#fic 2019 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pparacxosm · 3 months ago

Text

blue-eyed son

(homeless era!patrick zweig x jaded businesswoman!reader; tw themes of poverty; tw strangely intimate vaguely unnerving eating scene; maybe i got carried away with characterising the motel receptionist; but it was necessary; tw corporate ennui; tw scathing outlook on new rochelle; i’ve never even been to new rochelle; there is a real prompt from the NYT mini crossword in here, and the answer was ‘aches’ but ‘zweig’ is also five letters; also maybe i got carried away with reworking the dialogue from the motel scene; but i maintained the essence of tragedy; in fact i enhanced it; tw enhanced essence of tragedy)

‘Not too shabby…’

The blue light miasma permeating from the screen of your brickheavy, moltenhot company laptop casts taunting shadows across your visage as you stare at the subject line of the email from your boss. You drag your finger across the mousepad and click.

Just got off the phone with Mr Smith from Kanonda Corp., and they had some great things to say about our chat today. Kudos to you for handling that. Just a quick reminder, though, that your numbers aren't quite up to par this month, so let's work on ramping those up. Keep it up!

Cheers!

You find three things hilarious about this email: 1) the use of the words our chat when you’re pretty sure you endured those three hours of Mr Smith’s overt attempts to incite a clunky game of footsie under the wobbly table in the shitty steakhouse in bumfuck New Rochelle completely solo, 2) the notion that adding an exclamation mark to the phrase ‘keep it up’ makes it read more like an encouraging pat on the back than a barked order, and 3) the use of the words your numbers when there’s about five other assholes on your team who aren’t in bumfuck New Rochelle, whose combined time spent sitting on their asses in the office, if harvested as energy, would be large enough to power up a small town for all four days of this wretched business trip.

Actually, the “kudos to you” is also pretty funny. Your boss, the comedian.

You shut the lid of the computer, drawing your knees to your chest and ignoring how the sharp lump of an errant spring in the old mattress is digging straight up your ass. You’re nursing a lukewarm can of Coors you’d snagged from this motel's halfway functional vending machine. You’re trying to ignore the noise from the room next door, where some douchebag is doing his best impression of a broken washing machine in bed.

New Rochelle sucks. New Rochelle sucks dick. The weather sucks dick. The food sucks dick. Your job sucks dick. Sunny Skies Motel sucks dick. And you’re considering redownloading Hinge, and setting your radius to ten miles and your standards to hellishly low, just so that maybe you can suck a dick, too, because you’d hate to feel left out.

The company you work for so graciously comps the room in the seedy motel. Real nice. The room reeks of piss and potpourri, old cigarettes and beer, and looks like a relic from the 70s. As in, peeling, avocado-green wall, visibly stained motheaten carpets that are an alarming shade of brown, and an ancient CRT TV whose only available channels are reruns of sitcoms from the 90s. Everything about this place wails ‘temporary,’ but, to you, there’s the stark, resigned misery of a lifetime sentence. The room is like your life, in a way: suffocating and stagnant, with no change in sight.

It's the kind of motel that no one would ever choose to stay at if they had a choice, or, perhaps, a modicum of selfrespect. But you, poor you, eyes going misty as you look out the window facing an alleyway, are beginning to contend with the fact that you have neither of those things.

You’re lying supine on the bed, arms spread out like a crucifix effigy, and your back is learning every lump and valley of the shitty mattress. You’ve downed your beer, and it’s sloshing about in your belly, and there’s a dampness gathering beneath the underwire of your bra.

You cast a glower to the thermostat, an old model with yellowed plastic and faded lettering. You note the temperature display.

“65, my ass.”

And who are you talking to? The roaches? They’re probably waiting for you to die of heatstroke so they can dine on your miserable, sweatstrewn flesh. The vent shudders droningly, spewing tepid air like bad breath, and you do consider just lying there. Sweating out your bitterness. But no. You need your bitterness. Your bitterness has always served you.

Like this, bitterly, you peel yourself off the bed, swinging your legs over the side.

You slip your tights-swathed toes into the firm leather of your kitten heels, tugging the hem of your skirt down your thighs, but choosing not to bother with the rolled cuffs or the top four unbound buttons of your button down, the dampness where the fabric clings to your back and armpits growing cool as you step out into the nighttime.

You’re twentyeight, which is seventyfive in corporate years.

You’re a wonder with a spreadsheet, and you work hard, and you’re reliable, but these are the sorts of things that only get you so far.

So they send you to New Rochelle. Fine. Here’s their thinly veiled, lastditch attempt to motivate you, or something.

And everyone’s probably sipping on fancy espresso in their cushy corner offices or having lunch in some upscale bistro back home. And you’re in sucksdick New Rochelle, wondering how many different ways a woman can feel disconnected and uninspired.

The Sunny Skies motel lobby is a hollow shell. It is lively as a morgue. The vending machine flickers with the weary lament of someone who is sick of dying. Not pained, or begging mercy. Just over it. Someone who wants to get the dying part of being dead over with.

There’s another roomtemp Coors can in there singing you siren songs, but you’re trying not to be tempted.

You’re stood in front of one of the twin front desks, tapping your manicured nail against the countertop.

You’re staring at a small sign behind the front desk, and trying to ignore the strange sort of aura of decay that seems to hang in the air. Sunny Skies knows her days are numbered, and it shows. Your eyes flick up to look at the clock as you hear footsteps approaching.

Enter Sally. Dear Sally. Sally and her jet black pixie cut and cold shoulder blouses and perennial disinterest. You identify with Sally on a deep, primordial level, because Sally has that soul-sucking look that only comes with years of forcing enthusiasm when you don’t feel any, and you can only hope to one day wield with as much grace that distinct emanating air of exhaustion. Sally is your hero.

“Can I help you?” she asks flatly, casting you a bored, fleeting glance over her narrow pink rectangle rimmed spectacles.

God, it’s artistry.

“I think the air conditioning in my room is broken?” you say. You pull out your phone and flip open the cover, retrieving your key card, because you have one of those flip phone cases. “I need someone to come take a look at it. The last repair guy said he’d pass the message along and no one’s come by yet.”

Sally takes the card and looks up at you sceptically.

“Are you sure it’s broken? Sometimes the thermostat just needs to be reset.”

You bristle a bit at the implication that you don’t know how to work a thermostat. You respect Sally like a soldier respects a war general. Which is to say, do you particularly like the woman? Fuck no.

“Yes, I’m sure,” you say firmly. “I tried resetting it myself like the last guy told me to, but it’s still not working.”

Sally sighs and jots something down on a piece of paper.

“Alright, I’ll send someone up to take a look at it,” she says. “Is that all you need?”

You want to say no, that that’s definitely not all you need, that you need to go home to your quiet, cozy, doesn’t-smell-like-musty-carpets apartment, to lay on your comfortable bed and eat a warm meal.

You just nod curtly.

“Yes, that’s everything. Thank you.”

Sally turns away to pick up a phone receiver, but freezes for a moment, her head tilted in an odd direction. You follow her gaze, your eyes landing on a figure at the far end of the lobby.

The first thing you notice is that he is a total mess. His hair is sticking up in different directions, like a child’s hair after a windy day, and his clothes are rumpled and chaotic, as if he’s just woken up.

You’re trying to determine if he’s extremely tall, or if it just looks that way because you can see his entire two legs with how short those shorts are.

You’re trying, too, to determine why he strikes you as being somewhat out of place here.

You suppose harsh fluorescent lights can sort of warp a person. But there is something almost striking about him. His face is sharp and angular, all hollowedout cheekbones and fierce, saxe blue eyes that house the sort of selfloathing hunger you only see in Eastern European gay porn. And they are staring directly at you.

He approaches the counter, and comes to stop at an odd place, almost slightly behind you. And you can feel a splendid heat radiating from his body, and you shift uncomfortably to put some distance between you.

Sally, from behind the desk, has been watching the man with a wary sort of glare, but she looks at him now with the same flat, exhausted expression she had used with you. No bullshit Sally. Unaligned and unimpressed.

“How can I help you?” she asks, monotone all the same.

This guy looks at her for a moment, still staring directly at you out of the corner of his eye, but then shifts his gaze to Sally completely.

“I need a room for the night,” he says. His voice is slightly hoarse, as if unused for a while.

Sally is already unconvinced.

“Do you have a credit card?” she asks, her fingers hovering over the chunky computer keys.

The man digs around in the pocket of his athletic shorts and pulls out a wallet whose leather has long ago seen the best of its days. He rummages around in it for a moment before pulling out a credit card and handing it over.

Sally holds the card between two fingers and begins to type something, eyes narrowed at the monitor. She looks at a screen for a moment, then looks back at the man.

“This card is declined,” she says matter-of-factly.

The man’s forehead creases up, a look of the defeated suffusing across his face.

“What? No, that can’t be right,” he says, but he sounds like he thinks it probably can be right. “Can you try again?”

Sally sighs, but, for her part, types the number in again.

Then she waits.

And a moment later, she turns the computer monitor to show him the word DECLINED on the screen in angry crimson.

His expression swims somewhere toward frustration and he leans forward, his voice taking on a hint of desperation.

“There has to be a mistake, that’s my only card.”

Sally looks at him with an air of very mild irritation colouring her general apathy.

“Sir,” says Sally, “I can see the balance on the card. It’s declined. You don’t have any other cards?”

The man’s face shifts again—his face is really very expressive—now bordering on despair.

“No, no other cards,” he says. “Is there anything I can do? I really need a bed for tonight, I’ve been driving all day, I’m exhausted…”

And—what, is he gonna seduce Sally? The thought alone is so funny (not him seducing Sally, really, but rather Sally being seduced by him, or maybe just him trying and failing) and you pull out your phone to keep from laughing, or, at least, then you can blame Twitter, or something.

Sally holds up a hand to stop him, her bangles jingling.

“Listen, sir. We don’t give rooms out for free,” she says, tone all no-nonsense. “If you want a bed for the night, you need to have a valid form of payment. Do you have cash?”

Now this man’s head is bowed, and he is visibly deflated. He looks up to meet Sally’s gaze, sadness and helplessness doing a miserable pas de deux behind his eyes.

“No, no cash either,” he says quietly. “I don’t have anything. I just need somewhere to sleep tonight. Just one night. Please.”

And, at that—at that, if my fleeting glance serves me correct, Sally’s expression softens a little. I think Sally probably watches a lot of AGT. She clearly has a soft spot for a pathetic story, but her job is, of course, to keep the motel from going under. And Sally has no golden buzzer here.

“Sir,” she says firmly, “I have bills to pay too. If I just gave away rooms without payment, we’d be a homeless shelter, not a business.”

Fuck, that’s funny, too. In a way. You’re actually not so tempted to laugh anymore, because this is all becoming a bit painful to witness.

The man lets out an exasperated sigh.

“Can I pay in the morning, then?” he asks, and you can’t see from here, but his hands may be clasped together, because he certainly sounds like he’s pleading. “I’ll have cash by then, I swear. I’ll sign something, give you my driver’s license, anything. I just need a place to stay. Please.”

Sally leans forward on the counter, her tone growing a little terse. Whatever softness she’d started feeling now seems so far gone it may as well have never existed at all.

“Sir, I can’t do that either. If we let someone stay in a room without upfront payment, and you just disappear, then we’re out of a room and out of money. I’m really sorry, but we don’t make exceptions.”

And, to her credit, she does sound sorry, but she’s certainly not budging.

The man is definitely practically begging now.

“I won’t disappear!” he stresses, “I swear, I— Listen, I’m a tennis player. The tournament down the road. I just need a place to stay so I can rest before my match tomorrow. If I win, I get seven thousand dollars. I just need a bed for the night, that’s all. Please, you have to help me.”

Yeah, no, this is really painful. Like, uncomfortably so. You have the cruel thought of just turning around and leaving, and going back to your hot room, to go about your own—now considerably lesser seeming—wallowing, but an even crueler part of you regards this whole thing as a slow motion train wreck.

And, in your defense, you’re only halfway eavesdropping, because you’ve now struck up a passive aggressive argument with a coworker over a Microsoft Teams chat.

Sally raises a brow.

“A tennis player?” she asks dubiously, eyeing his disheveled appearance.

The man nods urgently.

“Yes, yes, I am! My name is Zweig, Patrick Zweig. You can look it up. I just need a bed, please, just one night. I’ll sign whatever you want, give you anything, just please.”

Sally now looks really unimpressed by his plea, her face betraying a hint of disdain.

“Yeah, sure,” she says, her voice laden with sarcasm. “You’re a tennis player. And I’m Beyoncé.”

And it’s funny again. Fucking Sally. You should try and ask her for a drink before you leave. She’ll say no, but you should ask.

The man’s face contorts in abject sorrow and impatience.

“Please, ma’am, if you just look me up—” he begins, but Sally cuts him off before he can continue.

“Sir, do you think I just have time to look up every person who comes in here claiming to be somebody?” she asks, her face growing increasingly pinched with annoyance.

It is then that Sally turns to face you, whose fingers are now really tapping away at your screen, because your coworker’s a bitch, but then,

“Ma’am, do you know who this man is?” Sally asks, gesturing a rednailed hand toward him as though presenting a case on Deal or No Deal.

And fuck if you hadn’t halfway tuned out of the conversation, because you’re suddenly being put on the spot.

You look over at the man, who is fidgeting and biting his chapped upper lip, and his wide blue gaze is a mural of anxious anticipation and pleading hope, and—okay.

So you hadn’t really been paying attention. But you now feel a palpable twinge of something resembling sympathy.

This guy’s face is so earnest and desperate, like an abandoned, infant monkey, or something equally as devastating, and there is something about… whatever he’s got going on that really compels you to give him the help he is so desperately seeking.

But that’s the thing. You were so busy insisting to Deirdre over Teams that saying you’re so articulate is, in fact, a microaggression, that fuck. You really don’t know who this man is.

But he’s looking at you, so desperate and pathetic, and his bottom lip may as well be jutted out and quivering, yet there is something—something—about him that intrigues you. In a stupid way. The way a kid may be intrigued by the mushrooms that have appeared between the wet grass after it’s rained.

So—okay—you give it a think. Because you do think he said it, his name, at some point. Your eyes flick over him. Your phone is still raised up to your face.

“… Peter Zeppelin?” you shrug, raising a brow.

And the guy’s eyes widen comically, and his face falls like the London Bridge, and Sally gives an amused sort of scoff. That seems to be the final nail in the coffin for her, and she holds up her hands in a resigned sort of there you go motion, going to turn back to the computer. And Peter Zeppelin—who is not Peter Zeppelin apparently—all but throws himself over the counter, and now you do see his hands clasp together, with all the desperation of Jesus in Gethsemane.

“No, no, no, come on, come on, that was close!” he says desperately, “Patrick Zweig, that was close, come on!”

But Sally seems done entertaining him, and the poor guy’s face twists with a dozen different alloys of disappointment and frustration and acceptance as he sees the conversation is over, and the gavel has been banged.

But despite his disappointment—and there are veritable oceans of disappointment he’s working with here—there is a hint of something else in his expression, something almost like amusement.

He shoots you a sidelong glance, as if trying to understand you. And you cannot help but notice the way his eyes linger, but you quickly look away, feeling a scattering prickle of guilt cascade over you, and you almost shiver. And why should you feel guilty, if you were only honest? You can’t be sure. Because you feel it all the same.

He lets out a sigh and gathers his things, wounded by the harsh blow of reality straight to his heart, it would seem. This was surely among the saddest interactions of his life.

But, as he turns to leave, he shoots another glance over his shoulder, his gaze once again finding you with magnetic haste.

It is a strange look he wears. A mixture of disappointment, curiosity, and something almost like… interest. You drop your arms, your phone hanging at your side, because that’s enough for you to feel a jolt of something. Something. Something you quite literally try to shake off as soon as he has departed, like a crestfallen cartoon character with all his belongings in a bandana on a stick over his shoulder. But his image seems to linger in your mind. His plaintive eyes and disheveled mien causing an odd sort of sensation to rise up in your stomach. You think it may be nausea.

Or the guilt is really having its way with you.

And the door swings shut behind him with a loud thunk, and you’re feeling a pang of regret, even. And fucking Sally, of all people, is giving you an odd look, as if to say you couldn’t have helped that poor man out a little more?

And you want to say hey, you mythic shrew, I don’t even know him, which is true, because you don’t.

And even if you had, would that have made Sally drop to her knees and throw him a room key? Who are you, arbiter of fame? You want to ask her. If you were less of a masochist, you probably would ask her. But the guilt makes a funny little home in your tummy, and you start to think it’s what you deserve.

You think, at some point, you were generous. In some tender, faraway time in your life, you housed a massive soft spot for anyone who needed help, you couldn’t help it. You’d grown up in a household with a Methodist and a Social Worker, and compassion and kindness were espoused with breakfast in the mornings. And now that you’re working in a cutthroat office full of bloodthirsty Type-A’s, you’ve been made hard as granite. Great.

You’re walking through the parking lot towards your room, and you spot a beat up Honda, its park job beyond redemption.

And who should you see slumped in the backseat, looking utterly dejected, but Peter fucking Zeppelin. He is staring at something on his phone, the glow illuminating his face in the darkness. And you’re holding another Coors from the vending machine like a world class capitalist shit stain.

Seeing him like that, so defeated and alone, makes the spot of guilt you’re nursing in your belly stand up and do a little jig.

And is it your fault? No. Kind of? Either way, you feel the tug of responsibility, and an unfamiliar need to make amends.

You reach your room. You unlock the door with your keycard. You do not walk in. You linger, of course, staring across the parking lot at the man sitting in his car. He hasn’t moved, still slumped down, head bowed over his phone. Your guilt seems to metamorphose into something more discomfiting, and its jig becomes a stomp.

Why refuse to help him?

It is so unlike you, that coldness.

You stand there for what tires you like an eternity, more than a little torn. But, ultimately, the image of his big blue pleading eyes, and the way they had laved you in abject despair, wins out. You’ll see them in your nightmares if you don’t do something. You can’t leave him like this, alone and dejected in his car. You certainly want to. You’d love to go back into your too warm room and drink your too warm beer and hope for Sally to have a come to Jesus moment. But you really can’t.

With a weary, longsuffering sigh, you gather your courage and make your way across the parking lot towards the car, your heels clicking against the tar.

You knock the knuckle of your index against the window, “Oi! Zeppelin!”

And the man’s head jerks up.

He looks… surprised to see you standing there. But there’s a gleam of expectation in his eyes.

The door is locked when he first goes to open it, which—good. At least he has a sense of selfpreservation. And then he unlocks it and takes off his grey track jacket and scrambles out of the car with a disoriented sort of grace, stepping out and straightening up to his full height.

So, yes, he actually is very tall. Much taller than you’d realised, actually, and you have to crane your neck to look at him. The light from the motel sign illuminates his face, accentuating his pallor and the tired lines around his eyes.

He is standing very close, this homeless stranger, and it suddenly occurs to you not to let your softness get the better of you. You look him up and down.

You wait for him to speak.

You want to see how he’ll react. And a furtive little part of you hopes that he’ll be a little angry, a little annoyed, at your still getting his name wrong. Because then you get to keep your guard up and maintain your distance, because even Mother Theresa knew the implications of standing alone with a large man in the middle of a motel parking lot in bumfuck New Rochelle.

His eyes, weary, harden just a fraction, the dim apparition of a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“It’s Zweig,” he corrects, his voice frayed at its edges but firm. “Patrick.”

He isn’t quite angry, but there’s a glimmer of irritation there, just enough to give you the satisfaction you hadn’t realised you’d been craving, and a strange sense of triumph tingles through you.

Oh, how much easier to be cold and standoffish when you have something to work with.

“Right, right, sorry about that,” you say, your voice dancing almost imperceptibly with sarcasm.

You cross your arms, raising an eyebrow at him, as though… assessing.

And then Peter—not Peter, Patrick—looks at you for a moment, his weary eyes registering your defensive stance and your rigid gaze.

He seems to recognise something. Something. A need to maintain something. To push him away and make a run for it before it’s too late. And yet, he doesn’t quite seem offended. Or even irritated, anymore. More amused, really, as he gives you a slow, crooked smile.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, the corners of his eyes crinkling in an odd, charming, almost absolute sort of way. Like he’s smiling, and that’s all he could be doing. Even as the smile itself has all sorts of nuanced implications. “I’ve heard worse,” he says.

The way he is looking at you, that easy grin, makes the guilt in your tummy flutter and still and wait. It does feel like he is seeing something, and, of course, that isn’t nice.

You feel a growing unease at his active refusal to react the way you expect him to, and maybe want him to. You work in white collar. There’s nothing easier to delineate than an angry guy. A guy frustrated by your callousness. But this guy seems almost entertained by your standoffishness. It is unsettling. Maybe strangely captivating. But mostly unsettling.

“You look exhausted,” you say, and you make sure any detectable concern is ostensibly feigned.

“Yeah, thanks for noticing.”

Simple. Dry. A note of humour.

He reaches up and runs a hand through his messy hair, the movement drawing your eye to his long, lean arm, the way it strains against the fabric of his helplessly rumpled T-shirt.

So you start feeling irritated again. Uneasy, unsettled, annoyed, these are easy things to start feeling, and you start feeling them. But not for this guy himself. Not necessarily. No, more by the way he is making you feel. And you think, fuck, has it been so long since I’ve had a beer that I can’t hold it down? And maybe that’s it. Or, maybe, you can’t help but find him marginally attractive. The fabric of his shirt, worn to gossamer, brushing over and revealing a glimpse of a toned, hirsute chest. His athletic shorts, which seem laughably short now, or maybe his legs seem laughably long. And strong. Maybe he should run for money, that’s a thing, right?

So anyway, you’re unsettled. And you find yourself growing even colder in response.

“No, you look really exhausted. Like medically. You look like you’re about to pass out. You look like you just crawled out from under a freeway overpass,” you say, and the words come out a tad sharper than intended, which was already quite sharp anyway. “Are you sure you’re not just some bum pretending to be a worldclass tennis player?”

This time, his smile turns into a fullblown toothy smirk.

“Oh, I’m a bum alright,” he says, leaning against the side of his car as he regards you with that flaying sort of intensity. “A real loser, actually. The kind of guy who ends up sleeping in his car in a motel parking lot because he’s too broke to even get a room for the night.”

The guilt in your tummy—remember that guilt?—yeah, well, it feels uncertain if it should even be there any more. If it shouldn’t be replaced with something more commensurate with the dense thump of your heart. But you don’t want to let him see how much his self-deprecating attitude has affected you. And you don’t want to let yourself see his reaction, if you were to give into a very strange sudden compulsion to tell him he isn’t a loser.

Instead, you roll your eyes.

“You’re really laying it on thick, aren’t you?” you say, a wry hoist of your brows. You press your face against his car window, cupping your hands around your eyes so you can see in through the tint. “Where’s your guitar? Are you gonna start singing an acoustic version of ‘Hallelujah’ and begging for change?”

He chuckles at this, eyes lingering on the little patch of fog left by your mouth on the glass. “Ah, did you miss it?” he says, feigning sympathy, but his smile is still so wide, “I was strumming like a beast over on that street corner earlier. Gave my strings to this other homeless guy, though, in the end, figured he needed it more than me. Not ‘Hallelujah’, though. Dylan’s what really gets peoples’ hands in their pockets.”

“Righ… t.” You hesitate. You hesitate, because—well—he’s singing.

Yeah, no, he’s definitely singing. He’s closing his eyes and leaning against his car and singing Bob Dylan.

“Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son? I’ve stumbled on the side of ten thousand graveyards.”

And—okay—those are the wrong lyrics, but the song choice certainly feels relevant to his current situation.

“It’s a hard—” He’s still singing. “—it’s a hard, it’s a hard rain’s a-gonna—”

“O-kay,” you say, and he opens his eyes and for all their fatigue they are glimmering with mirth.

You try to remain expressionless, but his undeniable charm and abiding levity considering his obvious predicament make it difficult for you to justify being mean.

“You seem awfully comfortable with your circumstances,” you observe, a vein of scepticism threaded through your voice. “Most people would be freaking out right now, you know.”

He shrugs, hands in his pockets now, and makes an ambivalent sort of noise. “Well, what good would that do?” he says. “Won’t magically make the cash appear in my account.”

He pulls a hand from his pocket, the nylon rustling, and runs it through his hair again. You find yourself watching the movement, watching his hands now, which you think look oddly large. You’re unsettled again. Or maybe you’ve been unsettled the whole time, and you’re just still unsettled.

“So, you’re just gonna sit there in your car all night and hope a miracle happens?” you ask, a strange tremor in your voice that even you cannot presently put a name to. “You don’t have any… I don't know, friends you can call? Or parents you can beg money off of?”

And his expression seems to go dour at that, a noticeable trickle of humour draining from his eyes. “Parents are out,” he says bluntly. Pauses. Gives a humourless laugh.

Doesn’t mention friends, you note. But then you’ve never had many either.

Your guilt seems to settle again, deciding it is needed, and it is accompanied by whatever had had your voice tremoring seconds ago. You cannot help it. This is fucking sad. The way his selfdeprecating remarks have suddenly turned into selfdeprecating revelations. It’s fucking sad. And you don’t realise you’re staring into the middle distance all sadly until he’s ducking down into your field of vision, eyes searching your face, vaguely bemused, but sort of disgruntled.

“You feel sorry for me,” he says—says, not asks.

And then he straightens, and you think he’s gotten taller.

“Well, you’ve got no friends, no family, no money, and nowhere to go,” you say, trying to keep your voice neutral, despite the fact that, yes, you find you are feeling quite sorry for him. “It sounds like you’re in a pretty shitty situation, Patrick.”

And where he could probably break down into tears—and maybe he should; you’re willing to give him your lukewarm beer and rub his shoulder a bit—a glimmer finds his eye. A fissure in his nonchalance. A look of surprise, and what almost seems like hope. He doesn’t even try to disguise it, and his smile is coming back, with the ease of something never departed.

“Hey! Look who remembered my name,” he says, and his voice has suddenly gone weird and tender, and the change sort of makes you shudder.

“Ah, shit, did I?” you say, looking down, rolling the beer can in your palm and letting it flick off your fingers and land in the other hand. You toss it back and forth like that a few times, and you’re trying to be… not too much of anything. You try to be Sally, unaligned and unimpressed.

It's hard, though, with the way he smiles like he knows something you don't. Like he's in on some kind of secret. You’ve always had a weird suspicion that everyone is keeping something from you. No one could surprise you, as a child.

