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macfrog · 8 months ago

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twin flame sex on fire chapter eleven

thank you all for being so patient and kind, and loving this story no matter how terribly long i take with it. anyway, here's wonderwall. (shout out to @bageldaddy who saved this on numerous occasions lmao)

pairing: ceo!joel x fem!reader

summary: doing it with a broken heart is harder than it looks.

warnings: age gap (reader is late 20s, joel late 40s), workplace relationship, imbalance of power dynamic, reader's a Real Tough Kid she can (not) Handle Her Shit, kale!!!!!!, alcohol consumption, cursing, soft!joel, fluff and angst. angst angst angst angst

word count: 7.7k

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Five days lasts a year.

So it feels, anyway, when you spot Martha from the corner of your eye – pulling her coat on and hooking her purse over her shoulder. She tucks her peroxide blonde layers behind her ears, gives one last check of her makeup in a compact mirror, and looks up.

“You coming?”

It’s five thirty on Friday. You haven’t said more than two words to Joel since you walked out on him, Monday morning.

She knows by now – Martha. Or at least, she has a pretty good idea.

You haven’t told her, as if you’d even be able to begin explaining it all. But she pieced it together by herself, didn’t she? You’re hardly subtle. She figured you out less than five minutes after you stormed out of his office, fists balled and face tight with rage.

She says your name, and the sound is muffled. Distorted by the sour backwash of that feeling: the hot temper which dissipated so quickly into an ache behind your ribs all day.

You finally look up. “Huh?”

She fixes the collar on her trench coat. Flattens her thin, merlot lips and says, “Let’s go, kid. It’s been a long week.”

And that, you think, might just be the understatement of the fucking year.

She slips her arm through yours in the elevator, and you don’t protest. It’s not like she’d let you go even if you tried to shake her off – but there’s a comfort to it. Something sweet; soft and motherly. Martha’s not often this affectionate.

You want to slot your cheek on her shoulder. Ask her how long her worst heartbreak lasted. Ask if that’s even what this is, if you can give a two-month hurricane of sex and secrets enough power to split you open this badly.

Ask her how long until the gnawing in your chest eases. How long until you’re finally able to look at him again, without wanting to cuss him out – or run into his arms.

But you stare ahead, swaying with the dropping elevator, wrap your arms tight around yourself and swallow shallow breaths of her rosy perfume.

Your reflection splits in two, pulled apart by the rumble of the doors. Something akin to a growl from between Martha’s teeth.

The skeleton of the lobby sears behind your eyes, every surface bleeding gold. Silver arrows of rain pelt against the windows, slicing through the blazing sunlight. Dark figures shake umbrellas open at the doors; others yank their collars over their heads as they run to cars.

A gaggle of square suits separates to let you pass, black material shining and soaked through. Nodding to both of you, your names dripping from their lips as they load into the elevator.

Under the canopy outside, Martha hoists her purse over her head.

“Monday then?” she yells over the drumming rain. And without waiting for an answer – because she isn’t so much asking as she is telling – she totters off through the drizzle towards Alan’s Volvo.

One last glance over her shoulder, a wink as her six-inch heels swing into the car. Like a Bond girl, off to wrangle her preteen into eating his vegetables.

You call a cab, leaning against the building to watch the clouds roll overhead.

Two words. That’s all you’ve managed to force over your tongue.

Sure and okay. Both uttered between teeth, as though your body might be trying to hold them back. Mundane and fucking meaningless; pushing by everything else you want so desperately for Joel to hear. How could you? Why would you? I think I hate you, you know that?

I hate you and I miss you so much that it makes me hate you all over again for it.

He’s doing as you asked, at least. He’s following your rules. No looking, no touching, no talking.

To a point.

He is still talking – saying a little more to you than you are to him. You’re allowing it, given that he is still your boss and they’re only ever boss things to say. Schedule this meeting, look out that old file. Pick up his drycleaning when it’s mid-afternoon and he spots your boredom from across the office.

But he never comes near.

Not anymore.

He doesn’t brush by, stealing a giggle when his elbow nudges your waist. He doesn’t order you lunch, then wait until you’re sat opposite him in his office to eat together.

He doesn’t kiss you as soon as the elevator doors close. He doesn’t perch on the edge of your desk to steal snacks and gossip with you and Martha. He doesn’t play with your hand, he doesn’t hold you by the hips, he doesn’t whisper dirty jokes and sweet nothings in your ear.

He keeps his distance. He acts like your boss again.

And – Jesus. You’ve never wanted to hate him so much in your life.

“Waitin’ for a cab?”

“Shit –” You twirl, rain flicking from the tail of your coat.

Joel takes your arm steady. His grip is so familiar, so safe you feel yourself melting into it already. “Easy, easy,” he says, his voice much the same. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you there.”

“You didn’t, you…Yeah,” you sigh, “I guess you did. What did you say?”

He smiles. It’s weak, humored, but completely unsure. “I just asked if you’re waiting for a cab.

And goddamn it, just the sight of him this close thaws you from the inside out. It’s like warmth against the wound, softening you like the creases by the corners of his eyes.

“Yeah,” you start, “I just called one. Figure there’s traffic.” You gesture to the bodies scurrying down towards yellow cabs.

Joel tosses his thumb over his shoulder, pointing to the sleek Rolls by the curb. The rain bounces off its roof. “Rand can take you, if you like. Save you waitin’.”

“Oh, no. No, I’m good, thanks.”

“I’ll take your cab,” he clarifies. “I’ll take the cab; Rand can take you home.”

“Really, Joel,” you reply, hugging your purse. “It’s okay. I’ll be okay. Thank you.”

He nods, looking down. There was – there is – nothing he wants more than to look out for you. There’s probably nothing that stings more right now, than the fact you won’t let him.

He makes to leave, then hesitates. Hands in his pockets, he turns back and says, “You ever need anything, just let me know. Alright?”

Your lips flatten. “Mhm.”

“I mean it.”

“I know you do.”

“Alright,” he says. “Okay. I’ll see you Monday.”

He strides off towards the Rolls. So much cooler than the suits scrambling around him; dipping his head as he slides into the backseat, fixing his tie before he pulls the door closed.

The car doesn’t move until yours arrives. Until he’s seen you run over, settle in the backseat. Rand pulls out behind as your driver sets off; turns in the opposite direction at the first set of traffic lights.

You watch as it shrinks into a speck from the back window, wondering if Joel’s watching you, too.

The driver tuts and shakes his head. He flicks his fingers to the windshield, some comment about this goddamn rain and ain’t let up for five goddamn days.

You fish your phone from your pocket, turning the weight of it over in your hands like turning the dilemma in your mind. Thinking up something like, Hey, I was gonna order food in tonight. Wanna come over?

Something like, Or not, if you don’t feel like it.

Sorry, I don’t even know why I’m –

The screen lights.

Your heart jumps to your throat.

The driver rambles on, “…said it’d dry by Wednesday – well, you can’t trust a damn one of ‘em…”

Your eyes are glued to the name onscreen.

Joel headers the first notification. And the second. A text, then an email.

Your thumbs hover over the messages for a few seconds, vision blurring around his name. Frantic circles while you decide whether or not you actually want to read them. But it gets the better of you – morbid curiosity – and you tap on the text.

As quickly as it leapt, your heart plummets.

Forwarded Jean-Marc’s email, in case you need it. Have a good weekend.

Three, four, five times. You read over it five fucking times before it sinks in. Switch to your emails, where Joel Miller sits proudly at the top of the list.

“Why are you…?” you mumble, blinking at the screen. Salt stings across your waterline. “You – you fucking…”

It boils through your veins, pools in the pit of your stomach. That ache winds again, twisting around your ribcage.

