’s a moment when your moans sharpen, turning high-pitched and dazed, and the way you constrict him sends his eyes rolling to the back of his skull, a guttural noise tearing from his chest. His movements still, clutching your waist to pin you in place, denying you the chance to move, to bounce on him.

Then you break. A sob wracks your body, tears spilling over and tracing hot paths down your cheeks. They gather, fusing together as they slide along your throat and pool in the hollow of your jaw before disappearing lower. “Asshole,” you hiss, the word fragile as you push your face into the curve of his neck, seeking refuge in his embrace.

“Sorry? Couldn’t catch that.” He makes sure to keep you securely tucked under his chin, tilting his lower half upward. “If you want me t’stop, just say the world and I will.”

He’s messing with you, plain and simple. He doesn’t actually expect you to take his words at face value. But you do, grinding down harder, impaling yourself further on the length of his cock, and your arousal trickles down, slicking the coarse hair of his thighs. “Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please fuck me.” Slotting your mouth over his, you attempt to move, chasing any sort of friction against your clit. Sadly, pleasure doesn’t come on its own—it’s Joel who can make you feel good, and he’s not obliging. His hand seizes your hair in a rough grasp, tugging sharply. Eyes fluttering shut, you hunch forward, submitting to the sharp edge of his control.

“What an impatient little thing y’are.” Joel grabs your thighs and turns you over, your back pressed against the leather seat. The brusque shift pulls him out of you, the cool air a cruel tease before he taps his head against your swollen folds, then fills you again in one powerful thrust, kissing your cervix in the process. A deep moan rips from your lungs, deep and guttural, as your legs tremble uncontrollably on either side of him. Your ankles dig into his back, fervent to keep him close. His balls rest heavy against your skin, full and aching for release. “Gonna give ya’ what y’want, okay? You’ve been on your best behavior,” he mumbles with his lips stuck to your forehead. “That’s a good girl. Think she deserves to come after all.”

Only then does he find his rhythm again, ramming into your drooling hole. For the third time tonight, he’s captivated by how you teeter on the edge of overwhelming pleasure. He has you eating out of his hand, taking all that he offers, and you do so willingly. He knows he could ask you for anything, and in exchange for an orgasm coaxed by him, you'd comply without thinking twice. In many ways, he’s not so different. He gathers some of your saliva, using it to moisten his fingers before slipping them between your bodies, rubbing your clit as he continues to hit your bundle of nerves. Where his stamina comes from, he has no clue, though he’s determined to keep pushing.

Your face becomes a living poem, each cry of yours adding to its verse. Your head nearly reaches the door, but he cradles it with his arm, ensuring you don’t hurt yourself. “Close,” you whine, struggling to keep your eyes from falling shut. “Joel, please. Let me—”

“Give it to me, darlin’.” Another thrust, another moan. “Drench me, c’mon. That’s what y’want, isn’t it? To come all over this cock?”

The way he’s worked you up has its rewards, leading to a release that feels like an eruption. You bite down on his shoulder, your cries growing louder, chanting his name without pause. It loses all meaning after being chanted so many times, but the way you say it still has an undeniable weight. He doesn’t mind it one bit, not when he’s finishing right after you plead him to fill you. His jaw hangs open as ropes of his seed spill inside you, and he sags against your frame, giving short thrusts to push his cum deeper into your warmth, your pussy milking him dry.

“Oh, God…” he groans, fumbling with one of your breasts, holding onto something for dear life. “Jesus Christ.”

“Don’t pull out yet,” you say, grinning when you feel him twitch. “Stay a little longer.”

Too personal. Too intimate—dangerous in his books. Normally, he'd tuck himself back into his briefs, drive the woman he’s slept with home, and that would be the end of it. No happy endings in his story. So he’s surprised when he supports his weight on his forearms, claiming your lips in a voracious encounter of tongues and teeth. He caresses your cheek, tilting your face to deepen the kiss, and you sigh contentedly.

The two of you lapse into a heavy silence after that. He clears his throat, and says: “I should’ve asked you for your number that one time.” In the heat of the act, he’s being too honest. Regret will come knocking on his door once his excitement fades. His eyes bore into yours, dubious. “M’sorry for that.”

“Well, you could ask me for it now,” you admit from beneath him, and Joel pulls away for a moment, trying to gauge if you’re serious. He doesn’t think you’re joking. “To make up for lost time.”

This must be the onset of something else. He can't quite put it into words, but he feels it in his chest, in every place where your skin merges with his. He's no fortune teller, and there's no way for him to know where this path will take him, whether it leads to ruin or salvation. Though in this moment, he doesn't care—not now, at least.

At last, Joel blindly reaches for the pocket of his jeans with one arm. “How long are you stayin’ in Austin?”

dividers by: @cafekitsune thank you!!! <3

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fairuzfan · 3 months ago

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19 October 2023: In Gaza, we have grown accustomed to war

Horrific experiences of death and destruction have permanently impacted Palestinians’ culture, language and collective memory. “Is it war again?” asks my little Amal, 7, memories of the previous Israeli assaults still fresh in her mind.

The wording of the question shows the maturity she has been forced to develop. Last year, Amal asked her mum if it was “another war.”

Yes, it is war again in Gaza! In Gaza, we have grown accustomed to war. War has become a recurrent reality, a nightmare that won’t go away. A brutal normality. War has become like a grumpy old relative, one that we can’t stand but can’t rid ourselves of either.

The children pay the heaviest price. A price of fear and nonstop trauma that is reflected in their behaviors and their reactions. It’s estimated that over 90 percent of Palestinian children in Gaza show signs of trauma. But also, specialists claim there is no post-war trauma in Gaza as the war is still ongoing.

My grandmother would tell me to put on a heavy sweater because it would rain. And it would rain! She, like all Palestinian elders, had a unique sense, an understanding of the earth, wind, trees and rain. The elders knew when to pick olives for pickling or for oil. I was always envious of that.

Sorry, Grandma. We have instead become attuned to the vagaries of war. This heavy guest visits us uninvited, unwelcomed and undesired, perches on our chests and breaths, and then claims the lives of many, in the hundreds and thousands.

A Palestinian in Gaza born in 2008 has witnessed seven wars: 2008–2009, 2012, 2014, 2021, 2022, 2023A and 2023B. And as the habit goes in Gaza, people can be seven wars old, or four wars old. My little Amal, born in 2016, now holds a BA in wars, having lived through four destructive campaigns. In Gaza, we often speak about wars in terms of academic degrees: a BA in wars, an MA in wars, and some might humorously refer to themselves as PhD candidates in wars.