Patrick—fuck, there you go—has the impish simper on his lips of a cat who’s just seized and maimed the canary.

“You did,” he confirms, voice still strange and heavy, like it’s laden with something.

You try to keep your gaze focused on the can—left, right, left, right—and the metal makes a little tck noise each time it hits your palm, the liquid inside sort of singing as it moves. But your eyes meander up to his legs, where a small patch of bright red road rash is visible on his knee. The guilt in your belly is up and dancing again, but it seems to have invited a whole bevy of other emotions alongside it. Stupid stuff, like sympathy, and shyness, and lots of other somethings of various discomfort.

And then you say, “Well, don’t get used to it,” and the can slips from your palm and onto the ground.

“Okay,” he says, stopping the can from rolling away with his foot.

And then he’s bending down to pick it up, and then he’s freezing, crouched down, like his whole body is wincing, and he makes a noise, like a guilty sort of noise, and he looks up at you, and says,

“Fuck,”

And stands up and sighs, shakes his head like he’s made a mistake, and shrugs his shoulders and says, “I’m used to it,” with a rueful sort of smile.

“Oh, are you?” You hold your hand out for the can, but he doesn’t give it to you.

He makes a tsking sort of noise, his elbow raising to rest on the top of the car, “I think I am,” he says, like it pains him, “I think you’re just gonna have to keep remembering my name.”

“Well, I won’t.”

“But you did.” He parrots your intonation.

Everything suddenly seems very loud. The sound of crickets chirping, the buzzing of the neon signs, the nylon swipe of his tiny shorts as he moves. He keeps moving.

“Because I feel sorry for you,” you say, and things seem quiet at that, as if for that, “You’re right, I feel sorry for you.”

He sort of kisses his teeth, nodding slowly and glancing off to the side in thought. And when he looks at you again, it’s with a gleam of vulnerability, like he’s conveying a silent message that you cannot quite decipher.

It is disconcerting.

His vulnerability is like a gaping black hole, something that will suck you into oblivion. You don’t really know what to do with your hands now. You wipe your palm off down the side of your pencil skirt.

“You’re not gonna spend the night in your car, are you?” you ask, like, maybe, if you ask, he’ll come up with a new plan of action.

But no. No plans. Only questions. He suspects you have a plan.

“Why?” he asks, “Are you offering me a place to crash?”

His smirk is returning, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. He is clearly a seasoned scholar in deflection, but he bears the cross quite poorly, and his words send a shiver down your stilldamp spine.

Sunny Skies is the kind of place you'd expect a scene out of a thriller to take place.

You can picture the headline now: Woman found murdered in cheap motel room, career dead in the water long before.

You hesitate for a moment, torn between your better instincts and your uncanny appetite to help this man.

You know what you should do; you should tell him no, leave him with the beer, and walk away. Keep yourself safe from getting involved in his mess of a life, and potentially being found days from now with a racket jutting out your abdomen, long since festered in a pool of your own blood because the damn air conditioning still won’t be fixed. Fuck, Deirdre would love that.

But the way he’s looking at you, that deep dark supernova vulnerability you’d spied in his eyes just moments ago, it makes you hesitate.

“I…” you start to speak, then stop, sighing as you fiddle with your nails. “I'm gonna ask you something.”

Patrick's smirk falters slightly. He seems to sense that something significant is about to happen, and he tenses, as though bracing himself for an impact.

“Shoot,” he says, a thinly veiled wariness in his tone.

“Why the tennis?” you ask, your eyes on his, flickering, searching, like a bloodhound. “Why are you still doing something that’s clearly not working out for you? Why not give up and do something different? Something that pays, for one.”

And, now, you really do steel yourself for anger, but, to your surprise, anger doesn’t come. Nor do defensiveness or hostility.

Instead, he’s letting out a cynical, protracted sort of pfft noise. “You think I haven’t asked myself that a million times?” he says, his voice cloistered in irony. “There’s only tennis. Since forever. Maybe I fucked up with that, but that’s what I did, and now it’s all there is. I’m not exactly standing before you with too many marketable skills. I can run, I can hit a ball, not much else.”

And you’re frowning at that, at the resignation in his voice. You want to say something, some platitude about not giving up, about trying harder, but you know he won’t appreciate it. Instead, you ask another question.

You ask, “If you had a choice, what would you do instead?”

Again, Patrick surprises you. He doesn’t scoff or obfuscate. He actually just thinks about it for a moment, his whole face turning introspective.

“I don’t know,” he says eventually, his voice low. “I guess I never really thought about what else I might be good at.” He runs a hand through his hair again, letting out a soft sigh. “It’s hard to imagine another life when this is the only one you’ve ever known.”

And that just makes you frown harder. You really want to say something now. But you don’t. Because you can’t. Because what would it be?

He’s an almost-has-been who’s fallen from the top of the ladder and is now scraping the bottom.

He'd once had it all, and now he has nothing.

How do you comfort someone like that?

You look at him for a moment, his lingering charm swirling like a wandering bee around you, pulling on your senses. You think about Ted Bundy, and how he lured women to demise by strumming their heartstrings like Bob Dylan. But then you suppose that any man trying to victimise a woman is not first going to try their luck on Sally, so. Well. You make a decision.

You make a decision, and take a deep breath, looking him straight in the eye. “I have a deal for you.”

He chuckles at that, his eyes dragging downward, a slow descent. He looks at your dishevelled working girl get up, and you realise, with a passing breeze that wafts the acrid, musky, but vaguely not unpleasant scent of him toward you, that your shirt is still half open, and your cleavage has been on exhibition this whole time, but you’re only realising now, because he’s only looking now, and he wasn’t looking before, and he says,

“I’m sure you do,” and he says, “You got a contract for me to sign?”

“My room has a queen and a sofa pull out couch,” you say, not-so-furtively, furtively creeping your fingers up to pull your shirt closed, “You can stay tonight—“

“I can’t let you sleep on a sofa pullout couch in your own room,” he says, and he’s able to feign absolute concern for but a moment before his smile is back again.

“—you can stay tonight,” you repeat, “on the couch, on one condition.”

He crosses his arms, the beer can slipping beneath his armpit, and you don’t even want it anymore, not the least because it’s now probably undrinkably warm.

“Let’s hear it,” he says.

You pause before responding, to make sure you haven’t been briefly possessed and given the suggestion by passing poltergeist, that it’s actually what you want. Maybe you’re tired, or charitable, or maybe it’s just whatever strange, striking quality he seems to have, but you say, “I’ll let you stay in my room if you let me come to your match tomorrow.”

And now you have managed to shock him. He’d been expecting some sort of request for a favour, or payment, but certainly not that.

“You…” his eyes are searching yours for sincerity, “… want to watch me play?” he asks.

“I’ve never seen a tennis match before,” you admit, and, for a fleeting, ludicrous moment, you feel a flush of embarrassment at your confession. “It might be interesting. And…” you steel herself, not sure you’re going to go through with sharing the next bit, “I’ve had a really shitty time here. My meetings here were… horrific. I could use some entertainment.”

He lets out a soft laugh at that, though maybe it’s a scoff. “You want me to entertain you?” he says, and his cadence is jesting, but there is something else there too, something in his eyes that makes your heart start thumping densely again. “You realise tennis can be pretty boring unless you know the sport, right?”

You shrug, affecting an air of nonchalance. “Hey, I’m willing to give it a shot. I have one day left in New Rochelle, and a day at the courts is a lot better than another day stuck in a meeting from hell. At least with you I’ll be watching someone actually do something, instead of pretending to care about some idiot’s idea for a corporate wellness retreat.”

Patrick’s eyes house a genuine amusement, his smile wide. “Corporate wellness retreat,” he says slowly, raising an eyebrow. “You in finance?”

“Worse. Way worse. Marketing,” you admit, like this is the most harrowing thing you can say. “But it’s all the same, really. It’s mostly idiots with big egos in boardrooms trying to outbullshit each other.”

“So you’d rather watch idiots with big egos trying to outbullshit each other on a court,” he nods solemnly, but, in a way, he’s issuing a warning. A beat, then he asks, “You always this sour?”

And you bristle for a moment, your pride affronted at his words. But you quickly relax as the irony of your current situation occurs to you—you’re letting a practically homeless tennis player stay in your hotel room, and you’re letting him joke at your expense.

And you suppose, not for the first time, that you deserve it, to some extent.

“Oh, no, usually I’m a blast,” you say wryly, and then, smiling vaguely with an odd sense of honesty, “But it’s been a long three days, and I’m not exactly in the best mood.”

He spends a moment studying you, taking a thoughtful breath. “You work too hard,” he says, as though coming to a profound conclusion.

“And you don’t work at all,” you reply, “Maybe we should swap problems for a day.”

“You got a house? I’m in.”

“An apartment, yeah,” you say, your voice lilting as though genuinely considering the prospect, “But I don’t have a car. Maybe we should just merge and form a symbiotic, corporate drone/middling athlete hybrid life.”

And there’s a pause there, and everything sounds loud again. The vague nyoom of each passing car rattling your teeth, because, in a way, what you’re suggesting is intimacy. And it’s beginning to occur to you that, though perhaps in different ways, you and Peter Zeppelin are two unspeakably lonely people. And to suggest such a thing as beastly as to share what’s tender, well… it feels a little unkind. A gentle brush against an open wound hurts the same way a slap does.

Patrick takes a moment.

Then, sucking in a contrite bit of air through his teeth, he shakes his head, “I couldn’t wear a suit.”

“You could wear a suit,” you respond, shaking your head, rolling your eyes like he’s being silly, like that’s a silly thing to say. But now you’re picturing him in a suit which certainly feels like an untimely gust of air against that very same wound.

“I couldn’t,” he insists, shaking his head like he’s resigned, “I couldn’t, I’d look ridiculous in a suit.”

“You’d look great in a suit.”

“So, it’s a deal then? I get a bed to fall into tonight, and you get a ticket to the Patrick Zweig extravaganza tomorrow?”

You laugh at that, a sharp, amused ha, because that’s certainly some audacity he’s got on him.

“Slow down there, cowboy,” you say, and you’re smiling. “You get a sofa pull out couch to fall into.”

Patrick’s face swims with feigned despair at your words, a mock-offended noise leaving his mouth. “I thought this was a mutually beneficial arrangement,” he says, a picture of exaggerated disappointment. “I scratch your back, you scratch mine.”

You sputter a laugh. “I’m letting you stay in my room,” you remind him. “Free of charge, might I add. I think I’m scratching your back plenty.”

His eyes widen. He gives a dramatic sigh. He says wow like he just can’t believe it. He pretends to sulk. But the twinkle in his eyes ruthlessly betrays his amusement. “Okay,” he nods, like he’s doing something very big of himself, “Okay. I’ll take the couch. I’ll be good. It’s just a shame such a beautiful woman will be sleeping all alone in a massive bed.”

Something hot definitely flares deep in your gut, burning away all the guilt and concern and embarrassment and whatever else. There is something to being called beautiful by a man who looks like… well, like him. You’re not above admitting that he is becoming increasingly more handsome with passing time, like his face is blooming and ebbing and flowing before you. And that weird, vaguely unshowered musk is making your nostrils flare with something primordial.

“You’ll survive,” you say dryly, though your heart is back to thumping like a heavy fist.

The sound of the shower running is a vague cloud of pitterpattering, an ambient thrum, and you can hear the water rushing through the pipes behind the wall like a faraway steam engine.

You’re sat against the headboard, your nuclear reactor of a work laptop balanced on your knees, the fan whirring, the bottom permeating your skin with a volcanic heat and probably giving you radiation poisoning. You’re typing like a court stenographer, a sharp, erratic clacking of your nails against the keys, accompanied by the muted rush of waterflow from the next room over. You’re traversing the minefield of your emails. The light of the computer screen casts a pale, eldritch glow on your features, your brows creasing in irritation as you quickly scan and delete all your accumulated unreads.

You’re still in your tights, skirt, and button down, but now you’ve untucked the button down as well. You’re still sweating. The room is still a tepid rat hole. And it’s washed in the warm dingy glow of the beside lamp.

The only other light in the room comes from the ensuite bathroom, the door slightly ajar, leaking out a bright white beam that illuminates the swooping, swirling streams of mist that flow out.

You think the water pressure here’s a bit aggressive, but Patrick nearly sheds a tear when the sharp stream of hot water thrashes against the aches and knots in his muscles.

His whole body is sore. He sometimes feels like an earthbound corpse. It isn’t just the hours spent in his car, but it’s also the ardour of the matches, the unheard of notion of a good meal. The stress and toil of his lifestyle has taken its due toll on his flesh and bones, and here, in the shower, haloed by the thick fog of water vapour, he allows himself a moment of vulnerability.

The water sluices through his hair, emulsifying with the soap and sweat, creating a slick, frothy, chalky-floral scented trail down his face, chest, and arms. He lathers himself everywhere with the little motel bar soap until it is the size of a coin.

He braces himself against the shower wall for a moment, jaw slack and breathing laboured, letting the water batter his shoulders, feeling the muscles there tighten and loosen simultaneously under the hot, cascading stream. The steam and the heat seem to soothe something inside of him, and, for the briefest moment, he feels something approaching peace.

So Patrick is having his spiritual awakening in the shower, and you’re at the mercy of your emails. Deleting messages from your boss about the meeting notes and potential follow ups.

And Patrick spends the first ten minutes in there making unholy sorts of noises, like his skin is being torn off, which is a little disconcerting, but you figure he’s not had a nice long shower in a while, so you leave him be. And the next five minutes are just heavy breathing. And then he starts singing.

“It’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall!”

Which would be fine, but your irritation’s mounting; each new communication in your inbox serves as a needling reminder of the tragic, tedious day you’ve just had. The tragic, tedious life you've been living.

You rub your temples, and Patrick’s singing the guitar refrain of the song, and you’re trying to ease your burgeoning headache, but it’s proving stubborn. The more you read, the more you just want to thwack something. Or scream. Or both.

And so it is bad timing when Patrick emerges from the bathroom.

You’d been expecting an awkward moment. He seems the type to wear his towels irredeemably low on his waist and you weren’t particularly keen on knowing the intimate distribution of all his body hair.

But Patrick walks out in something else.

Patrick walks out in a baby blue Hello Kitty robe.

Patrick walks out in your baby blue Hello Kitty robe.

And you’re pretty sure your blood turns molten.

Your eyes widen like saucers, and your lips part softly. It is certainly both the most absurd and, perhaps, endearing thing you’ve ever seen, and you feel almost strange and lightheaded at the sight. You’d been imagining all sorts of stilted scenarios in your head, but this… this is beyond any of those.

“What… the hell are you wearing?” you manage to sputter, your chest kindling with both embarrassment and amusement.

Patrick glances down at the robe.

You’ve had it since you were nineteen, is the thing, and it only just fits you now, so, naturally, it looks absolutely comical on him. The sleeves come up to his midforearm. The hem is immodest, to say the least, rivalling his shorts in that regard. And the plush belt only just about encircles his waist, but he had the decency to tie a tiny knot at the front.

He looks back up at you. He seems remarkably nonchalant.

“Ah, this?” he says. “I thought it was, like, a complimentary thing. Y’know, like the little shampoo bottles?”

And he has the nerve to add a little shrug for effect, though, when you look closer, you can see the corners of his mouth are twitching slightly with suppressed laughter.

You don’t know whether to laugh or cry. A possessive part of you—well, the possessive part of you—wants to incinerate the robe with him in it, because he’s definitely naked under there. You can see the damp hair on his chest peeking out from the neckline, and water runs in rivulets down his legs, dripping on the carpet, and he’s getting your robe wet.

But the image of him raiding the bathroom, thinking he’d found some sort of freebie, is so strange and amusing.

You raise an eyebrow, trying to keep a straight face.

“You thought the motel—this motel, Sunny Skies motel—gives out Hello Kitty robes as complimentary items?”

Patrick grins in response. He is utterly thrilled with the effect he is having on you.

“Hey, Hello Kitty is a timeless icon,” he says.

And your eye twitches. You feel a little deranged.

“Yeah,” you say, enunciating sharply, eyes still a little wide, and you slowly move the laptop from off your knees, “That’s why I bought the robe.”

“You know, you’re not a very generous hostess,” he says, like he’s been sitting on the grievance for a while.

You release a laugh that is halfway a winded breath, “Oh, really?” because he’s not exactly getting a five star guest review on AirBnB either.

Patrick he tsks and nods slowly like he’s sad to break the news. And he saunters around the poky room, hands hiked high in the pockets of the robe.

He gives an exaggerated onceover, inspecting the room, before his gaze settles on you. You are now cross legged, leaning forward, your laptop immolating in front of you as your fingers fly across the keyboard.

"Can't believe this place actually has a TV," he muses, walking over to the small, ancient box. He glances at the remote, lifts it, and turns the TV on. A bright red screen flashes No Signal.

"Nevermind." He flops down on the edge of the bed next to you. "What’re you doing?”

You suppress an eyeroll, or violent screech, or spontaneous second degree murder at his question.

He knows what you're doing, but he's clearly itching for some sort of attention, a stray pawing at the restaurant door in search of warmth. And you wonder how long it’s been since he’s spent so much time with someone. You're a little hesitant to indulge him, partly because you're still processing your callously stolen garment and all the flesh with which it’s become familiar.

"Email," you say tersely. "Work stuff."

"Oh, right, right," Patrick nods and nods, as though only now realising that you're in the middle of a task.

He peers over your laptop screen, looking at the rows of email threads.

"Looks stressful," he comments.

You spare him a glance. His proximity is a tangible, intrusive thing, and robe gapes open, exposing a damp triangle of his chest and collarbone, his bare feet crossed at the ankles.

“Yeah,” you say, not even bothering to sheathe the irritation in your voice. “It is.”

For his part, he seems unfazed by your tone, or at least not willing to acknowledge it. He continues to peer at the screen, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes.

And you don’t know why, but you feel a strange, singeing humiliation at his scrutiny. You and your stupid mire of spiritdecimating emails. You feel pathetic enough to belong in a museum. An abstract sculpture portraying modern melancholy.

“Can you not... stare, please?” you croak, then clear your throat, your fingers against the keys growing jerky and feverish, like the sputtering adrenaline of something soon to perish. “I need to finish this.”

“Sure, sure.”

Patrick holds up his hands in surrender.

He looks around the room for a moment, as though contemplating his next move, and when he seizes beside you, like he’s just spotted a motion-activated grenade, it is so noticeable that it actually makes you stop typing and look up. He is facing away from you, is the thing.

There's a moment of silence. You watch his back. It looks like he’s not even breathing. The hum of the laptop fan and the low drone of the TV and the thick, tepid waft of the ventilation system compete with each other.

Slowly, slowly, as though you, too, have spotted the bomb, and you’re bracing yourself for flakspray, you look over his shoulder. And oh. Oh.

You see what has arrested his attention.

On the bedside table is a little black cardboard to-go box, Meyer’s Butcher & Grill printed atop in block lettering.

You blink. You had forgotten about the box completely. A relic of a day you hope will be extracted irrevocably from the flesh of your cerebral matter via some sort of alien abduction or government experiment.

But Patrick—well—he hadn’t been tightly shutting his legs as the polished toe of a hoary businessman conspicuously crept up his shin. He didn’t have to feign interest in golf for three hours while a cracked leather seat scraped the back of his knee.

No, Patrick is looking at that box like it houses nirvana. When he leans forward a bit, you can see how his throat moves involuntarily. He swallows. You see the muscles in his jaw flex with primal intensity.

For a moment, neither of you speak. The moment is heavy with tension, like the air before a storm.

And this seems to be an apt metaphor, because there is suddenly a deep noise, like the sky churning after thunder. And it is coming from his body. And it is such a loud, visceral noise of human urgency that you almost recoil.

A strange mix of shame and pity swell in your throat. The box, as it were, had filled you with such a strange sort of repulsed nostalgia that you really had let it slip your memory. You have no interest in its contents. But this man’s raw response rekindles the abject guilt in your tummy.

Patrick turns to you. He turns to you very slowly. And you can see how his eyes are almost glazed over. He wears the look of a man staring at the Holy Grail. A tentative shock, like he’s been marooned on a deserted island for a dozen years, and has just stumbled upon civilisation.

He opens his mouth. His jaw is slack and leaden. His tongue pools with saliva. And if a string of drool slips past his lip, it’s the least you can do not to mention it.

After a while, he manages thickly, “What… uh. What is that?”

“It’s, uh… steak. From the restaurant.”

He nods. He nods very slowly. As though he’s been rendered physically incapable of saying any more, though his words come suddenly, “Steak?”

“Uh, yeah. Filet mignon, I think. The… fucking… guy ordered it, but…” you feel, in a fleeting moment, a feral sort of fear, like a fawn caught alone by a wolf in the forest. And it’s silly, obviously, but that’s how intense his gaze is right now. You clear your throat, “I mean, I’m not hungry.”

Patrick’s breathing is growing increasingly laboured. His tongue flicks out of his mouth, the wet muscle glistening in the dim light.

A moment passes.

“You can, uh…” you hesitate, a bit transfixed by his carnal hunger, your voice sounding oddly fragile, “You can have it… if you want…”

Patrick's eyes flicker almost imperceptibly at this. And you’re sitting there, and you expect him to just go ahead, and, maybe, in the background of your mind, you feel bad that the meal’s gone cold.

But he’s not eating. No, he’s suddenly become very still, as though waiting. As though trying to discern your sincerity.

"Are you sure… you don’t want it?" he asks.

And there is something about his voice, small and corporeal. It sends a strange, hurtful waft of pity through your chest. It sounds like it’s been scraped over barbed wire. It is raw and vulnerable and painful.

And you have the sense that, even if you did say no—which you wouldn’t—he has the look in his eye of someone who will definitely end up eating that steak, one way or another.

You shake your head, clearing your throat, “No, no, of course not. Take it. Please. It’ll just go to waste.” And your voice is sort of coloured by the notion that you’re on the verge of tears.

For a moment, Patrick's reaction is oddly unreadable. It's as though he can't quite believe his luck. And then, he turns, scrambling for the box as though it may spontaneously disappear now that it’s his.

He tears the lid off and, from here, his face looks cast in strange shadows, a shimmer flickering past his face as the low lamplight catches the foil in the carton.

There is something about the instant greasy, bloody aroma that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. You’ve never liked steak. But he's already reaching inside.

Patrick can’t seem to chew quickly enough. He almost whines softly with each swallow.

It’s an animalic scene of consumption.

You think of hyenas mauling their prey, but he also looks very small, and vulnerable, and certainly odd, because he’s still wearing your robe.

He devours the meat voraciously, and he doesn’t even bother to wipe away the stream of red dribbling down his chin, but he has the decency to hold the box right under his chin so he doesn’t make a mess.

His fingers are covered in blood and mashed potatoes. There’s a little plastic container of chimichurri in the corner of the box, but he seems content ignoring it.

You have a strange sense that this whole ordeal is something you shouldn’t even be watching. And that, when a loud knock sounds at the door, you should be sort of embarrassed, but you don’t know why.

“Maintenance.” The man at the door seems so bored as to be disgusted. He towers over you, and is peering down, arm resting against the doorframe. He is gnashing open mouthed upon a wad of gum.

You are suddenly conscious of your dishevelled appearance, and find yourself scrambling to button your shirt up.

“Um?” you say, skewing your face a bit confusedly as you slip the buttons closed.

You let your sleeves roll down, the rumpled flare of the open cuffs falling over your wrists.

“Air conditioning maintenance,” the man repeats, as though you are a bit dense. You notice, now, he has a friend behind him.

And, “Oh!” you say, “Right, yeah, the air conditioning, the thermostats showing 60, but the air’s still hot.”

He blinks down at you, his head lolling to the side, and he tongues the inside of his cheek. His arms are big as boulders and tattoo strewn.

“You try resetting it?” he says.

Your jaw clenches.

“Yes,” you smile tightly. “It’s still not working.”

He harrumphs and then sort of coughs loudly and then sniffs, “Yeah,” he drawls, “we been getting a lot of complaints.”

“Lotta complaints,” he friend chimes boredly, tugging up the sagging waistband of his comically oversized grease stained jeans. He is idly twirling a screwdriver.

And then the one in front, the larger one, flicks his gaze over you. And then over your shoulder. He seems vaguely disinterested, for his part, in the story behind your blowsy, tousled appearance, and the half naked man tearing into a steak takeout in a Hello Kitty robe behind you. You figure working in a motel begets much stranger sightings, but you cringe to think of the conclusions he may be drawing. A disillusioned businesswoman and her famished prostitute? Does he think the robe gets you going? You shake your head of the embarrassment.

"Ah... ma'am," he utters, shoving his hands into the pockets of his faded overalls. "You and... your friend need to vacate the room for about twenty minutes while we work on the unit."

Outside, Patrick strikes his chest two times and manages a distasteful burp.

A draught sweeps past and the hem of the robe he’s still wearing sways dangerously. You aren’t even wearing your shoes. The soft soles of your feet lay flat against the warm tar through the thin gauze of your tights.

You’re holding the Coors can, still unopened, warm to the touch between your fingers, and Patrick’s got a cigarette he bummed off one of the workers between his lips.

“Nice outfit,” the guy had said—the shorter one, with the baggy jeans and crew cut and scar on his temple.

“Thanks,” Patrick had grinned, unashamed.

“Are you supposed to be smoking?” you ask.

The night is sticky in the mouth, sultry and thin, like a yawn.

The candescent red pearl of the cigarette’s end bobs with Patrick’s each inhale. The smoke curls past his lips like wisps of grey fog, the humid wind carrying them off like fragments of a weary conscience.

Patrick shrugs. Inhales deeply, his eyes trained lazily on the sky above.

You’re far enough from him, now, that when you look at him, he’s a strange tableau all on his own. This boy not yet a man, scantily wrapped in vivid blue, his too long legs and too large feet and too farfetchedness. He stands against the hellscape of Sunny Skies. Sickly yelloworange streetlights casting looming shadows that writhe like living things on the ground.

His lips and fingers still glean with the greased detritus of his cold steak dinner.

“Night before a match?” you ask then, and you find yourself following his gaze heavenward. The sky is effectively starless, but you appreciate the deep shade of indigo. “Doesn’t seem smart.”

“Smart,” he echoes.

He reaches up to pinch the cigarette, takes another drag before tugging it off his lips and flicking some ash off. You watch how the smouldering grey specks float down to the ground before dissolving into nothing.

When you look up at him he is looking at you.