Anger.

Anger, and…something much worse.

You bite hard on your lip, refusing to let the tears spill over. Your heart hammers against your chest. Your fist balls, like tightening around the leash of a misbehaving dog, pulling it back into place.

Your voice is barely a whisper.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Steam slowly swallows your silhouette whole. In the mirror, you shake the shell of the office from your shoulders, watching as she disappears entirely behind the heated glass. Relieved just to see her go.

You sob under the scorching stream until your skin prunes and your head throbs. You order in food and burrow deep in your couch to pick at it.

Drowning in the same hoodie he once pulled over himself – his landscape of a body, strong as rock and soft as the earth. The material unwashed, still smelling of mint and men’s cologne.

You thumb through the chick flicks on offer: all perfect grins and power couples; the commercial dream that is a two-tone poster with a quirky, conversational title. And then, worse: the breakup movies.

Women flat-out in bed, picking from a tray of chocolates. Two-day pajamas and three-day bedhead. Slumber parties to burn love letters and gauge out their exes’ eyes in photographs, swear themselves off men and then down heavy cocktails until they puke.

Then – the epiphany. Right before some pop rock track from the noughties sends the heroine off into the sunset. The I’m better off without him, or Maybe he wasn’t so bad moment.

Love truly exists, after all. Roll end credits.

“Oh, fuck off,” you mumble, chewing wetly on popcorn. “You’re all bullshit, anyways.”

Maybe you’re just fucking miserable. You liked the bullshit, two weeks ago.

Blake Carter – he was chocolates in bed and feminist handshakes. He was one night at your mom’s, one night at your best friend’s, then back in your old place before the week was out.

This is different. It’s like a sickness.

Rotting from the inside out. Deep in your chest, a fierce fever spreading from the split, the empty cage of ribs. An anxiety which gathers and festers in the barren corners, like teetering along a wire with no idea how high the drop really is – only that you’re not going to make the landing.

How were you ever going to make the landing, letting go of his hand like that?

You manage three mouthfuls of a greasy hamburger, then shove the bags across the coffee table. Too sick and too unsettled to eat without feeling it roll around your stomach in a furious tide.

You ever need anything, just let me know.

Asking for help is not something you do. Not since you were sixteen, and even before then. There is nothing – nothing, you swore – a man could offer you that you couldn’t go find yourself.

But then – then, you found someone who wasn’t looking for you to ask. Didn’t want or expect you to need him for anything, only wanted you to know that he was around if you ever did. Being near you was all he ever really gave a shit about.

You found someone who was on your tail every time you looked back. All your running, all the times you swore you wouldn’t let him catch you. And there you were – turning to make sure he was still trying.

He was. He was always trying. He’s the closest anyone ever came to proving you wrong.

And now…he’s letting you go.

If you had the energy to laugh, you’d laugh. You’d march back into the bathroom and wait for your reflection to clear again, just to point your finger right in her face.

The same woman who walked away from Blake Carter and his heirloom diamond ring; from Sundays forcing down quiche Lorraine at his parents’ house, and pretending to enjoy bouncing his nephew on your knee.

The same woman who left that diamond ring on his bedside table, packed a bag full of clothes, and fled the apartment before he could plead anymore.

The same woman who had seen the entire thing as a bird breaking free from her cage, in the end.

You understand it now.

You spend long enough in that cage, long enough planted on your feet – you forget how to use your wings.

The weekend is slow and sleepless.

Your sheets wind up a twisted mess each night. Kicked to the foot of the bed, cocooned back around your shoulders, then whipped from your body again when you feel too hot, too smothered.

He’s all over your apartment. Dozing in the reflection of the TV screen, bass voice reverberating off each wall, kisses in the clinking of mugs.

Each night, you stare blankly at the ceiling. Sleep becomes a tide you float on the surface of, pooling across your stomach and only ever wetting to your ears. Face skyward, bone dry. Desperately waiting for a wave that never intends on turning.

Come Monday, you’re running on something like four hours sleep and as many coffees.

Martha recognizes it instantly, the way she fawns. She hasn’t let up all day. Not since you walked in this morning, looking like shit and avoiding Joel’s office at all costs. She’s spent more time staring, delivering snacks, making sickly-sweet conversation that hurts your teeth – than she has actually working.

And it was touching. Until ten o’clock.

Joel has two assistants for good fucking reason, it turns out.

“I do not understand a goddamn word I’m reading…” Martha flips the Cosmo she stole from you last week. “The hell is a retrograde?”

Your head tilts. “Do you even know which sign you are?”

Her thin, penciled brows quirk. “Taurus, but I don’t like the way this bull’s lookin’ at me.”

She wiggles her mouse before the monitor switches off, then prods a shard of cucumber with her fork. The rain scatters across the window at her back, dragging golden shadows down her blazer.

“Did you eat today?” she asks.

“Mhm,” you lie, “This morning. Before you came in.”

She chews suspiciously. “Liar.” She offers you the salad bowl. “Eat.”

“Martha,” you push it away, “I’m not –”

“I don’t care whether you’re hungry.”

She thrusts the tub towards you, cherry tomatoes trembling.

“Martha.”

“Eat.”

“I’m not gonna eat your salad, will you stop –?”

“One bite. Just one.”

“I don’t even like –”

She’s holding out a forkful. “Eat the damn –”

“Get a drink with me.”

She halts, greens dangling in front of your face. Her expression twists, loosens, and then twists into bewilderment again. “Pardon me?”

You sigh, deflating into the leather. “Stop tryna force feed me salad, and get a drink with me.”

“On a Monday?” She scoffs. “What’s the occasion?”

“I don’t…I don’t have one,” you groan, pushing to your feet. “At least, not a good one. I just need something a little stronger than kale.”

An all too familiar click over your shoulder plucks her attention. Her eyes flash across the room.

She tracks Joel from his office over to the water cooler, a forced smile when he must glance up. Her eyes snap back to yours at the trickle of water into his mug.

Please? you mouth, and she grumbles.

“Joel?”

His voice is strained; he’s bending at the cooler. “Yep?”

Martha links her arm through yours and forces you to turn. “You mind if we take a long lunch? We were thinking of trying that wine bar up by the golf course.”

Joel lingers on the other side of the office, sipping from his mug. He’s almost unrecognizable: no bear left in him. Declawed, toothless. Dark crescents like the shadows of a bruise beneath his eyes, the ghosts of smile lines on his cheeks.

“Wine bar?” he asks. “Didn’t even know there was one up that way.”

“It’s new,” Martha says, popping the lid back on her salad bowl. “Alan told me about it. Says it costs an arm and a leg, but apparently, it’s worth it.”

He wanders over – hesitant, like approaching the desk of a wild animal. You can feel the heat of his stare on you when he replies, “’s nice up that way. Take the afternoon. You need a ride?”

“All good,” Martha chirps. She squeezes your arm. “I’ll go call a cab.”

She drapes your coat over your shoulders, then twirls off in the direction of the elevator. A girlish little strut, quietly pleased with herself.

She’s deliberately leaving you stranded. Both of you.

Joel steps back when you move. His breath catches in his throat. He slips a hand in one pocket, and says, “Be nice to have a relaxing afternoon.”

“Yep,” you choke, elbow brushing against his. “Nice to have some girl time, I guess.”

“Oh,” he sniffs, “I was talking about me. Empty office, two of you off my ass. Peace and quiet.”

You smile, feeling the weight of him rock gently against your side. “Hilarious,” you murmur, glancing up at him.