Our discourse has significantly changed and shifted. At night, when Israel particularly intensifies the bombardment, it’s a “party”: “The party has begun.” “It will be a horrific party tonight.” And then there is “The Bag,” capital T and capital B. This is a bag that is hurriedly prepared to contain the cash, the IDs, the birth certificates and college diplomas. The aim is to grab the kids and one item when there is a threat of evacuation.

The collective memories and culture of Palestinians in Gaza have been substantially impacted by these horrific experiences of war and death. Most Gazans have lost family members, relatives, or loved ones or have had their homes damaged or destroyed. It’s estimated that these wars and the escalations between them have claimed the lives of over 9,000 (it was 7,500 when I started drafting this last week!) Palestinians and destroyed over 60,000 housing units.

Death and war. War and Death. These two are persona non grata, yet we can’t force them to leave. To let us be.

Palestinian poet Tamim Al-Barghouti summarizes the relationship between death and the Palestinians that war brings (my translation):

It was not wise of you, Death, to draw near.

It was not wise to besiege us all these years.

It was not wise to dwell this close,

So close we’ve memorized your visage

Your eating habits

Your time of rest

Your mood swings

Your heart’s desires

Even your frailties.

O, Death, beware!

Don’t rest that you tallied us.

We are many.

And we are still here

[Seventy] years after the invasion

Our torches are still alight

Two centuries

After Jesus went to his third grade in our land

We have known you, Death, too well.

O, Death, our intent is clear:

We will beat you,

Even if they slay us, one and all.

Death, fear us,

For here we are, unafraid.

23 October 2023: Five stages of coping with war in Gaza

Our familiarity with war in Gaza has led us to develop a unique perspective and unique coping mechanisms.

We can identify five major emotional stages that Gazans go through during these grim conflicts. The stages are denial, fear, silence, numbness, hope, despair and submission.

This is day 16 and Israel has killed more than 5,000 Palestinians (many are still unaccounted for under the rubble), including over 2,000 Palestinian children, Gaza authorities tell us. More than 15,000 were injured and over 25,000 Palestinian homes were destroyed. And Israel says it is ready for ground invasion.

Stage one: Denial

In the early stages of a crisis, there is often a sense of denial. We convince ourselves that this time won’t lead to war. People are tired of the recurring conflicts, and both sides may appear too preoccupied to engage in warfare. As missiles fall and soar, we maintain a form of partial denial, hoping that this time will not be as lengthy or devastating as past wars.

No, this time it’s not going to be war. Everyone is tired of wars. Israel is too busy to go to war.

Palestinians are too exhausted and too battered to engage in a war. It could just last five days, give or take, we hope.

Stage two: Fear

Soon, denial turns to fear as the reality of another war sets in. Gaza is paralyzed as civilians, including children, are attacked by Israeli bombs. The pictures and videos of massacres, of homes obliterated with the families inside, of high rise buildings toppled like dominoes turn the denial into utter terror.

Every strike, especially at night, means all the children wake up crying and weep. As parents, we fear for our kids and we fear we can’t protect our loved ones.

Stage three: Silence and numbness

This is when Israel particularly intensifies the bombing of civilian homes. Stories are interrupted. Prayers are cut short. Meals are left uneaten. Showers are abandoned.

Therefore, amid the chaos and danger Israel brings, many in Gaza, especially children, withdraw into silence. They find solace in solitude as means of coping with the overwhelming emotion and uncertainty that surrounds them. Silence prevails.

Then numbness follows. As people attempt to protect themselves from the constant onslaught of distressing news, they grow indifferent. Because we could die anyway, no matter where we go. Emotional numbness sets in, as individuals attempt to detach from their emotions to survive.

Stage four: Hope

In the midst of despair, glimmers of hope may emerge. Even in the darkest moments, Gazans may hold onto the belief Israel might at least kill fewer people, bomb fewer places, and damage less. The most hopeful of us wish for a lasting ceasefire or an end to the siege or even the occupation. But this is merely hope. And hope is dangerous.

We hope that politicians will man up. We hitch our hope to the masses taking to the streets to reassure their politicians and warn they will be punished in future elections if they support Israeli aggression against Palestinians in Gaza.

Stage five: Despair and submission

Unfortunately, hope can often be fleeting, and many Gazans have experienced recurring cycles of despair. The repeated loss of life, homes and security lead to deep feelings of helplessness.

In the final stage, there is a sense of submission as Gazans accept the reality that they are unable to change the situation. That they are left alone. That the world has abandoned us. That Israel can kill and destroy at large with impunity. This is a stage marked by endurance, as Palestinians strive to adapt and persevere in the face of ongoing challenges.

These stages of war have become an unfortunate part of life in Gaza, shaping the resilience and perseverance of the Palestinian people in the face of unimaginable hardships imposed by the Israeli occupation.

27 October 2023: What it’s like when Israel bombs your building

I have six children. And so far we have survived seven major Israeli escalations, unscathed. We are an average family. My wife, Nusayba, is a housewife, I have two children in college and my youngest child, Amal, is 7. In Gaza, Amal is already four wars old.

We are an average family in Gaza, but we have had our fair share of Israeli death and destruction.

So far, since the early 1970s, I have lost 20 (and 15 last week) members of my extended family due to Israeli aggression.

In 2014, Israel destroyed our family home of seven flats, killing my brother Mohammed.

In 2014, Israel killed about 20 of my wife’s family including her brother, her sister, three of her sister’s kids, her grandfather and her cousin. And destroyed several of my in-laws’ homes.

Combined, my wife and I have lost over fifty 50 members to Israeli war and terror.

2023 war on Gaza

As the bombs fall and Israel targets sleeping families in their homes, parents are torn between several issues.

Should we leave? But go where, when Israel targets evacuees on their way and targets the areas they evacuate to?

Should we stay with relatives? Or should our relatives stay with us, whose home is relatively “safe?” We can never be sure. It’s been more than 75 years of brutal occupation – and over six major Israeli military onslaughts in the past 15 years – and we have so far failed to understand Israel’s brutality and mentality of death and destruction.

And then there is the fear of what to do if – when – we are bombed. We try to evade them. But how can you evade the bombs when Israel throws three or four or five consecutive bombs at the same home.

The big question Palestinian households debate is whether we should sleep in the same room so that when we die, we die together, or whether we should sleep in different rooms so some of us may survive.