“It’s not Wimbledon,” he says, like he’s breaking the news to you, a meandering coil of smoke swirling from his now halfway smirking mouth, the plume veiling the dim streetlight glow in an almost tender way. His voice is kind of loud, when he’s speaking to you now, because there’s a few feet of parking lot between you, but it’s quiet enough that he could just talk normally, if he wanted. But he doesn’t. He says, loudly, pointing at you with the brilliant orange end of the cigarette, “Helps me relax.”

He shrugs again, brings it to his lips again, and slowly turns around. And you think he’s hiding, but he’s made a full rotation by the time he exhales, the smoke streaming out his lazy smile and billowing all around his face, so you suppose not.

“It’s mostly a mental game,” he says, gesturing with the cig again, bringing it close to his temple in a way that makes your brows knot in slight concern, “Tennis. I could be the most disciplined guy ever—“

The concern in your furrowed brows turns to dubiousness. “Could you?”

“—could cut out drinking, cut out smoking, eat all the green shit, sleep at nine. But if I’m fuckin’ pulling my hair out about stepping onto a court, I’m fucked.”

You think he has a point. You think you remember a therapist, at some point, saying something about compartmentalising. But you don’t really know what that means. You stopped seeing her after three sessions, anyway, so who are you to cast judgement on discipline.

Still, “Where did you say you’re ranked again?”

Patrick chuckles at that, a slight nod as if to say touché. He takes another deep drag, the ember smoldering bright for a moment before the smoke spills past his lips again.

“Two hundred and one,” he says, and he’s ostensibly unwounded by this sentiment.

“Not exactly Federer or Djokovic,” you say, and it seems like he’s strolling towards you now.

“You want a good show tomorrow?” he says, hiking a hand into the waisthigh pocket of the robe.

“Oh, I expect one.”

He pauses, closer now. Cocks his head at the can in your hands.

“You want that?”

You snort, hide it behind your back as though he’s got object impermanence.

“You can have it if I see you win tomorrow.”

Patrick scrunches his nose up at this, like a kid who’s smelled something nasty and doesn’t know how to keep it off his face, but he’s really just considering, and maybe disgruntled at the dissipation of your giving mood. But he tilts his head to the side, raising his brows like he’s conceding.

Then, looking down at the robe.

“You want this?”

You laugh, “Yes?” you say, like it’s obvious.

But he seems surprised, “Still?”

“Yes!”

“I’m naked!”

“I’ll run it through wash twelve times. It’s mine.”

He throws his head back, making a real show at being putout by this. A protracted groan of longsuffering leaves his lips.

And now you’re really laughing. “You can buy your own with your prize money. Warm beer and a new robe, that’s the height of luxury.”

He takes his hand out of the pocket, claps it hard against his chest as if wounded, and his lips shape around the cigarette in a way that’s almost artful. He takes a long, terminal inbreathe. Drops the cig. Crushes it beneath the sole of his foot. Faces away, and all you see is a large, cascading cloud, swishing away from him and out into the night.

“First my beer,” he turns around, “Then my robe. What next? My car keys? You’re gonna take my car keys and hold them hostage until I win.”

You make a face of sort of abject disbelief, though you’re still smiling.

“My beer,” you say, slowly, like you’re speaking a different language, eyes still sort of manic with the shock of his gall, “And my robe.”

The robe in question is now halfway open, but then he seems unconcerned with modesty. The dark hair on his chest looks almost silver beneath the street lights, the faint glimmers of water still clinging to his skin catching aglow.

“That’s a real shame,” he says, and he’s walking towards you, the hand he had slapped in his chest to show you how you’d spurned him now stroking the soft material of the robe with a carelessness that borders on intimacy, “I feel like it brings out my eyes. Don’t you think it brings out my eyes?”

Your gaze flicks from the robe, to his eyes, and back again. He’s standing in front of you now, and he’s sort of towering over you. He has an ease when he moves, like a stray cat or a rogue cowboy. Or something else. You suppose you can’t think of it.

“You can get another blue robe, Patrick.”

He shuts his eyes. He’s savouring your saying his name, or mourning the robe, or both. But probably the latter with how his fingers caress the lapel.

“One that fits, maybe. Definitely one with a higher thread cou… nt.” You hesitate. Because he’s singing again.

“Oh, what’ll you do now, my blue-eyed son?” he’s doing something with his face; something like he’s trying to feign a compelling hurt, but he’s smiling too hard. “What’ll you do now, my darling young one?”

You laugh, and he’s close enough to you that when your head falls forward it hits his shoulder, and your nose brushes against a plush outline of Hello Kitty, and he smells like cigarettes and motel soap and—well—you because of the robe.

“I’m going back out before the rain starts a falling! And it’s a hard—”

“Okay,” you say, because he’s getting louder, but you’re still laughing and grinning wildly.

“It’s a hard—sing it with me—it’s a…”

He holds the note. His eyes are still closed. You roll your eyes and you don’t step away from him, and you’re still holding the beer behind your back.

Your voice is low, but, “A hard rain’s gonna fall,” you supply grudgingly—well, you’re still smiling—and he throws his arm around your shoulder and pulls you against him and sings, loudly,

“It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall!”

“Okay,” you say again, pushing away from him, and having to sort of extricate yourself from his hold by slipping beneath his arm. “Very nice, you want some cash?”

“Whatever you can spare,” he says.

And you’re so intrigued by the way he looks at you. He has the sort of face that demands to be catalogued in intimate detail. His eyes crinkle at the corners now, in a way that makes them look almost wolfish.

“I love tennis,” he says, and he says it loudly, because you’re seven feet apart in an empty parking lot, and it makes it seem like he’s declaring something.

An empty Funyuns packet drifts by like a tumbleweed.

“What?”

“I love tennis. That’s why I do it.” He seems resentful, but resigned.

You hesitate, but when you open your mouth to speak again, he beats you to it,

“Doesn’t love me back though,” he’s shaking his head, sporting a huge rueful smile that seems to coruscate in the night, “Doesn’t love me back.” He huffs a sigh. “Story of my life.”

Across the lot, the two maintenance men emerge from your room.

Inside, the air conditioner blows frigid.

You're starting to think everything isn't half bad. You're a good person, letting a homeless man crash on the pull out couch in your dingy motel room, and you leave New Rochelle tomorrow. At this rate, you should extend an olive branch to Deirdre.

You brush your teeth. You change into your pyjamas, the satin of which Patrick is a little disappointed to see a lack of Hello Kitty printed on, but he doesn’t mention it.

He himself is now wearing a T-shirt, and a pair of boxers, and if he quite literally kissed the robe goodbye when he gave it back to you, then you don’t mention it.

And now he’s sprawled on the pull out couch, a thin sheet draped across his lower half. And you’re cross legged on the bed, the duvet gathered around you, and you’re doing your NYT word games because that’s part of your nighttime routine, even though you tell people it’s tea or reading or yoga. This is kind of like reading. You have to think about stuff.

What’s a five letter word that means ‘has a lingering soreness’?

Anyway, so, Patrick is sitting—kind of halfway laying—on the pull out couch. One arm behind his head and the other across his chest. And he’s wearing an expression that’s both intense and a little vacant, like he’s trying to read your mind.

Or like he’s having a silent argument with himself.

Or he’s just tired.

Yes, definitely tired, you think. His eyelids flutter, like they’re desperately trying to stay half open, and he’s sort of drifting in and out of awareness.

He’s quiet for a while, staring wearily into the ceiling like it houses the solutions to all the world’s problems.

And then he closes his eyes fully, and rubs the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.

Your own gaze follows that hand, his right hand—the hand not behind his head—the one that falls from his face back onto his chest, the one that’s rubbing his sternum like he hasn’t had a good sleep in years.

And he can tell that you’re staring. So he clears his throat and opens his eyes, catching yours. And you look away instantly. Maybe a little too quickly. Certainly a little too guiltily.

He smirks. He knows he’s caught you. And you keep your eyes averted, because you know that he knows. But you can feel his stare still on you. And you can sense a kind of curiosity in it.

Earlier when he’d said it—just a shame such a beautiful woman will be sleeping all alone in a massive bed—you’d laughed. You’d laughed it off. And you’d taken a bit of pride in being the sort of strong, independent woman who cannot be charmed into sharing a bed with a stranger.

But that had been then, and now it is—well—now, and the pull out couch, in retrospect, looks firm as stone. And here you are, sitting in this (comparatively, which must be emphasised) comfy bed, and, not for the first time, you feel like a heartless cow.

There are rings around his eyes, dark shadows like bruised flesh. And there’s just this look to him—something weary, but not just in that way that says he hasn’t been taking care of himself. It’s more an aching kind of weariness that’s sunk into the very marrow of his bones.

Patrick is watching you as your eyes flit from the bed, to him, and back to the bed. His eyes follow yours. The way he looks at you is vivid and penetrating. It makes you feel like he’s seeing all of you. But he still looks like he’s struggling to figure something out.

He lets his gaze linger for a moment longer, and then he sits up and leans forward, elbows resting on his knees and hands hanging limply between his legs.

Looking at the way his shoulders are hunched over and the way his neck kind of juts out when he cranes his head forward is kind of reminding you of a pigeon. Or maybe a falcon. No, probably a pigeon. But a handsome, scruffy, feral little pigeon, maybe. And you’re staring at him, trying not to focus too closely on any one part of him.

He rubs the back of his neck, lets his shoulders sag, and looks back at you, and now he has this kind of pleading look on his face.

And you can’t tell if it’s genuine or if he’s faking it to get what he wants, but there’s that veritable exhaustion in his eyes that’s making him look so vulnerable.

And so you say, “Get in the bed, Patrick,” and you say it like he’s been sitting there begging you relentlessly, even though this is the quietest he’s been all night.

He’s surprised. Surprised that you’ve suggested it, but that it was more a statement than a question. And he’s studying you intently again, and he’s trying to figure you out, and you’re trying to figure him out, and there’s a tension in the air that was there before but feels heavier now.

And he looks like he’s about to protest, like he’s going to put up some sort of token fight, but then he nods and says, “Uh, yeah, that’d be great, yeah,” and the relief in his voice is clear.

He scoots off the couch and walks towards you in these slow, silent strides, and when he’s standing in front of you, you look up at him—you forget, whenever he recedes, that he’s quite so tall—and he looks down at you, and there’s something expectant in his gaze, like he’s waiting for you to tell him that you were kidding, and he’s bracing himself for it.

His eyes flickering all over your face, you can see his individual lashes, and the freckle on his lip, the faint lines around his eyes, the way his nose is a little crooked, and you have to really look up at him, and that makes you feel a little small, a little vulnerable, and then he says,

“You’re serious,” like he just doesn’t believe you, like what he really wants to say is you’re shitting me, but he’s too tired not to be polite.

And you shrug. And you nod. Just once. A little nod, but it’s sincere. He can tell it’s sincere.

You do the stupid, twenty-year-old, wall-of-pillows thing. Because you refuse to go top-to-toe when he’s just been outside barefoot.

You peek your head over the pillows, like a child looking over the wall between two neighbouring gardens, and you look down at him. And he looks up at you.

He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly through his nose, but he doesn’t break eye contact.

You’re a little unnerved by how unblinking he is, but you don’t look away either, and you both just sort of linger there silently for a few moments more.

“What time do you need to be there tomorrow?”

And he looks away a second and furrows his brow in thought.

“Eight,” he says, and he looks back up at you, and you can tell that he’s trying to stay awake.

“I’ll wake you up at six,” you tell him, playing with a loose thread on the pillow, and you’re whispering very quietly like you and he are the last two kids up at a sleepover, “Maybe six thirty. I wanna shower first. Then we can go get breakfast, we can get, like—McMuffins or something. Then we’ll go to the country club.”

And he does something like a nod, though it’s a hardly discernible motion, and his blinks are getting longer with every beat. You don’t know if you should say more, so you just wait a moment, and he’s still staring at you. He’s still looking at you like that. His jaw a little bit slack. He looks a little less present each time he blinks, his eyes closing a little longer each time, and his eyelids are drooping.

But he’s got that look like he’s trying to read your mind. And then his brows sort of twitch.

And you give him a suspicious look and whisper, “What?”

But he just lets out a heavy breath of a laugh and gives a little shake of his head. And he’s got a small, amused smile on his face as his eyes fall shut, like he’s thinking, if you only knew.

#challengers #challengers fic #challengers 2024 #patrick zweig #patrick zweig x reader #patrick zweig x you #patrick zweig apologist #‘zweig’ is also five letters #patrick zweig and his dickensian grade poverty #he genuinely had it so grim #in fact i shed a tear #peter zeppelin #sally the motel receptionist #microsoft teams #hello kitty #bumfuck new rochelle #bitchy coworker deirdre #twitter is still canonically twitter because this is 2019

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ikeasharksss · 2 years ago

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hey im curious

feel free to rb & explain your answer in the tags!

#i will go first <3 #i reread my own fics all the time!!!#it's so fun!!#i am the target audience for every fic i have ever written #like even if it's a gift/for an event i write it bc i am genuinely interested in it #so of COURSE im going to enjoy looking back on those fics #i have uh 24 fics on ao3 now?#so i dont reread All of them #i mainly reread my longer fics bc i just have the most fun writing them #i encourage ppl to reread their own work bc #1 its fun to see how your writing has changed #(my writing has gone through So Much since i started in 2019 lol)#2 if you write for yourself then youll always love what youve written!#n e way thats my 2 cents #pls share w/ me i am very curious #thanks love ya #fanfiction #fanfic #<- promo tags ig

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santanasaintmendes · 4 months ago

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“might sound crazy but it ain’t no lie, baby bye bye bye”

part 6! to the Cosmic Girl Records

summary: the gang goes to watch the new deadpool and wolverine movie. . . without you? oh no, that can’t be right.

ollie bearman x reader & platonic!grid x reader

all photos are found on pinterest!

warnings: swearing, nothing too bad this time lol

a/n: wow. this took forever to finally get out bc i started so many other fics 😭 but here it is, it’s a bit short but enjoy!

landonorris has posted on his story:

liked by alex_albon, georgerussell64, charles_leclerc, carlossainz55, lilymhe and 5,292,402 others

landonorris: the gang is back 💪

tagged alex_albon and georgerussell64

view 11,482,493 comments

user1: uh oh, has y/n seen this yet 😬

alex_albon: 😰

georgerussell64: 😰

user2: may the 2019 rookies rest in peace 😔🙏

user3: rip lando he’s in for a mouthful

user4: why’s everyone freaking out

user5: just wait, give it a minute

unfortunatelyy/n: MF???

user5: and there it is.

unfortunatelyy/n: UMMM WHAT IS THIS

unfortunatelyy/n: WHAT HAPPENED TO OH I'M SORRY I CANT COME OVER FOR DINNER I’VE GOT A DOCTORS APPOINTMENT THIS FRIDAY

user6: OH NO.

user10: dawg’s dead fs this time 😔

user7: LANDO RUN WHILE YOU HAVE THE CHANCE 😭😭

user8: he’s probably left the country by now

landonorris: 😀

unfortunatelyy/n: PICK UP YOUR PHONE

landonorris: no.

landonorris: @alex_albon @georgerussell RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN

georgerussell64: YOU ASSHAT I TOLD YOU NOT TO POST IT

landonorris: YOU WERE LITERALLY THE ONE WHO TOLD ME TO POST IT

user9: oop 🫢

georgerussell64: i never took you for a LIAR

landonorris: @alex_albon you were there you believe me right?

alex_albon: . . . ummmm

landonorris: i see how it is i’m friends with a bunch of TRAITORS

user10: how does it feel to be betrayed by your best friends

alex_albon: 😶

unfortunatelyy/n: PICK UP YOUR PHONE

landonorris: omg i forgot about you

unfortunatelyy/n: oh you are so dead

liked by lilymhe, charles_leclerc, carlossainz64, alexandrasaintmleux, maxfewtrell, danielricciardo and 23,782,883 others

unfortunatelyy/n: whoever said revenge is best served cold clearly has never had chimichangas before

tagged landonorris

view 22,682,692 comments

user1: HELP SHES AT IT AGAIN 😭

user2: absolutely violated my poor boy 😔

user3: i fear he may never learn his lesson

landonorris: oh i hate you.

unfortunatelyy/n: just remember, you did this to yourself

landonorris: i hope you

user17: bro died mid comment

user4: his pr team got to him before he could ruin his life

unfortunatelyy/n: that’s what i thought punk

mclarenracingf1: 🖕

user5: LANDO?! 😭😭

user6: HE DID NOT LMAOO

user11: pr team probably took away his phone privileges so now he’s hacked into mclaren insta acc 😭

user12: lando rn: 🤓💻

user9: the side eye goes hard

user10: HELP WHERE DID SHE GET THESE PHOTOS

user14: she’s probably got a whole collection

| user15: mission: steal’s y/n phone

unfortunatelyy/n: 😓

user16: HELP HAHA

alex_albon: can you send me that second pic

unfortunatelyy/n: don’t even think about it, you’re next

alex_albon: 😨

alex_albon: @lilymhe your girlfriend is bullying me

user7: alex albon confirmed snitch

user13: at least he’s not in denial anymore

user8: can’t do nothing wrong in front of this guy otherwise next thing u know police are at your front door

liked by unfortunatelyy/n

lilymhe: do you deserve it

alex_albon: no?????

unfortunatelyy/n: HAH what a little liar

alex_albon: why do you hate me

alex_albon: no wait don’t answer that

alex_albon: wait i’m sorry

alex_albon: don’t embarrass me please

alex_albon: answer my texts y/n

alex_albon: please y/n

liked by lilymhe, charles_leclerc, logansargeant, landonorris, georgerussell64 and 23,832,993 others

unfortunatelyy/n: shhhh, my common sense is tingling, something you clearly don’t have

tagged alex_albon

view 11,482,399 comments

user1: the deadpool references, she is not holding back 😭

user2: dayummmm pop off queen

user3: can’t wait till it’s george’s turn i just KNOW she’s going to use the 2023 intro pose

alex_albon: HOW MANY TIMES DO I NEED TO APOLOGISE

unfortunatelyy/n: @landonorris ?

landonorris: do i have to

unfortunatelyy/n: yep

landonorris: are you sure

unfortunatelyy/n: YES

landonorris: fine.

landonorris: she only takes apologies in cash no card 💅🎀💋

unfortunatelyy/n: mhm that’s right

user4: HELP

user5: girl has homie in a chokehold fr

user6: the second pic 😭

lilymhe: what is that first pic 🤣

unfortunatelyy/n: alex tried to steal my car so I ran him over

alex_albon: THAT DID NOT HAPPEN

landonorris: y/n doesn’t even have her licence

unfortunatelyy/n: HEY WHAT DID I SAY

landonorris: im sorry 😔

unfortunatelyy/n: as you should be

georgerussell64: why do i have a feeling that i’m next

unfortunatelyy/n: my goodness, he has a brain AND feelings would you look at that

georgerussell64: oh you think you’re so funny don’t you

unfortunatelyy/n: i do actually

georgerussell64: 🖕

unfortunatelyy/n: 😘

user7: they’re never beating the siblings allegations i fear

unfortunatelyy/n: negative. i would rather die than be related to this child

user8: child 😭 i’m wheezing

liked by landonorris, alex_albon, lewishamilton, charles_leclerc, olliebearman, carlossainz55 and 6,923,749 others

unfortunatelyy/n: you look like something i drew with my left hand, which is coincidentally my non dominant hand

view 3,482,429 comments

user2: I KNEWWW ITTTT AHAHAHA I CALLED IT BITCHES

user1: HELP Y/N WHERE DID U FIND THAT SECOND PIC 😭😭

unfortunatelyy/n: dm me 😌

georgerussell64: nO STOP

unfortunatelyy/n: whatcha gonna do old man

user5: OLD MAN IM WHEEZING 💀

user6: so is george

user7: 😭😭

georgerussell64: call in the reinforcements @landonorris @alex_albon

unfortunatelyy/n: AHAHAHAHAHHA

georgerussell64: why are you laughing . . . guys? guys where are you

| unfortunatelyy/n: their loyalty lies with me peasant

georgerussell64: i can never win around here

unfortunatelyy/n: im glad you’ve come to terms with that

georgerussell64: OH YOU SUCK

unfortunatelyy/n: that’s what you get for being an ass

georgerussell64: IT WAS LANDO’S IDEA

unfortunatelyy/n: GASP

unfortunatelyy/n: WHAT

unfortunatelyy/n: jk i already know

user6: HELP 😭

georgerussell64: then why are u getting mad at me 😭

unfortunatelyy/n: cuz you’re fun to bully

georgerussell64: blocked and reported 🛑

unfortunatelyy/n: its ok you’re not the first

landonorris: she’s right 😐

unfortunatelyy/n: ugliness rears it’s head once again

landonorris: oh you are the worst

unfortunatelyy/n: 😘

a/n: tysm if you got to the end, have an amazing day xoxo santanasaintmendes

taglist: @ilivbullyingjeongin

#olliebearman x reader #f1 smau #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f2 #f1 #cosmic girl records series #santanaspeaks<3 #george russell #lando norris #f1 imagine #f1 fic #lando norris x reader #george russell x reader #alex albon x reader #2019 rookies #deadpool and wolverine #Spotify

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thefloatingwriter · 4 months ago

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it is not a fix-it if stanley uris is still dead. it is not a fix-it if stanley uris is still dead! IT IS NOT A FIX-IT IF STANLEY URIS IS STILL DEAD!! IT IS NOT A FIX-IT FIC—

#dayne talks #dayne it-posting in 2024?? more likely that you think.#it #it 2019 #it 2017 #it 1990 #it chapter 1 #it chapter 2 #it stephen king #stanley uris #stanbrough #stenbrough #reddie #<- see it most commonly in reddie fics. love you guys though <3 #feel like i should preface this by telling everyone that has liked this that i am no longer an it blog lol

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klm-zoflorr · 8 months ago

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OH my god i just stumbled upon...

Jonah!Elias. Jonah!Elias. Elias headcanoned as Jonah Magnus. From in the ye olden days before it was confirmed. Careful thats a piece of history right there

#jonah magnus #elias bouchard #tma #the magnus archives #magpod #fic is from may 2019 if you wanna know #s4 finale was in october 19 #klm-zoflorr #tma spoilers

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chilling-seavey · 7 months ago

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Dreamland (ln4) - Part Two

↳ A/N Thank you to my girl @grandprixwinnerlandonorris for delivering me like 5000 pictures of Lando in a button up at my request and, as always, being the proofreader for this universe hehe

↳ [Loosely] Inspired By: 'Don't Wake Me Up' by Why Don't We

↳ Summary: With a freshly purchased copy of your most recent book in hand, Lando is one of the first in line for your book signing when your tour brings you to Bristol. Having dreamt about you for months, he’s more than nervous to actually speak to you in person but he certainly gets more than he bargained for

↳ Pairings: Fanboy Lando Norris x Famous!Author!Fem!Reader (NO use of y/n), University Student Lando x Internet Friend George x Internet Friend Alex

↳ Word Count: 20.7k

↳ Warnings: 18+, NSFW, not elaborating on details here for the sake of spoilers!, dirty talk gets nasty, Lando's so incredibly down bad for a girl who doesn't know he exists

PART ONE

Lando stared at his reflection in the mirror as he tucked his button-up shirt into his black slacks, eyeing up each inch of himself for the uncountable time that morning. He tugged at the fabric of his shirt that was bordering on a size too small, hugging his torso just a little more than he'd like, silently willing it to not make him look absolutely ridiculous. He tried to take a few deep breaths as he fed his black belt into the loops on his pants and fastened the buckle at the front but even his hands were feeling a little shaky with nerves.

As spring melted into summer, Lando’s semester was coming to an end just when your newest book tour was to begin. He had his eye out for any England dates the moment the tour was announced and much to his relief, there was a local date on the schedule. Much to his absolute horror, however, he had a final exam assigned that very same morning. With the help of his two closest internet friends, Alex and George, Lando planned that day down to the minute in order to attend his exam while still making the book signing in good enough time to get a good spot in line.

His 11:00 class was across campus and for the first time almost ever, Lando was the first one there. He looked far too dressed up for someone about to take a practical exam but he had some very important things to do right after class and thus was prepared to wear his best clothes no matter what. He had someone to impress, after all.

By 2:00 on the dot, the exam was complete and Lando - who had been waiting impatiently at his desk with a finished exam in front of him - nearly ran out the door the moment they were dismissed and he threw his papers on the professor’s desk on the way past. The university hallways were annoyingly crowded and Lando was pushing past people to make it to the transit station down the street to catch the 2:16 bus, his backpack slung over one shoulder in his haste.

It was a stunning day in comparison to England’s usually drizzly weather and the sun was tucked behind picturesque white clouds that made Lando feel like this entire day was a dream. He figured the weather cleared up into beautiful skies for the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He was anxious to see you in person after so many long months of distant adoration.

The bus was still at the stop when Lando ran across the street without a second glance to catch it, pulling his wallet out of his pocket as he did so and flashed the driver his transit pass as he hopped inside. Lando breathed out a soft ‘thank you’ to the driver for waiting for him and then he went to find a seat. The bus lurched forward and he caught himself on one of the poles before swinging himself into an empty aisle right by the large window to catch his breath.

It was a bit of a drive into the city so Lando pulled out his phone and turned on his data to refresh his messages on Instagram. The group chat was waiting for him.

alex_albon: Good luck, mister accountant! georgerussell63: Good luck mate! Get this shit out of the way and you’ll get the best reward later 😏 alex_albon: Hahahaha alex_albon: Mate are you done yet?? alex_albon: Did you make the bus?? georgerussell63: RUN LANDO RUN georgerussell63: Love how we don’t care about how his exam went, just that he catches this bus alex_albon: We have great priorities georgerussell63: Yeah I don’t want this wedding suit I bought to go to waste y’know alex_albon: Mate I’m literally so sad that we couldn’t go with him georgerussell63: I know georgerussell63: We look like shitty wingmen now alex_albon: Never! landonorris: MADE THE BUS!! landonorris: I don’t even remember what the fuck my exam was even about I was rushing but I made it landonorris: Waterstones, here I come!!!! alex_albon: YESSS!!! georgerussell63: LETS GOOOOO alex_albon: Fit pic?? What did you go with??

