[Football] Collection of Zlatan/Nesta crack
Only the last two are new. :D
The first two are responses to the MAKE UP FIC SUMMARIES meme that went around a while back. The rest are drabbles written in response to comments.
I wrote Like Drowning in Religions class while trying to hide away my textured paper from the prying eyes of my silly classmates. Methods of Counting during statistics class while koba-sama sat beside me doing useful things like taking notes.
Most of these for rondaview, who makes me want to write thousands upon thousands of words and who gives me ideas with every comment that she makes. And um...I tried to write something happy for you with the last one but got something kind of mixed up and hg;ahd;a
Zlatan/Nesta - because I can't seem to help myself.
• • •
Title: Foot Cream in Italy
Rating: PG
Pairing: Alessandro Nesta/Zlatan Ibrahimović
Summary: Vacations meant for recovery turn into expeditions in search of expense foot care products, which in turn leads to oversized sunglasses, floppy hats and the inability to avoid Paolo Maldini and Gillardino's faces on posters. Incapable of following through with Nesta's shopping list specifications (which is numbered and nested in order of most desired brand-- ex: foot cream --> Flax Valant --> L'occitane --> Z. Bigatti) Zlatan spends hundreds on tape a l'œil socks and kits with his name and number to toss all over Nesta's bed.
Title: No, I Do Not Want To Meet Your Mother
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Zlatan/Nesta
Summary: "You do not know of Zlatan?" "I think you are the only one who doesn't understand." More Zlatan quotes filled with great arrogance and a bad sense of timing. Nesta insists that he show himself. 7PM, no excuses, no lateness, no disgustingly gaudy clothes or bad hair. No bad cologne. No unshaven face. No cursing. No raucous laughter at his expense. Zlatan demands that Nesta accept his ability to charm all manner of women and Nesta instead chucks his slimy, yellowing socks at his million dollar face. "Go get ready." "Go jump naked in a hammock with Maldini." "Later." And so what will Nesta's mother think when her son's friend -- picky-eater, snorting eye-roller and egotistical sex monster that he appears -- brings to her table an impeccable set of manners, singing voice and lovely, sweet stories of her son? ("You owe me a blowjob." Zlatan will say later.)
• • •
BAD CREDIT
He'd acquired a debilitating amount of bad credit. "We'll be able to fix this," his accountants tell him. "We'll pay everything off," they continue. He pays them to heal his reputation with the various people be owes, to mend his history report and finish paying his debts so that he can soon start using a card to pay his way through the day. But it's taking too long and he does not like carrying thousands in hard-cash. He was a shameless bastard. Shameless and he didn't care enough to change. But he was running out of places to rent out, running out of people who would take money from him without wondering if he would someday crawl in their homes through the back and murder them in their sleep. ("You're too gruff, Ibrahimović." "How can anyone be scared of this face," and he smiled. "Try not looking so cadaverous." Every time he greeted Henrik he grinned, flashing his incisors at him.)
He had been driving around for fifteen minutes before he got fed up and decided on a more adventurous plan of assault. Gabriella, Nesta's fiancée, seemed fond of him for whatever reasons only a woman could think of, so he called her. ("Do not call me. Ever." Nesta's eyes were harrowing when he said it. Pained, yet resolute. Do not call. Demanding, not asking.)
They chatted and she was the one who suggested he drive by and pick up the keys to the small country house. She hugs him hello. Her arms are warm and strong and he can smell the beauty of her perfume, the sweetness of baby powder and lotions. One kiss; short, on the lips. Thank you. She hands him the keys. Goodbye. "Bring him back later. He needs a bit of distraction."
Does he speak of me much? Zlatan asks in a moment of idiocy. No, she smiles. "He doesn't mention you at all." Seconds pass as he wonders if Nesta is actually lying when he grits his teeth, quietly seething that I don't like you. But the moment passes. Gabriella smiles and gently pushes him down the steps. "I know he's said to you, but he doesn't hate you. It'll be good for him." And so he leaves.
As he walks back to his car, Zlatan berates himself. You're an asshole. An egotistical, mortifying cad. If there is a god you will cease to exist in an automobile accident before that woman ever discovers what you are. It ends the minute his keys enter the ignition.