The answer is always that we need to sleep in the living room together. If we die, we die together. No one has to deal with the heartbreak.

No food. No water. No electricity.

This 2023 war is different. Israel has intensified using hunger as a weapon. By completely besieging Gaza and cutting off the electricity and water supplies and not allowing aid or imports, Israel is not only putting Palestinians on a diet, but also starving them.

In my household, and we are a well-off family, my wife and I sat with the children and explained the situation to them, especially the little ones: “We need to ration. We need to eat and drink a quarter of what we usually consume. It’s not that we do not have money, but food is running out and we barely have water.”

And good luck explaining to your 7-year-old that she can’t have her two morning eggs and instead she will be having a quarter of a bomb! (Israel later bombed the eggs.)

As a parent, I feel desperate and helpless. I can’t provide the love and protection I am supposed to give my kids.

Instead of often telling my kids “I love you,” I have been repeating for the past two weeks:

“Kids, eat less. Kids, drink less.” And I imagine this being my last thing I say to them and it is devastating.

Israel bombs our building

If we had a little food last week, now we barely have any because Israel struck our home with two missiles while we were inside. And without prior warning!

My wife Nusayba had already instructed the kids to run if a bombing happened nearby. We never expected [our building] to be hit. And that was a golden piece of advice.

I was hosting four families of relatives in my flat. Most of them were kids and women.

We ran and ran. We carried the little ones and grabbed the small bags with our cash and important documents that Gazans keep at the door every time Israel wages a war.

We escaped with a miracle, with only bruises and tiny scratches. We checked and found everyone was fine. And then we walked to a nearby UN school shelter, which was in an inhuman condition. We crammed into small classrooms with other families.

With that, we lost our last sense of safety. We lost our water. We lost our food and the remaining eggs that Amal loves.

We are an average Palestinian family. But we have had our fair share of Israeli death and destruction. In Gaza, no one is safe. And no place is safe. Israel could kill all 2.3 million of us and the world would not bat an eye.

#palestine

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recklesssezon · 1 month ago

Text

𝗕𝗲𝗮𝗰𝗵 𝗕𝗮𝗯𝗲 𝗶𝗶

𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴 | aitana bonmati x reader

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆 | aitana can't stop thinking about you

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴 | none

𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲 | this been sitting in my drafts for months hehe

Two weeks.

Two weeks since Aitana met you.

Two weeks stuck in a limbo, wishing to see you again. In passing years, confidence had become Aitana’s best friend. Consistent wins and titles built Aitana’s reign in the football world, which eventually extended to her personal life. Aitana felt untouchable. All her blood, sweat, and tears led her to this point, and she wasn’t gonna stop now.

Aitana knew she’s one of the best players of the generation, playing for the best club in Spain, and if she was being a hundred percent honest, Europe. She’s aware of the impact she has endlessly made in the community each year. It wasn’t ego talking but a simple fact to be acknowledged.

What Aitana didn’t realize is that her status and image could only get her so far. The world doesn’t excuse star athletes from it's desire to hurt. Before you, Aitana loved the world, and in return, they loved her. But, when she laid eyes on you, Aitana was instantly a goner. When your figure shrinked in size as you walked on, she slowly began to despise the very thing that loved her.

You barged into her perfect world with your hot Brazilian accent and beautiful smile. Who wouldn’t fall for you?

No one. A simple answer Aitana believed.

She just wished that when she fell, you would have caught her. Instead, you let her fall continuously into the void that you created with your absence, and Aitana hated it. You demolished her world, a world centered around football only to be destroyed so easily by a charming smile. Dumbfounded, Aitana spent days putting her picture-perfect world back together brick by brick.

For once in her life, Aitana felt pathetic. A familiar yet unfamiliar emotion aching in her chest.

In her youth, Aitana understood it. After each loss, she didn’t feel worthy, she didn’t feel like the great soccer player she strived to be. Aitana felt pathic, so yes the emotion was familiar to her. But, unfamiliar because Aitana didn’t lose a game that day, no, she just let go of the one person that sparked the wick in her soul.

Aitana never felt a spark with someone before, the spark that many described as fireworks when they met the one. As sad as it is, Aitana never experienced fireworks. She summed it up to the fact that she was busy with football, too busy building her career to feel those sparks.

Time went on, and so did Aitana’s hidden search for those fireworks. She eventually became immune to the romance surrounding her, couples left and right displaying their love that consisted of hand holding, hugs, and kisses…the list goes on. Maybe once or twice out of the year, Aitana wished to find someone to love, but no shooting stars were granted.

Year after year, Aitana slowly became content with her lack of romance…until that day on the beach.

Aitana remembers that day so bitterly yet so fondly, the team had just finished up their time in the ocean. Favoring their time left with the sun before it completely set. She recalls being at peace. The breeze blew cool air against her warm skin, a still state Aitana hoped she had more often. And then you came along, fresh out the water, surfboard in arm. Effortlessly, you exposed Aitana to a new adrenaline.

One she didn’t know existed and then when you waved at her, Aitana panicked. This, she liked a lot less, clueless to why she felt such a thing. Cool, calm and collected Aitana Bonmati panicking over a girl waving at her, how gay of her. She can still feel the internal embarrassment coursing through her body.

When you spoke, Aitana believed she entered paradise. You possibly gave her the best chat she’s ever had. Your heavy Brazilian accent was music to her ears. Your rolled r’s nearly had Aitana on her knees. You knew how to keep a conversation going, the lightness and flow lifted weight off Aitana’s chest. The freedom to speak without care was new to her and she loved it. You were interested in what she had to say, focusing on her like she was the most important person in the world.

The easy smile you had when she started to ramble and the twitch of your eyebrow when you found something amusing, if this is what people felt when they were in love, Aitana understood the addiction. You made her heart beat to cupid’s song, a rhythm that stuck to Aitana everytime she thought of you.

And it was cute until she found sad songs to sync her heart to. Her attempts to hide her feelings sucked, the team immediately noticed her shift in behavior. Not only was she actively restored to brooding, small ques of isolation and a long heartbreak playlist were following factors. They’ve never seen Aitana so emotionally impacted by someone, the Great Aitana Bonmati wallows in misery over a girl, never thought they’ll see the day.

“Her first lesbian heartbreak, the final step to her slut phase.”

Patri groaned, rubbing the back of her head where Frido slapped her. The team was on water break and instead of sitting with the others, Aitana sat at the edge, airpods blasting James Arthur.