Lando glanced around him to make sure no one on the bus was looking as he snapped a picture of his chest and lap to show his outfit to his two friends.

landonorris: *sent an image* georgerussell63: Yesss mans looks dashing alex_albon: If she doesn’t jump at you across that table, there is something wrong with her landonorris: Oh my god there’s nothing wrong with her landonorris: Just wanna make sure I look my best landonorris: And she said once she likes guys in dress pants so… georgerussell63: You wore dress pants landonorris: Lol yep alex_albon: You’re a complete simp, Lan alex_albon: Love you for that landonorris: I just hope I don’t freeze up or embarrass myself landonorris: I’m going in all alone here lol alex_albon: You literally have all the backup from us through your phone georgerussell63: Definitely! georgerussell63: What’s your game plan anyway?? landonorris: Idk really landonorris: I don’t want to come across too fan-y landonorris: Tell her she’s a literal genius landonorris: Tell her that she’s stunning landonorris: That her books are the only ones that I actually read alex_albon: And that you want her to mother your children georgerussell63: HAHA landonorris: If it moulds smoothly into conversation, sure LMAO landonorris: I’m just trying to not get my hopes up for earth shattering conversation or anything but it’s hard georgerussell63: Just be confident and be you georgerussell63: You’re literally a great guy so she’s bound to see that

Lando glanced up from his phone for a moment as the warmth of the afternoon sun hit his face and he peered out the window at the busy city traffic that had slowed the bus to a near stop.

landonorris: Bruh we just hit traffic alex_albon: Oh shit how far are you georgerussell63: Can you walk it? landonorris: No way still too far

Lando pressed his face against the glass to attempt to see farther down the street if the traffic would clear but it wasn’t showing much at his angle.

landonorris: Shit I’m literally panicking landonorris: I need to see her today like I can’t miss this georgerussell63: Panicking won’t help just take some breaths alex_albon: I’m putting so many positive vibes into the universe right now georgerussell63: You’ll get there, don’t worry landonorris: The signing is over at 4 and it’s already pushing 3 landonorris: Oh my God I’m going to cry alex_albon: Noooo! No crying no crying alex_albon: Traffic always feels like it takes longer than it actually does georgerussell63: Yeah! Just go over your gameplan a bit! Distract yourself alex_albon: You have the book with you already right landonorris: Yeah ofc landonorris: Bought hardcover off her amazon site last week landonorris: Honestly this was her best one yet georgerussell63: You say that about every book she releases lol landonorris: Mate no this time I mean it landonorris: There was this chapter that was so fucking hot I had to take a cold shower after georgerussell63: PFFF omfg alex_albon: No spoilers!! I haven’t read it yet landonorris: Haha okok sorry landonorris: Hurry up though because I want to talk about it with someone georgerussell63: Mate I graduate in a week and then I’ll read it I swear alex_albon: We didn’t have to rush to read it because we’re not the ones about to MEET HER georgerussell63: AYYYY landonorris: 🥰🥰

The next stop that was called through the bus speakers was Lando’s - much to his relief - and in quick surprise he reached up to pull the cord to request the stop. He slid his phone back in his pocket and stood up with a secure hand on the bar as he walked towards the doors before the bus had even stopped, already far past impatient to get to his destination already. When the doors slid open, he called his thank you to the bus driver and hopped out onto the busy Bristol sidewalks in the afternoon sun.

landonorris: brb finally on foot now

Since living outside the city for most of his life, Lando was familiar with his way around and he barely even needed the directions from his phone to help guide him towards the nearest Waterstones bookstore. Well, also partially due to the fact that he had gone over his route almost every day since the book tour dates and locations were announced.

Lando reached the book store just after 3:00 and there was still an insanely long line looping from the front doors of the store and down the sidewalk. Lando paused in place for a moment, his heart sinking at the time in comparison to the number of people still waiting, and it wasn’t until a stranger bumped him out of the way that he snapped back into place. With a shaky breath, Lando hurried down the line and took spot at the end behind two girls who were about his age as well. They each held copies of the new release and were flipping through it together and talking between them about the plot.

Lando cleared his throat nervously and leaned slightly towards them, “Excuse me, this is the line for the singing, right?”

They both looked back at him with smiles suddenly flat as if his interruption was distasteful, and they gave him a look up and down, lingering on his scuffed up white Vans on his feet.

“Yeah.” one answered finally.

Lando pulled a tight smile and nodded once, “Great. Thanks.”

He felt a little stupid standing in a line of teenage and young adult women as the only few males were so clearly only there to accompany their girlfriends. But the momentary out-of-place feeling was soon replaced easily by nervous excitement as Lando caught a glimpse of the sign on the front window of the store that showed your most recent professional headshot and the announcement of the book release and signing; “TODAY ONLY!” it read.

Lando was nearly silently begging to make it inside, to at least get a glimpse of you in the flesh, although a small part of him was rising with so much nervousness that he kind of hoped he wouldn’t have to face you. He didn’t want to run away now, not when he came so far.

landonorris: *sent an image* landonorris: In line now!! Look how fucking long this thing is alex_albon: She’s going to be saying that about you someday! georgerussell63: ALEX LMAO landonorris: Pfjfjf stop omg landonorris: I’m literally the only guy here though georgerussell63: That’s good georgerussell63: Makes you stand out! alex_albon: More those stunning good looks already do georgerussell63: You are damn right, Albono 😌🔥 landonorris: I’m so fucking nervous boys georgerussell63: Blimey you know he’s serious when our jokes don’t make him laugh alex_albon: Focus on that confidence!! You got this mate

The line was moving slowly but surely and Lando was soon stepping into the front vestibule of the store. He swung his backpack around to unzip it and pull out his hardcover copy of the recent release and then zipped his bag back up again. His was one of the only few hardcovers in line - he noted that the girls directly in front of him and behind him had paperbacks - and that fact brought a strange sense of pride to his consciousness. There weren’t too many people in line behind him as time was drawing closer to closing but the distance that Lando still had to the signing table was vast and his nervousness of meeting you was starting to mould into nervousness that he wouldn’t meet you.

He was too anxious to even check his group chat messages and he tried to stay as in the moment as possible, rising up on his tiptoes to see if he could get a glimpse of the table where you had been sitting for the last three hours. Other fans rushed past him on their way out the door, bearing signed copies of books and over-the-table selfies on their phone screens and Lando tried not to let the jealousy overcome him. Impatient jealousy wasn’t a good look and Lando tugged anxiously at the front of his collared shirt a little to get some air across his body, hoping he wasn’t about to nervous-sweat through his shirt. That would have been embarrassing.

The line inched up some more and as Lando’s spot moved into the store completely and past the main aisle towards the lounge, he was able to spot you in the distance. It was almost like he scared himself at the fact that he saw you and he dropped back down onto his flat feet from his tiptoes with a soft gasp, eyes wide, heart racing. The two girls in front of him gave him a weird look before turning back to their conversation. After his initial shock, he rose up onto his tiptoes again to see over the shelves of books he would never read across the store and let his eyes find your table at the head of the line.

You were in a black blazer and an emerald green buttoned blouse and your hair fell in natural waves over your shoulders and Lando swore to himself that you looked even more beautiful in person than on Instagram. He clutched your novel to his chest and rested back on his feet again, biting his smitten grin to the carpeted floor of the bookstore. He didn’t want to look away from you as if he had to soak up each second like it was precious. He didn’t have long and who knew when he was going to see you again.

As quarter to four approached, the line felt no shorter and Lando was getting antsy and his feet were getting sore from waiting around for so long. He was about at the spot where he didn’t have to lean to get a good look at you and his eyes stared right at you almost without blinking like the simple sight of you put him in a trance. It almost felt like he was dreaming.

You were so happy, smiling at every person who passed over their copy of your book for a signature and talking to them graciously and modestly accepting compliments. Lando swore your polite little laugh was the sweetest sound and he was completely yearning to just get to the front of the line already.

But then another woman approached you at your table and leaned down to whisper something to you as you smiled in parting with the girl who just received her book back. You nodded to the woman who Lando recognised as your assistant from a few of your Instagram stories and then you stood up from your chair to address the crowd.

“Sorry, guys, I know you’ve been waiting a while but I have to take a call really quickly. Give me a few minutes…I’ll be right back!”

Lando swore his heart nearly stopped in the momentary fear that your initial apology was about to be followed with a ‘times up’ but he took a deep breath and checked the time. It was 3:53 but he would wait for you for as long as you needed, he didn’t mind one bit.

He opened Instagram again for the first time in a little bit and checked the messages from his friends,

alex_albon: Any updates for us?? georgerussell63: Yeah how close are you? alex_albon: Lando?? georgerussell63: Omg he’s probably talking to her right now alex_albon: He probably is alex_albon: I’m literally so excited for him georgerussell63: This is insane!!!! landonorris: She’s so beautiful landonorris: Not at the front yet but close alex_albon: Jeez that’s a long line georgerussell63: It’s almost 4…are they going to cut you off?? landonorris: Idk idk idk landonorris:

Lando’s attention was pulled from his messages to the conversation of the girls who stood in front of him in line.

“We’ve literally been waiting for an hour and she just blows us off for a fucking phone call.”

“What a bitch.”

“Everyone with a blue check on Instagram is the fucking same.”

“So entitled, honestly, she takes our money and then dips.”

Lando spoke up before he could even think, jumping strongly in protectiveness, “Hey. Don’t say that.”

The girls turned to him with mirrored expressions of annoyance and surprise at his sudden interruption.

Lando continued, “She literally just had to take a call. Can you give her a few minutes? She’s been sitting here all day for us.”

One of the girls snorted in sarcastic amusement at Lando’s defence, “Okay, whatever.”

The other added, “Do what you want, but I’m not waiting here like a fucking lameass follower for her to take a phone call like she’s entitled to make us stand around like sheep.”

They both didn’t give Lando a second look before they were stepping out of line and walking right out of the store. A few more people did the same as 4:00 came and went and it honestly shocked Lando that they weren’t ready and willing to sit by and wait a few more minutes for her…shocked that a few people thought it was a ruse that she played off to leave early. But Lando waited even as the line thinned. He would wait until store closing if he had to.

By the time you returned to the table, there were only six more people in front of him and one behind him and Lando was trying so hard not to grin ear to ear at simply the sight of you. As if nothing was different and the line wasn’t measly now, you still looked just as content there at your table with a sharpie in hand, offering casual conversation to each person who approached.

It was nearly 4:30 by the time Lando was next in line and as if reality hit him all at once, his feet wouldn’t move the moment your eyes locked with his.

“Hey.” you said sweetly.

Lando’s left foot scuffed over the carpet in an attempt to walk and then he forced himself towards you, “Hey.”

Despite his racing heart, he was grinning so wide and his obvious excitement had you smiling right back from your chair as you held out your hand to take his book.

“How are you?” he asked nervously and passed over his copy of the novel.

“I am doing well, thanks so much for asking.” you replied easily.

He watched you carefully as you set the novel down so gently on the wooden table top, perfectly square with the edge.

“A hardcover. They’re my favourite too.” you said with a smile and brushed your hand over the crisp clean cover and then opened it to the first blanket page. “Haven’t seen many of these today.”

“I noticed.” Lando said. “I don’t know why because your hardcover designs are just so fucking stunning. I don’t know who’d choose a paperback.”

You chuckled softly, “Exactly. Glad to know someone has taste.”

“It’s hard not to when you are literally a genius.”

His copy of your novel left open to the inside cover in front of you, you shared casual conversation for a moment - something he noticed about you was that you never rushed anyone when they were at the table with you. Lando didn’t want to take up too much of your time either, you were already over your time limit. But you listened politely to him, sharpie tucked between your fingers and wrist resting on the open book as he spoke.

“I don’t read, like, ever…but the moment I skimmed the first page of your first novel I was completely hooked. I couldn’t tell you a single thing about any other book in this entire store. You just write in a way that completely speaks to me like nothing else ever has.”

Lando didn’t even know what he was saying as his words tumbled from his lips for him.

“That is so kind.” you smiled bashfully. “I’m glad I could offer you some kind of entertainment in a style that you don’t normally turn to.”

“Entertainment? God, you offer me entire worlds. I wish I had an outlet as strong and promising as yours.”

“What do you do as your outlet?”

Lando hadn’t expected to talk about himself but of course he was going to answer your question,

“Oh, uh…golf, I guess? Racing? Video games…”

It sounded so stupid coming out of his mouth as he said it - how incredibly lame and boring.

“Racing? Like, cars?”

Lando’s smile brightened, staring right back at your pretty face, “Yeah, something like that.”

“That’s impressive…and it could make for an interesting plot. Maybe I should write a book about that…you might have just inspired me.” you wagged the end of your sharpie at him with a mischievous grin.

Lando’s cheeks turned a fierce pink and he scoffed bashfully, “Nah.”

“I mean it! If I ever need any race-related questions answered for research purposes, I know who to call.”

Lando laughed lightly, “Yeah, for sure.”

You glanced back down to the book and tapped the blank page awaiting your pen, “Who am I making this out to?”

“Lando.”

“Lando.” you repeated in the most gentle tone that it nearly made his knees weak. He had dreamt about how his name would sound coming from your lips for so long but hearing it directed at him so softly, so tenderly, he had to refrain from clutching his hand to his heart in sheer adoration. He also had to refrain from imagining you breathing it into the air just like that in bed but that was a bit more dramatic.

“How’s your day been? I got so excited about the hardcover I forgot to ask.” you chuckled as he watched you sign his name in silver sharpie on the dark inside page and scribbled a little message before signing it yourself at the bottom.

“Oh, my day is amazing now.” Lando said easily, “Bristol is usually so disgustingly dreary but I’m glad it’s sunny for you.”

“I’ve heard it’s usually quite rainy. Guess it’s a bit of luck then.” you smiled up at him.

You closed the cover of his copy of your novel and held it back out to him.

“Thank you so much.” he rushed out as he took it back. “I’m sorry you had to stay after your time.”

“Oh my gosh,” you waved your hand like it was no big deal, “there’s nothing I love more than this so it’s my pleasure. Plus staying around longer means I got to meet you, so…”

Lando literally blushed pink so obviously that you could see the hint of colour across his cheeks and his little bashful smile had you grinning up at him. It wasn’t often you had boys come out to see you and certainly not the likes of interested and attractive young men who actually read your content. It nearly made you feel just as pink in the cheeks too.

“Did you want a selfie or something?” you asked.

Lando stumbled over words for a moment as he had completely forgotten that he could ask that and he pulled out his phone, “Yeah, sure.”

He carefully hid the fact that you were his wallpaper from your sight as he opened his camera app and turned to have his back to you. You leaned up to rest slightly over the table and smiled to the camera as he clicked a few pictures.

“Oh, I look…like shit.” he mumbled to himself as he turned back around to face you once more and you sat down.

He hadn’t expected you to hear but you did so you offered an honest polite, “You don’t look like shit at all, I think you look really good.”

Lando literally breathed out a shocked, “Oh my gosh.”

You giggled softly at his surprised expression.

“Th-Thank you.” he stumbled out and petted a habitual hand over his hair-sprayed curls as he looked down at his outfit.

“I love the slacks.” you gestured across the table.

Lando nearly lost it at the fact that you were basically staring at his dick and he held the hardcover book in front of himself casually, and answered with a passé, “Thought I’d actually dress a little nice for your event.”

“Yeah? Well you look very nice.” you complimented, “A very successful choice.”

“Thanks.”

You held up your index finger to him, “One sec.”

The one person behind him was still waiting close by and you held out your hand welcoming them to come over. Lando shifted to the side a little and tried to control the heat of his cheeks as you took the next person’s name. It was a mother waiting for the signing as a gift for her daughter so she didn't really need to stick around long after simply getting a signature and after a few shared pleasantries, the lady was off and Lando was the only one left.

“Sorry, I just thought I’d get that poor mother on her way.” you chuckled.

“For sure.” Lando smiled tightly.

“Looks like that’s my day then.” you sighed, stretching your arms above your head for a moment, and then leaned under the table to pull out an empty cardboard box. You started to load your leftover copies into it - only a few remaining - and Lando jumped at his opportunity.

“Do you need help packing up?”

Surprised at his offer, you glanced back up at him with a little laugh, “I’m not going to make you do my work.”

“I really don't mind. I don’t have anywhere else to be.”

You thought for a moment and Lando nearly held his breath in anticipation for your answer.

Finally, “Alright…if you’re sure.”

He honestly grinned and tucked his book and his backpack on the ground carefully beside one of the table legs and started to stack up the remaining few novels as you tidied your pamphlets and extra sharpies. Your hired assistant took the half filled box across the store to return it to the cashier for re-stocking, finally giving you and Lando a moment just the two of you on opposite sides of the now empty table.

You stood from your chair and tucked it back under while you checked your phone habitually and Lando picked up his things from the ground. He tucked his book in front of his slacks again coolly.

“Where are you headed now? More publicity meetings?” Lando asked.

You glanced up at him as you slid your phone into your purse with a sigh, “Nope. Dinner and then hotel. Quiet evening for one tonight.”

“Your assistant doesn’t join you?”

You chuckled softly and picked up your tote bag to sling it over your arm, “No she’s kinda older than me so she does her own thing. I don’t mind. Means I can explore the city as I wish.”

“Do you…want some pointers on the best places in Bristol? I’m kind of an expert.” Lando offered.

“You want to be my food tour guide?” you chuckled, “I was just going to eat at the McDonalds down the street. I’m not much of an extensive-palette kind of eater.”

“Oh, neither am I.” Lando agreed quickly, passing off the fact that he already knew that about you quickly, “But if you’re in Bristol, you gotta do it the right way. You like Italian?”

Your eyes narrowed at him in thought and you cocked your head to the side slightly, a smile teasing at your lips, “My favourite.”

“Then you have to try Giovanni’s. It’s not far from here. Like a kilometre north or so. Their pizza is, like, incredible.”

You contemplated his offer with a casual, “Just a kilometre from here?”

“Yeah. You can’t miss it. Any taxi driver will know if you just give them the name.”

“Yeah?”

“Yep.” Lando swayed onto the balls of his feet and then back, his nervous eyes lingering on your unreadable expression of amusement as you stared back at him. He pressed his luck, “I can…show you if you want.”

You smiled at him softly as you looked at him down the bridge of your nose, “I dunno…I don’t really know you.”

“You know my name. What else is there to know?”

You laughed lightly, “You could be a murderer.”

“So could you.”

“Touché.”

Lando figured he was grasping for straws with his offer and hardly even took himself seriously until suddenly you were sitting across from him at a table for two at Giovanni’s Italian Restaurant. He hardly remembered the taxi ride from the bookstore or even you agreeing to have dinner with him honestly and part of him felt so hazy like this was some sort of cruel realistic dream. His phone was the last thing on his mind but he managed to send a quick update to the group chat as the hostess led you to your table.

landonorris: Giovanni’s landonorris: dinner landonorris: ttyl

With his phone on silent, he was ignorant to his best friends’ spam of confused messages as they knew he should have been finished with the signing by then and they had yet to receive proper updates of how it went. Usually Lando messaged them while he was eating his meals so his sudden disappearance was certainly odd.

But how could he even think about looking at his phone when he had you sitting across from him in the warm light of the cozy Italian restaurant to look at. It was no fancy venue but it was better than a McDonalds and Lando had to constantly remind himself that this wasn’t a date but this also wasn’t a dream.

You looked so casual skimming the menu, tucking your hair behind your ear before resting the side of your finger against your lips in thought. They were little habits that social media didn’t permit him to see and now he just couldn’t get enough of you, sitting right in front of him in your business casual outfit and free flowing hair. He felt greedy for wanting you closer.

The waiter approached the table to take drink orders and you glanced up to place yours first, “Whatever your house wine is…I’ll have a glass of that, please and thank you.”

“May I see your ID?”

“Of course.” you fished it out of your purse and passed it to the waiter to double check.

When he handed it back to you and turned to Lando, Lando shifted nervously.

“Just…a water, thanks.” he asked. Playing it safe.

You tucked your ID back into your purse and offered a casual conversation, “Maybe I should have had water too but after a full day of work, I think I deserve a drink.”

“You do.” Lando chuckled, “You deserve to celebrate.”

“If I used that excuse anything like this signing happened, I may be considered to have a drinking problem.”

Lando chuckled lightly, sharing in your smile, and when you turned back to your menu, he kept staring at you.

“You said the pizza is good here, right?”

He hummed in agreement as he rested his elbows on the table and his chin in his hand and shamelessly kept his eyes on your entire being. The warm light looked so good on you and it took a lot out of him to not think about salacious thoughts that often rose to the surface when he stared at a picture of you for too long. He was just lucky that the table covered enough of his lap.

You glanced over at him with your offer, “Do you want to share one?”

As if in kindergarten again, the concept of sharing brought a flutter to his heart, “Yeah, sure. That sounds great.”

The waiter soon returned and you let Lando choose the pizza to order and with that placed, you were left with your drinks and a moment of silence. You sipped your wine and he sipped his water, keeping his eyes on the table.

“Did you not want something better than water?” you asked.

Lando shifted in his chair and chuckled awkwardly, “Uh, no, that’s okay. I’m not much of a drinker…don’t really know what to order that won’t taste like shit.”

Your eyes widened, “Shit, oh my God, wait, you are of age, aren’t you?”

“I’m twenty.” Lando assured you quickly.

You set your hand to your chest, “Jesus, okay, good, I almost had a heart attack there…I saw the frightful headlines already.”

“Like what?” Lando laughed, “Calling you a cougar?”

“Oh, gross.” you shuttered, “Yeah, prying on the youth of my following.”

Lando rested his chin in his hand again and he smiled over at you, “Nope, I’m perfectly legal.”

“Good.” you chuckled. You glanced around and then slid your glass across the table to him, “Try some if you want.”

Lando’s eyes went wide and he sat up a bit straighter, “You sure?”

“Yeah.”

Lando sent you a small smile across the table and he lifted the wine glass from the table and took a sip. He licked his lips as he set it back down and you left it between you to share.

You smiled warmly over at him. He wanted to look back at you but your lingering stare made him nervous and he sat with his hands folded on his lap with his gaze downcast to the tabletop. The restaurant bustled around you with other patrons talking and cutlery clinking against plates but Lando felt like the two of you were in your own little bubble.

Breaking the silence between you, you spoke, “Do you perm your hair?”

Lando’s head snapped up to look over at you in surprise, “What?”

You gestured across the table to him, “The curls? Is that your natural hair? It’s a really nice style on you.”

Lando was speechless for a moment, mouth literally parted slightly in shock, and when he regained himself, he spoke his honest confession to you, “Yeah. Yeah, this is my natural hair. I’m surprised you like it.”

You raised your eyebrows, “Why surprised?”

“I dunno,” Lando mumbled, tracing the rim of his water glass with his finger, “I figured you were, like, not really into the messy curls kinda look.”

“Why?” a smirk tugged at your lips, “Because of my boyfriend?”

Lando looked to his plate without a word as his heart clenched with that awful tightness that came with the heartache of the mention of your relationship. He was hoping you wouldn’t bring him up - guess it was too good to be true.

“Wanna know a secret?” you rested your forearms on the table to lean towards him, “I trust you.”

He glanced back up at you curiously and nodded lightly, hazel eyes wide with wonder of what you were going to admit to him.

“He’s not actually my boyfriend. It’s a PR relationship.”

Lando could have fucking rejoiced out loud in that moment and he audible sighed in near relief as he slouched back in his chair, “Oh my gosh, I knew something was fishy.”

“We were dating for real but when it kind of fell off, our managers kind of just said we should keep it going because the followers shipped us or whatever the hell. I’m never around him if we can help it. It’s just awkward now.”

Lando, surged with a strange feeling of protectiveness, leaned over the table himself too, “Why would they make you do that if it makes you uncomfortable?”

“I dunno. It’s fine though. My readership goes up from overlap with his fans and whatever so the selfish part of me benefits.” you chuckled with a shrug.

“But you can’t publicly date then? Since the world thinks you’re taken?”

“No, but that’s okay.” you waved your hand casually as if to brush it off, “I’m kinda too busy for all that right now with my book tour and stuff.”

You both reached for the glass of wine at the same time and shared nervous giggles when your hands brushed. You offered him the next sip and he ignored the warm reminisce of your touch as he lifted the glass to his lips and sipped the bitter woodsy red wine before passing it over to you. He couldn’t tell if his cheeks were red from simply being around you or if they were red from the bit of alcohol but you were no different. There was something so intriguing to you about Lando, this random young man who lined up for your book signing and seemed to care far too strongly about you and your work for his own good. It flattered you greatly and you didn’t want to see him go.

By the time your pizza had arrived and you were well into casual dinner conversation, any hints of shyness had disappeared as you were both falling into comfort in each other’s presence…maybe the wine helped a little with that, just enough to take the edge off. Lando was talking about his degree he was working towards and life at college while you shared the best stories of how many times you were declined trying to get published for the first time. With only just less than a year between you, you had quite a bit in common from growing up and although life took you in different paths, it was interesting to hear the other side of things. You had to admit it was a nice change from the common whiny influencers you had gotten too used to sharing conversations with.

Lando could draw you in with just his voice, soft yet just perfectly deep, he was only enticing you more and more with each sentence. Not to mention the way he spoke about your writing like he was just as proud of it as you were, rambling on for so long about each book, each character, each deeper meaning, and you went back and forth about your writing until the pizza was gone and the shared glass of wine was empty and the sun had gone down over Bristol.

The waiter set the bill on the table between you, tucked neatly in a leather pouch. You reached for your purse but Lando was already grabbing the bill and giving it a skim over.

“I got it.” you offered.

“No, it’s okay.” Lando reached into his backpack that was resting at the foot of the table beside him and he pulled out his wallet with his credit card.

“Don’t be ridiculous, I can pay for dinner.” you chuckled.

Lando smiled boastfully over at you, “Nope. My city, you’re a guest. I’m paying.”

“Well then I wouldn’t have ordered such an expensive glass of wine!” you tisked.

“Then it was very good that we shared it!” Lando whispered across the table at you as the waiter returned with the debit machine.

You only smiled at him and shook your head in defeat as Lando paid the bill on his student income and he did so proudly, without hesitation. When the waiter left once again and wished you both a pleasant night, you thanked him and then looked across the table to each other.

Lando’s heart ached slightly at the thought of having to say goodbye as the night came to an early conclusion but he smiled softly at you, ignorant to how you were thinking the exact same thing.

“I’m just going to sneak off to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.” you said.