•
It is far more difficult to convince Nesta to go with him. He's stopped making advances. It's all about force of will and he simply makes it happen. They were arguing in muted tones one second and the next Nesta is sitting beside him in the car, sulking and possibly thinking about the repercussions of wrestling the wheel away from him and turning the car right around. But Zlatan is a thug. More so with Alessandro. ("Alessa," he called him once. Alessa and he had to come up with a partially fabricated story about a deranged street vendor who he had unwittingly groped. "Total accident with the breasts and now I've a blot on my handsome face." "How was that possibly an accident?" "She was most unhappy.") Nesta refused to join his five-aside for the next week.
Nesta's silence eclipsed a torrent that Zlatan only hears several hours and several bottles of alcohol later (all of which were disposed of by Zlatan. "You injure me with this rudeness, Nesta. I purchased these for the weighty sum of several tens of euros.") "Why did you go to my home?" "Why do you always complain?" "Why did you drag me here?" "Your fiancee --" "Stop." "You don't want me to." "Stop."
The protests were weak, but loud. Zlatan, heavy-handed and smug. It was always the first few minutes of his fumbling that determined how far it would go. How long will Nesta stand stone-like and impassive? How long will he look away? How hot is the skin beneath layers of shirts? Zlatan has ripped one of the buttons of Nesta's shirt, he's pulled apart the seam of another and he's been cruel when he touches the gold band on Nesta's finger when he pushes him against a doorway, his leg pressing insistently between Nesta's thighs.
•
Zlatan waves another goodbye, smiling when Gabriella, wrapped in a long-coat comes to greet her husband into their home. It's the early morning, patches of light have yet to appear and there's a dew seeping over everything. Gabriella mouths "Thank you." And Zlatan prays quickly for a safe drive back to his house as Nesta closes the front door in his face.
• • •
EBAY
Guess who would be the elitist asshole harping on and on about crappy 16-bit video games being so obviously superior in their age? And how some bastard on ebay is trying to get him to buy a game
"SO OBVIOUSLY WORTH ONLY 30 EUROS FOR 50." "A tragedy," Nesta monotones. "Does he not realize who I am?" "You're buying anonymously." "No. I'm Zlatan. I do not hide myself in the web of the internet. I clearly stated 'I am Zlatan Ibrahimović. What are the shipping costs, plz?'" Alessandro turned his face up from the newspaper, stopping himself before slamming the laptop down onto Zlatan's fingers. "You need to go home now." "I will not. The auction ends in fifteen minutes. I am strategizing my win."
• • •
LET'S BE CLICHÉ
"How could one even think to make me a eunuch? I'm a man. A rather well-endowed man but I'm sure someone has already informed you of this." "I do not choose my slaves based on the size of their sexual organs." The Slav shrugged, the frayed edges of his make-shift toga slipping lower on his shoulder. "A pity. I'm sure you'd be happier if that were the case." His master rose from the bath, motioning him to hand over a green bathing robe. "I do not purchase my own slaves. And I would not have purchased you even at a cut-bargain price." He frowned, clutching the silk edges of the robe closer to himself. It was unworthy of him to have a slave taller than he was. "To my benefit, aside from my cock, I am also extremely beautiful and full of heart-warming wit. You should give your slave master a raise."
"Perhaps making a eunuch of you would deaden that tongue of yours." "How could you possibly benefit from the loss of my golden tongue?" He grinned. Alessandro Nesta swept the end of his robe up, shoving the impudent slav into the used water. Looking down at him miserable and dirty gave him an ounce of pleasure. "You are lucky that the benevolence of my wife prevents me from whipping my slaves. Any other man would have sliced your back open and had you eviscerated as an example."
Zlatan still managed to laugh, splashing him with some water as he dragged himself out. Shaking a hand through his hair, he shrugged again. The cloth toga was barely hanging onto his body and Nesta made a note to have proper clothes made up for him. "Unluckily for you I've taken an oath against fornicating with humourless, pig-faced Romans."
• • •
LIKE DROWNING
"We are so much more than a relationship." "What?" "You are so much more than a relationship." Zlatan's hands paused at the bend of his elbows, fingers deliberate; awakening into something clumsy. "She's been my constant for a long time." "You are so much more than a relationship." The timbre shifted, variating in subtlety until it became a sneer. Nesta and his broken tones (like drowning), his unchanging breath (like dying). "Why keep repeating it to me?" "Because you are so much more -" Zlatan's mouth like a brand between neck and jaw, hands like bonds. (He had once removed his wedding ring like this - unfurling his fisted hands, cold lips over his finger, warm mouth encapsulating it. The hotness spreading through him - rubbed white skin - Zlatan spitting the ring out onto the bed before pulling Nesta to him.)