Mapi sighed, yanking out her airpod, wrapping an arm around Aitana’s shoulder. “It’s okay, mi amiga. There are plenty of other women in the sea. We just need to get you in the right space to find them. How about we hit that nightclub by-” Cut off by a cleared throat, Mapi smiled innocently at Ingrid. The Norwegian removed her girlfriend from her dear friend, taking the prior spot for herself.

“Don’t pay attention to her. You don’t need to move on so fast, just go at your own pace.”

Mapi threw her arms out in offense, it wasn't just her who wanted Aitana to enter her lesbian spree. Cata, Patri, Pina, Misa, and even Jenni, who was all the way in Mexico, wanted to break Aitana out of her shell and right into someone’s sheets.

It was a daring plan that they created, too much riding on it if it got leaked. The amount of trouble they’d get in for messing with precious Tana was undoubtedly scary. Nonetheless, they got to work. Patri and Cata signed her up for dating apps, swiping left and right to find girls who looked similar to you.

Jenni was assigned to find potential matches in Mexico which wasn't exactly hard but Mapi kept rejecting them on Aitana’s behalf when they looked nowhere near you. Misa had a hometown friend that shared the same color hair and eyes as you but Aitana quickly shut it down. Yet, it didn’t stop there. Each rejection and failure, they tried harder, determined to win their friend’s heart.

Aitana grew annoyed at their foolishness, Exhibit A.

"No."

"Come on, it'll be fun."

"I'm sure it will be. But, I want no part of it."

"Yes, you do. Trust me, right now you're experiencing your first girl heartbreak and its shitty. But, to get over someone is to get under someone. Now, what about her?”

Aitana glared at Mapi, eyes staring down at her friend, resisting the urge to push the phone that was shoved in her face. “I said no. So, get that phone out of my face before it ends across the field. Leave me alone before I tell Ingrid.”

Mapi's jaw dropped, holding her phone tight to her chest. “That’s not fair!” She exclaimed, “We’re trying to help! Misa brought her friend to the city so you can meet her but you locked yourself at Keira’s which was really rude by the way! She was excited to meet you!”

Aitana clenched her jaw, turning her back to Mapi to continue kicking penalties. Jana giggled, patting a pouting Mapi on the back. “She doesn't care for them because they're Spanish. She wants a little Brazilian instead.” Aitana's head snapped to Jana, the young girl cowdered behind Mapi at the fierce glare.

“Who told you that?”

Jana peeked out from Mapi’s shoulder, “Patri might've said something about an accent.” Patri said more than Jana claimed, she knew it, Mapi knew it, even Jana herself knew that Aitana wasn't buying her white lie.

Mapi gasped, shaking Aitana in excitement. “You want a Brazilian?! Why didn't you say so, we can book a flight right now and grab the nearest one when we get off." Aitana stared at her friend eye-wide, Jana not too far off. Both looked at Mapi as if she lost her damn mind.

“You want to kidnap someone?” Jana asked in disbelief, was it ever that serious?

Mapi wagged her finger in the air, “No, I said grab. That’s different from kidnapping.” Jana shook her head, “I don’t think it is if they don’t go willingly.”

Mapi threw her arms to the side, almost smacking Aitana in the face. “Why wouldn't they come willingly? We show them Aitana and they’ll be dogs in heat wanting to meet her. I mean have you seen this face?” Mapi grabbed Aitana’s jaw in her hand, squishing the midfielder’s cheeks. “It’s so cute!” Mapi cooed, her baby voice in full effect. Aitana shoved the older girl away, sending a heavy glare for the mockery.

“I’ll end you.”

Aitana threatened, Mapi scoffed, not feeling the slightest worry. Aitana wasn’t a vengeful woman, she was calm and collected more than anything.

“I’d like to see you try.” Mapi cockily said, calling Aitana’s bluff. Within a second, Aitana stocked up on Mapi, yanking the phone out of her hand before launching it across the field. “You bitch!” Mapi yelled, running after her precious phone, praying that it wasn’t broken.

Aitana turned her back to Mapi’s slouching figure, pointing a finger at Jana. “You keep messing with me, you’re next.” Jana nodded rapidly, eyes snapping to Mapi as she cried dramatically over her phone. Aitana walked off leaving her two friends to deal with the mess they made.

“And I’m telling Ingrid!”

“We’re not flying all the way to Brazil just for you to set me up with a random stranger.” Patri just couldn’t keep her mouth shut. The more the others knew, the more they pressed. Aitana didn’t want that, it was frustrating enough to deal with her own emotions but to have more people hound you for it was just as infuriating.

She didn't want anyone that wasn’t you, she didn’t care for the girls in Spain and she definitely didn’t care for some random girls in Brazil. She just wanted you and that’s all she’ll ever want.

Aitana didn’t expect anyone to understand. Heck she didn’t understand it herself. The very first person she fell for, someone she couldn’t have known for no more than an hour, pained her in a way she couldn’t explain.

Her mind imagined scenarios of what could have been if you lived in Spain, if she found loopholes to see the relationship working out. It drained Aitana mentally, all these what ifs. And to show up at work or hang out to be constantly tested fueled her anger.

She felt like a laughing stock. For the team to know that someone tugged her heart strings was humiliating, double the amount due to the evident impact it had on her. Every woman introduced to her by the helping hand of Mapi, Patri, whoever was a few, pushes away from tipping the iceberg.

To the rest of the team, they knew very well that Aitana was bound to snap. She’s been teased relentlessly for weeks, they wouldn’t be surprised if Aitana became a loose cannon by the end of the month.

Aitana sat in her cubby, undressing herself from all the sweat that lingered on her clothes. Patri hopped over, nudging Aitana who ignored her. Patri smiled nonetheless, leaning closer to her, whispering, “I heard what you did with Mapi’s phone. Did she tell you about the match you made on-” Aitana threw her boots into her cubby, whipping around to come face to face with Patri.

The talking instantly ceased in the locker room, the sound of boots banging against metal gained rapid attention. The smile on Patri’s lips slowly faded away, the tension in Aitana’s face vanished any playfulness in her bones. “If you heard about that then you should’ve heard what I told her. Leave me alone, quit bringing up random girls for me to date. I don’t want them and I don't want you or anyone else meddling with my life!”

Seeing that Aitana was blowing up, Mapi came over to try to do some damage control. “Hey, we’re just trying to help you get over that girl. You were so upset about her leaving we just wanted to help.” Despite the softness and genuine intention, that didn’t do anything to rid the annoyance and anger building up.