Lando nodded you off and watched you walk across the still busy restaurant to the washrooms. He finally pulled his phone from his pocket for the first time all evening, having missed an unreadable amount of pestering messages from his two best friends. He only took the time to read the most recent two,

alex_albon: Lando what the fuck mate where are you?? It’s almost 7 georgerussell63: Holding back the updates is one thing but let us know if you are at least back at your dorm landonorris: I took her for dinner landonorris: Can’t really talk but I swear I’ll tell you everything the second I leave georgerussell63: WHAT alex_albon: ARE YOU JOKING?? landonorris: IM LITERALLY NOT JOKING landonorris: WE SHARED WINE AND EVERYTHING alex_albon: HOLY SHIT LAN georgerussell63: WAIT IM LITERALLY FREAKING OUT georgerussell63: How did that happen??? Oh my GOD MATE your plan literally WORKED alex_albon: Get her number!! Or at least her follow on ig! landonorris: I'm gonna try

When he saw you emerging from the bathroom again he typed a quick reply to his friends before locking his phone again and tucked it into his pocket.

landonorris: Gtg talk later

You returned to the table and sat back down, sending him a polite smile as you did so. Always one to take notice of every little thing about you, Lando silently noted your tidied up hair and re-applied lipstick and his heart did a little jump at the concept that maybe you tried to look good for him.

“What’s your plan for the rest of the night?” you asked casually.

Lando shrugged, “Nothing. I was just going to go back to my dorm and make dinner by myself and eat it by myself and watch Netflix by myself.”

“Wow, our plans sounded really similar then.” you teased.

“Yeah, apparently.” Lando chuckled.

You both hesitated a moment, glancing out towards the front windows of the restaurant that looked out over the darkening city streets of Bristol. Lando felt at a loss for words, nervous suddenly, and he was thankful to still have his water on the table as he took a long drink. He was just so handsome to you and only seemed more so as the night went on from being the hesitant fanboy at your book signing to the young man you shared a glass of wine with at dinner.

Lando looked back at you and you shared tight, slightly awkward smiles as if neither of you wanted to say goodbye first. You weren’t someone to often go out with strangers so this was uncharted territory for you and Lando seemed just as uncertain of himself in a similar sense. You just kind of wanted to see how far you could push it without crossing boundaries.

“Listen,” you cleared your throat bravely, looking right at him with a hopeful smile, “I dunno if you’re comfortable with this but…if you want, you can come back to my hotel with me. Maybe we could stick with our individual ‘watch Netflix’ plans but…together.”

“Really?” Lando’s eyes widened. “Are you sure?”

“If you want to.”

“Yes. Absolutely.” he assured you almost quickly.

“Okay.” you bit back a smile. “I’ll call an Uber.”

“Sweet.” Lando grinned, although he had to turn away from smiling too wide.

Maybe this was his chance, he thought, to actually make a bit of a move; why else would you be inviting him to your private hotel room after all? This was the last thing he had prepared for that morning and he had no clue what he was going to do with himself if anything went any farther than even a kiss. He didn’t want to absolutely embarrass himself in any way, certainly not around you. His inexperience was apparent and he was just hoping he could play it off enough to not look like a clumsy idiot.

Waiting at the curb for your Uber, Lando was standing right at your side. He intentionally stood close to you until he could almost convince himself to reach out and brush his fingers over yours if he really wanted to. He had his backpack slung over one shoulder and your purse and tote were on your opposite arm from him, your gaze looking back and forth down the street for the arrival of your Uber. Lando kept staring at you in the city light, disbelieving that he was really standing right there with you and about to go back to your hotel after a dinner for two. Life was unreal in that moment.

His eyes drifted down your side to where your hand rested casually at your side and he just had to reach out and brush his pinky against yours. You glanced over at him with a small smile and nudged him in return.

“You probably hear this a lot,” Lando mumbled, “but you’re so beautiful.”

His gentle words left an unmissable flutter in your heart and you bit your lip as you stared right back at him. Sure, you had been privy to bountiful comments on social media or haphazard compliments in passing over the last while you had been in the media spotlight, but none that sounded as genuine as Lando’s just did.

It was out of your mouth before you could think, “Do you mean it?”

Lando was taken back by your confirmation as if he couldn’t imagine you or anyone not knowing, “Yeah. Of course, I mean it. You’re literally the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Your Instagram does not do you enough justice because holy shit…”

He faded out when he caught himself rambling but you just smiled in near adoration at his sweet complimenting words that went straight to your heart and the flutter that warmed deep within your body. You didn’t want to admit that a near stranger was turning you on but he was so polite and genuine and handsome and you couldn’t help it.

“Can I kiss you, Lando?”

His breath nearly shuttered in his chest with the suddenness of his gasp, and he stumbled out a promised, “Y-Yeah-”

On the nearly empty quiet city street, you reached your hand up to link your finger in the collar of his shirt and you pulled him even closer. Lando wasn’t a stranger to kissing but he certainly hadn’t overhyped a kiss as much as he had in his thoughts about his first kiss with you. When your lips met for a moment, you both stood perfectly still as if to savour it, as if to not cross any unspoken lines between you. You were still strangers after all.

Lando’s fingers ghosted hesitantly over your waist as his lips locked with yours for a few long seconds and then pulled back just long enough to go in for one more together. The plushness of his sweet lips had your stomach in eager knots but you forced yourself into restraint as you broke your kiss after only a few seconds and rested your hand down against his chest, feeling his heavy heartbeat under your palm.

“Wow….” Lando breathed out of your kiss.

His eyes found yours under the streetlights and he licked his lips free of the taste of you left behind, lingering with the bitter reminisce of rich wine. He was thankful you were focused on his face because he no longer had your book in his hand to cover the front of his slacks that were now feeling much tighter around the crotch. It was pathetic really, how he got hard so fast and from so little, but to be fair he had been dreaming about that very moment for months.

You took your hand from his chest with a cheeky little smile of your own and turned back to the road as your Uber approached. Driven by greed, Lando reached out and linked his pinky in yours, just to keep you close as long as he could. You glanced back at him with a small smile before getting into the Uber and he followed behind you eagerly.

You knew to be discreet in public since your image was only growing with passing days so you had to let go of his hand when you got into the Uber, being extra cautious as the driver kept glancing in the rear view mirror at you. Lando clutched his backpack to his lap, arms wrapped around it, and his gaze focused all on you, not even bothering to be discreet about it. He was in complete awe of you but so innocent and ignorant to the tightrope walk it was to be in the public eye. To him, he could have said or done anything right there in the back of the car but you were silently praying he was smart enough to keep his mouth shut.

Lando liked to think he could read you well and your obvious tension the moment you stepped in the Uber had him on high alert. It was as if a switch had flipped in your persona and although you made sure to send him a small reassuring smile, you were clearly putting up a divider between you two. It made him nervous, treading in uncertain waters.

It was a fifteen minute drive to your hotel, crossing over the river that ran through the city and past the bookstore that only three hours before he was lining up cluelessly for your book signing. Lando swore this was a dream and his lips tingled with desire to kiss you again, to get his hands on you properly like he had always imagined. You looked so pretty in the passing city lights and he was so fucking hard.

When the Uber pulled up to the front of the hotel, you thanked the driver politely and you both climbed out of the backseat. You hopped up onto the curb with him and led the way towards the front doors of the Marriott guided by the red outdoor carpet. Lando felt like a true vip…even though he was embarrassingly trying to hide the obvious bulge in his slacks that he was surprised you were yet to notice. Gladly surprised, however.

At his side when you walked through the sliding glass doors, you whispered, “Don’t make it obvious.”

Lando nearly stumbled over the front carpet in surprise, “Make what obvious?”

“That we’re anything apart from, like, business partners.” you mumbled. “Don’t do anything to give anyone ideas.”

Lando shook his head quickly, his heart racing in his chest that maybe you thought you had something to hide with him, “Of course. Of course.”

The man behind the front desk glanced up as you walked in and he greeted you both politely. You offered him a just as pleasant greeting before walking as casually as you could towards the elevator bay. Lando couldn’t hide behind his backpack and still make himself look passé and it wasn’t until you were both safely alone in the elevator that he felt like he could breathe.

“To the outside world I have a boyfriend, y’know.” you explained, pressing the button for the sixth floor, “So bringing some random guy back to my hotel room can be seen as a little suspicious.”

“Yeah.” Lando agreed coolly as the door slid shut behind you and he looked up to the small screen that counted each floor passing by. He was desperate to figure out a way to tame his little situation before you noticed and it got embarrassing. The only bad thing about wearing dress slacks was that it made it so obvious.

You glanced over at him, a good few inches of space lingering between you, “You okay?”

Lando met your gaze cluelessly, that haze over his face as if he were in disbelief that this was real but then looked away again, “Yeah.”

“You got quiet on me.” you pointed out. “You can dip out whenever you want…if you’re uncomfortable or just wanting to go. I won’t be upset.”

Lando looked back at you quickly, “No, I don’t want to leave at all.”

“Okay.” you nodded gently, almost fearing that he was lying to you.

He could see that you were overthinking his answer so he told himself to suck it up and confess his truth, “I just really want to kiss you again…and I didn’t know if I should.”

“You can.” you offered as casually as you could muster despite the heavy beating of your heart.

You both looked at each other again, meeting gazes before dropping your eyes to each other’s lips as if out of habit. Lando didn’t need much more persuasive consent from you than that and he reached up to take your chin in his hand - like he had always dreamt of - and met you halfway for another soft kiss. You hummed gently against his lips, both of you lingering still for a moment before pulling back just quickly enough to move in for another, lips slotting together ever so slightly. His lips were pillow soft and nearly sweet, you swore, and you raised your hand up to slide over his chest and around the back of his neck.

Lando was nearly dizzy with shock as he kissed you more, parting your lips with his own to deepen it, sharing slow open mouthed kisses that had you nearly breathing into each other’s mouths. He had spent so long imagining your lips that the real thing was nearly sending him into cardiac arrest. It was everything he wanted and more and he cradled your jaw in his hand, caressing his thumb over your cheek tenderly as you stepped a little closer to him in the elevator.

Lando opened his eyes a little, as if having to double check that you were still really truly there with him, and he just smiled into your kiss at the sight of your pretty lashes resting on sweet cheeks. The elevator doors dinged as they slid open and you both pulled away from your kiss quickly, both grinning like fools, and you swiped the corner of your mouth with your pinky to make sure your lipstick wasn’t too smudged. Lando had a little bit of the reminisce of your re-application on his own mouth and he wiped it with the pad of his thumb just to see the warm pink colour that was smudged across his skin as if to prove his reality.

Your hand fell into his lazily and you linked your fingers together as you pulled him out of the elevator and onto your floor. Lando traipsed behind you with a lovestick grin all over his face, rubbing his thumb over your fingers that were tucked casually around his and he felt like a million dollars just from a single thirty second kiss.

As you fished out your room key from your purse - a task requiring two hands free - Lando greedily let his fingers trace the sinch of the blazer at your waist and down the black fabric to the slight curve of your hips. He made sure that no one else was in the hallway with you before he bravely swiped your hair over your shoulder and leaned in to kiss your neck.

“Oh fuck.” you giggled in surprise, squirming away from him a little.

“Sorry.” Lando hurried out, eyes wide.

“No, it’s okay.” you assured him as you swiped your key and pushed open the hotel room door for you both, “I’m just not used to someone trying to turn me on in the middle of a hallway.”

Lando’s cheeks flushed a brilliant red at your cheeky statement and he was literally at a loss for words, his mouth opening but nothing coming out. He was turning you on? His sudden speechlessness had you laughing breathily and you linked your fingers with his once more, swinging your joined hands between you for a moment in the open doorway.

When you looked at your hands, your eyes were drawn to the bulge in the front of his slacks that was more than obvious. You bit your eager lip and looked back at his face, “Wanna come in?”

“Fuck yes.” Lando blurted out, only making you laugh again as you pulled him into the room and let the door shut behind you.

The moment you were closed in the hotel room, you both moved in for more kisses, your hands sliding around the back of his neck and his wrapping around your waist. Once cautious and gentle, your kisses were moulding into impatient and hungry and you couldn’t help but lick your way into his mouth teasingly. Lando moaned softly into your kiss, raising a hand up to cradle your jaw again, and he gladly pushed his tongue against yours to meet you halfway.

He didn’t feel like a stranger to you anymore - to Lando, you never felt like a stranger - and driven by the lust that grew within you, you only seemed to crave him in ways you never would have expected when you met him only three hours earlier. He physically pushed you back against the wall just inside the door and at impact you were groaning pleasantly against his lips and tongue with his body pressed to yours. You seemed to fall into some sort of rhythm together with your heads tilted ever so slightly to the left to let your lips lock between messy tongue filled kisses, bodies almost moving ever so slightly against each other in time with your lips.

You tangled one hand in the back of his hair with ease and dropped your other to his waist to tug his body closer against yours until you could feel his erection poking against your thigh. Lando ground into you habitually, moaning into your kiss that was led equally between the two of you and his fingers pressed greedily into your hips under the material of your open blazer, his backpack still slung over his one shoulder.

You slid your hand down his neck to his chest and pushed him back from your lips for a moment to ask breathlessly, “Just checking that you are actually over eighteen, right?”

Lando was already moving his clumsy kisses down your neck, “Almost twenty-one. On Saturday.”

“Fuck, okay,” you breathed, tilting your head back to give him room to kiss your neck and he nibbled right up under your ear, making your knees nearly go weak. You tried to play off your question despite the arousing overwhelm that was growing inside of you, “Not that you look like a teenager…I just…gotta check.”

Lando didn’t even have time to laugh at that because he was so damn focused on what was going on and he could only mumble out an “I know” before pressing his fingers to your jaw to turn your lips back to his.

You both moaned into each other’s mouths, breathing in steady time, and you arched into him hungrily as your hand grabbed at the side of his neck. Lando’s arm snaked around your waist to hold you close just like that and his lips smacked wetly with yours, pulling more pleading moans from your throat with each tongue-led kiss. Your hips rubbed against his front slightly and his breath shuttered between kisses for a moment, fingers pressing tighter into your waist and he looked down between you to watch how close you stood together, still fully clothed.

“You got hard so fast.” you whispered.

Lando restrained himself from explaining that he had been growing hard from simply the sight of you since he first stepped foot in the bookstore that afternoon if not for simply looking at your pictures on Instagram over the last while. His eyes just focused on your lips, swollen from his kiss and smudged with your thin application of lipstick, and he spoke softly, “You’re just so fucking gorgeous…difficult not to get hard when you’re looking at me like that.”

He had so many smooth lines from his plentiful fantasies that involved you and of course he had to put them to the test before he got too in his head to remember any of them. That one seemed to work because you were giggling breathily and pulling him close by the side of his neck to lock your lips again. Lando swore you could take over every inch of his body and soul with ease but in that moment, he wanted nothing more than your mouth on his, kissing him like you were honestly meant to be there with your tongue working right up against his.

It was such a rush into the hotel room that you both still had your bags slung over your shoulders and Lando slid his backpack down without taking his lips from yours, discarding it to the other side of the hallway. You followed his lead and dropped your tote bag and your purse to the tile floor too without breaking your kiss, keeping your one hand around the back of his neck to prevent his lips from leaving yours for anything longer than a second.

Within his fit of determination, Lando guided you away from the wall and started to walk you farther into the room carefully to avoid tripping with his attention so distracted by your lips. His hands pushed your blazer from your shoulders and you gladly let him toss it across the carpeted bedroom floor before you were unbuttoning your blouse. You desperately tried to keep kissing as you undressed and Lando pulled his shirt off and dropped it to the floor before your blouse was joining it within seconds.

“Holy shit.” he literally whined into your kiss as his eyes stayed open to try and get a good look at you. Shamelessly, your breasts were always a bit of a weak spot for him in most of your Instagram pictures so seeing them really, truly in front of him was unbelievable. You kept kissing him no matter how much he was trying to look at you, your hands sliding down his bare chest and to his faint abs that you gently scratched your fingers over to make him shiver.

“You’re so sexy.” you whispered into his mouth before grabbing his waist to pull his body against yours again as your teeth nipped at his bottom lip, “Touch me.”

Lando exhaled sharply at your order and you let his lips go so he could properly look at you, wide eyes staring down at your chest pushed up in your black bra. His hands glided up the curve of your waist, over your warm soft skin, and his fingertips ghosted over the lace of your bra as if afraid to touch. It pushed your breasts up so addictingly full and he literally licked his lips as he stared at you and cupped his hands over your chest. His wide eyed wonder had your gaze lingering on him for a moment, trying to read his expression as more than the male desire to look at breasts and instead thinking if maybe this was the first time he had seen any.

“Sit down.” you instructed gently, taking hold of his wrists to steer him against the side of the neatly made king size bed.

He sat. His eyes stayed on your chest and his hands reached for you once more.

You let him touch and squeeze your breasts in your bra as much as he pleased because you were taking to his belt right after. Lando’s quick gasp was obvious and you looked him right in the eyes as you unpinned the buckle and then popped the button on his slacks.

“You tell me to stop at any point if you want.” you whispered.

Lando nodded and leaned in to kiss your lips again, playing his inexperience off with a casual, “You too.”

You just giggled softly and unzipped his slacks and tugged open the front before kneeling on either side of his lap. As your kiss broke, Lando’s hands slid around your waist to your back and his wide eyed stare locked on your chest that was nearly in his face. When you lowered down onto his lap, he bit down on his bottom lip in anticipation and when you started grinding on him a little, his hands gripped tighter to your waist.

“Holy…” he groaned out softly, gaze unwavering from your breasts in his face.

You moaned softly at the feeling of his clothed erection pressing up against your dress pants, right over your clit, and the friction was unbearably addicting. Greedy slow rocks of your hips back and forth had Lando trying to restrain himself from smothering his face in your chest, his eyes wide with lust. He couldn’t tell which one to look at, licking his lips, and his large hands followed the motions of your hips lazily.

“Do whatever you want to me.” you whispered to him. “You can touch my tits if you want.”

Lando’s big hazel eyes blinked up at you like a sweet little puppy and his teeth sunk down into his bottom lip as his mouth formed an eager smile, his hands sliding down the back of your pants to grab your ass with your given permission.

“That’s it.” you breathed, still grinding down on his lap.

He pulled you into your motions harder and he groaned softly as he leaned in towards your chest. Tongue first, he licked testingly between your breasts and with your soft exhale, he tried again over one of them before sucking gently on your skin as he moved back. You raised your hand up behind you and unclipped your bra and Lando’s breath nearly froze in his chest as the lace fabric fell away to expose you to his eager eyes.

“God, you’re so fucking beautiful.” he breathed, taking his hands from your ass to grab your chest.

“You like my tits?” you asked sweetly.

“Yeah.” Lando groaned, squishing them together before leaning in and nuzzled his face between them. He absolutely showered you in kisses as you laughed lightly at his eagerness and ran your hand through the back of his hair, still grinding down on his lap slowly, watching as he licked and kissed and suckled at your skin. But when he finally wrapped his lips around one of your nipples and sucked on it roughly, you audibly withered, your head falling back for a moment at the sensation.

Lando’s eyes raised to yours as his teeth tugged at your nipple teasingly and you met his gaze again, “Does it feel good when I do that?”

“Mhm.”

“Yeah?” he moved back in to suck on the other one, mimicking his same actions and pulling back with a little bite. “You have such pretty tits.”

You giggled lightly, “Thank you.”

Lando dropped his hands back down to your bum as you kept grinding on him back and forth, and he kissed wetly at your breasts a bit more before peering down between your bodies. You both still had your pants on although his were unzipped and resting open tauntingly and he moaned softly as he bit his bottom lip, watching you rub yourself down on his aching boner with almost four layers between you.

“Mm, that feels so good.” he whispered. “Can I take my pants off?”

You nodded him on and leaned up on your knees to give him room to shuffle his slacks down his legs and he kicked them across the floor. It was only then that he noticed the full length framed mirror on the wall across from him over your shoulder and he mouthed ‘oh my God’ to himself as he watched you drop back down onto his lap. His hands gripped your ass and pulled you into your motions stronger and with your arms wrapped around his shoulders you dipped down to kiss his lips. You shared pleasant moans, tongues welcome into each other’s mouths as the sloppy sound of your kisses filled the hotel room with your heavy breaths.

“Fuck, baby.” Lando groaned out of your kiss as his head tilted back for a moment to breathe.

You kissed down his neck and his thumbs bravely tucked themselves in the back of your dress pants and started to pull them down over your ass.

“Can I leave hickies?” you asked against his ear.

“Fuck, yes.” Lando answered easily, honestly excited for you to leave your mark on him.

You licked over a spot on the side of his neck and tangled your finger in the back of his hair to pull his head to the opposite side to give yourself more room. Lando just watched through the mirror over your shoulder as his hands rested on the curve of your bare ass, greedy eyes exposed to the burgundy lace of your panties that was as rich red as the wine you shared with dinner. His nose scrunched up at your first gentle suction and you tugged at his skin a little more and he withered slightly, hands gripping your flesh a bit tighter.

“Ohh, my God.” he groaned.

You pulled back from his neck with a soft slurp of spit and left one last lick over the forming bruise before blowing a gentle puff of air across it just to make him shiver. You both shared almost eager little grins as you moved back in to kiss him and when your lips locked, Lando couldn’t help himself but wind his hand back and slap it back down against your ass. The small yelp you let out had him rubbing his hand over the spot soothingly but you just whispered a ‘harder’ into his mouth instead.

“You’re so fucking dirty.” Lando mumbled, staring you right in the eyes as he spanked you harder.

“Do you like it?”

“Yeah, I love it.” Lando bit back his grin.

He went to lean in to kiss you again but you slid off his lap and shuffled off your pants all the way before sinking to your knees between his legs. Lando’s eyes only widened more and you kept his gaze as you placed a careful hand over the front of his black briefs, only giving him the smallest pressure against his aching hard cock hidden underneath.

“This okay?” you asked.

“Mhm.” he nodded, resting his hands on the bed behind him to watch your hand rub slowly over the tent in his underwear. His eyebrows were furrowed in disbelieving concentration as if trying to sear into his memory the sight of you touching him just like that, his hips rising slightly from the bed to nudge up into your touch habitually.

Your fingers ghosted across the taut fabric of his underwear up to the top of the bulge formed underneath and then you wrapped gentle fingers around it. Lando’s mouth fell open silently, still staring down at you as you rubbed him over his briefs with a secure grip around the girth of his clothed cock.

“You’re so hard.” you whispered up to him, leaning in to press a careful kiss over the black fabric, “You feel big.”

“You can take it out.” Lando offered, trying to play it cool while on the inside his heart was nearly racing out of his chest.

“Yeah?” you bit your lip up at him, stringing him along a little longer, “And then what? Want me to put it in my mouth?”

“Fuck.” Lando choked out, “Yes.”

His obvious eagerness had you smiling and you slid your warm palms up his stomach and leaned in to press slow open mouthed kisses down his abs and right to the fabric of his underwear, pausing to lick teasingly at the little line of hair that disappeared into the waistband. He shuttered under your touch and you just bit back your own excited grin as you slowly started to pull his underwear down. It rested around his thighs for a moment as you let yourself take in the sight of him, how his dick stood tall in front of your face, angled up so perfectly it nearly made you moan out loud.

Lando was slowly shying under your silent stare and he reached a hand out to cover himself but before he could you were dropping out your tongue and licking at the tip.

“O-Oh my God.” Lando choked out, his thighs flinching slightly.

“You have a gorgeous dick.” you whispered up at him, wrapping your hand around the base greedily to hold him still as you dragged your tongue right up the underside.

Lando was almost scared to touch you as if it would somehow make you stop and his right hand was held clumsily in mid air as his gaping mouth stared down at you in his lap. Your eyes met his as your lips wrapped around the head of his cock and you sucked on it lazily, gently, teasing him a little more. When you pulled back again, you let a string of spit dribble from your lips and down the shaft of his dick to meet your hand as you started stroking it slowly.

“Oh my fucking God.” Lando breathed shakily.

Your hand was so much better than his own, so soft and gentle, simply yours, and he stared at your motions as if in complete disbelief. You gave him slow twisting strokes up and back down, letting your eyes take up every inch of him as you licked your lips at the sheer size of him.

“You’re huge.” you complimented as you dragged his underwear down his legs completely and he helped to kick them off his ankles and across the floor.

Lando never really thought to compare himself to others so he never really knew where he stood but honestly you could have been completely lying to him and he would have believed you. Your voice was a drug to him. Your touch was addicting. Your mouth was even better.

The moment you took him in your mouth, Lando was whimpering shakily and his hand that was once hovering in mid air raked through his hair to grab a tight fistful to restrain himself. You kept yourself slow, pushing down on him carefully and easing back up with a snug hollow of your cheeks that was gentle for him. He had tried to play it cool but his obvious inexperience was oozing out of him and you saw that well. You didn’t want to call him out and embarrass him so you just took it slowly and made sure he was comfortable.

With a soft moan, you kept your mouth and hand working together and Lando audibly withered as if his eyes were physically going to roll back in his head.

“Is this a dream?” he whispered, mostly to himself.

You giggled as you pulled back from his cock, letting your hand take up the motions that your mouth once was, “Not a dream, baby.”

Lando swore there was no better sight than you between his legs and he hesitantly slid his hand through your hair as if to make sure you were really there. You smiled up at him and then lowered down again, keeping your hand stroking his dick as you sucked gently on his balls one at a time.

“Oh my God.” Lando gasped out. “Shit.”

“Feel good?” you asked after licking back up the underside of his dick.

“Yes.”

You smeared the tip of his cock over your pursed lips, bubbling out a bit more spit to slick him up some more and then you pressed your tongue right under the head just to see how his nose scrunched up in pleasure. He whimpered so prettily and you nearly grinned as you fed his dick back into your mouth, shaking your head to get him to hit the back of your throat. When you gagged, Lando’s hand gripped tighter at your hair and his head fell back with a lingering groan, only breathing harder in steady time with you as you started bobbing your head again.

As his moans got louder, you moved slower before finally pulling back from his lap with a deep inhale, leaving him sighing shakily.

“Why’d you stop?” Lando asked quietly.

“Because I don’t want you to cum yet.” you answered easily and reached up to grab him by the back of his neck and pull his lips to yours.

He moaned into your kiss as his tongue fought against yours with fierce desire and both of his hands cradled your cheeks to hold you close. Without breaking your kiss, you stood up between his legs while still stroking him off lazily and he shuffled back farther onto the bed to let you join him. You placed yourself on his outstretched thighs, arms wrapped around his shoulders, and his hands pulled you closer by your ass until his cock was pressed up right against your clothed clit.

Lando’s hands groped your ass strongly and he moaned hungrily into your mouth as if chasing your breath for more. He was desperate for your touch and to feel every inch of you but the gentleman in him just had to speak up before his inexperienced brain could really process his offer.