He stares straight ahead, sunlight catching rare amber in his eyes. Smiling to himself, calm and content, he says, “Have a good night. I’ll see you tomorrow,” and turns back for his office.

Your chest twinges as he closes the door behind him. A tight fist around your vocal cords.

“See you tomorrow, Joel.”

Oasis is a trendy little bar out west, which looks anything but its namesake. All exposed brick and smirk of silver pipework, industrially rustic and injected with the silky scent of wine and wealth.

Exactly the type of place you’d go to get over your millionaire ex.

Martha slinks in like she’s made of the place. Coat loose over her arm, hips swaying and heels clicking. She hops onto a stool at the bar, drums her glossy nails on the varnished wood.

You settle awkwardly into the stool beside her, prodding at what turns out to be a very real cactus. You jump at the sharp prick.

A waiter behind the bar clocks you, and laughs to himself.

“Nice, huh?” Martha asks, scanning the place. The low-hanging lights, the spill of foliage from the rafters. She seems to fit into it a whole lot better than you do.

“Sure,” you mumble around your fingertip, “Are you buying?”

She rolls her eyes. “You asked me out, remember?”

“I was thinking some two-for-one cocktails dive, not the fucking Ritz, Martha.”

“Call it a pick-me-up,” she says, accepting a menu from the waiter. “We’re treating ourselves.”

You pinch your fingertip, watching a scarlet bead bloom from the wound. A satisfying sort of pain, a tender break your hands won’t stay away from. You squeeze until it balloons into a trembling bubble of blood, then swipe the cut clean. Squeeze, then swipe.

Martha orders some vino she says she’s always wanted to try. Two glasses, because when the waiter looks to you to take your order, you’re still staring at your bloody finger.

He slides the drinks over and smiles politely, eyes daring to meet yours only twice. He’s handsome: chiseled jawline and the smudge of a dimple on one cheek. Chin speckled with stubble, shorter and blonder than you’d like.

Your fingertip throbs, and you look down to find it closed in your fist. You take a gulp of wine.

Martha smacks her lips and hums. “Not half bad,” she says, and then slots her glass next to yours. “Alright,” she clasps her hands, “What is it? What’s been goin’ on?”

You spin the base of your glass, staring at the swirl of honeysuckle. “I just needed some air and…wine.”

She buys it about as much as you do.

“Only one thing in the world that makes me need air and wine,” she says. “A man.”

A laugh flutters from your chest, as if by accident. As natural as the sun splitting the clouds. No thinking about it, no forcing it.

Either the expensive alcohol works fast – or Martha does.

She lifts her nose, like sniffing out the truth. “Come on, no bullshit. Why’d you ask me to get a drink?”

It rolls from one shoulder to the other in a tired shrug. You’ve no fucking idea why you asked her to get a drink.

The office was becoming claustrophobic, bursting with the grief of it all. Joel was nowhere to be seen and yet everywhere you looked. Here’s the wall he’d kissed you against, there’s the spot you’d first shaken hands.

Here’s all of it, really: the shame and the anger and the heartbreak all knotted together. Holding yourself back from doodling hearts on his sticky note messages, busying yourself with shredding instead of nosing around his office.

No bullshit, you were about to scream. Martha’s just the first person you laid eyes on.

Her and her fucking kale.

“Because,” you summarize, “I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing anymore.”

Her eyes are wide, serious. She’s hooked already. “With Joel?” she asks, sipping.

“With any of it,” you reply. And then, hearing her properly: “What do you know about me and Joel?”

She swallows quickly. “He hasn’t told me a word, I swear,” she says, “but I wasn’t born yesterday. Paris was always a solo trip, darling.”

You massage your forehead, grumbling into your palms. “Jesus Christ,” you whisper. There’s a heavy ache blooming behind your eyes.

Martha smiles. “I thought it was sweet. He’s never been serious enough about anyone to take ‘em over there with him. But,” her eyes ladder down your figure, “I’m guessing it didn’t work out.”

“Something like that, yeah.”

“Okay,” she squints, reading you, “And are we relieved? Are we hurt? Angry?”

“We are four and a half coffees Monday morning, and a wine bar Monday afternoon.”

“Got it,” she says, face stony. “That little shit. You need me to yell at ‘im?”

You lift your wine, shake your head. “I did enough yelling at him last week,” you admit. “It wasn’t just him, anyways. He fucked up, but it was the both of us.”

Martha nods, and you both take a long drink.

She taps her nails against the swell of her glass. “I thought you two were really great together,” she says – polite, pensive.

The least Martha you’ve ever heard her.

“You did?”

She nods. “You just always had this camaraderie. It was palpable. From the moment he met you, he was different. Better for it. I don’t know when you were…whatever you were, but –” she takes a deep breath, looking off past you, “– I know I liked it when you were.”

It’s not something you ever considered, even in the thick of it. What it might look like from outside, this little love affair: promises whispered into coffee mugs and glances stolen from behind paperwork.

It was never a secret – at least, not one either of you were trying to keep. It was just…yours. You and Joel. Two names etched at the bottom of a birthday card, no room for anyone else’s.

And if anyone did find out – Martha, Rand, Jean-fucking-Marc – they felt more like collateral. Just the landscape, the backdrop for your fated meteoric crash down to Earth.

God, it felt good to fall.

Martha sighs, dabbing a knuckle at the corner of her lips. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” she says, gently. “I’m sorry things didn’t turn out the way you hoped.”

Your eyes drift across the room. The waiter pours a deep red wine for a silver-haired couple over by the window. The man’s thumb surfs back and forth across his wife’s knuckles, dipping to circle the ring on her third finger.

The split in your skin opens again, your nail pressing clumsily into your finger. A tiny wave of pain rocks through the tip.

“Yeah, well,” you sniff, “Shit happens, right?”

“Sure does,” she says, and holds her glass out.

You cheers, the clink piercing the bumbling jazz in the air. The wine thrashes against the side of the glass, and you gulp back a sour mouthful.

“He sent me an offer for a job in Paris,” you confess into your drink. “That’s what our fight was about – the fact he didn’t want me to go. Then on Friday, he sent it anyway.”

“Paris?” Martha straightens in her chair. It’s easy to tell her, easy to pretend it’s some third-floor gossip when she reacts the same way. “That’s big,” she says. “Are you gonna go for it?”

“No,” you admit. “It’s with that guy Jean-Marc.”

Her upper lip curls, a bend of burgundy. “You can do better.”

“I guess,” you frown, “if I were looking.”

“You’re not looking?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

It twists in your throat. A million answers which fizzle into nothing at all on your tongue. Because because because –

“Who would read all of Joel’s boring emails?” It comes with a smirk, which drops as quickly as you realize Martha’s expression isn’t shifting.

“I would. And he’d find a replacement for you eventually. Not half as good, but…”

“Ha,” you stare at her, “Funny.”

“I’m not kidding. “I’m not,” she adds, when you roll your eyes. “It’s about damn time you realized you’re head and shoulders above all this.

“Maybe,” she continues, with an almost bloodthirsty interest, “Joel didn’t let on about Paris because he thinks you’re better than that, too. You don’t think he sees your potential? Hell, I do. You’re too good to be making coffee and taking minutes.”

Tell me something I don’t know, you think.

Joel’s never been quiet about how he feels about you – professionally or otherwise. He said as much in his office last week: I didn’t want to lose you. Those exact words kept you up all weekend, for crying out loud.

Sure, Joel sees something in you. Assistant, colleague, friend, not-friend. It’s not enough to stop the need you have – pinhole pupils hunting, blood jumping in your veins. Like it’d kill you to catch your breath, to shake your hackles and loosen your muscles.