I don't like how it feels. (I don't like what it means.)
He panicked the first time, couldn't control his gag reflex and Zlatan scrambled away from him. "You have vicious teeth," he said. "I rather look at your face," he added. "I'll teach you what it should be like," he left unspoken. "Apologize for wasting my time," Nesta managed. "Pay for my condoms." Pay for it.
("Why cut your hair?" "Why not cut yours? You're becoming questionable, Alessandro." "You always have been." But he yanked out strands of it, snapped them off when he sunk his hands into them, leaving his fingers to trail down to his neck, down his back in gentle lines.)
"No." An accumulation of negations. His favourite word; "Stop." Desist. Disengage. Step away. Don't be pathetic. Don't be (with) someone else.
It stilled - (Nesta staggered away once. Consumed. They hadn't had protection. He had thought they'd just drop to sleep. The lazy friction of limbs and fingers would be enough. But Zlatan has dropped his eyes. Once. Had laid down, had settled his hands into the rumpled coverlet, had arched upward. Nesta's hands planted on either side of his face. He did not talk then. Nesta panicked. Panicked. But there were legs that clung to him. A hand that was quickly thrown up, an arm that tugged him and Zlatan pleaded silently, ripping blood from Nesta's shoulder. Ibrahimović, he might have winced.
Panic. Coated in sweat and other fluids, warmth encasing his muscles. Skin raised in goosebumps when they separated and Nesta backpedaled to the door, staring and half forming, "I don't know."
Zlatan turned his head to the side, eyes shut away from him -- stopped him in the hallway, finger winding down his stomach to wipe away a line of his own come. "I think you're the only one who does not understand." A kiss. Impersonal. Slamming the door shut for emphasis rather than anger.
• • •
METHODS OF COUNTING
His hobbies on the internet were limited to official correspondences, banking , shopping and sending the equivalent of malicious threats to Nesta. He had found that sending emails was not the best way to rile him up, but did it anyway out of spite. To illicit a response he had to settle for writing things out by hand. Zlatan hated his rounded, even scrawl - hated how neat it looked and was forever writing things out as quickly as possible in an attempt to masculate it. Wanting it to match his other characteristics - bold, strong. It was futile and his inability to change it sent him into mini apoplectic fits. But it worked to his advantage when it came to Nesta and his abusive spam filtering powers.
"I'm going to stop opening these." Another white bubble-wrap enveloped ended up in the trash bin. "You liked the perfume." "They were vialed samples that you got for free. They leaked all over the rug." "Why not open the package up outdoors?" It didn't make sense why he had not yet caught on. "The return address said it was from my mother." "Well, no one accused you of being the intellectual equal of your brilliant doctor wife."
Zlatan's favourite counting activity. How much resistance? 5 minutes? 15 hours? Days tossed upon months, stretched out until the last 20 seconds it takes for Nesta to walk from his car to the door, to Zlatan's foyer. Counting how many times Sandro lets his phone ring before he picks up. 1-3 (Stop calling me.) 4-8 (You're being annoying.) 9-15 (I don't want any of you now.) not picking up (I have my fiancée, never contact me.)
Favourite method of counting anger: Your wife, Gabriella. Your wife. Your wife who loves you. Your wife who likes me. Your wife who invites me over. Your wife who calls me. Wife. "She's not my wife. She's the mother of my child." "You love her." It was accusatory. Nesta leaned back, the cold prince on a couch coloured buttercup-yellow. The sullenness in him made Zlatan reel. His mouth closed off. Pursed. Flat. Boring. "Okay. I'll take that as your answer," and he switched around Nesta's chess pieces the next time he went to the bathroom.
"You're going to name him Zlatan. It is a healthy and extremely beautiful name." "Gabriel." "Unimaginative." "Extremely beautiful." "Dull." "Have your own." "Only if you promise me you'll breast feed them." The third time Zlatan Ibrahimović was slapped by Alessandro Nesta for something harmless. (1: Making his advances known, 2: Suddenly pinching his nipples during a make-out session, 4: airport bathroom incident.)