“Well don't! How many times did I ask you to stop?! And you didn’t?! You keep making fun of me! I’m sick of it!”

Alexia quickly interfered, placing a hand on Aitana beating chest giving the younger girl a soft look. “Why don’t you head home and get some rest. I’ll handle this.” She assured, Aitana snatched her bag off the floor and stomped out the room, giving up the fight before it became physical. The doors slammed loudly against the wall with the force Aitana used.

Alexia spun on her heels, hands on her lips as she glared at Mapi. “This needs to stop. It’s gone on for way too long. I mean it, Patri delete that app off your phone. I know you still have it. Mapi quit trying to set her up with people she doesn’t want to meet. And anyone else involved quit the shit before you’re running laps before practice for the entire season.”

Alexia made it a mission to make eye contact with the four who were involved, the other two she couldn’t reach due to one being in Madrid and the other in Mexico but she’ll be sure to check them when nationals come. “Apologize to her. Buy her flowers, clean her apartment, I don’t care just make it up to her, Jonatan has a potential player visiting and we need to make a good impression as a team. Understand?”

Various answers were said, all pleasing to Alexia to what she wanted to hear. “Good. Patri, Pina, and Mapi starting tomorrow you’ll be running laps until you apologize. And Cata, you’ll be in goal for Aitana’s balls tomorrow, better hope she’s cooled off by then.” The four protested but Alexia didn’t bother to stay to hear it.

Keira winced at the slammed door, the blonde went by to pick up Aitana for their usual carpool and by the looks of it, yesterday’s mood still lingered. Aitana refused to visit their usual cafe after Pina exposed Aitana’s loneliness to one of the barista’s hoping to score Aitana an unwanted date. She even refused to listen to their morning playlist which always gets them in a peaceful mindset for the day.

The ride was awkwardly silent, Keira respected Aitana’s need for silence but it killed her the entire time. As soon as the car stopped, Aitana wasted no time rushing out the car, Keira quickly caught up expecting Aitana to be more dragged with her movements to hold off seeing the team.

“Going a bit too fast for me, Tana. Mind slowing down a bit.” The blonde chucked but Aitana made no indication that she was listening, noticing Aitana lost in her thoughts Keira stood in front of her primarily stopping Aitana in her tracks.

“Still bugged out from yesterday? Don’t worry, Alexia had a talk with the team after you left. They’re very sorry about their actions.”

Aitana blinked, “Let’s just get to training.” She left it at that, leaving Keira behind. As much Aitana wanted to act like nothing had happened in the past weeks, the brewing irritation and embarrassment had risen to a boiling point that wasn’t going to cool soon. So unfortunately for the girls, they were going to be on the receiving end of Aitana’s fury for the next following days.

Aitana pushed the doors open to the locker room, high energy today as loud chatter came from the walls. Time stopped for Aitana, her eyes caught onto the person standing in the middle of the room as if it's the norm. Talking to her teammates with a huge smile. How were you here? Why were you here? Millions of questions ran through Aitana's mind and none could she work out an answer to.

Aitana didn’t realize that you began making way towards her, even as her eyes followed you as you navigated through the room like you've been here before. You stood right in front of her, except there was no sun blinding her, all she had was the ceiling light, a very dim light.

You had a stupid smile on your face, happiness filled your heart to its content. You counted down the remaining days to return to Barca, to see Aitana after your first encounter it made all the move to Spain more exciting.

“Hi, Aitana.”

Words breathless, your heart pumping to cupid’s song made it hard to catch your breath. A beat skipped and so did Aitana, well, more like bolted out the door leaving you standing stupidly in the middle of the room.

#woso x reader #woso imagine #woso fanfics #aitana bonmati imagine #aitana bonmati #aitana bonmati x reader #barca femeni x reader #barca femeni

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thisismeracing · 9 months ago

Text

Brand new style | CL16

― Pairing: Charles Leclerc x fem!reader ― Warnings: mentions of food; typos. ― Summary: The one where Charles' has been dressing better and better each week. Fans can't help but tie that drastic change to a girlfriend, especially when he shows up wearing clothes from a small but very stylish brand, what they don't expect is that the girlfriend in question is the owner of the brand.

▸ my masterlist | my taglist | patreon guide ▸ support my writing by reblogging, leaving a comment (don’t forget to follow me if you like the piece), or buying me a coffee

yourusername

liked by yourbestie, istagramuser1, and others

yourusername finishing the last few touches for this season's collection ⭐️✨

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sunshinewest can’t wait to get it!! 😍

user2 I am so readyyy

switfiedirectioner I wanna be her when I grow up

⤷ 1distraction but u already grown, bestie 😭 lmao

⤷ swiftiedirectioner shut up let me dream 🤚

charles_leclerc

liked by pierregasly, sebastianvettel, and others

charles_leclerc race week's about to start 😎

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charleslerain things that aren’t my business but I wish were: how charles takes his coffee

sainzinho the lil pink mug 🥹🤏

fastandf1s where’s that lil sweater from????

⤷ bonohammertime Its from @ yourusername s brand?

⤷ userforty it def is! Most likely from last collection if I recall perfecly, I have a similar one

trackfour Im gonna prepare myself mentally to watch ferrari shit show 😭

iguser_ the pullover collors omggg and the fabric looks so soft

yourusername

liked by gigihadid, charles_leclerc, and others

yourusername I would bet on red for this season 😜❤️

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yourbestie 😍😍 I would bet on YOU this season

user01 omg yesss! I love red!

randomuser this looks fantastic, can’t wait to see the other options

charles_leclerc

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charles leclerc 😉😉

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tifosinha I refuse to believe this was Ferrari's doing, he's been on this team for years now and they NEVER got him this stylish. there's a woman's hand on this, istg

ferrarista01 the veins 🫣🤤

leclowncircus y’all worried about charles’ style and rumored relationship meanwhile I’m just no thoughts head empty appreciating those yummy pics he’s been posting

charles_leclerc

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charles_leclerc Solid climbing session today.

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notyourbus HE’S SOFT LAUNCHING

sainzfan who’s that person wearing black?

⤷ lemonegasque million dollars question

lewforty LOL he’s so bad at other sports

arthur_leclerc as a climber you’re a great driver 👍

schumiwoff I love the fact that apprently him and the girl -both- fell hahah partnes in being horrible at Snow Sports

yourusername

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yourusername nobody needs to know I fell a hundred times while climbing

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user47 it’s fine bestie, I’m terrible at anything snow related as well lol

user90 where’s that sunglass from?