Watch, watch. I can answer your questions before you’ve even come up with them. Watch, watch. I can show up early and leave late, barely pause for breath in between.

Watch, watch. I can break your heart and make it look just like mine.

You squirm under Martha’s glare.

“I don’t…I don’t even know what else I’d do,” you garble, playing with your hands. “I like this job. I’m good at this job. It’s…it’s –”

“– comfortable,” you say together.

“And that’s exactly the problem,” Martha nods, “You’ve outgrown it. You’re nothing but a monster in red bottoms now, baby – too scared to find something that fits you better in case it turns to shit. So what if it does? Is it the end of the world?”

“Feels like it right now,” you reply. She’s cloudy, blurred behind the ocean of tears teetering along your waterline. “And this is barely even a breakup, never mind failing at a career.”

She chuckles, shaking her head. “You think you’d be the first? The last? People fail at things all the damn time. Better to do it now, young as you are – little elastic band of resilience and nerve.”

“Poetic,” you scoff.

She tilts her glass and her head follows.

“Listen to me,” she says, leaning in. “Do not spend one more second paralyzed by fear. I know you’re scared. You’re supposed to be. One day, you’re going to miss the time you gave enough of a shit to feel this fear.

“It’s like electricity in your veins. Everything’s so intense, everything hurts ten times worse and feels ten times more exhilarating. You think something might bring about the end of the goddamn world, and then the sun comes up the next morning just to prove you wrong.

“And Lord almighty, you are going to get it wrong. You’ll say the wrong thing, trust the wrong feeling. You’ll make the same mistakes over and over again. But Jesus, I’d rather you blew it all to hell and at least learned somethin’, than never did it at all.

“You know what my mom would say? World’s been waitin’ on you, kid. Grab a paddle.”

Another laugh spurts from your lips, tears spilling into your mouth, a crackly, wet sniffle. “What the hell does that even mean?” you giggle.

She smiles and wipes your cheek. “Means dive in. Get your hands dirty. Fall in love, get hurt, grow the hell up. Stop standing in the way of yourself and the things you want. That electricity won’t be there forever – so use it.”

“Use it…” you echo, taking the mascara-stained tissue from her.

“Promise me,” she implores, wrapping her hands around yours, “Promise me that you will.”

It’s not just Martha asking, you know this. She’s the one staring at you like a madwoman, sure – but her plea is echoed by a littler, quieter voice.

She’s nervous, scared. A crumpled math paper in her backpack. Her whole world tipped upside down one Wednesday afternoon, soul cursed forever – or so she thought.

When you reply, it’s not Martha you see. It’s the sixteen-year-old version of yourself.

So you look her dead in the eye, and say –

“I promise.”

The world is hazy by the time you leave the bar. Vignetted, a saffron sunset seeping across the sky. Mingling with the city skyline and losing herself over the horizon.

You totter up the steps to your building and wave Martha and Alan off, twirling inside. The weight of wine heavy in your veins, pulling you from one side to the other, and still – you feel lighter, somehow.

You spent all afternoon giggling, once the heartache thawed and the alcohol kicked in. It felt nice; bubbly and nostalgic, the peachy tint of girlhood.

Swapping stories about your old, ridiculous love lives – Martha’s overall-donned boyfriend in high school, or the guy you went on two dates with last year before realizing he was the same dude one of your girlfriends had ghosted three months prior.

For a few hours on a Monday afternoon, you were fifteen again – and the worst thing that could happen was a pimple sprouting on your chin the night before picture day. All you’d ever know was the shiny film on magazine pages, reading two-week old horoscopes to see if they came true.

You slump against the side of the elevator, head spinning as it carries you home. It’s something like seven. You’re too buzzed to fall asleep, but too tipsy to do much more than roll around your apartment.

And by the time you’re back in your sweats, sunken into the couch, one very final nightcap in hand – you’re too tired to even move.

Promise me, she’d said, wildfire behind her eyes. Martha’s notorious for her talents in convincing anyone of anything, wriggling her own way out of any circumstance.

This felt different.

She’s just your colleague. At best, a passerby. Technically – going by her track record with almost everyone else in the company – she doesn’t have to take any more interest in you than the parking attendants in the basement lot do.

But she took your hand and led you out of that office without thinking, the second she understood. She bought you drink after drink, and slapped your hand away when you tried to pay. She listened to you, dried your tears, and then kicked your ass into gear.

By all standards, she was the best first date you’ve ever had.

And promise me, she’d said.

It starts as a joke. Humoring her, humoring yourself. A dare whispered to you by the tinkling of ice in your glass. Innocent curiosity, mixed with a dash of Martha’s good influence.

The perfect cocktail of chaos.

Your first online search brings up so many results that it dizzies you. Marketing executive and project coordinator, business support manager and production lead. They blur into a gray fog, a taunting swirl on your laptop screen.

“Jesus,” you mutter, mouthful of wine. “What the fuck do I…?”

Business and art. That’s what you know. One you’ve been in long enough that you reckon you could do it with your eyes closed – and the other…your little pipedream.

‘s not stupid, Joel had said, that night by the river. Not a pipedream, either.

And – fuck it, maybe you ought to listen for once. Stop standing in the way of yourself and the things you want, and all that.

You dig your knuckles into your eyes, letting the spatter of stars clear your vision, and start again.

A second search threads together a list which feels a little cleaner. A little more you. Sophisticated websites with sleek designs, smooth wording which makes it feel like you’re being sold something.

And so what, if you are? Maybe you’re looking to buy.

You click through image after image of bright offices and beaming staff, sipping sharply through your straw. Wide-eyed and slack-jawed, unsure whether the lightheaded feeling is from the rosé, or the promise of a successful career and competitive salary. Memorizing brand manifestos, learning company values like prayers passing through your hands.

It’s manic. Crazed. Like you’re stood on the brink of an abyss, thick fog kissing your ankles.

You laugh to yourself. This must be the fucking electricity.

Promise me. And what can it hurt, anyway, turning in an application form? Who says it’ll even go anywhere? They might take one look at your resume and laugh you all the way into the trashcan.

Or – they might see what Joel sees. What Martha sees. For the love of God, what you see.

Your resume looks much the same as it did four years ago – still molded into the shape of the kind of girl you thought Joel Miller, CEO might like to meet. And he did, very much so. It’s just – he met all shapes of her. Even the ones she tried to hide.

He found them all out, eventually.

Your thumb pauses, hovering over the mousepad. A slow guilt slithering over your shoulders, coiling deep in your gut. You think of Paris; those streets you walked down with Joel on your arm. Talking, laughing, spilling secrets and keeping them, too.

Your shadows are probably still on those avenues. Your reflections still bobbing in the Seine. Kisses hidden behind steam-coated mirrors, bodies joining in a darkened hotel room.

It twinges some, deep in your chest. A little numbed, what with all the alcohol and – well, Martha. But it’s still there. The same wound you’ve had for twelve years now.

It’s there. It will probably always be there.

So – fuck it.

You’re grabbing a goddamn paddle.

It’s been a quiet, fruitless week. No calls, no emails, no messages written in the stars.

Which is probably a good thing, given you were more than a few glasses of wine deep – and still on some kind of high from Martha’s speech. God only knows what kind of shit you were filling those applications with.

Nothing quite like liquid courage and a broken heart, right?

The light from the Xerox flickers, swiping memories from that afternoon back and forth. Martha’s hand locked around yours, the perfumed wine she kept buying. The waiter with the dimples, Joel’s Have a good night I’ll see you tomorrow, the pine air freshener in Alan’s car.