The first two are responses to the MAKE UP FIC SUMMARIES meme that went around a while back. The rest are drabbles written in response to comments.
I wrote Like Drowning in Religions class while trying to hide away my textured paper from the prying eyes of my silly classmates. Methods of Counting during statistics class while koba-sama sat beside me doing useful things like taking notes.
Most of these for rondaview, who makes me want to write thousands upon thousands of words and who gives me ideas with every comment that she makes. And um...I tried to write something happy for you with the last one but got something kind of mixed up and hg;ahd;a
Zlatan/Nesta - because I can't seem to help myself.
• • •
Title: Foot Cream in Italy
Rating: PG
Pairing: Alessandro Nesta/Zlatan Ibrahimović
Summary: Vacations meant for recovery turn into expeditions in search of expense foot care products, which in turn leads to oversized sunglasses, floppy hats and the inability to avoid Paolo Maldini and Gillardino's faces on posters. Incapable of following through with Nesta's shopping list specifications (which is numbered and nested in order of most desired brand-- ex: foot cream --> Flax Valant --> L'occitane --> Z. Bigatti) Zlatan spends hundreds on tape a l'œil socks and kits with his name and number to toss all over Nesta's bed.
Title: No, I Do Not Want To Meet Your Mother
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Zlatan/Nesta
Summary: "You do not know of Zlatan?" "I think you are the only one who doesn't understand." More Zlatan quotes filled with great arrogance and a bad sense of timing. Nesta insists that he show himself. 7PM, no excuses, no lateness, no disgustingly gaudy clothes or bad hair. No bad cologne. No unshaven face. No cursing. No raucous laughter at his expense. Zlatan demands that Nesta accept his ability to charm all manner of women and Nesta instead chucks his slimy, yellowing socks at his million dollar face. "Go get ready." "Go jump naked in a hammock with Maldini." "Later." And so what will Nesta's mother think when her son's friend -- picky-eater, snorting eye-roller and egotistical sex monster that he appears -- brings to her table an impeccable set of manners, singing voice and lovely, sweet stories of her son? ("You owe me a blowjob." Zlatan will say later.)
• • •
BAD CREDIT
He'd acquired a debilitating amount of bad credit. "We'll be able to fix this," his accountants tell him. "We'll pay everything off," they continue. He pays them to heal his reputation with the various people be owes, to mend his history report and finish paying his debts so that he can soon start using a card to pay his way through the day. But it's taking too long and he does not like carrying thousands in hard-cash. He was a shameless bastard. Shameless and he didn't care enough to change. But he was running out of places to rent out, running out of people who would take money from him without wondering if he would someday crawl in their homes through the back and murder them in their sleep. ("You're too gruff, Ibrahimović." "How can anyone be scared of this face," and he smiled. "Try not looking so cadaverous." Every time he greeted Henrik he grinned, flashing his incisors at him.)
He had been driving around for fifteen minutes before he got fed up and decided on a more adventurous plan of assault. Gabriella, Nesta's fiancée, seemed fond of him for whatever reasons only a woman could think of, so he called her. ("Do not call me. Ever." Nesta's eyes were harrowing when he said it. Pained, yet resolute. Do not call. Demanding, not asking.)
They chatted and she was the one who suggested he drive by and pick up the keys to the small country house. She hugs him hello. Her arms are warm and strong and he can smell the beauty of her perfume, the sweetness of baby powder and lotions. One kiss; short, on the lips. Thank you. She hands him the keys. Goodbye. "Bring him back later. He needs a bit of distraction."
Does he speak of me much? Zlatan asks in a moment of idiocy. No, she smiles. "He doesn't mention you at all." Seconds pass as he wonders if Nesta is actually lying when he grits his teeth, quietly seething that I don't like you. But the moment passes. Gabriella smiles and gently pushes him down the steps. "I know he's said to you, but he doesn't hate you. It'll be good for him." And so he leaves.
As he walks back to his car, Zlatan berates himself. You're an asshole. An egotistical, mortifying cad. If there is a god you will cease to exist in an automobile accident before that woman ever discovers what you are. It ends the minute his keys enter the ignition.