“Want me to eat you out?”

The offer nearly started himself as much as it took you by surprise, his instant regret pouring through his veins at the sudden remembrance that he would have no clue what the hell to do down there on you. The last thing he wanted to do was make a fool of himself and prove to you that he was a measly virgin. He had no clue you suspected it.

“That’s okay.” you brushed it off coolly between passionate kisses.

“Mm,” Lando kept pushing no matter how much he was fearing a ‘yes’, protesting weakly into your mouth, “but you went down on me…”

“So what?” you mumbled, grinding up against his cock.

“Mph-” Lando groaned, voice strained, “it’s gotta be fair-”

“Who says this isn’t fair?” you tangled your fingers in the back of his hair to gently tug his head back so he was looking up at you.

Lando only whimpered, “Me.”

You dipped in closer to bite at his bottom lip once, twice, and then gave it a little tug on the third time, making his breath shutter in his chest when you pulled back. His wide eyes were focused in on yours, swollen lips parted sweetly in awe, and when you slid your hand around to his throat, his eyelashes fluttered with a shaky inhale.

You spoke to him lowly, voice dripping in lust, and Lando could have came right then and there as you told him seriously, “I just want you to fuck me already.”

“Oh my God.” Lando withered, sliding his hands up your waist to roll your both over gently.

Still laying perpendicular to the pillows, his lips magnetized to yours almost right away. He situated himself between your legs that you wrapped around his waist and as his dick rutted up against your panties, he could nearly feel how wet you were, soaking through the fabric. You shared impatient moans into each other’s mouths, hung up on each other’s lips, and your fingers tangled in the back of his hair.

“Do you have a condom in your bag?” you breathed into his mouth, words muffled slightly by his lips.

Lando leaned back from your kiss just enough for your noses to brush, “No. Do you not have any?”

“Wasn’t really planning on taking a stranger from my signing back to my hotel.” you chuckled.

Lando could have nearly cried with frustration as he sat back from you, resting on his knees between your spread legs. You leaned up on your elbows against the neatly made sheets and you could have smiled at his adorable pout that he was trying so hard to suppress as his hands ghosted down your torso and over your thighs.

“Lando,” you giggled, brushing your foot over his waist to bring his attention back to your face, “Do you wanna fuck me raw?”

His eyes could not have opened wider in shock, “What?”

“If you wanna. I can just stop to grab a Plan B tomorrow.”

“Are you sure?” Lando questioned. Was it concerning that he didn't even fear an accidental pregnancy? To be fair, he had been dreaming about knocking you up for months so the risk was more to his desires than he’d have liked to admit.

You bit your lip and nodded, “If you’re comfortable.”

He couldn’t nod faster if he tried.

“Okay,” you smiled sweetly and held out one hand towards him, “C’mere then.”

Lando leaned back over you, holding himself up on the bed beside you as his other hand cradled your face to keep your lips on his for more lingering kisses. You couldn’t get enough of his lips, moaning softly into his mouth as they moulded together like perfection.

“Fuck, I’m so wet.” you whimpered into his mouth, chasing his mouth for one more sloppy kiss as he tried to pull away, “Mm, I want you so bad.”

Lando stared down at you as he sat back on his knees again and let his hands travel down your body, over your breasts and hips and to the thin lace of your rich red panties. You draped your arms over your head and rose your legs towards your chest for a moment so he could easily pull your underwear off you and then let them fall to the ground, leaving you both completely naked. In the quiet of the hotel room, Lando nudged your thighs open again and got his first real look at the part of you that he swore he was only going to see in his dreams.

You were glistening wet and Lando stared in wonder at the effect he had on you. Only egging him on more, you dropped a hand down and spread your lips open with two slender fingers so he could see all of you before gliding your fingers between them to smear around your sticky arousal that nearly dripped from your pussy.

“Holy…fuck.” Lando licked his lips and then took a deep breath. “You are a fucking dream.”

“All reality.” you assured him with a giggle.

He rubbed his hands over your thighs for a moment, contemplating his next move, and you let him take his time. With a soft call of your name and a hum of acknowledgement from you, Lando had one request, “Can you call me ‘sir’?”

You were surprised by the slightly kinky suggestion, something you hadn’t even thought about at all, “You want me to call you ‘sir’?”

“You don’t have to.” Lando assured you quickly, his cheeks flushing pink.

“No…that’s…really fucking hot.” you admitted with a smile.

Lando’s lips perked up at the corners, “Yeah?”

You nodded with a sultry, “Yes, sir.”

“Ohh fuck.” Lando chuckled through a low groan and he leaned back down over you to kiss you again.

You moaned contentedly against his lips, swallowing up his tongue against yours, and then let him go with a smile when he sat back again between your spread legs. He shuffled closer to your body and you pulled your legs back a bit more to give him room, watching carefully as he let a thick string of spit fall from his lips onto his dick and he rubbed it in with his hand.

“How much dirty talk do you want?” you asked softly.

Lando answered with ease, “Write me a novel worth.”

“Oh my God.” you giggled, draping yourself back down against the sheets, “I can do that.”

Lando nudged the tip of his dick against your dripping pussy and the simple action made both of you gasp lightly. He was honestly a little nervous to get inside you, fearing that he’d cum within seconds and truth embarrass himself, so he teased you a little more by dragging his dick between your legs.

“Shit,” you sighed out, eyes focused on his face as he watched the head of his cock glide between your wet folds, soaking himself in your arousal, “I just need you to fuck me with your big dick.”

Lando nearly shuttered at your words and his eyes rose to meet your face.

You reached down your body and gently stroked the head of his dick with your fingertips, tracing the smooth shape and stroking it right at his most sensitive spots. His hips naturally pushed into your touch and he groaned tightly.

“Yeah, you’ve got such a pretty cock…gonna fucking ruin me with it. Just want it buried in my tight little wet pussy, sir.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Lando groaned softly, keeping a tight fist around the shaft of his dick as you nearly petted the swollen pink tip so tenderly.

“Do you want that, sir?” you asked him sweetly, staring right up at his face as you wrapped your hand around his and brushed the tip of his dick strongly between your folds, “You wanna fuck me into my bed? Watch me take every inch of you?”

“Oh my- yeah-” he stumbled out. Lando could hardly think of words, all his smooth one-liners completely disappeared from his mind as he watched you rub his dick between your legs. You felt so warm and he wasn’t even inside you yet.

“How do you want to fuck me?” you asked softly.

Lando swallowed thickly, “This is…fine. This is good.”

“Okay.” you giggled. You took your hand back from over his to spread yourself open for him, urging him in with no words spoken.

Lando shuffled forward on his knees again and held a cautious hand down against your stomach as he angled his dick between your legs and started to push inside you. You reached down to help guide him a little, making sure he got the right angle with the gentle re-direction of your fingers.

“Yeah, right there.” you breathed shakily, “Keep going.”

The moment the head of his cock slipped snugly into your pussy, you both gasped softly at the feeling and Lando moved both his hands to grab your spread thighs as he watched himself ease deeper into you ever so slowly. You felt like heaven and Lando had to blink a few times to make sure that he wasn’t dreaming, far too good to be true. It was a feeling his hand could never recreate and he wondered how the hell he could go back to using his imagination after this, after being blessed with how tight and warm you were squeezing around him.

“Oh my God, you’re so big.” you moaned quietly as you shifted onto your forearms behind you again to give yourself a better angle to watch behind a bitten lip as he slid in farther.

Lando couldn’t even form words as he bottomed out and his hips pressed snugly against yours, his cock buried as deep as it could inside you. He was scared to move, worried that the moment he started to fuck you that he’d cum in seconds.

You reached up a hand to wrap around the back of his neck and he raised his eyes to yours as you asked him softly, “You okay?”

“Mhm.” he nodded and leaned in to kiss you.

His slight movement had his hips nudging against yours and your muscles fluttered around him at the shift and you both moaned into your messy kiss.

“Fuck, you feel so good.” Lando rushed out in one hurried breath as he pulled back from your kiss and slowly rolled his hips into yours.

“Slow.” you whispered, sliding your hands around the back of his neck. “Nice and slow.”

Lando’s eyes locked on yours as he eased deep into you again, resting his hands flat on either side of your head, and your mouths fell open together at the feeling.

“That’s it.” you breathed.

Lando moaned tightly into his next achingly slow thrust, slipping inside you so easily. You took his face in your hands and pulled him down for more kisses, sharing soft breaths and moans between you for a moment.

“Can I ride you?” you asked against his lips.

Part of him was sort of relieved to have you offer to start for him and he pushed a final kiss to your lips before pulling out of you again. You shifted him over onto his back, moving around so he was resting back against the down filled pillows and you tossed a leg over his lap. Lando’s wide eyes soaked you up eagerly and his hands found your hips to pull you closer before he was taking hold of his dick and helped you to angle it right again.

It was a bit easier to slide into you now that he had already been fully inside you once and you sank right down until your ass met his thighs. His little grunt as you bottomed out had you smiling down at him and he just grinned right back, a dopey little pleasured grin, and his large hands slid up your waist to grab at your breasts. You rose back up just a bit and then lowered back down on him, starting slowly to start him off.

“Fuck.” Lando squeaked out, eyes focused down his body to watch how you took him all every time you dropped down. He was just getting slicked up in your liquids to the point that every time you took him inside you, it made the filthiest wettest sound that made his mouth drop open.

“Can I go faster, sir?” you asked breathily.

“Uh huh.” he nodded.

He wanted to take you over so badly but his mind was absolutely racing and he could hardly figure out how to form words. You bounced on his lap a little faster but still pretty slowly, grounding yourself with your hands on his chest as the bliss washed over you easily.

“Mm, fuck, you feel so good inside me.” you moaned.

Lando couldn’t help but naturally stumble out, “Good girl.”

You blushed pink at his deep voice praising you so honestly and you squared your shoulders again and held his hands over your chest as you swirled your hips in impactful circles, “You think I’m a good girl, sir?”

The lust that raced through Lando’s veins had him staring up at you with so much he wanted to say and your taunting dirty talk only pulled it from where he had kept it suppressed with his initial shock of pleasure. He groped your breasts stronger and nearly pulled you into your motions by them, “Yeah, you’re a good girl, baby.”

His protective walls were falling away as he fell into comfort and you bit back your smile down at him as you moved back into bounces, “God, I love riding you. You look so fucking good.”

Lando audibly groaned, pulling his hands from your chest to grab your hips again and tried to slow you down desperately. But you fell to your knees on either side of his body and tossed your hair over one shoulder to lean down and kiss him, bouncing your hips back on him as you did so.

“Mm, fuck.” Lando muffled into your mouth, desperately trying to keep kissing you back but it was growing increasingly difficult. He spanked you once before grabbing your ass and tried to buck up into you with a whine.

You had only been on top of him for not even a minute and he was already about to burst. He was embarrassingly close and if he didn’t stop you and the way you were riding him he was going to cum embarrassingly fast.

“Stop, baby, st-stop.” he stumbled out, trying not to show how strained his voice was.

You did, stalling your motions as you pulled back from his lips to look at him, “You okay?”

Lando played it off coolly, “Yeah. Just wanna…”

You let him lead you off of him and he got up to take his spot behind you, naturally urging you onto hands and knees. His direction had you biting back a grin and you looked at him over your shoulder as you spread your legs a little wider and he brushed his dick between your folds again.

“Put it in.” you whispered.

Lando took a deep silent breath that he held in his chest as he pushed back inside your sinfully tight body. He groaned lowly and grabbed your waist tightly as he couldn’t help but start to thrust into you slowly as if driven by some sort of natural instinct.

“Oh fuck-” you gasped, hands instinctively gripping the sheets beneath you. “Yes.”

He slapped a hand down across your ass and you giggled blissfully into the pillows as you slouched down to arch your back for him. Taking it from the back, he could hit so deep that his balls smacked against your clit every time he thrusted into you and the slick sound of wet skin filled the hotel room.

“Oh my God.” Lando groaned through his teeth. “Good girl…take it.”

“Fuck, sir.” you moaned pleasantly, unable to hide the honest smile from your face. “Don’t stop.”

Lando’s head literally fell back and he mouthed an “oh my God” to the ceiling as if literally speaking to heaven - it nearly felt like he was in heaven in that moment. You…were heaven to him. His hands gripped tighter onto your waist and he pulled you into his every thrust as he tried to hold himself back. He wanted to cum so badly but it was still so soon and he was trying everything in his power to not think too hard about how good you felt and how pretty you sounded.

“Fuck me faster.” you whimpered, glancing back at him over your shoulder.

Lando physically clenched his jaw and forced himself faster, shoving into you messily just to make you moan louder into your arm.

“Yes, yes, yes!”

“Feel good, baby?” he asked, unsure of his own capabilities.

“So good!” you cried softly, “Don’t stop!”

Lando could feel himself growing close again and the filthy wet and warm squelch of your pussy taking him all certainly wasn’t helping him last any longer. He honestly tried to think of his exam he had taken earlier that day, his failing GPA, his current assignments, desperate for any thought that would keep him from finishing too quickly. But you were louder than his thoughts and your jagged fucked out moans and whimpers and chants of “yes” were making it increasingly difficult to hold back.

So he pulled out again.

“Ohhh.” you whined in protest.

Lando tried to steady his breathing, his cock aching with need to cum, and he took his time nudging you onto your back and pulled your right leg over your left so your hips were rotated ninety degrees and left your pussy on perfect display for him. It only took a few seconds to get you situated but by then the knot inside him was diminishing and only leaving behind that unfulfilled throbbing.

“Okay, okay, okay, okay-” Lando breathed, spanking your ass once more before he was grabbing it in his tight grip and then sliding his dick back inside you strongly. “That’s it.”

“Holy shit, you’re so big!” you cried.

Lando just started fucking you again, holding you down by waist and chest and your head tossed back against the pillows with a loud cry of pleasure. He couldn’t get enough of you, the feeling he had never been blessed with before, and he stared down at you behind a bitten lip and stormy determined eyes that had your mouth dropping open.

“Oh my fucking God, yes!” you shrieked, tossing a hand up behind you to grab onto the headboard. “Right there!”

Lando had a one handed vice like grip on your breast but the sting of his grip didn’t phase you as you were too hung up on the way he fucked you. His strokes weren’t completely graceful and were certainly infused with an unmissable desperation but they felt so good regardless and the angle he had you at had him hitting your g-spot straight on. Whether he knew that or not was beyond you but he literally had you going quiet as only the sharpest little gasps were fucked from your throat.

“F-Fuck-“ Lando whimpered, staring right into your eyes.

The expression you held was driving him crazy, nothing but euphoria spread all over your face with your mouth fallen open and eyes nearly rolling back in your head thanks to him and him alone. You reached one hand down to grab his thigh, fingers pressing into his flesh as if to pull him closer, deeper, to urge him to give you more. He shifted to grab your ass and waist with both hands, biting hard on his bottom lip as he stared down at how you took him all so deep inside you, drenching him each time he pulled back out just to shove back in, dizzy on the wet squish of your body.

“Yes, yes, yes, yes, sir-” you rushed out, fingernails digging into the back of his thigh from where you held him and your other arm was draped above your head and gripping onto the pillow beneath you, your moans only growing louder and more desperate, “Fuck, I’m gonna cum! Don’t stop!”

As your pussy started to grip down around him, Lando physically stopped in surprise, his hips stuttering, and he pulled right out of you again with a startled gasp. Your disappointed groan had his wide eyes raising back to your face again.

“Wanna cum for you.” you whined, reaching down to rub pleadingly at your sensitive pussy, “Please let me cum on your cock.”

Lando couldn’t say no to that. He shoved your legs apart again to get you flat on your back once more and you grinned sweetly up at him as he proudly angled his dick between your legs and dragged it through your pooling wetness and pressed it against your gaping hole, already fucked out by him. He eased it inside you slowly, so slowly so he could watch how your body stretched around him and took him all, how each inch made your breath shutter in your chest.

He knew he really wasn’t going to last long anymore - he had already done literally all he could to hold himself back - and he leaned right over you with his forearms pressed to the pillows on either side of your head as he filled you completely once more. You leaned up to kiss him, lips smacking wetly and sloppily with your passion and heat, and when he rolled his hips into yours, you broke your kiss with a lingering moan.

Lando stared at your face right in front of him as you wrapped your legs around his waist and your arms around his shoulders and neck and he pushed into you slowly again. Your sweet moans were nothing less than beautiful to him and he thrusted into you a bit stronger to have you making more of those pretty sounds.

“Please,” you whimpered, cut off by his lips finding yours again as he thrusted into you a little faster. You squeaked against his kiss and smacked your hand down against his shoulder blades in surprise at his change, nails sinking into his skin.

“This okay?” Lando asked softly, his breath falling against your cheek.

“Uh huh! Gimme more.” you nodded.

Lando couldn’t get enough of your filthy words so he egged you on - testing the waters - with a little, “Beg.”

“Fuck me harder!” you pleaded, “I wanna cum all over your huge cock. Want you to make me cum, sir. Want you to make me scream, sir.”

“Oh fuck.” Lando groaned quietly, slumping down on top of you a little more as he let his hips take their natural desperation out on you, pounding into you faster.

“Shit!” you gasped sharply, head tossing back against the pillows, “Yes! Keep going!”

“Good girl.” Lando breathed, so quiet as if he were nervous to say it out loud but you still heard and it still made your stomach twist.

Your ankles linked behind his back to keep him as close as possible and you welcomed his lips back on yours to share a few more sloppy kisses and hungry moans before he was pulling back to breathe again. Lando had to tuck his face into your neck because looking at you felt like far too much to handle as he stayed nice and deep and fucked you quicker.

“Yes.” you squeaked out, digging your nails into his back. “Yes, yes, yes-”

Lando moaned shakily against your skin, already feeling himself needing to cum again. He desperately thought of his exam again, trying to think about anything to make it last just even a little bit longer. He was getting so close so fast and as you did the same, the squeeze of your muscles only drew him dangerously closer to finishing.

The sound of his panted, strained breaths against your ear was invigorating and the tight reverberations of his soft groans had you biting his neck to keep yourself composed, to keep from getting too loud between the thin hotel walls. But you still moaned for him, pleading sweet little moans that he felt in every inch of his body and his balls fucking ached to cum after so much edging. It nearly brought tears to his eyes.

You could tell he was close as he shuffled closer to you on his knees and his thrusts were turning sloppy and his groans were turning into strained little whimpers, his cock pulsing strongly deep inside of you. Just to help it along, you dropped a hand down between your snug bodies to rub at your clit, already so sensitive that the slightest touch had you shuttering with overwhelm. The way it made your pussy clench up had Lando gasping and you held him by the back of his neck to keep his cheek pressed to yours.

“Do you want to cum inside me?” you asked softly, voice dripping like honey.

He nodded quickly.

“Yeah? Good because I want it. I want you to cum so fucking deep inside me, sir. Please, gimme it.”

Your voice was strained as you were getting yourself close too by the extra help of your hand and Lando’s fists were tightening on the pillows on either side of your head as he fucked you right down into the bedsheets. Your words certainly weren’t helping him hold himself back but thankfully he didn’t have to hold it much longer because in seconds he was privy to the perfection that was your orgasm.

He could hardly get a good look at your face with how close your heads were but he got the best of it; how your nose scrunched up and head fell back and how you sobbed out his name to the ceiling with a trail of the sweetest moans and whimpers he had heard all night. But the best part was how it felt, how fucking tight you got around him, because the moment your orgasm washed over you, the vice like grip of your muscles sent him to his own rapid conclusion.

Lando literally tensed so hard he trembled, eyes scrunched closed as he grunted out a whimpery, “Y-Yes…yes- f-fuck-”

He held onto you so tightly that he couldn’t get any deeper inside you if he tried and he savoured the feeling of coming in something that wasn’t his hand. It was hard to wrap his mind around the fact that it was you.

Your heels pressed into his ass to grind his hips against yours to make sure he let it all out, your shared breathy moans lingering in the warm air of the hotel room. Lando bucked into you a few more times and you kissed at his neck as he came down from his most incredible orgasm to date. His hands loosened on the pillows and he leaned back just enough to look at your face properly.

His cheeks were dusted pink and he was blinking away the pleasurable tears that had brimmed in his eyes, parted lips staring down at you in near awe. You brushed your hand through his messy hair and you both leaned in for a quick kiss or two before you were guiding him back by his biceps as he sat back on his knees between your spread legs.

Lando’s chest nearly hurt with how fast his heart was beating and he pulled out of you slowly, watching the trickle of cum that dripped out in his wake. He licked his lips and raised his eyes up to yours as if asking for permission to touch you as he reached his hand out and smeared his fingers through it greedily.

“That’s so fucking hot.” he breathed.

“Feels so good too.” you giggled.

Lando shifted out from between your legs and fell onto the bed at your side, both of you resting back against the pillows and staring at the ceiling as your breathing steadied. You grabbed his wrist of the hand that had just been in the mess you made and you pulled it up to your mouth to suck off his fingers. Lando exhaled shakily as he watched you lick him clean - nearly deepthroating his fingers as you did so - and then you shoved his hand away with a little blissful laugh and a lick of your lips to linger on the taste of him.

In the silence that fell for the initial moment after everything, Lando started to wonder if he should be saying something…bringing you something…thanking you? He felt like a fool, not knowing what he was supposed to be doing and he turned his head to look at you again, speaking your name into the warm air between you.

“Lando.” you replied right back with a little smile, lolling your head to the side to look right back at him.

“I have to tell you something.” he whispered.

You shifted your body onto your side to give him your full attention, face falling into slight concern, “What is it?”

He bit at his lip nervously before confessing to you, “I’m a virgin…I was a virgin...”

Your lips pricked up into a tiny smile at the corners and you stroked your thumb across his cheek, “Yeah, sweetheart, I could kinda tell when you kept having to stop to keep from cumming too fast.”

Lando’s cheeks went red, “Oh.”

“Was that okay though? You didn’t mind losing it to me? I should have asked but I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable or anything.”

Lando propped himself up on his side too with a quick shake of his head, “Absolutely. I wanted nothing more than to lose it to you, honestly. It was like a fucking dream.”

You shared light laughter and he leaned in - hesitating for a split second - and kissed your lips. You raised your hand up to the side of his neck to keep him there a moment longer, smiling into his mouth as your breathlessly moulded into messy little kisses.

“Was it okay for you?” Lando pulled back to ask, “I wasn’t…too clueless, right?”

You bit back your smile at his courtesy and shook your head, “No, you were amazing. Pleasantly surprised you could actually make me cum.”

He let out a little sigh of relief and you both leaned in for a few more quick kisses between light blissful giggles. Lando felt a surge of pride for himself, like he was unbeatable, and when you pushed him back by his chest, he flopped back onto the sheets with a smiling sigh.

“I’m gonna go clean up.” you said, scratching your fingers gently over his abs, “You’ll be here when I come out?”

Lando nodded, sharing in your smiles, and he watched you climb off the bed and retrieve a clean pair of underwear and a t-shirt from your suitcase by the wall before disappearing around the corner into the bathroom. When he heard the door close behind you, Lando permitted himself a deep exhale, raking his fingers through his hair as he stared up at the ceiling with shocked disbelief all over his face. He had been playing it cool for hours and suddenly, with the wash of reality overcoming him, he was stunned to silence by what just happened.

He mouthed a “what the fuck” to the ceiling and then sat up on the king size bed to locate his underwear from where they had been earlier tossed across the floor. He got up and tugged them on before tiptoeing past the bathroom door to where his backpack was left in your rush of entry. With his phone in hand, Lando returned to the side of the bed and sat down as he unlocked his phone with your birthdate as his passcode and swiped across his home screen that was wallpapered with a picture of you, and opened Instagram.

His two best friends were chatting to pass the time in the groupchat,

georgerussell63: It’s literally 11:00 right now and I’m going to be so tired for my exam tomorrow but I can’t go to sleep until we know wtf is going on alex_albon: I know alex_albon: I’m so wide awake alex_albon: I can’t even lock my phone I’m scared we’ll miss something georgerussell63: Do you think anything happened? alex_albon: Ahh idk- georgerussell63: Omg wait Lando just opened the messages georgerussell63: Hello?? alex_albon: Lan?? You alive?? georgerussell63: Mate don’t just leave us on SEEN alex_albon: What happened? We are dying here! landonorris: Guys landonorris: Oh my God georgerussell63: LANDO alex_albon: WHAT HAPPENED landonorris: I fucked her alex_albon: WAIT WHAT georgerussell63: WHAT THE FUCK?? georgerussell63: REALLY? landonorris: Ahherghbj omfg yes really alex_albon: Proof plz omg we need proof georgerussell63: Wtf kind of proof Alex? The used condom? Nasty landonorris: Yeah that’d be difficult since we didn’t use a condom- alex_albon: LANDO NORRIS georgerussell63: WTF georgerussell63: WHY NOT alex_albon: BECAUSE WE WANT THOSE BABIES LES GOO landonorris: HAHA landonorris: Idk she just said she’d take plan b tomorrow and idc pffhf landonorris: I’m fucking buzzing holy shit georgerussell63: Where are you rn?? alex_albon: Give us all the details mate landonorris: In her hotel room landonorris: She’s just in the bathroom so I probably can’t chat for long but landonorris: Yeah I had to tell you guys right awayyy georgerussell63: Hear that Albono? georgerussell63: Our boy isnt a virgin anymore 🥲 alex_albon: I’m literally speechless omg alex_albon: Did you get her follow yet?? georgerussell63: ALEX georgerussell63: Mate georgerussell63: Who cares about a follow right now georgerussell63: The boy just shagged the girl of his dreams 🥵 alex_albon: I'm just ASKING if its a one time thing or what landonorris: Idk it literally just happened so we haven’t even really talked landonorris: I still can’t believe it really georgerussell63: Was she good? 👀 alex_albon: 👀👀👀 landonorris: YES landonorris: She was so fucking loud too landonorris: And her dirty talkkkkk holy shittttttt georgerussell63: YEEESH alex_albon: Oh my GODD

Grinning from ear to ear at how boastful he felt, Lando glanced at the bathroom door to make sure it was still closed before he went over to the full length mirror and opened his camera. He tilted his head back a little to show off the bruising hickey on his neck and the faint reminisce of teeth marks just below it and he snapped a picture for his friends.

landonorris: *sent an image* georgerussell63: Ohhhh you got BRANDED alex_albon: LANDO alex_albon: Fucking get it mate omfg

Lando took a second to look at himself in the mirror as if he were a whole new person. He felt new…improved…absolutely buzzing. He turned around in the reflection just to see the pretty red scratches down his back and across his shoulder blades. With a disbelieving giggle to himself, Lando raised his phone up over his shoulder and took a picture through the mirror.

landonorris: *sent an image* alex_albon: LANDO georgerussell63: SHIT alex_albon: You must have had serious game to be scratched up like that holy shit georgerussell63: You really did it omg landonorris: YEAH I REALLY DID IT landonorris: Four positions landonorris: Not including her getting on her knees first landonorris: The whole time she was basically screaming for it landonorris: Hottest thing I’ve ever fucking done landonorris: She was so fucking incredible landonorris: Even better than I could ever imagine landonorris: It felt so good I’ve never come so fucking hard before lol georgerussell63: Geeeeez it’s getting hot in here alex_albon: I’m dying to know what this means for you two alex_albon: If she liked it that much this better not be a one time thing alex_albon: She better have fallen in love with you rn georgerussell63: Our boy’s got such good stroke game he wins girls hearts alex_albon: Hell yeah landonorris: Seriously guys it was unreal georgerussell63: I’m so obsessively happy for you rn it’s probably unhealthy

Right then, the bathroom door opened and you stepped out, only giving Lando a few seconds to say goodbye to his friends.

landonorris: gtg talk tomorrow

“You okay?” you asked cautiously.