⤷ yourusername its from yyy.com :)

popyn she’s soft launching, I lost her 😭

yourusername

liked by yourbestie, francisca.cgomes, and others

yourusername had an amazing dinner tonight 🥰

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randomuser33 that “private but not a secret” type of relationship I WANT IT

user9 she’s so pretty 😍😍

charles_leclerc

liked by lewishamilton, landonorris, and others

charles_leclerc ma cherrie ❤️ I wouldnt have the patient to soft launch anyways

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scuderiaferrari thank goodness he's not that clumsy with car info 😅😂

yourusername you're lucky I love you 💞

pierregasly it was about time!!!!

fan44 I KNEW IT

formulaonewag welcome to the club, Yn! 🥳

────── ⋆🪩 VOICEMAIL: Hi! I hope you guys liked this piece! This is part of that convo about posting my drafts hihi so yeah, here goes another one :D let me know your thoughts!

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lale-txt · 4 months ago

Text

❥ 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐆𝐎𝐓 𝐌𝐄 𝐅𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐒? ↳ 𝐰/ 𝐒𝐚𝐤𝐮𝐬𝐚, 𝐈𝐰𝐚𝐢𝐳𝐮𝐦𝐢, 𝐀𝐤𝐚𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐢, 𝐊𝐞𝐧𝐦𝐚, 𝐎𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐮, 𝐁𝐨𝐤𝐮𝐭𝐨 & 𝐎𝐢𝐤𝐚𝐰𝐚

a/n: reader is gn! back with my drabbles; i just love trying to convey a very specific mood or scene in 200 words or less, it's SO fun and challenging. i already have longer HQ fics drafted but those really help me getting a grasp of those chars (and i don't have to decide on only one boy because there's so many who have my whole heart heh). i hope you enjoy this boquet of sweets from me to you ♡ some additional thoughts at the end of this because apparently i have PLENTY ok bye

word count: 1.3k

𝐒𝐀𝐊𝐔𝐒𝐀 scoffs softly. Of course he got you flowers. He would have bought everything inside the damn florist shop if you had enough space for it in your tiny apartment. This bouquet of wildflowers must do for now; it’s so huge, it makes you vanish behind it completely when he shoves it into your hands the second you open the door for him. He can hear you laugh in surprise and that is enough for him. A few minutes later you watch him from where he sat you down on the kitchen counter, rummaging around the cabinets and searching for a vessel that can serve as a vase because the ones you have are way too small for the size of this bouquet. Under his breath he mumbles something about how you stubbornly refuse to let him buy you a house already, one with endless fields of flowers surrounding it; then he wouldn’t have to waste his time searching for a vase big enough and could just kiss you in a sea of petals. You both know that it’s only a matter of time till that happens.

𝐈𝐖𝐀𝐈𝐙𝐔𝐌𝐈 doesn’t fully remember when this tradition started. Years ago, it must have been in high school, when you were down with a cold and he brought you your favorite snacks and a bundle of flowers from the conbini after school. They were nothing special, wrapped in plastic and close to wilting soon, the price tag still on, but he can never forget the ways your eyes lit up when he put them down on your bedside table. Your voice had been so hoarse that day, you barely managed to get a Thank You out, and Iwaizumi didn’t know what else to say either, so he just sat on your bed and held your hand till you dozed off again shortly after, leaving him with all those buzzing feelings inside of his chest. How many flowers has he bought you ever since, week after week? It must have been hundreds. How many times has he kissed you somewhen between bouquet 84 and 931? Countless times. He won’t stop doing either of that in this lifetime.

𝐀𝐊𝐀𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐈 is overthinking again. One finger rests on your doorbell, the other is nervously fidgeting with the wrapping paper. Should he have read more about the language of flowers before coming here? What if he accidentally picked some that actually say “let’s just be friends” or “I like you only mediocrely” and not “you’re the light and love of my life, and my heart has never been fuller ever since you claimed it as yours, please will you be mine forever–in this life and each one that comes after that, beloved”? His hand clenches around the bouquet and he’s one heartbeat away from turning around on the doorstep and walking back to the flower shop, when you open the door smiling, so bright that Akaashi thinks he must have walked into the burning sun. Your fingers brush over his when you reach for the flowers, and he doesn’t register the words coming out of his mouth at this moment, his mind clouded by the thought of what your future wedding bouquet will look like. He will do some research for that later tonight, after giving you a hundred kisses.

𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐌𝐀 laughs quietly when he opens his mailbox in Animal Crossing. You sent him the Hello Kitty items, including the matching hat and dress for him to wear next time you stream together, paired with a sweet love note that he immediately saves to his favorites. Needless to say that he keeps all of them. Under the thick blanket you (wearing one of his sweaters) rub your cold feet against his, and giggle next to him when you unwrap the flowers he sent you in-game. Lying on top of both of you is your cat named Apple Pie, who purrs and makes biscuits, ensuring neither of you would be able to get up anytime soon. You mentioned once how you liked the in-game flowers better than real ones, because it made you sad to see cut flowers wilt and wither over time and the pixel ones would stay like this forever–just like the two of you, hopefully. Kenma leans down to press a kiss to the side of your neck and wonders briefly how he managed to get so lucky. If he had the magic power to freeze time, he would, but until he levels up he will keep you in his arms like this for a little longer.

𝐎𝐒𝐀𝐌𝐔 is looking proud of himself when he puts your plate on the counter and nudges it towards you. The three onigiri on it are decorated with tiny edible flowers, and your loud complaints about how they’re too pretty to be eaten make him laugh. So are you, and yet he still gets to devour you night after night. You look so ravishing, taking photos of your food from every possible angle to post them on your food blog later, with your tongue poking out between your lips like it always does when you’re focused. Osamu thinks that out of every person in the whole world, he must be the luckiest of them all because only he gets to call you his. He doesn’t have it in him to tell you to hurry and eat up already, knowing there’s some things you just can’t rush–food, love. The latter he learned from you and your incredible patience, and how you molded his heart into the shape of you with time, with gentle hands and stolen kisses, till he was all yours, only yours.