•
It is far more difficult to convince Nesta to go with him. He's stopped making advances. It's all about force of will and he simply makes it happen. They were arguing in muted tones one second and the next Nesta is sitting beside him in the car, sulking and possibly thinking about the repercussions of wrestling the wheel away from him and turning the car right around. But Zlatan is a thug. More so with Alessandro. ("Alessa," he called him once. Alessa and he had to come up with a partially fabricated story about a deranged street vendor who he had unwittingly groped. "Total accident with the breasts and now I've a blot on my handsome face." "How was that possibly an accident?" "She was most unhappy.") Nesta refused to join his five-aside for the next week.
Nesta's silence eclipsed a torrent that Zlatan only hears several hours and several bottles of alcohol later (all of which were disposed of by Zlatan. "You injure me with this rudeness, Nesta. I purchased these for the weighty sum of several tens of euros.") "Why did you go to my home?" "Why do you always complain?" "Why did you drag me here?" "Your fiancee --" "Stop." "You don't want me to." "Stop."
The protests were weak, but loud. Zlatan, heavy-handed and smug. It was always the first few minutes of his fumbling that determined how far it would go. How long will Nesta stand stone-like and impassive? How long will he look away? How hot is the skin beneath layers of shirts? Zlatan has ripped one of the buttons of Nesta's shirt, he's pulled apart the seam of another and he's been cruel when he touches the gold band on Nesta's finger when he pushes him against a doorway, his leg pressing insistently between Nesta's thighs.
•
Zlatan waves another goodbye, smiling when Gabriella, wrapped in a long-coat comes to greet her husband into their home. It's the early morning, patches of light have yet to appear and there's a dew seeping over everything. Gabriella mouths "Thank you." And Zlatan prays quickly for a safe drive back to his house as Nesta closes the front door in his face.
• • •
EBAY
Guess who would be the elitist asshole harping on and on about crappy 16-bit video games being so obviously superior in their age? And how some bastard on ebay is trying to get him to buy a game
"SO OBVIOUSLY WORTH ONLY 30 EUROS FOR 50." "A tragedy," Nesta monotones. "Does he not realize who I am?" "You're buying anonymously." "No. I'm Zlatan. I do not hide myself in the web of the internet. I clearly stated 'I am Zlatan Ibrahimović. What are the shipping costs, plz?'" Alessandro turned his face up from the newspaper, stopping himself before slamming the laptop down onto Zlatan's fingers. "You need to go home now." "I will not. The auction ends in fifteen minutes. I am strategizing my win."
• • •
LET'S BE CLICHÉ
"How could one even think to make me a eunuch? I'm a man. A rather well-endowed man but I'm sure someone has already informed you of this." "I do not choose my slaves based on the size of their sexual organs." The Slav shrugged, the frayed edges of his make-shift toga slipping lower on his shoulder. "A pity. I'm sure you'd be happier if that were the case." His master rose from the bath, motioning him to hand over a green bathing robe. "I do not purchase my own slaves. And I would not have purchased you even at a cut-bargain price." He frowned, clutching the silk edges of the robe closer to himself. It was unworthy of him to have a slave taller than he was. "To my benefit, aside from my cock, I am also extremely beautiful and full of heart-warming wit. You should give your slave master a raise."
"Perhaps making a eunuch of you would deaden that tongue of yours." "How could you possibly benefit from the loss of my golden tongue?" He grinned. Alessandro Nesta swept the end of his robe up, shoving the impudent slav into the used water. Looking down at him miserable and dirty gave him an ounce of pleasure. "You are lucky that the benevolence of my wife prevents me from whipping my slaves. Any other man would have sliced your back open and had you eviscerated as an example."
Zlatan still managed to laugh, splashing him with some water as he dragged himself out. Shaking a hand through his hair, he shrugged again. The cloth toga was barely hanging onto his body and Nesta made a note to have proper clothes made up for him. "Unluckily for you I've taken an oath against fornicating with humourless, pig-faced Romans."
• • •
LIKE DROWNING
"We are so much more than a relationship." "What?" "You are so much more than a relationship." Zlatan's hands paused at the bend of his elbows, fingers deliberate; awakening into something clumsy. "She's been my constant for a long time." "You are so much more than a relationship." The timbre shifted, variating in subtlety until it became a sneer. Nesta and his broken tones (like drowning), his unchanging breath (like dying). "Why keep repeating it to me?" "Because you are so much more -" Zlatan's mouth like a brand between neck and jaw, hands like bonds. (He had once removed his wedding ring like this - unfurling his fisted hands, cold lips over his finger, warm mouth encapsulating it. The hotness spreading through him - rubbed white skin - Zlatan spitting the ring out onto the bed before pulling Nesta to him.)