Things have mellowed, settled in your stomach. The world is back to beige – as plain as it always was before that night of tequila and AC/DC. You’ve made peace with it, this idea of letting go. Letting him go.

Martha – soapbox queen, microphone in one hand and glass of Sauvignon Blanc in the other – has checked in every day since. Expectant eyes from across the room, treasure chest emails full of job ads she’s collected.

Anything? she texted this morning, with six praying emojis. One more since yesterday, two since the day before that.

But no – nothing, for almost eight days now.

Maybe that’s for the best.

Maybe you can swallow back the knot of misplaced disappointment, slip back into your heels and forget any of it ever happened. That fire Martha struck so effortlessly, snuffed by a cruel, cold wind.

His knuckles on the door scatter your thoughts.

“Hey,” Joel says, leant against the frame. “Everything okay?”

“All good,” you reply. “What’s up?”

He looks…frustratingly good. Like he’s pieced himself back together. Sharp and smart, brand new. And yet – warm, homey, in all the places only you know to look.

Your fingers flinch by your side, as though they’re seeking him out. You want to run them through his hair, through his beard. Want to straighten his tie, smooth the shirt over his chest. Breathe him in and feel him melt under your touch.

Feel him change, feel him soften – just for you.

Only for you.

He floats over, hands in his pockets, and perches on the desk by the copier. “Exciting stuff,” he muses, tapping the machine twice.

“Hm,” you nod, “You’re an exciting man.”

“How was the wine bar?”

“It was good,” you reply. “Little above my price range, but – it got us drunk, so.”

“Did the job.”

“Did the job,” you agree.

“Good,” Joel says, crossing his ankles. “I’m glad to see you a little more your old self.”

Your lips flatten into a smile. “Well, Martha has a way with words.”

He snorts. “Don’t I know it.”

He lingers, then. An awkward air about him. He scratches his nose, stuffs his hands back in his pockets. Sucks in a deep breath, swallows what seems to be a soliloquy of sentiment, or secrets, or something else.

Whatever it is, his nerves rub off on you.

You cross your arms, twist your toe into the carpet. Stare at the paper churning out of the machine, stare at your nails, stare at anything that isn’t the man sitting right in front of you.

But then – he murmurs, as though the words splinter from his tongue, “I had an interesting email this morning.”

The copier shudders at his side.

Your eyebrows lift. “Oh, yeah?”

Joel clears his throat. “Yeah. Pertaining to you.”

And you realize.

You look up at him, the tight knit of his brows. His fixed jaw, the way it flexes as he chews on the words.

“Pertaining to me,” you echo – a nudge.

The light from the machine catches a wet glint in his eye. He blinks it away.

“Request for a reference,” he says.

And – shit.

“Shit,” you hiss.

Fuck.

“Oh, fuck,” louder.

His expression sharpens into a perplexed smirk. “Surprised?”

“Yes,” you start, “I mean – no. No, I just – Shit, I didn’t think they’d…I thought they’d talk to me first. Why didn’t they talk to me first?”

He shrugs. “I know of the company, met the CEO once at a gala. From what I know, she runs a pretty tight ship. Probably just wanted to gauge you before reaching out. It’s okay,” his voice is kind, hushed, “Doesn’t mean you won’t still hear.”

“Oh, Jesus, Joel,” you pull on your cheeks, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean –”

“Woah, woah,” he pats the air, moves so close you worry he might hear the thud of your heart, “No apologies, alright? That ain’t why I brought it up.”

“I just didn’t mean for you to find out that way. I wanted to be the one to – to tell you.”

He stands, hands finding your elbows. Gentle, a little timid. Barely brushing the sleeves of your shirt, and yet your whole body ignites.

“Darlin’,” his voice is serious, “I don’t care. I don’t give a shit, I promise. I mean…” he shakes his head, “…I give a shit. I give a lotta shits. I’m not – I don’t mean that, I meant –”

“I know what you meant,” you whisper.

“Yeah,” he sighs, “you always do.”

You pick a speck of fluff from his tie. He watches your hand, then takes it in both of his. Two big paws wrapped around one of yours, swallowing it whole.

It’s a familiar feeling, staring at the shape of your fingers tangled in his. Two in the morning at your first sleepover, praying Mom will pick up the phone. The first night alone in a new apartment, the babble of reality television for company right until sunrise.

You’re homesick.

Homesick for a man who’s standing right in front of you.

“I just wanted you to know,” Joel says, “that I sent it off just now. Just in case somethin’ goes wrong with the email, it doesn’t go through, I sent it to the wrong goddamn place – I don’t know. I just wanted you to know that it’s done.”

He holds your hand to his chest, his heartbeat against your knuckles. When you don’t reply, throttled by the threat of tears, he gives your wrist a little shake.

“Okay? You in there?”

“I’m here,” you breathe, and your hand slips from his grasp. “Thank you. I’m still sorry. You musta felt a little blindsided.”

His head bobs, considering. “Was a surprise, but a good one. Junior art director, huh? That sounds pretty damn exciting.”

“Yeah,” you reply, relaxing as he settles back on the desk. “Really exciting. Flex those creative muscles again.”

He grins. “You plan on working your way up?”

“Yup. Earn my stripes.”

“Alright, little tiger,” he says, and your heart leaps. “Proud of you.”

A silly smirk on your lips, you give him a tiny curtsy. “Here’s hoping your reference seals the deal.”

Joel laughs. “I don’t know about that, darlin’. It’s pretty shitty.”

“Is that so?”

“Oh, yeah. Talked all about how sarcastic you are, how you forgot the charger for your toothbrush – and then stole mine. Told ‘em about the Bart Simpson socks, force-feeding me Patrick Swayze. The lot.”

“The Bart socks,” you snicker, “They really stuck with you, huh?”

“Sure did.”

You slide onto the desk beside him. “What did you really write?” you ask, leaning in.

Joel glances to you. It should be obvious, with the way he’s looking at you, exactly what he wrote.

“Tell me,” you say, elbowing him.

“I told them…” he sighs, “…I told them not even to think about it, just hire you. They’d be outta their goddamn minds not to. Told them I wouldn’t be anywhere without you – or your Bart socks.

“Told them you’re the best thing that ever happened to this place. The best thing that ever happened to me. And you think – you think you never know what you have until you lose it, whatever that saying is, but I did. I knew from the second I met you. And they will, too. So – I told ‘em.”

The photocopier cuts, huffs, and falls silent. The room is plunged into a suffocating silence. You’re not sure you’re even breathing.

Joel’s arms are crossed protectively over his chest. You want so badly, more than anything, to burrow under them. To wriggle your way into his grasp – because you know he’d let you – cling to his chest, let his heartbeat regulate yours.

Let his entire body become yours; forget which parts are you, and which are him. Crawl into his skin, envelop yourself in him.

You want to cry into him. Hand him back all those mangled shapes of yourself you tried so hard to hoard – realizing now, that he knew what he was doing all along.

He was never trying to break them. He was never trying to hurt them. He only ever wanted to love them.

He only ever wanted to love you.

“Anyway,” Joel says, dusting his thighs, “Why don’t you finish that up, head on home for the day?”

“Uh –” you swipe the tears from your cheeks, “– no, it’s okay. I got a to-do list as long as my arm, and I still owe you, like, three hours from last week.”

Joel watches as you leap back over to the copier, swing the documents under one arm.

“I’m sure the to-do list will keep,” he assures, taking the ream from your clutches. “Go home, clear your head. Wait for that invite to interview to come through.”

“Joel –”

“Look at me,” he towers over you, “Anything urgent is Martha’s job now. She’ll love the drama of it. You want me to email that company back ‘n have them add Doesn’t follow orders to your reference?”