𝐁𝐎𝐊𝐔𝐓𝐎 nearly drops the flowers in fist when he fumbles for his keys, his sports bag almost sliding off his shoulders, one shoe untied. It’s messy, but he can’t wait to see you. You’re probably asleep by now, sprawled out on the couch with the remote still in your hand, re-playing his game on repeat. Seeing you cry earlier because you couldn’t go to watch him play in person broke his heart a little; he simply hates seeing you upset like this (and maybe it was also on him for telling you the leftovers in the fridge were probably still good to eat). He doesn’t flick the lights on, just walks straight over to the couch, a big hand brushing strands of hair out of your sleeping face. No feeling in the world can compare to you nuzzling your face into his palm and mumbling out his name drowsily. Bokuto drops the bundle of dandelions he picked on his way home into your nearly empty water glass on the table before carefully scooping you up in his arms, carrying you back to bed. For once he’ll be the big spoon tonight, making sure you sleep safe and sound.

𝐎𝐈𝐊𝐀𝐖𝐀 insists on facetiming you, even if it’s 2AM for him and you’re still jetlagged, being back in Japan after visiting him in Argentina. By now you’ve found all the little notes he left in your luggage, hidden between your shirts, souvenirs and in your toiletry bag, but there’s still one surprise left now that you’re back home (even though home is when you’re with him, but whatever). You’re busy complaining about the horrid traffic and your shitty boss and Oikawa barely listens, mesmerized by your face and the sound of your voice, and thinking about the ring he’s gonna put on your finger soon. On his screen you look up when your doorbell rings and the camera gets a little shaky when you rise to your feet, opening the door to the delivery of a bouquet of your favorite flowers, so big you struggle to grab it with one hand. For a bit all Oikawa can see is blossoms in the brightest colors and can only hear your surprised laughter, along with some curses because how dare he be so sweet when he’s an ocean apart where you can’t kiss him right now. Soon, he’ll be there again soon.

❥ 𝐨𝐧 𝐚 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭…

i REALLY like old money Omi who just wants to spend all his money on you but also kinda enjoys the cramped little apartment you live in. it feels like a bit of a cave and he likes that there's only room for both of you in there

Hajime childhood friends to lovers trope my beloved. how long it must have took you both to sort out your feelings for each other, one boquet at a time

i think Akaashi would write the best love letters

Kenma bullies ugly villagers off his AC island and he's really good at terraforming and will help you out with your island (this is based on me being terrible at terraforming and giving up after ten minutes)

Osamu and you started off as enemies to lovers because you left a bad review about Onigiri Miya once and so he invited you over to prove you wrong, and you fell in love one bite at a time (i really wanna write a SMAU on this but idk if i can pull this off, so if someone wants to grab this idea let me know so i can kiss you)

LITTLE SPOON BOKUTO AGENDA 🗣️ listen just imagine snuggling against this broad back, kissing the back of his neck, his butt wiggling as he gets comfy...

Oikawa idk what to say. i love him dearly but he feels the hardest to write to me

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chithereader · 6 days ago

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stir crazy / aaron hotchner

pairing: aaron hotchner x f!reader

word count: 2k

genre: fluff/angst if you squint

cw: omniscient pov, hotch being vulnerable

“My agent has been asking me for the manuscript but it’s just not ready yet. And I’ve still got my day job that keeps me busy enough,” It’s a quiet day at the BAU. No urgent cases or serial killers, just a few feet worth of case files. Leaning against Reid’s desk, Rossi, Emily and boy genius himself have been talking about the next big David Rossi book.

“Oh c’mon, I see you typing away in your office and writing in that little notebook of yours– which I know is for your drafts by the way,” Emily teases. Rossi shrugs it off with a soft smirk and looks to the boy genius who has been uncharacteristically quiet for the past few minutes.

“Nothing to say, kid?” lowering his head to catch the young man’s preoccupied eye but Reid’s sight is incredibly glued far away.

It took Reid a good 6 seconds to realize he’s kid before he shakes himself out of the trance and answers, “Well, considering the hours he’s spent typing on his personal laptop as opposed to the office computer and adding the minutes he allots on the jet to jot down on his writing notebook– assuming he’s writing in a similar format to his previous books– I’d say….you’re actually well into the third chapter of your manuscript.”

Still with his eyes trained on whatever caught his attention in the first place, Reid unsurprisingly impresses Rossi again because he is indeed a little over halfway into the third chapter.

But Rossi and Emily instantly become interested with what or who Reid has been staring at for the past minute, noticing that even when going off on his boy-genius tangent, his stare had been focused somewhere else.

Reid jumps in his seat a little as the two level their heads on either side of his to see where his gaze has been glued. He had been so focused on figuring out the worrying sight and what caused it that he hadn’t noticed how much of him wasn’t aware of his surroundings.

To their surprise, they’re met with a seemingly everyday sight: Hotch, in the pantry, stirring his coffee. And by everyday, they mean that to any passerby they’d think this is incredibly normal. Nothing at all out of place or out of character.

But to the trained eye- to profilers who also spend almost everyday with the man, they slowly see what Reid must have seen.

Hotch is stirring his coffee. But he doesn’t even put sugar or creamer in his always black coffee.

He’s doing it absentmindedly. Literally looking lost in his head. Hotch is a busy guy, a busy boss guy, with millions of things to think about, but Hotch is never absent. His movements are always purposeful, precise, and calculated. Never lacking and never excess.

Hotch has his head tilted down and to the side. Like a perpetually confused puppy. One of the things that make Hotch Hotch is his posture. His rigid, firm posture. Back always so straight, hands always clenched, jaw always tight– Hotch is never just there, his presence alone is commanding.

And worst of all, Hotch’s hair is neat. Too neat. Okay, Hotch’s habit of being neat -with his pressed suits and shined shoes no matter where he is- naturally extends to how he styles his hair. Over the years, he’s learned to gel it out of his face for both convenience and aesthetic. But this neat- this neat looks a little too flat and ruffled at the same time. Like he’s run his hand through it a hundred times in a matter of minutes.

So Rossi and Emily finally understand. The two share a look of understanding, while Reid looks up at them with curiosity and a little worry.

“Do you guys think he’s.. okay?” Reid asks quietly with a little grimace. He looks between the two, trying to figure out what they’re thinking, “I mean it has been exactly 12 minutes that he’s been stirring nothing into his coffee.”

“12?!” If Emily had any sort of drink in her mouth, she surely would have spat it out all over Reid–for which he is silently thankful she doesn’t because as much as he adores Emily, he’s just not mentally prepared for… well that.