I don't like how it feels. (I don't like what it means.)
He panicked the first time, couldn't control his gag reflex and Zlatan scrambled away from him. "You have vicious teeth," he said. "I rather look at your face," he added. "I'll teach you what it should be like," he left unspoken. "Apologize for wasting my time," Nesta managed. "Pay for my condoms." Pay for it.
("Why cut your hair?" "Why not cut yours? You're becoming questionable, Alessandro." "You always have been." But he yanked out strands of it, snapped them off when he sunk his hands into them, leaving his fingers to trail down to his neck, down his back in gentle lines.)
"No." An accumulation of negations. His favourite word; "Stop." Desist. Disengage. Step away. Don't be pathetic. Don't be (with) someone else.
It stilled - (Nesta staggered away once. Consumed. They hadn't had protection. He had thought they'd just drop to sleep. The lazy friction of limbs and fingers would be enough. But Zlatan has dropped his eyes. Once. Had laid down, had settled his hands into the rumpled coverlet, had arched upward. Nesta's hands planted on either side of his face. He did not talk then. Nesta panicked. Panicked. But there were legs that clung to him. A hand that was quickly thrown up, an arm that tugged him and Zlatan pleaded silently, ripping blood from Nesta's shoulder. Ibrahimović, he might have winced.
Panic. Coated in sweat and other fluids, warmth encasing his muscles. Skin raised in goosebumps when they separated and Nesta backpedaled to the door, staring and half forming, "I don't know."
Zlatan turned his head to the side, eyes shut away from him -- stopped him in the hallway, finger winding down his stomach to wipe away a line of his own come. "I think you're the only one who does not understand." A kiss. Impersonal. Slamming the door shut for emphasis rather than anger.
• • •
METHODS OF COUNTING
His hobbies on the internet were limited to official correspondences, banking , shopping and sending the equivalent of malicious threats to Nesta. He had found that sending emails was not the best way to rile him up, but did it anyway out of spite. To illicit a response he had to settle for writing things out by hand. Zlatan hated his rounded, even scrawl - hated how neat it looked and was forever writing things out as quickly as possible in an attempt to masculate it. Wanting it to match his other characteristics - bold, strong. It was futile and his inability to change it sent him into mini apoplectic fits. But it worked to his advantage when it came to Nesta and his abusive spam filtering powers.
"I'm going to stop opening these." Another white bubble-wrap enveloped ended up in the trash bin. "You liked the perfume." "They were vialed samples that you got for free. They leaked all over the rug." "Why not open the package up outdoors?" It didn't make sense why he had not yet caught on. "The return address said it was from my mother." "Well, no one accused you of being the intellectual equal of your brilliant doctor wife."
Zlatan's favourite counting activity. How much resistance? 5 minutes? 15 hours? Days tossed upon months, stretched out until the last 20 seconds it takes for Nesta to walk from his car to the door, to Zlatan's foyer. Counting how many times Sandro lets his phone ring before he picks up. 1-3 (Stop calling me.) 4-8 (You're being annoying.) 9-15 (I don't want any of you now.) not picking up (I have my fiancée, never contact me.)
Favourite method of counting anger: Your wife, Gabriella. Your wife. Your wife who loves you. Your wife who likes me. Your wife who invites me over. Your wife who calls me. Wife. "She's not my wife. She's the mother of my child." "You love her." It was accusatory. Nesta leaned back, the cold prince on a couch coloured buttercup-yellow. The sullenness in him made Zlatan reel. His mouth closed off. Pursed. Flat. Boring. "Okay. I'll take that as your answer," and he switched around Nesta's chess pieces the next time he went to the bathroom.
"You're going to name him Zlatan. It is a healthy and extremely beautiful name." "Gabriel." "Unimaginative." "Extremely beautiful." "Dull." "Have your own." "Only if you promise me you'll breast feed them." The third time Zlatan Ibrahimović was slapped by Alessandro Nesta for something harmless. (1: Making his advances known, 2: Suddenly pinching his nipples during a make-out session, 4: airport bathroom incident.)