Dressed in only a t-shirt and panties, makeup washed off and hair brushed away from your face, you were still a vision to him and Lando smiled at you softly as you walked over to him.

“Mhm, my roommate was just asking where I was.” he lied casually, still not wanting to be seen as too much of a cringey fanboy as he locked his phone in his hand.

You walked into his outstretched arm and slid your hands over his bare chest and around his shoulders, “Do you need to go?”

Lando shook his head, his breath sweet and shallow as his heart rate sped up by just having you in arms reach and he bumped his nose gently against your cheek, “Not unless you want me to go.”

Lingering just in front of his lips you whispered your response, “I wouldn’t mind some company tonight.”

“Yeah?” he smiled.

You nodded with a smile of your own and guided him closer by the side of his neck to kiss his lips. He hummed softly into it and raised his hand up to cradle your cheek in return, letting his lips lock so effortlessly with yours. After a few seconds, you pulled him back towards the bed and you both climbed under the sheets together.

“Did you wanna watch Netflix or something?” you asked. “It’s still a little early.”

Lando hesitated for a moment at your side, “Is it weird if I ask you to read to me? I missed your reading today after all.”

You laughed lightly but leaned right in and swallowed his lips up with eager kisses, “Mm, no, that’s so fucking sweet. Get your book.”

Lando grinned and shuffled back out of bed to unzip his backpack and pull out his hardcover that only a few hours earlier he was waiting in line for you to sign. Now, he was taking it into your bed and passing it to you once more while holding his arm up to permit you to cuddle up against his chest. You rested back against him, both of you propped up slightly against the pillows, and he snaked his arms around your waist and pressed a kiss to your cheek as you flipped to the first chapter.

“You sure this isn’t weird?” he asked softly.

You leaned your head back against his shoulder and smiled up at him, petting your hand through the side of his messy hair, “Promise. I love it.”

Lando smiled back and leaned down to kiss your lips and then your temple as you turned back to your book. You read the first few chapters out loud - only stopping once to order room service for a late night snack and refreshments - and shared kisses between each chapter that only had Lando’s stomach fluttering with butterflies at how sweet your voice sounded reading the words that spoke wonders to him. He made you skip over the smut - whispering that he didn’t think he could handle getting hard again - and you did with a shy little laugh as he admitted that your filthy written words always had such an effect on him.

When you were both fading, the half read novel was tucked onto the bedside table and the lights were turned off in exchange for the presence of each other’s bodies. He was a stranger to you but somehow he made you feel so warm inside like you had known him much longer than a few measly hours. His fingers twirled through the roots of your hair at the nape of your neck and you were put to sleep in mere moments after such a tiring day.

As Lando held your slumbering body to your chest, his heart was soaring. He wondered if you could hear it racing for you, all his mind taken up by every last bit of you.

Lando’s alarm went off at 8am, ringing loudly from the dresser across the hotel room. You stirred first and your shifting woke Lando as he had been clinging onto you like a koala all night. His tired eyes blinked open, trying to piece together where he was for a second and why his dorm room bed suddenly felt so comfortable and why his pillow he was clutching felt so warm.

He had almost entirely forgotten that the previous day wasn’t a dream.

When he blinked himself into consciousness, he shifted away from you at the annoying ringing of his alarm, “Sorry.”

“S’okay.” you yawned as he climbed out of the king size bed and traipsed across the clothing strewn floor to retrieve his phone and turned off the noise.

He had class at 9:00 but he certainly wasn’t going to make it across the city in time if he took his time with you. In the mayhem of the previous night, he had completely forgotten about his class.

“Shit.”

“Everything okay?” you asked, rolling over to face him under the sheets with your hands tucked under your head.

Lando glanced up at you, in awe of how angelic you looked in the morning, and then looked back down at his phone to pull up the bus schedule, “Yeah…just…forgot I had class this morning.”

“Oh, shit. I’m sorry.” you sighed, “I shouldn’t have kept you.”

“God, no, don’t be sorry.” Lando assured you quickly. “No regrets here.”

You smiled up at him as he came over to the side of the bed and leaned down to kiss your lips.

“I had a great night.”

You reached up to hold him by the back of his neck to keep his lips on yours a moment longer, “Me too.”

Both of you pulled back from your kiss smiling and Lando nearly stumbled over his feet as he turned to retrieve his clothes from across the floor. You giggled at his clumsiness and sat up against the headboard to watch him pull his shirt on and button his slacks up. He looked as passé as one could be but in his mind, he was stewing about saying goodbye to you. He didn’t want to say goodbye to you. He didn’t want to never speak to you again.

“Lando.” you called.

He looked up at you from his belt, blue eyes wide, “Yeah?”

“You look good.”

He cracked a small smile and looked back down to the buckle on his belt, “I feel good.”

“Wonder why.” you teased.

He returned to the side of the bed and sat down to lean back with one hand propping himself up on the other side of your lap. You stared at each other for a moment, eyes moving between eyes and lips. He needed to ask. He felt stupid asking.

He forced it out of his mouth, “Can I…can you…maybe follow me on Instagram? So we can maybe keep talking?”

You smiled cockily at him, “I was wondering when you were going to ask. Was starting to think you just saw me as a booty call.”

Lando laughed awkwardly, relieved, “God, no.”

“Pass me my phone?” you gestured to your purse sitting against the wall and he got up to reach into it and pull it out for you. When he returned to the side of the bed and you unlocked your phone, he leaned forward a little to peek at your background out of pure curiosity. The aesthetic picture of notebook paper and pen was almost expected. You opened Instagram, right away being notified of dozens of likes, comments and a few follows but you ignored them and selected the search bar. “What’s your user?”

“landonorris.” he said, leaning forward a little more as he spelt it for you, “l-a-n-d-o-n-o-r-r-i-s. All one word.”

The sight of his profile appearing on your screen was almost more surreal than the sight of him inside you the night before and he bit back his smile as you requested to follow his private account. His follower count looked miniscule compared to yours but you didn’t seem to bat an eyelash at it.

“There,” you said proudly, “Accept me and then send me a message. I wanna look at all your sexy pictures.”

“They’re hardly sexy.” Lando scoffed.

“You’re sexy so they will be too.” you giggled, leaning towards him slightly.

Lando laughed shyly under your strong compliments and he let his eyes flutter closed as your lips met. You both stayed still for a moment, letting your kiss linger between you before moving back in for a few more little ones.

“You have a bus to catch.” you whispered as you pulled back.

“Mhm.” Lando pouted.

“Don’t forget your book.” you gestured to where the hardcover was left on the nightstand.

He grabbed it quickly as he stood up again, “Right. Thanks.”

“Thank you for dinner, by the way.” you said, “And for a truly unforgettable night.”

Lando smiled bashfully, “Yeah. Right back at you.”

He dipped down to kiss the corner of your mouth and then he started for the door of the hotel room. As it closed behind him and he was suddenly alone in the long hallway, he slouched back against the wall and let out a deep breath before taking another one in nice and slowly. He opened his instagram requests as he waited for the elevators and he couldn’t help but screenshot the sight of your verified account in his pending follower requests.

With you now in his followers, he slid into your dms with a casual,

landonorris: Hey 😉 Don’t forget to stop by the drug store today

The whole way back to campus, Lando was grinning out the window and holding your signed copy of your book to his chest. He felt as light as air and as if he had been living the most perfect dream the last 24 hours. The only thing he realized he had yet to do was read your note you left him in the inside cover of his book. In the light of the morning sun across the streets of Bristol, Lando carefully opened the hardcover novel and admired the crisp silver sharpie inked across the dark inside page in your careful handwriting,

“Lando,

Thank you for being so thoughtful and genuine.”

Signed with your curling signature and a little heart.

Tag List: @black-fireproofs @k3nmakyan @m4rt10ne @strawberryy-kiwii @herebereblogs

♡ None of the original writing on this blog may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

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novantinuum · 5 months ago

Text

Fandom: Steven Universe Rating: Gen Words: 2.8K~ Summary: Not too long after making peace with Homeworld and sparking the start of Era 3, Steven wakes up one morning to discover some... notable changes about himself.

AKA: The one where Steven finally hits his growth-spurt. All at once. Because of course the half-Gem kid could never experience such a human thing like puberty in a "normal" way.

[Part 1 of 2]

Just a few seconds later, knuckles rap against the door in answer to his perturbed cry.

“Yo Steve-o, that you in there?” Amethyst calls.

“Y-yeah?” he stammers. His brows threading inwards, he delicately runs his fingers over the ridge upon his throat, very much thrown off by the distinctly lower tenor of the sound coming from his own mouth. He swallows hard, pushing himself to speak again. Come on Steven, he berates himself, think of something lighthearted. This doesn’t have to be a bad thing. No need to completely freak out over this yet. “Who else would I be? It’s not like the whole town uses this bathroom…”

“I mean, I do sometimes. For fun.”

“Okay, fair point, but—”

“Dude, what’s wrong with your voice? Are you like, sick or somethin’?“

“No, it’s just—”

He squeezes his eyes shut, blocking out all the nebulous, spinning distractions of his mind and the world beyond. Deep breath. It’s okay. Tons of things about his form may be entirely different right now, but like… he seems fine. Right?? Nothing about his body feels tangibly wrong like it did when he willfully stretched himself out on his 14th birthday, or when he changed all his fingers into cats, or when he lost all control of his aging and morphed into an anciently old man and almost died, it’s just…

New.

New and wholly unfamiliar.

So what now? How can he bravely move forward with all this? What does he need to know?

“Have, uh… have you ever shapeshifted by accident in your sleep?”

“Not that I‘m aware of,” she says, and he can practically hear the shrug in her tone. “Shapeshifting is a conscious thing you do. It’s a choice, y’know? It doesn’t just happen.”

A good long moment passes as he drinks this information in. He runs his hand through the short curls at the back of his neck as he stands there in the pair of too-small banana yellow pajamas he fit in just fine last night, musing.

“Huh… I guess that makes things pretty simple, then.”

“What d’ya’—”

“Amethyst, I think I’m finally older,” he says, still absolutely mystified by this prospect as he gawks at himself in the mirror.

She gives a fond laugh. “Ch’a, right? You get older everyday, bud. Wild.”

“No, I mean I’m actually, physically older! Look!”

Steven whirls around and swings the bathroom door wide open to show her. Amethyst’s jaw drops.

“Whoa—! Dude!”

Chuckling nervously, he steps a few feet out, wriggling his bare toes against the wood floor. “I know, right?”

“What the heck, you weren’t kidding!” Before he can even move to say anything else, she spins on her heels and cups her mouth with her hands, hollering towards the temple door. “HEY, PEARL! GARNET! You gotta get out here and see this!”

His brows shoot towards his hairline, his heart hammering in his chest all the while at the thought of all the dumb show-and-tell he’s gonna have to deal with now. “Aww, come on, did you really have to—”

“Amethyst!” Pearl cries, scrambling through the still opening gap in the doorway with Garnet striding mere steps behind. She summons her spear from her gem and swings it to fighting stance with an artful flourish. “What happened? Where’s the threat? What do you need us for??”

Steven darts towards them, hands held up in a placating plea.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! There’s no danger! We’re fine. I just—”

“Oh, my stars—!” she gasps, allowing her spear to dissipate in a glittery flicker of light. “You’ve grown!”

“Nice look, Steven,” Garnet nods, a supportive smile gracing her lips.

“And you’re sure this is real this time? You’re not—?”

“No, no, I’m not stretching myself out, I promise. I just woke up like this.”

“B-but—” Pearl taps her fingers against her chin, appearing thoroughly puzzled— “I thought humans were supposed to age gradually, not all at once.”

Steven’s shoulders slump. “Well… that’s what I assumed too, but—”

“Come, sit with me,” Garnet says, walking around the warp pad to enter the living room. She sets herself down on the couch, patting the cushion in open invitation.

With a heavy, far too weary for his age sigh, Steven shoves his hands in the pockets of his too-small banana pajamas and plods his way over. The rest of the Gems follow suit. He settles himself right next to Garnet, with Pearl perched opposite to her and Amethyst happily lounging on the floor, leaning on the coffee table with her elbows.

“Steven’s aging hasn’t aligned with the norms of humanity for a very long time,” she observes, a glint of morning sun that’s beaming through the window catching on the edge on the edge of her star shaped visor. Then, turning to him: “I’m curious why you think this is.”

He hums, considering all the chaotic happenings of the past few years. Despite the rare query she poses, he gets the sense that… in her vast wisdom… she already knows the answer. Or at least, a small sum of it. It should be noted that her future vision— as far-reaching as it otherwise is with the vast possibilities of existence— can’t ever touch any knowledge that she won’t be conscious for or present to receive, let alone retroactively scry into the past.

(And honestly? Thank goodness for that.)

“I’m not sure,” he says, a half-lie.

He can think of one reason he might’ve started aging again. Though, it’s not something he’s ready to talk to the Gems about yet. It’s… far too delicate a topic to risk bringing up so soon after the start of peaceful Era 3. But after spending a whole childhood being constantly compared to and mistaken as various versions of his mom… let’s just say, having his gem torn from his body and getting to see it reform into a version of himself (and not her) was simultaneously the worst and the best thing that could’ve ever happened to him. While undeniably traumatic, this experience served as the ultimate proof that he doesn’t have to waste another second of his existence chewing away at some burgeoning identity crisis, that he can live his life however he wants. As Steven. Not as Rose, or Pink Diamond, just… Steven.

He’s not exactly sure how all this mental weirdness translates into him staying stuck looking like a little kid for like… six or so years, but after he returned home from his latest escapade on Homeworld, he could sense that— despite all the messed up stuff he and Connie went through— his spirit was lighter, somehow.

So maybe, he thinks, he simply had to peel away at all the damaged layers of his identity to ready himself to move on to the next stage of his life. Maybe he had to stare death in the eye and pass through the heart of the storm in spite of all these hardships before he could piece the foundational truths of his story back together and learn to finally live again.

To start shifting his hopeful gaze towards the dawn of their bright, sunny future…

“I mean, I always kinda thought he stopped aging because we never did,” Amethyst says then, laying her cheek on the table. “Like, it happened around the time you moved in with us, yeah?”

He purses his lips, scanning his memory. “Uh… I think so? It might have been a year before. Two, even. But I was definitely hanging out with y’all a lot by then.”

She leans over and playfully slugs him in the arm.

“See, there you go! You always wanted to be just like us when you were a kid, so much that you even wore that same ol’ star shirt every day to match ours, ha! You must’ve wanted to be a Gem so badly that you subconsciously stopped becoming older at all.”

“That’s actually a pretty solid theory, Amethyst,” Pearl chimes in. “Good thinking!”

“We have seen you shift your form in response to your perception of others around you,” Garnet says with a nod. “This has caused you to temporarily age and shapeshift in the past, but for you to age in a stable way now, your perception of self must have stabilized, too. I’m very happy for you, Steven.”

She tousles his mess of curls with her gold ringed hand, a welcome little offering of affection that he eagerly leans into.

And then, out of nowhere, Amethyst starts cackling.

“Dude,” she blurts out between her peels of laughter, nudging his foot with her elbow, “I just realized— Greg’s gonna totally lose his shit when he sees this…”

Pearl’s expression scrunches inwards with prickly displeasure. “Language!”

“What, it’s true!”

He waves Amethyst’s comment off. “Pshhh, my dad’s seen way weirder,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Like, did I ever tell y’guys how the cat fingers incident ended?”

“No!” the quartz exclaims with intensive fervor, and leans forward in anticipation. “Gimme the juicy deets, m’man!”

Garnet adjusts her visor then, her features falling into a dutiful line. “Speaking of Greg… story time can wait until later. Steven— if you want to see your father this morning, you need to head over there now… or there’s a good chance he’ll fall back asleep until one and you’ll miss your window.”

Amethyst’s lips fall into a pout as she slumps back against the foot of the couch, her arms crossed. “Awww, phooey. Spoil sport.”

He swallows a grimace as he internalizes Garnet’s prediction. Yeah, that sounds about right. That’s become a bad habit for his old man lately, staying up super late and then sleeping in almost half the day on weekends. Ever since he received that ten million dollar residues check it’s nothing that can hinder his financials anymore, thank goodness, but then again…

“Yeah… I should probably go make sure he wakes up,” he mutters, pushing his tired body off his seat. “I’ll need his help finding new clothes, anyways.”

The second he’s up and moving again, Amethyst darts around him and snatches his spot with such swift and viscous drive that one might believe this ploy were her sole quest and purpose in life. She stretches out against the seat back with a big, dramatic yawn, crossing her arms behind her head as she speaks.

“It’s too bad you can’t just… I dunno… summon whatever clothes you want out of light, like us. That’s like the biggest bummer of humanity, if you ask me.”

“And when do you ever experiment with your outfit enough to have a strong opinion about this?” Pearl prods, crossing her arms. “It took you almost a decade to fix that asymmetrical shoulder strap.”

“Well, P… I like to think of myself as a Gem who would experiment with my outfit. One day. If I’m ever really, really bored. Consider it an Era 3 aspiration.”

Steven rocks back and forth on his heels, absentmindedly fiddling with the fraying bottom hem of his pajama top.

“Okay, uh… well, I’m gonna dress to leave now, so—”

“Yeah, see ‘ya.”

“Send a text if you need anything!” Pearl says with a casual wave.

“And don’t forget…” Garnet begins, the ellipses in her tone practically visible with the naked eye.

He pauses in his dutiful march to the stairs— (a somewhat unsteady march… as it turns out, shooting up about a foot and a half in height overnight tends to impact one’s sense of balance for the worst, go figure)— turning back to intercept whatever life advice or future vision she’s prepared for him this time.

She grins, flashing him a quick heart with her hands instead. “We love you!”

Steven trudges across the hot sands to his dad’s car wash sans his favorite flip flops, trying his very darnedest to wipe away the developing grimace on his face all the while.

A small segment of him felt overjoyed when he first saw his reflection this morning, eager to look his age and finally grow up alongside his human friends. But after struggling to find anything that fits him even halfway right in his wardrobe, his good mood has rapidly spoiled. There’s a decent few reasons for this.

Reason number one: his old sandals are at least two sizes too small. His heels stick out over the end now, and the plastic thong digs into his toes something terrible. He literally can’t wear them without giving himself blisters. Ergo, his bare feet right now.

Reason number two: none of his jeans sit right around the waist anymore, plus they make him look like he’s waiting for a flood. (Though thankfully, he found a stretchy blue skirt buried in one of his drawers that will do the trick for now.)

And perhaps worst of all… reason number three: with his newly increased height, every single one of his treasured star shirts have been turned into ill-fitting crop tops, putting his gem on full display. He’s not against the concept of a crop top, but it sure ain’t a look he’s passionate about for everyday wear. It just feels… too exposing. Like, what about winter?? He can’t bear his whole midriff in winter, he’d freeze, and like… get hypothermia, or something. And not only that, but the longer he’s awake this morning the more an inescapable, thrumming ache starts to settle within the deepest core of his body, like even his bones themselves— the stubborn things— dare to object to this abrupt growth spurt.

Just… ugh. What an annoying hassle all these changes bring.

“Stupid shirt,” he grouses, tugging at the too-tight collar, “stupid sandals, stupid Gem puberty! Why, oh why can’t I ever go through human stuff normally?”

His bare foot catches upon a sizable stone hidden amongst the beach. On any other day he would’ve successfully broken his fall, stumbling forwards a few awkward steps before regaining his balance and continuing on his way. But with his body now so different, and his center of gravity entirely off from what he’s used to, he head plants straight into the ground.

Wow, he thinks, spitting sand out of his mouth and pushing himself back to his feet. How elegant. Truly the shining paragon of coordination and grace.

Thank goodness no one was watching. Next time he’ll just have to remember to float.

He arrives at his dad’s van with no further incident. The rear doors are— following Garnet’s prediction- cracked open. Dad’s awake, at least for now.

“Daaaaaaaad,” he hollers, cupping his hands around his mouth to project. “A really, really weird thing happened, and I kinda need your help!”

A few spare seconds pass, seconds filled with the rustles of shifting blankets, the sound of a book being shut closed, and his dad’s low murmurs. The doors swing wide, though not as wide as Dad’s eyes when they wander around their bright, sunny surroundings and eventually land square on him and his new look.

“Wh— Steven, holy smokes! Look at you!”

With an awkward chuckle, he scratches away at an itch at the nape of his neck. “Heh heh, I know, right?”

“You’re almost as tall as your old man! When did this happen? How did this happen?”

“Some point last night, I guess,” he shrugs. “I just woke up like this. But Dad—” he clings onto his arm with mounting desperation— “I need your help to find some new shirts. Don’t you have like… whole boxes of your old tour merch stashed away somewhere? I don’t wanna have to get rid of my star, I just— I just need a bigger size, or something.”

“Hmmm…” Dad muses, scratching at the scruff of his beard. “Well, maybe, but…”

“But what?”

“But if any of it’s still around, then it’s probably in Amethyst’s room. All of the stuff from the storage unit ended up with her, remember?”

“Oh…” he says, brows furrowed, not quite able to parse this fact within his memory yet. And then…

Ugh. That’s right.

Two New Years’ ago. The huge mess of crates and mattresses and long forgotten belongings. All that ridiculous Little Butler nonsense. Amethyst’s fight with Dad.

“Oh,” he mumbles, crossing his arms. “Right. Well, then let’s go find it!”

“R- right now?”

“Yeah, why not? I need new clothes, and you could see if there’s any old junk in there you might want to keep!”

With that, he grabs his dad’s hand and yanks him along, spirit filled with renewed purpose and vigor.

“And you’re sure you need my help for this?” Dad asks, lagging a step or two behind him as they march back across the beach together. “The Gems, they… well, they don’t usually want me going into the temple—”

“Oh, Amethyst will be fine,” he says with a wave of his palm. “She never cares when I go in there to check out her trash piles. ‘Sides, I need your help to find the right box! I have no idea what your old band stuff was stashed in.”

His dad flashes a tight smile, the sort he always serves up when he’s nervous, but also too timid to tell him that he’s nervous.

“Well… if you think she’ll allow it…” he relents, and picks up his pace to match his.

[End Part 1... more to be shared later.]

#i finished the art for this finally so y'all get a lil comic/fic exclusive until i can finish up the rest of it to post to AO3 #still trying to decide if i want to split this up or post it as one huge chapter anyways #su #steven universe #amethyst #garnet #pearl #greg universe #su fanart #su fanfic #my art stuff #my writing stuff #i've been working on and off on this short comic since december lol #and i've had pieces of this fic wip since 2019

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 2 years ago

Note

So request kinda if not just sharing my thoughts in general.

Alex. My boy. What if reader is a civ or even another soldier in a different squad and the whole thing with him joining Farah’s forces indefinitely. I think this can really lend itself to some angst and that good old misunderstanding. Kinda leaning towards civ!reader just because the more miscommunication. I guess it’d have to be an angsty ending though 😳, but regardless-

Love your writing and, as always, feel free to change anything or do whatever gives you the most inspiration

World Caves In

PAIRING: Alex Keller x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: Perhaps it would have been better if your husband had died - at the very least you could understand that.

WORD COUNT: 7.9k

WARNINGS: Angst, misunderstandings/miscommunication, hurt/comfort, vulgar language, abandonment?, Alex being an adorable husband, fluff, etc.

A/N: I was gonna make this an angsty ending but I got my period and thinking about that made me cry so here we are, lmao. Enjoy, Anon!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

When you’d been escorted out of work by two uniformed men, you knew the news wasn’t going to be good. Sitting in the back of a large black car, you spare nervous glances as the vehicle jumps, its wheels going over the last speed bump. Your work building begins to become a fraction of a memory and disappears faster than your resolve.

The men sit on either side of you, silent, and the only comment is to the driver as you all enter the main road. Swallowing, you part your lips and mutter, plain dread in your tone, “Is he alive?”

All you get is a glance from the front mirror and nothing more. You hunch more in your seat and stew in agony, mind far off on the topic of your husband.

Alex wasn’t overly reckless, you’d managed to snuff most of that out over the course of the many years you’d expressed concern to him about it, but a large chuck of the blond was still too selfless for his own good. It was hard not to think the worst.

From training to advising, your husband was always off on one mission to another, far from your quaint and quiet home here—where you waited day after day for even a sliver of contact from him. Alex specialized in so many things that trying to wrap your head around it was impossible.

Even now, you only knew the bare minimum.

The soft-smiled man worked in the SAD division of the CIA. He’s an Operations Officer. Currently, he’s somewhere across the globe.

Away from you.

Thinning your lips, you take down a deep breath and settle back into the seat, pulse flying. The men were obviously Agents—you’d looked closely at their badges when they’d first shown their faces at the front desk and had kept within view of your work’s security cameras just in case this was a ruse. When you could find nothing out of the ordinary, you had tensely asked them what was happening.

They would be holding his dog tags if he was dead, you had reasoned, desperately, a flag.

It was frantic, the way you had thought that up; how could you not be like that? Alex was the light of your life! With him constantly putting his life on the line, it was inevitable for him to get hurt, sometimes seriously. It was ingrained into your mind the way you would help clean his wounds in the middle of the night when the pain woke him up with a grunt stuck in his throat. The way you would sit half-asleep in his lap and re-wrap bandages while he told you to go back to bed half-heartedly. His hands drifting over your warm skin like he was cascading his fingers up and down the spine of an old book.