You breathe a laugh. “No.”

“No,” he repeats, brushing by.

All the times you’ve missed him before – landing back home after Paris, sat with some lovestruck financier in a golf club, fighting like kids in his office – and none of them compare to right now. Stood in the copy room, mere inches and yet entire worlds between you.

And Joel seems to know, like he knows everything you’re thinking. He glances over his shoulder, flame in his eyes, and he smiles. All sweet and charming, the real kind that softens him, lightens him.

Everything that makes him yours.

“Go on, git,” he says, heading for the door. “‘fore I change my mind.”

“Hey, wait. Joel?”

He turns back.

Your voice trembles. “How are you so calm about all this?”

His jaw flicks uncomfortably. He considers it for a moment, then says, “If you love something, you let it go.”

You repeat his own words back to him, whispered to you while you lay intertwined on his childhood bed. When they leave your mouth, they sound more like a plea. Fight back.

“But then you’d be losing something,” you say.

Joel shrugs. Earnestly. “Can’t lose somethin’ I never had.”

He doesn’t get it. He must get it. He’s twenty years older, twenty years wiser. He must know, by now. Christ, he had you to a tee two weeks ago.

How doesn’t he get it?

Your chest heaves. Your head shakes.

“You had it. You had me the second we walked into that dive bar.”

#joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #ceo!joel miller #ceo!joel #sugardaddy!joel miller #the last of us #the last of us fic #fic: sex on fire

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parfaitblogs · 7 months ago

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so high school ❀ s. reid x reader

in which you're a little too drunk, and your boyfriend is here to help.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: fluff tags: established relationship. idiots in love. alcohol/drinking. reader is wearing makeup and a dress. reader's bsf referred to by she/her if that means anything? fade to black (no literally. they fall asleep. "awwww" the crowd says). semi nudity but it isn’t sexual, he’s just changing her clothes. word count: 1.6k a/n: shoutout to the affectionate yapper drunks we're the best. this was in fact written whilst i was intoxicated like two weeks ago at a party. the sober proofreading clean up was BRUTAL. but i did it. "we're proud of you lia!" we all say in unison. this was the fluff i was talking about in this post. i still don’t remember all of that night but i remembered enough to finish this fic!

You had too much to drink. Way too much.

Not that you'd admit that out loud — you just haven't eaten a lot! you protested when your friends had scolded you. But they saw the sixth drink of the night get downed in mere minutes, on top of the drinks you had all drank before even leaving the house. That's when your protests turned into pregaming too hard, which turned into, okay maybe you're right, which eventually led to you sitting on the curb outside the club you had gone to.

Your knees tucked to your chest, your fingers fiddling with the phone charm hanging off the device, head leaning on your best friend's shoulder, who was waiting with you for the real thing you were scared of.

Your boyfriend.

Not actually scared of him, but he was very aware of how much you have had to drink — courtesy of your awfully typed drunk messages throughout the night that consisted of hiiii and i love youuuu and an incredulous amount of blurry photos of you and your friends.

He had indulged in your antics for an hour or two, amused by your attitude. But you said something briefly about being tired, and he had realised that you had had one too many, and offered to pick you up. Which, as your friends slowly started agreeing that they too were tired. you decided it was for the better.

You were rubbing your eyes — despite the makeup on them, successfully resulting in raccoon eyes, as you so graciously called it every time it happened (Spencer had adopted the phrase too, and loved to say it whenever you were crying with mascara on. It was a good way to cheer you up, usually).

You heard his car before you saw it — the God awful sound of his 1965 Volvo engine was loud, even over the music from the bustling clubs around you and your friend.

Then you saw it pull to a stop half a block away, and your lips pushed out into a pout as you — very awkwardly — pulled yourself up to a standing position. Thankfully, Spencer had already made it to you by the time you felt prepared enough to take a step, because his arm was slipping around your waist and keeping you upright milliseconds before you could fall.

"Hi," you chirped, grinning up at him.

"Hey there," he said, brushing the hair that had stuck to your face back, glancing over you, assessing your condition. "Do you remember how much you've had?"

"Yes, wait," you huffed, holding our hands out in front of you. "I had the tequila shots at home, then the vodka sunrise when I got here, then we all did a round of shots, then—"

"—So, you've had too much," he cut you off, and you solemnly nodded your head. He looked past you at your friend, who was in just as much of a state as you. "Does she need a ride home too?"

If you were any less intoxicated, you would've smiled at the offer, as you usually did. Probably the best part about dating Spencer Reid — he was so likeable, he was close with your own friends.

You called her name, asked the question, and confirmed you had heard her answer with a nod when she explained she was waiting for an Uber home.

"I can drop her home," he pressed, eyebrows furrowing. "She's on the way. It's no problem."

But her Uber had arrived soon after he spoke, and both of you knew she'd just be losing money if she cancelled it now.

"I guess you're stuck with me," you said, at the same time he began to tug you along in the direction of his car.

"How terrible," he mused.

"Agreed."

He helped you into the passenger's seat, pulling the seatbelt over your body — despite your insistence that you could do it, clicking it into place. He wound down the window with the handle, which you graciously leaned your head against once the door had been closed for you.

You didn't really register the time between being in the car and getting to Spencer's apartment, the final drink you had drank settling into your body and disengaging you from the world around you until he was leading you in past his door (you hadn't even noticed he unlocked it?) and towards the bathroom.

"This isn't your bed," you had complained when he helped you up onto the counter, rummaging in the cabinets behind your head — his hand on the back of it so you wouldn't accidentally lean back and hit them.

"You're very observant," he replied, leaning back and nudging your legs apart so he could stand between them.

"Thank you."

You felt his breath on your face as he laughed, eyes following his each and every movement whilst he wet a cotton pad with micellar water. You smiled at that.

You had told him — in passing — a month ago that you could never go to bed in your makeup. No matter how exhausted you were. You were usually quite good with it, though you hadn't been in a state since then where you might've forgotten it until now.

And he remembered.

"Close your eyes," he said, and you obeyed immediately, your tongue poking out between your teeth as you grinned. "Why're you smiling?"

"You're taking my makeup off."

He hummed, silent for a few seconds as he pressed the cotton pad to your eye. "I should get you drunk more often. You seem to notice things a lot better."

"Shut it."

He laughed, again, and you found yourself joining as he pulled the cotton pad away from your eye, allowing you to blink it open.

"Oh, you look so pretty like this," he mused, and you knew your makeup was everywhere around your eye. He forced your eyelid closed again, so he could keep wiping the smudged makeup off.

"You're so mean to me," you grumbled.

"Why do you say that?"

"Just 'cause."

"Just 'cause?" he repeats back to you, and you nodded your head, providing no other explanation. He seemed to accept that, because he didn't say anything else as he moved to wipe off your other eye.

Eventually your makeup was off, and he helped you off the sink, turning you around so he could find the zipper of your dress.

Which had you laughing and turning around to face him.

"Take me on a date first, Dr. Reid," you said, catching his hands, and he stared at you in disbelief for a few moments.

He was stronger than you were, and while he usually didn't make a show of proving it, when he did, you were a swooning mess.

Like currently, as he didn't say anything, a sigh escaping his lips whilst his hands found your hips and turned you back around. One hand held you firmly in place, as the other tugged down the zipper of your dress.

"I'm getting you some clothes. Please, stay here," he said, his voice so close to your ear your knees wobbled for more than just your lowered control over your bodily functions.

Despite the want to defy him, like usual, you stayed put, eyes flickering around the bathroom you had been in so many times before, your dress pooling at your feet.