Finally, there’s movement in the pantry. Unaware of his colleagues now watching his every move, Hotch wakes up from the trance he was trapped in and quickly retreats back into his office with his now-cold cup of coffee.

Knowing that Rossi’s the only one to easily get through to Hotch, Emily and Reid turn to look at him, wordlessly nudging him to check on the poor man who spent 12 minutes stirring his painfully plain black coffee.

Raising both his hands as he stands from where he was leaning, Rossi surrenders “Alright alright! But I am not telling you rascals what he tells me in confidence.” pointing at the doe-eyed pair.

Rossi lets the possibilities run through his head as he walks up the stairs to Aaron’s office. Maybe Jack’s having trouble with that one kid again– what’s his name? Or maybe Jack’s having trouble with Mothers’ Day coming up. That’s never been easy. But the stirring and staring into space and the hair? What could possibly– Knock knock.

Rossi doesn’t even wait to hear Aaron’s voice. He pushes the door open to be greeted with the sight of Aaron finally looking a little more him: writing on his desk knee-deep in case files.

Aaron looks up for a second and continues writing reports, “What can I help you with, Dave?” Putting extra pressure on penning that last period before closing the case file and grabbing another to open.

Dave stays quiet for a bit and takes in the sight. Looks fine to me. But his silence halts Aaron’s writing and he looks up to Dave who’s just studying him by the door.

“You know you can sit right?” Aaron stoically jokes.

And a joke?! Dave finally cracks and sits down to say, “Boy genius just watched you stir your coffee for 12 minutes which we all know is black. Your hair’s messy and too fixed at the same time, you were standing in the pantry just minutes ago glaring into nothing. And you were slouching with your head tilted to the side.”

“Honestly whatever it is, it’s none of my business but you just scared two members of your team and I think this may be the seed of doubt in your leadership skills because you’re finally not a robot.” It was obvious that Dave was trying to play it cool, masking concern with humor and sarcasm.

But Aaron is a painfully private guy. He’d think it over for days before he decides to open up or seek advice from a close friend. Only he has thought about it for days and not saying anything’s been driving him insane he genuinely feels like he could implode at any second.

Aaron takes one big breath and through clenched teeth he grumbles out, “It’s a she.” Finally staring Dave straight in the eyes, he clarifies, “the it in whatever it is is a she.”

Realization and more worry hits Dave at the same time which Aaron clearly sees on his face. But Rossi quickly recovers and gives Aaron a soft, comforting smile, “Well what’s so bad about your she that’s got you so shaken up?”

In Dave’s head, he’s already preparing responses for the worst:

She doesn’t approve of my job. Well she can suck it. This is who you are.

Jack doesn’t like her. Aaron, the one thing I like about kids is that they give it to you straight. I think you should take that as a sign

She’s not comfortable with the age gap. She’s way older. She’s way younger. I’m scarred in more ways than one. I’m not sure I still know how to–

Aaron could see the increasing concern in Dave’s face, “I just–” he started.

Dave’s thoughts were cut short by Aaron’s voice, thankfully because his mind was starting to reach the point of no return. Anticipating Aaron’s explanation, he leaned forward in his seat trying to read Aaron’s expression.

“A few months ago, I’d stay here. After a case, when I know my son’s fast asleep and Jessica’s with him- I’d stay here.” Dave kept quiet, intently listening and trying to piece together where this could possibly go.

“I would choose to stay here and finish reports, make a dent in the never-ending pile of case files because when I’m focused on helping others, I don’t have time to think of how alone I am.”

Before Dave could try and quell this ‘alone’ sentiment, Aaron quickly follows it up “I love my son. And he’s always been more than enough. And I have the team but… you guys have people to come home to. Arms to fall into at the end of a grueling day.”

“For the longest time, since Haley.. I haven’t allowed myself to feel. To want. And if I’ve just been honest then it’d be known, I want to be loved. All that I carry, I drop all of it at the door and then there’s just this exhaustion that hits me. And all I want is for someone to hold me.”

Dave takes all of this in, feeling an immense amount of love and sadness for his friend who deserves nothing but happiness but hasn’t for the longest time allowed himself the one thing that can give him that.

“I know you think that getting into a relationship makes you a bad father, splitting the only time you have left with someone else instead of your son. But the truth is Aaron, Jack’s growing up. He has his sleepovers, camps, and football now. Soon he’ll leave for parties and college, and as much as he adores you he’ll have his own family.”

“I know. And then I’ll be alone.” Aaron’s voice starts to sound rough. Like this fact’s caught in his throat and he can’t speak. Dave studies Aaron and considers all the things he knows are holding Aaron back.

“So give it a shot.” Dave insists. “Don’t make a big deal out of it. Just set a date, and show up.”

Aaron looks at Dave pointedly, “You make it sound easy–” “You make it sound hard.”

Aaron appears to recover. He smoothes a hand over his tie and straightens his back yet again. In an instant, he’s back to looking stoic and stern with brows furrowed and eyes glaring.

He’s not used to being vulnerable, even in the privacy of his own office. Feeling like an open book for others to read makes goosebumps trail up his spine- in a bad way. Dave quickly reads this and decides to lighten the mood.

“So…. when will we meet her?” Dave asks smugly.

“Funny.”

“I understand.. your concerns. But I don’t think you’d be so worried about it if you weren’t already serious about her. So, what’s really going on with her?”

Aaron thought he could get away without revealing much about her. He’s uncomfortable enough talking about himself, and all the more protective he is when it comes to you. Especially as someone who wants to keep your little world away from the harshness of everything else–

He sighs. He knows Dave is relentless and as payback for his concern, he decides he has to give Dave something.

“I don’t know. Really. I don’t– I told you one day I’m tiring myself out so I don’t have to come home and process my empty bed as empty..”

“Now I’m tiptoeing in my own kitchen so as to not disturb this crazy singing person washing my dishes while my kid wipes the plates. And I watch them for god knows how long, instead of going up to my office to attend to case files whose deadlines are a bit too close for my liking.”

“I don’t know,” Aaron shrugs. A soft, weak smile grows on his lips at the memory of you.

Dave stands from the seat, a knowing smirk on his face, “Hmm.” Teasing Aaron as he walks to the door and grabs the handle.

“I think you’ll be just fine, Aaron. Just fine.”

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner x you #criminal minds #david rossi #emily prentiss #bau team #spencer reid #aaron hotchner oneshot #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner angst #aaron hotch hotchner #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner fanfic #aaron hotchner fanfiction

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