He returned with a t-shirt, resting it on the sink as his fingers found your bra and unclasped it, ignoring the way you danced your shoulders, wickedly grinning at him through the mirror.

"What?"

"I think we're moving awfully fast," you said. "I would like you to take me on a date first."

"I have seen you naked plenty times before," he answered.

"I held my tongue all the other times."

"I'm sure you did."

He tugged the shirt over your head, manoeuvring your arms through the holes, considering you were an expert at going limp in the worst of times, it seemed.

"And," he added, spinning you back around. "I have taken you on a date. Many. Thirty-three, to be exact."

"Thirty-four is the magic number I make my boyfriend's wait until they see me naked for the first time," you replied.

"I see. I will work on making it thirty-four, then."

"I think you just want to see me naked."

"You've figured me out," he poked your side again, causing you to crunch your body out of the way with a laugh. "C'mon, let's get you into bed."

You were incredibly complicit, nodding your head and bouncing on your heels in front of him, taking a dive into his bed and finding refuge in the side you always slept on — decorated by the (singular) silk pillow case you had forced onto his bed. Because it is so much better for your hair, as you had argued when he denied you of purchasing him one as well.

He thought it was stupid. You had the evidence to back you up. So then, he didn't like being wrong and threw a tantrum about it. Or something like that.

You stared up at the ceiling, staring at the constellation above your head, that was resting comfortably on his chest. He had rearranged them six months into your relationship, Orion mapped out on his ceiling with glow in the dark stars after you had briefly mentioned liking the constellation a lot. He said it took him a week to get it right, but he wanted to do it for you.

You tear up a little every time you see it. Which is perhaps too often.

"Did you have fun tonight?" he murmured, fingers entangling in your hair.

"I did," you responded, voice overwhelmed with exhaustion, followed by a quiet yawn, that he caught too. "You're tired."

"You're giving Sherlock Holmes a run for his money tonight," he said, and you huffed a singular laugh. "I am tired," he then added. "So are you."

"I am," you agreed.

"Goodnight, angel."

your reblogs and replies are always appreciated dearly ♡

#lia’s fics ♡#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fic #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x self insert #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fluff

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foone · 2 months ago

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Along the lines of my previous posts about a "maid that doesn't realize everything is kink" and "other maid that's just tired of all the horniness" and "guy in an all-lesbian polycule and doesn't realize everyone thinks he's got a harem":

Guy who has several people simultaneously trying to feminize him (with varying degrees of force) and he's both unaware of and no-selling their attempts.

They try to talk to him about if he ever liked wearing dresses as a kid and he's like "oh, yeah! I used to borrow on of my sister's dresses all the time when I was a kid, because when you do a 180 in a skirt it swishes like Vader's Cape."

Someone else tries to put estrogen in his coffee and it looks like he drank it... but it turns out he traded with someone else because he was in the mood for a pumpkin spice latte.

His girlfriend gets him to put on a long blonde wig and show him how he looks in the mirror, and he's just like "dude! I look like a heavy metal guy!" and now he's listening to Swedish power metal and headbanging. His dog is confused but trying to join in the fun.

Someone convinces him to try different pronouns as an in-class experiment and he ends up using h3/h1m, because "he used to be a fan of that video game webcomic, home struck".

His mom got worried because he was eating so much soy and she'd heard it can feminize you but he launched into an explanation about how it's an important part of his nutrition if he's gonna build muscles.

(we thought the gym thing might lead him down the path of breast growth through steroid overuse and we could maybe do something with that, but nope. He's all nutrition and hard work, we can't even get him to try steroids. We sent in a guy about the size of a Volvo to try to convince him to try some steroids, and somehow he persuaded our bodybuilder guy to start estrogen?!)

Naturally this is just making his assorted feminizers more angry and determined. They're joining forces. Having meetings. Making plans.

And he's just off living his life, unaware of the shadowy council determined to make him a woman.

#trans shitposting

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imagineinside · 5 months ago

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Star-Like Encounters (Hugh Jackman x Fem!Reader) Chapter 1

A/N: In between posting chapters for the Wolverine fic I'm working on, I also wanted to pick up something about Hugh Jackman. I want to first preface with the fact that this is not meant to be taken as reality and we need to be respectful of people mentioned, this is purely a work of fiction. With that being said, I hope you enjoy!

Description: You begin your first semester at a prestigious university with a mix of excitement and chaos. After a frantic start involving a late arrival due to your roommate’s Hollywood-related detour, your day takes an unexpected turn when you meet Hugh Jackman, your roommate’s boss, at a movie studio.

Hugh, intrigued by your expertise in physics, invites you to consult on a film project aiming for scientific accuracy. Balancing your new academic responsibilities with a potential Hollywood cameo, you must navigate your dual interests. As you face your own feelings, you discover that the lines between your professional and personal worlds are more intertwined than you imagined.

Currently Applicable Tags: (Future) 18+, Fluff, cocky Hugh Jackman, flirty Hugh Jackman, age gap (55 and 27) more to come.

Running through the hallways of the prestigious university you had dedicated your whole life to working at, you cursed at yourself for running so late. It wasn’t entirely your fault, however. Needing to share a car with your best friend and roommate always had its disadvantages.

And this morning, her boss had decided he needed her assistance out of absolutely nowhere, meaning you had to drop her off at a studio downtown before driving to the university.

Unfortunately, you had no idea who her boss actually was, otherwise you’d go on a rampaging smear campaign as payback for them jeopardizing your career like this. You had asked your best friend various times, with you both sober and drunk at various times, who her boss was. All you had gotten out of her was that “he is a Hollywood hot-shot, and he’s been in some of your favorite movies.” She always said that last part with a mischievous grin on her face.

You bolted into the lecture hall and all 100-some eyes turned to you, including the headmasters in the back. You took only a moment to catch your breath before fixing your appearance, smoothing out your skirt and wiping the sweat from your brow.

“Good morning, everyone,” you called in greeting as you approached your desk, throwing your briefcase on top of it and shrugging off your jacket.

You received a cacophony of “good mornings” back.

“It’s a pleasure to be here at the start of your semester, and I’m excited to guide you through the wonders of astrophysics this semester.” You heard a few groans rupture from the students, but you simply smiled to yourself. You had been that student once upon a time. “We’ll explore the life cycles of stars, the structure of galaxies, and the mysteries of dark matter. Astrophysics can seem daunting, but it’s really about understanding our place in the universe. Embrace your curiosity, ask questions, and don’t worry if things seem complex at first—every great discovery starts with a simple question. I’m here to support you, and together we’ll uncover the fascinating stories written in the stars.” You felt your heart lift up in your chest, you truly had such a fascination with this field of study.

You dared for a moment to lift your eyes and read the approval written in the headmaster's face, a spark lighting in your chest. “Now, let’s start with the Big Bang, shall we?” You smiled once again as you heard hundreds of notebooks being flipped open to the first page.

Nothing like the start of a new semester.

* * *

You drove your beat-up Volvo to the location your roommate had sent you when she texted you earlier that day. As you rolled up to it, your brakes squealing as you came to a stop, you realized it was an entire campus of movie production. There were hundreds of people mulling about on the other side of the protected gate. Some were riding around in golf carts, others sprinting from set-to-set, a whole flurry of movement.

You always had a fascination with Hollywood and the film industry. When you originally started at university yourself, you majored in theater and dance. But… after your first year, for reasons you’d rather forget, you changed to astrophysics.

“There you are!” Your best friend, Ashley, squealed and pulled you into a big hug after you stepped out of the car. “I had the best day today!”

You laughed at the excitement written all over your friend's face, “I’m glad, just don’t make it a habit of making me late to my class.”

Ashley’s smile dropped as she put her hands together in a silent prayer, “I am so sorry about that. I talked to my boss about it and he promised he would be more considerate next time.”

You sighed and crossed your arms, fauxing an upset scoff, “Fine, I suppose I can let it slide this time–”

“That’s good, I don’t need you murdering my best assistant.” A deep voice called out past the front of your car. You knew who that voice belonged to in an instant with that deep, sultry Australian accent. You had all the X-Men movies he was in on DVD and saved to your computer, as well as “The Greatest Showman” and even the series “Faraway Downs”. (You used to have a cutout of him in your room when you were younger but you don’t need to bring that up…)

Your eyes were glued to your best friend who gave you a sheepish grin, as if even she hadn’t been expecting this. You were afraid that if you looked over at him, he would just evaporate into thin air.

“I’m sorry, I should have introduced myself, I’m your friend's boss. You can call me Hugh.” Suddenly he was crossing into your line of sight, a hand held out in front you as a way of greeting.

You snapped yourself out of your trance that only his voice had put you in and went into professional mode, something that was a common necessity in your line of work, “Hugh, nice to meet you. I’m Ashley’s roommate… and oftentimes chauffeur.”

That pulled a laugh from deep inside his chest as he shook your hand. His grip was strong but still gentle so as not to crush your dainty fingers. It was incredibly hard not to notice the way his hand dwarfed yours in size, his palm calloused and rough in comparison to yours.

“I am terribly sorry about today, we got called to set at the last minute to start production for a new movie. It will not happen again.” He assured you.

You gave him a reassuring smile, “No worries, only made me late to my first lecture of my professional career, but not a big deal.” You laced your words with heavy sarcasm as you flashed a look to Ashley, who looked like she was about to combust with embarrassment. Did she really think you were going to embarrass her in front of her boss that much?

“Lecture? Are you a Professor?” Hugh asked as he leaned against the rusted hood of your Volvo.

It took you a moment to respond as you soaked in his large arms crossed over his massive chest. You wish you could be buried in there. Christ, you were acting like a schoolgirl with a crush. You cleared your throat before responding and smoothed out your skirt. You weren’t entirely sure, but you thought Hugh’s eyes followed your brief movement. “Yes, at Stanford in the Physics department. It’s where Ashley and I both studied.”

“Stanford, wow,” he said with a raise of his eyebrows, he seemed genuinely impressed. “You must be quite renowned in the Physics world to have gotten a job there. And… excuse me if this comes off as inappropriate, but you are so young too.”

“Just passionate, Mr. Jackman.” You say with a polite smile.

“I thought I told you to call me Hugh,” he replied with a teasing smirk that lifted one side of his mouth higher than the other. It felt like you were going to combust right there with how fast your heart was racing.

“Anywaaaay,” Ashley jumped in. You had almost completely forgotten she was standing there. “She and I best get going, we still need to make dinner tonight.” She rounded the small car to the passenger side door and threw her bag in the backseat.

“I guess it’s–”

Mr. Jackman cut you off with a quick step forward, “Actually, if you don’t mind me saying, you may be able to help us.”

“Us?” You asked and flicked your gaze towards your friend who looked like her world was ending right there in front of her.

“You see, some aspects of the movie we are working on happens in space. I will refrain from saying anything else since, well–if you’re a fan I don’t want to spoil anything,” he said with a hearty laugh, “But the producers and directors have been fighting about the physics of the movie. They are trying to make it as accurate as possible, I suppose. And well, I am very out of my depth when it comes to anything like this.”

You nodded at him, one hand on the door handle of the Volvo.

“If it’s not too much trouble, would you be willing to join our next meeting to teach them a thing or two about physics?” He asked and took one more step forward, a sparkle in those soft, hazel eyes.

“Well, Mr. Jackman–”

“Hugh.”

“Uh, Hugh,” You went on, “I am very flattered but I just don’t know if I will be the best suited for the job. I am sure you can find others that will be better at this sort of thing.” You said with a nervous laugh. There was no way you would survive getting looped into this movie with Hugh Jackman as a leading character.

Plus, Ashley liked having boundaries between her work and personal life, which you understood. You didn’t want to overstep without talking to her about it first. You don't know what you would do if you lost her friendship because of something like this.

Hugh smacked his lips together and patted the hood of your tiny car. “As a person who enjoys her work because you are passionate, I feel you would be the best suited for this task.” He held up his pointer finger as he reached into his back pocket to pull out an old, leather wallet. “I will give you my business card,” he said, holding up a small piece of white paper, “if you give me yours… Professor.”

You hesitated for a moment, not sure what this would all lead to, before nodding your head and reaching into a side pocket of your briefcase, producing a small manilla rectangle with your information printed on it. “Here you are, Mr. Jackman.”

He didn’t correct you this time as he reached over to retrieve your business card, before placing his own in your open hand. You didn’t want to dwell on the fact that this piece of paper smelled like him, all manly cologne and pinewood…

“I think we will be seeing each other in the future, Professor,” he said with a wink and a wave as he turned around and walked back towards the campus.

And you’d be damned if you didn’t watch his tight butt in those bootcut jeans disappear past the gate. But you didn’t notice him turn back around to get one last look at you as you climbed into your car.

* * *

You and Ashley made dinner without touching the subject of her boss who apparently now wanted to recruit you to help with the project. On one hand, you really wanted to say yes to his proposal. After all, this may be the closest you could ever achieve to the film industry after your change in major. But on the other hand, you knew Ashley took a lot of pride in her work, even as an assistant. She planned to climb the ladder of the entertainment business one rung at a time. After all, she held out throughout the entirety of her theater degree at university, when you just bailed when it got too difficult.

“I can feel you thinking about it,” Ashley said while you sat on the couch together, each with your respective bowls of ice cream and rewatching Gilmore Girls for the third–maybe fourth time?

You groaned and grabbed the remote, pausing your show. “I know… I’m really sorry.”

“Hey,” Ashley said and reached across to place her hand on yours reassuringly. “I know you care about film just as much as I do. Hell, they do need a lot of help with the physics of the movie, and I am definitely no help in that department.” You let out a small chuckle in silent agreement with your friend. As much as you loved her, math was not her strong suit.

“Are you sure you’ll be alright if I say yes? I mean, it’s not like it will be my actual job or anything. I probably won’t even interact with you and Mr. Jackman that much.”

Ashley shook her head, “No, it’ll be completely fine if you take the offer. And you’re right, usually Hugh and I are busy doing other stuff rather than being involved in the technical discussions, or at least I am.”

“So our friendship will still exist?”

It was Ashley’s turn to laugh, “Yes, dummy, our friendship will still exist.”

“Ugh, you’re the best!” You yelped and lunged across the couch for a hug, ice cream be damned.

Later that night, when you were getting ready for bed, your phone lit up with a notification from… an unknown number?

You had to let out a deep breath after his last text let a flurry of butterflies free in your stomach. You tried not to let it get to you so much, he was probably just being nice. Plus, you’ve watched enough of his interviews to know how flirty he can be without really meaning it.

Laying in bed, you opened your phone to Instagram. You snickered at the first photo that popped up on your feed. It was Hugh Jackman dressed in his yellow Wolverine uniform taken from an angle that definitely aged him, but you still found it adorable nonetheless. Without thinking, you pressed the heart button on the bottom left of the picture. After all, you’ve been liking his pictures for years by that point.

After that, you set your phone to “do not disturb”, waiting for the sun to wake you the next day. And when you finally woke to check it, a notification popped up on your phone that had your heart flying around your chest.

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