You never listened.

“It’s late, Bug, I can’t keep you up like this.” His drawl echoes in your ear as you rub a heavy palm into your eye. Alex’s hands are both on your hips, squeezing the flesh just below your tiny sleep shorts. You have him sitting on the floor, back resting on the wall and shirt discarded to the side only wearing loose gray sweatpants. A long cut up his left pec is the center of your blurry attention—a wet rag held as you dab at it. Blue eyes narrow at you. “I’m just fine with doing it myself, y’know.”

“You’re being stubborn again,” you utter, the soft light of the bathroom placed at half-capacity to at least try and keep some of the veil of sleep over your heads. “I told you to wake me up when you needed it cleaned.” Your skin brushes his and Alex shivers under you, sighing breathily. “And you’re not keeping me here—I’m helping.”

A small flash of that full smile, mustache flinching up, “Well when you look so pretty sleepin’ I can’t just shake you awake and tell you to fix me up.”

You take your free hand and pinch his nose, yawning as he grunts out chuckles. A delicate glance is thrown his way as the rag lowers from reddened skin. Like a butterfly's whisper, you study his face gently; reaching and cupping his cheek with your palm.

Alex’s lids flutter, heavy weight falling into you as if waiting for this—lips pressing to your inner wrist in reverence. You hold back a tired giggle and feel the corner of his mouth pull up when he feels it.

“All that talk, and yet,” pressing a smooch to his forehead you take your hand back and hear the grumble he lets out after, “you still like it better when I’m the one that’s working on you.”

“Can’t complain too much,” he admits slowly as his head leans back to tap the wall, “my wife’s hands are way softer than mine.”

Alex’s grip on your flesh tightens when you sipe away the last line of crimson from the wound, tattooed arms flexing.

“Sorry,” you whisper, watching his eyes slightly awash with pain. “Got caught on a stitch.”

“Ah, well,” the blond sighs, shifting “I suppose I can forgive you.”

Laughing quietly as the house settles, you shake your head and rest your forehead on his.

“Such a saint,” your lips utter teasingly as Alex smiles wide, his hands moving higher to your waist. You lean into him, stealing his warmth as your tired eyes flutter; feeling his thumbs run circles over the flesh of your lower spine.

A content breath escapes you.

“Go back to bed, Sweetheart,” Alex whispers, lips brushing yours like silk, the bristles of his facial hair tickling you. “I can do the rest, promise.”

“Know you can,” your mutterings are barely heard, but the man seems to register them, sea-glass gaze incredibly soft. He chuckles at your sleepiness, one hand leaving your waist to capture the back of your head; weaving into your hair and gently massaging your scalp. You practically melt into him, limbs going slack, slurring out, “Quit it. Wanna help, Alex.”

His laughter shakes you, and with a huff escaping, you bury your burning face into his neck and lean into him, careful of his wound even in your fatigued state.

“No offense, Bug,” Alex shifts, grunting as he easily maneuvers you until you’re laying in his arms, inked forearms under your knees and behind your shoulders with vivid images of grim reapers, snakes, and angels guarding you close. A kiss is firmly pressed to your forehead as the blonde smirks downwards, “But you’re about as helpful to me right now as an empty mag.”

You grumble, trying to disappear into his skin and letting him dig his stubble into your cheek.

“If you bring me back to bed before you’re done,” you yawn and close your eyes, “I’m divorcing you.”

He laughs deeply into your ear, body shaking as he pulls back and sends you an incredulous look.

“Hell, we can’t have that, can we, Mrs. Keller? I’d lose my damn mind.”

It’s a long drive, and you worry through the entirety of it. A primal, whole-body-shaking type of fear. You’d built a life with Alex and loved him more than anything or anyone that had come before. Even if he was gone a lot, that had never dulled what the two of you had—your marriage was nothing short of something you would find in a fairy tale; flashing pictures on pages with vivid colors and tender glances. The very cover itself is made of the finest leather and inlaid with gold calligraphy.

Please, Alex, you plead in your head as you remember his loving gaze—his back as he makes supper in the kitchen and hums to himself. Please be okay.

The men hold open the car door when it comes to a stop outside a very obviously abandoned apartment complex near the outskirts of town. You get out quickly. Looking around, you take in the overgrown grass and the broken concrete with a knife in your lung; holding back the flood of anxious tears.

Though, confusion takes president.

“Where did you…?” You turn to look at the Agents, but they’re already clambering back into their car and snapping the doors shut. Wide-eyed and slack-jawed you watch them speed off as a cloud of dust drifts into the air.

Pulse echoing in your ears, you watch the vehicle speed down the road and disappear.

Swallowing, you whisper, “What the actual fuck?” Turning in circles, no one else is around. A part of you starts to worry less for Alex and more for yourself.

They were CIA, you reiterate, I checked their badges—Alex showed me the standard ones. Could I have missed something?

Expression nervous, you shift on your feet before your stuttering legs take you closer to the abandoned building, not really seeing much choice here. You could imagine the scene from The Wizard Of Oz—when the man pulls back the curtain and all is revealed.

That said, you could really only hope that was what was actually happening to you and you weren't getting kidnapped or shot. Taking a deep breath, you clench your fists and enter the building through the open front door.

It was in the wide lobby that you locked eyes with Kate Laswell. You blank, mouth parting as the scent of concrete and decaying furniture get stuck in your nose.

The woman seems highly agitated, brows tight and jaw clenched. Her white blouse had been flattened multiple times by rough hands, lanyard swaying on her neck like Alex’s dog tags would. She holds a file in her hands; the paper bulky as if holding something more than just paper inside its manila clutches.

“Kate?” You ask, confused, “What are you doing here? What’s all of this about?” Taking quick steps forward you splay your hands as your voice grows more serious. “Where’s my damn husband?”

You didn’t know Laswell personally, in fact, when you had first got a glimpse of her here, you’d forgotten the older woman’s name for a moment. The first meeting between the two of you had been at a CIA get-together that Alex had been forced to go to because of his position—some celebration because a group of ICBMs had been taken back into US hands after being stolen. Your husband had introduced you to the Station Chief over a drink with a hand on the small of your back.

But it didn’t stop you now from talking to her like you’d known her for years. Not when fear was flooding your veins.

“What the hell is going on?” You say harshly, glancing around the room for any sight of someone else here.

Kate sighs heavily but wastes no time in speaking, her professional tone and serious face leaving your already fast-paced heart racing.

“Alex isn’t coming back to the United States.” Your eyes blank, staring into icy blue. She holds out her manila folder, jaw tight. Blunt. “He’s a deserter.”

It’s like your entire being halts; your skin suit feels as if it’s sagging on your bones with the weight of a cinder block connected by hooks to the floor.

What did she just say?

Opening and closing your mouth you stutter, lids blinking rapidly.

“I…” Fingers flinching in the air, an exhalation from your nose sounds more like a wheeze. Kate watches stiffly, taking a look at the floor before returning her attention to you; emotion flashes in her eyes. “...W-what?”

“Keller deserted his post—I tried to speak with the Colonel but there’s only so much I can do.” Laswell takes a deep breath as you continue to go through shock. Alex wasn’t coming home? How, why? “He’s staying in Urzikstan to fight with the Liberation Force.”

“Urzikstan?!” You gape, but the woman continues.

“For all intents and purposes, I shouldn’t be here, but Alex asked me personally to hand these to you.” Again the manilla folder is shown to you, but when you only glare and fight the fear and confusion rampaging in your gut a sigh echoes out and it’s placed on a termite-eaten side table. “Even communicating with you could put you in danger now that he’s gotten on the bad side of the entire SAD and CIA branches. This is all I can do.”

“What the fuck,” you whisper to yourself, hand coming up to capture your mouth.

“If Alex re-enters the states—he’ll be arrested and tried in a court of law. If he’s not shot on sight for what he knows.” Kate watches you closely, shaking her head in pity. “I’m sorry,” there’s a strained pause, “but he’s made his decision.”

As she brushes past you, leaving the folder on the side table, you feel your wide eyes well with tears—confused and horrified. But he’s coming back to me, right? Alex…Alex wouldn’t leave me here alone.

It was common knowledge that over the last years the blond had gotten more agitated at his line of work; the orders that he didn��t want to follow but had no choice. No voice. But he can’t just abandon you...could he? You’d taken vows. Had a happy marriage and relationship. Loved each other.

He can’t just…he can’t…

Your hands shake and you’re unable to stop them, gaze locked on that unassuming manilla folder. Kate pauses in the doorway, peeking back and seeing your sickly-looking face, the agony written in the lines of your forehead. Like the picture of a loyal wife being told her husband was never coming home. And Alex wasn’t even dead. Resentment begins to burn.

But he made his bed.

“He told me to tell you that he wouldn’t be angry if you wanted to leave him,” was all she said, a final knife being stabbed into your heart and being ripped out like a live wire. Electricity makes your back go stiff in an instant. “It would be best to never tell anyone that we met.”

You were alone, full body shivers and bile stuck in the back of your throat. Cold sweat coats your palms, a sticky mess of your barebones disturbance.

“He…” your voice is hoarse, bouncing off the far walls. “Alex left me here? He left me.”

It was easier to say that the sun had exploded and you were waiting for the last beam of light to incinerate you. Inside of your skull your brain pounds as, in a mad dash of desperation, you rush to the manilla folder and rip it open with vibrating arms.

Having Laswell tell you that Alex wouldn’t be mad if you…if you…the hairs on the back of your neck rise and suddenly you’re angry beyond a sliver of a doubt. It was insulting.

“Alex fucking Keller,” the paper opens to the bulk of your husband's dog tags and a flip phone—reports like his own personal file and the patch that he had once worn so proudly on his combat vest. Red, white, and blue dig into your retinas; it was old, worn beyond measure, but that little patch was something that was never removed. Not even to be cleaned.

“The dirtier it is,” Alex had commented on the American flag patch when you’d offered to mend it for him, cringing at all the blood stains and dirt flecking off it as he slipped his vest off in the foyer of your home. “The luckier I am.”

“I think the stench of it alone will frighten off anyone who comes near,” you had raised a brow, smirking up at him as he walked over, laughing. A kiss is placed on your lips, Alex’s bright smile transferring over to you as if able to spread from his mouth to yours that simply. You sigh dreamily.

He pulls back with a tiny wink as you gaze up at him, cheekily stating, “That’s the plan, Sweet Thing. Gotta make sure I come home to you in one piece.”

You brush your hands over it and think that maybe it would have been better if he had died. Then you could understand why he’s doing this to you. Anger spreads into rage.

Looking next at the phone and dog tags, all you do is shake your head and slam the folder shut, bitter tears tracking your face. You can’t read anything—can’t see his name imprinted on that metal that used to press coldly into your skin as you both slept in bed. You don’t care about the phone or the files.

None of it mattered.

“He fucking left me here,” it’s like you’re a broken record replaying over and over again. “You absolute bastard, Keller!” Yelling, you press your fingers into your face, hands spreading over your eyes and mouth to muffle your enraged sobs.

“You’re still alive and you left me alone.”

Only the abandoned building echoes your pain; replaying it back over and over again as your wails echo around the lobby like a symphony of laughing jesters.

—

The phone that Laswell had given you had been going off at least three times every day—morning, noon, and at night. You had stared at it with fury, knowing exactly who was calling even if the thing was displaying an unknown number. By now you had steeped in your anger enough that you had found yourself snapping at friends and family alike when asked if you were alright.

You wished Alex was here so you could hit him upside the head for being so stupid. So you could hate him until you had the pleasure to love him again.

Urzikstan.

You’d looked up the country after you had spent two days straight in bed, afterward manically cleaning the house with a glare that could light fires. The far-off place was a land utterly divided by war. Russian occupation, a terrorist group; the force that your husband had joined. Mass against mass against mass.

Brick meets wall.

And Alex had chosen to stay—without a doubt because he’d seen the dire situation and had used that damnable good heart of his to empathize to the max. Forget donations, humanitarian work, or anything else, the man had fucking decided to join in a Liberation Force.

As much as you wanted to say you hated him; had wanted to slam your gold wedding band to the table with a good riddance for betraying you like that…you still had his dog tags around your neck, and the ring was still on your finger.

“Too good for his own sake,” you grumble, shoving dirty clothes into the washer like they had tried to attack you. “Deserted the fucking CIA, Jesus Alex. Do you even think when I’m not around?”

There were only so many times you could curse his name until you felt a deceiving needle of pride slither itself into your skull. You could describe Alex as many things but he would always be steadfast in causes that truly needed his help. He often told you that the best missions were the ones where he could do so much more than take out a target—he strived to help the individuals he met. Form bonds.

God forbid something came in between the blond and the ones he’d chosen to give his loyalty to.

You slam the washer shut and stomp into the living room after starting another cycle. Stress cleaning was really not a good look on you—the entire house was without a single spec of dust but you yourself felt like you’d run seven marathons. Clenching your teeth, you go and drop to the couch, a grunt falling from your lips as your head hits the pillow.

Staring at the ceiling, you finally take in the utter silence of the house—not a home, because it could only be that if Alex was here—with a pained crease forming on your brow. The pipes spit water, and the washer grunted its mechanical garble…but there was no humming man making food in the kitchen. No blond hair visible as a head rests on your chest; your fingers playing in the locks that act like silk as you part them, the man on top of you purring. Body a weighted blanket.

“Was it really that easy,” you whisper to nothing, lip quivering. “Was it really that easy to stay away, Alex? I thought…I…”

Eyes wrenching shut, you hear the phone right at noon again as it sits on the coffee table. And you let it.

There were voicemails, no doubt, but you hadn’t thought to listen to those either. This small act of rebellion was all you could act on but for the simple fact that it also harmed you. Barbed wire steadily digging deeper as it kept your hands wound to your sides—neck plastered to the pillow as bright silver spikes glinted. You stare at the unknown caller who really wasn’t all that unknown and watch the screen light, vibrating over the wood in steady intervals.

What hurt the most was that if he’d asked you to come along—become an Expat just for him—you would have said yes. You could find a new job, a new place to call home. Humanitarian work would have been at the top of your list and Alex…well….he would still be fighting, just as he always had.

But at the very least you would have been there to clean his wounds. Together. You’d both promised on that altar to do nothing less. He could’ve asked. He should have asked.

Alex…

“Urzikstan,” you mutter for what seems like the fiftieth time. When the ringing stops a few moments later the new voicemail icon flashes. Placing your arm over your mouth, you clench your hand so tight it starts to shake, whispering into your skin, “Fine. I guess you did make your bed. And…and I won't be there to lie in it with you.” No matter how much I want to.

You slip the wedding band off of your finger and place it beside the phone before turning and burying your head into the cushions; feeling more numb than you ever had before.

—

It carried on like this for three months. The ring didn’t move from the coffee table and neither did the flip phone; the file had all but been tossed in the trash as it sat teetering on the living room desk. You carried on as well as you could, all things considered.

Work was a blur, going out with friends even harder to enjoy, and any enjoyment of hobbies or activities was dulled to an almost gray existence. Like a ghost, you wafted through experiences with dog tags and a withering appearance. Eventually, you just stopped going out unless it couldn’t be helped. You still bought meals for two at the grocery store out of habit. You placed blankets where Alex used to sleep beside you. You went to work.

And still, the calls never stopped except for a brief pause after the first month. You’d thought he’d finally given up, but no. Back at it.

It had gotten to a point now where the device was automatically deleting all recent voicemails—too little space in the inbox.

Angry curiosity was tempting you. It would be easy, you reason, to simply play the first message and listen. The worst part of it was that you’d begun to forget Alex’s voice and perhaps that was why, on that dead-aired Saturday, you snatched the phone and brought it into the kitchen.

Firmly planting it on the counter, you stand behind one of the island chairs and glare, hands tapping into the wood.

“I’m giving you three minutes, Alex,” you speak as if he’s still here, as if his form stands right behind you, head tilted like a damn dog with that infectious smile and those sea-glass eyes. “Three minutes,” your fingers snap the device open and you go to your voicemails; jaw tight, “and if you don’t hear you groveling, Keller, I’m deleting all of them and chucking this phone into the sink.”

You go down the line to the very first message, small buttons clicking, and before you can stop yourself you press play.

It begins with a small moment of silence. A cough.

“Hey,” he says your first name, not one of your epithets. Your brows deepen their annoyed furrow, but you can’t help the uptick in your heart rate. Inside your flesh, the sinews of your throat close in on itself like a balloon. “I…I’m guessin’ I have a good enough ass-kicking waiting for me since you didn’t answer.” A strained laugh before another pause. You feel acidic tears boil behind your lids. “I’m not surprised—not really. Done some stupid things but never something like this.” You can hear him shake his head, voice going lower in defiance. “But they were asking me to leave Urzikstan in a worse place than when I entered it. This Liberation Force, Bug, it…they’re good people and what they’re asking me to do…” Alex huffs, growling under his throat. “I can’t stand by that. The man you chose to marry, he can’t stand by that. They need me here. I’m not asking you to not be angry—to not hate me for this. I know I damn well deserve it.”

You let your tears hit the counter, head slightly bowing over. That was your Alex.

“You need a leash,” your strained voice hits the walls, bouncing off picture frames and your husband's cooking utensils. The small pieces that make up the whole picture frame of your life. “God,” you huff wetly, “you’re going to get yourself killed.”

“I know I should have talked to you first, figured out some plan. But, uh,” Alex’s throat gets choked up, and you snap a hand to your mouth when you realize he’s close to tears. He clears his throat. “Hell, I should have done a lot of things, Sweetheart.”

You can hear shouts in the background, calls in Arabic. The pounding of a door and a woman’s voice.

“Alex, we need to move! Everyone is ready—Barkov’s lab cannot be left standing a moment longer.” The hurried hand to the line muffles the words, but you hear him anyway.

“Affirmative!” He comes back. “I don’t have time to explain more, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for… everything. I’d understand if you don’t use the passport Laswell’ll give you, but that doesn’t mean I’m just going to stop calling.” Alex laughs and your face freezes.

“Passport?”

“What kind of Husband would I be if I just let the most perfect woman in the world go without a fight, huh? I’ll be waiting until you call to tell me to shut the hell up and leave you alone or that you’re down in the airport waiting.” There’s a large sound of combat vests being clicked on—pistols being situated into holsters and a rifle strap slipped over a chest. Alex suddenly pauses and you stare at the phone blankly. “I know this is a big ask, Doll, and I know I’m horrible for even springin’ this on you when I’m half a world away from our bed. But I had to try, even if it was selfish. I just…I just really need to hear your voice telling me if I’m an idiot or not for thinking this up. Call me back soon…or when you run out of my clothes to burn in the firepit out back…I love you, okay? More…more than anything.”

There’s a minute or two of nothing, just Alex’s ragged breathing, and then there’s an older man’s voice ordering him to hurry up. The line clicks.

Your ears ring as it does, wide eyes dripping tears from your bottom lashes as your lungs chill over. Hand slowly flinching out, you ghost over the keys before clicking on the following voicemail. As it plays, your feet start to take you backward at a snail's pace, your spine flattering against the wall as blood drains to your feet.

“Hey, it’s me again. I still haven’t heard from you—that’s alright. Take your time.” Steadying yourself with a hand, you look out of the kitchen and get a glimpse of the manila folder on the desk, its tan hide sucking you in. Pulse in your throat, you rush out to grab it as Alex’s voice echoes. “I know Laswell gave you the file, I trust her that much at least.” A sigh. “But even if it’s just to yell at me, please pick up the phone soon. Let me save some of my dignity and give me a chance to beg on an open line, huh, Sweetheart…? But I guess that’s all—gotta go. I love you.”

You don’t play the next message because you’re ripping open the file with rabid hands, seeing exactly as you had when Laswell left it for you. Alex’s mission report; his patch. The dog tags around your neck clink together like a song, some brutal rhythm.

“Passport?” Grasping the mission report you pick it up, flipping through the multiple pages of blacked-out words and more confused than ever. “Airport?”

The words come out as whimpers, hands so shaky that the pages slip from your fingers. They slam to the floor in a flurry of bond paper and you curse loudly, snatching for the remnants futilely. Grasping on your hands and knees hitches build in your breath as your fingers dance rapidly before they slip across something distinctly not paper.

Small, tiny, and blue. Laminate.

Your very blood seems to stop in your veins. Pushing back one last piece of paper, you come face to face with a singular American passport. Gasping down mute breaths and licking your lips, you pick it up lightly, leaning back on your legs as if you’d just slammed your head into the concrete.

“Alex…” you whisper to no one.

Flipping the hard cover open, a small, palm-sized piece of paper slips out to your lap as your own face stares at you in image form. You blink for a moment before going to take the note and separate the ends. Formal script is inside, stiff lettering. Not your husband's handwriting, but you didn’t have to guess who’d written out these directions for you.

Laswell.

There was a destination in fountain pen ink—an airport near the Urzikstanian and Georgian border. Seeing as Urzikstan was on the travel-ban list due to the turbulence of the government and terrorist threats, you wouldn’t be able to get there directly.

But you supposed Kate had your back for that too.

Georgian safehouse - wait for Keller there. It’s secure. More directions and then a small gap. A pause. Good luck.

You don’t know how long you stare at that paper—that passport. The first thing you think about is how could Alex ask you to do this. Uproot yourself with the snap of a finger. You wouldn’t be able to bring anything beyond what could fit in a few suitcases. No furniture, no large amount of clothes, or even sentimental items. You’d have to quit your job; leave behind family and friends to travel to a war-torn country.

But he’d said it was your choice, and he wouldn’t push you to make it. He’d said you could leave him if you wanted—keep all of this that you’d built here.

…But you’d built it together, hadn’t you?

You think of Alex’s bright smile and his mustache. His tattoos. How he’d hold you so tight in the long hours of sleep that you half-believed he thought you’d disappear if he didn’t; nuzzling his nose into the back of your head and grumbling out nonsense. The way you could trace his scars and watch as he willingly submitted to your praise, delicate lips curving into sheepish grins as you place soft kisses on the raised skin. Red cheeks.

This place wasn’t a home without Alex in it.

You look over at the coffee table and lock onto the gold of your wedding band.

—

Getting into Georgia was a long affair of paperwork and screenings—not days but months of legal jargon that Alex had dodged entirely because of his desertion. By the time you’d landed in country, you were wholly exhausted down to the very marrow of your bones. You get through the checkpoints, pick up your bags, and look out at the entirely new world outside of the airport’s windows.

“Okay,” you swallow saliva and nod carefully before looking down at Laswell’s directions to the safehouse.

You slip the paper into your pocket after memorizing the address, tips of your fingers brushing the smooth surface of the flip phone. Clenching your eyes shut, you take your hand back out and go to try and hire a driver. You were here, but that doesn’t mean all of this was forgiven.

After you find someone able to drive you to where you need to go, you end up standing with a quaint hostel ahead of you, home far behind. Gazing slightly nervous at the strange place you’ve found yourself, you think of Alex’s hand on the small of your back and sigh; caressing the cool metal of the ring around your finger.

Walking forward, you hitch your bags over your shoulders and grit your teeth against the hot sun. When you meet the owner at the front desk you state your name and ask for a bed.

The man’s eyes widen for a moment before he looks at something on his countertop, raising a brow in thought. Grabbing at a stack of papers he holds up a finger and begins digging. Too tired and overwhelmed to ask what was wrong, you just watch and rub at your face.

“Ah,” the man snaps his fingers and laughs to himself, “here it is! I knew I had placed the note somewhere, Mrs. Keller.” You blink, confused, but the man just takes a key from the wall and motions for you to follow. Sparing a glance around for a moment, you slowly slink after, not really having a choice.

“I remember your Husband coming to me—the blond with the tattoos.” The owner looks back, making sure you’re following. He motions to his right side with splayed fingers. “Scars on the side of his head, to reserve a room.”

Alex was here? How much had he done already pertaining to the chance that you would show up?

“Y-yeah,” you chuckle stiffly, “that was him. Sorry for being so long I was…preoccupied.”

“You’re lucky he kept up on payments,” the man grumbles, opening a door with the key and motioning you inside. “My pleasure to finally have you, regardless.”

Entering the small and sparse room, you take the key from him with a thankful smile and a quick thank you before he closes the door. As the barrier thuds, you sway on your feet. Blinking. Breathing hard. You drop all of your bags with a heavy thump that echoes off the walls in a single instant. Heart pounding at everything that was striking you in an instant, you walk slowly back to the bed. You don’t bother to take a shower or brush your teeth; even change.

You fall down on the mattress and pray you don’t have to dream about Alex sending money to this place every week simply on a suffocating hope that you’d come back to him. You pray you don’t dream at all.

The phone wakes you up only thirty minutes later.

Groaning, you shift your body so your hand can snake into your pocket, grasping it and tossing it to the pillow beside your head. You’d never made it through all of the voicemails without crying, so you just deleted all of them and let the inbox fill back up again.

Feeling the dog tags press against your chest as you form your chest into the bed, you shove your head downward and listen to it ring.

Bring-bring, bring-bring, bring-bring

It happens in a flurry of a sleep-addled mind and a horrible desperation to see your husband after nearly a full year of no contact. You flip it open and answer with your nose pressed deeply into the pillow below you. Ears straining and pulse running like a starving cat after a mouse.

Dead silence.

“...Sweetheart…?” It’s pitiful how fast the tears flood you at Alex’s shocked and tiny voice. Tight breathing sounds over the line from his end and your other hand digs into your scalp. A small, cut-off laugh. “Hey…I—”

You hang up with a vicious slam of the screen and let the silence settle again. People walk the hall; the sun dims as night sets in. This isn’t home. Dropping the phone back down to the pillow you curl into a tight ball and cry yourself back to sleep.

If you had to guess, you’d say the small curse was what woke you for the second time, though you didn’t register it until minutes later. That muffled ‘shit’ as a foot hits your dropped bags near the door. But then it’s silent again and your ears only twitch to the gentle sigh that brushes against your face; a thumb and forefinger caressing your cheek as hair is placed back over your ear.

Perhaps the only reason at all as to why you don’t wake up screaming bloody murder is because of his calluses. They burn your flesh as they slide over it—as ingrained into your very being as your own heart is. As if Alex’s touch was another organ that was needed to survive. More important than a liver or a spleen.

When your eyes slip open he’s leaning back in a chair he had turned to face you, built form shifting as the rickety wood creaks. No more than five feet away sits your husband, and all you do is suck in a tight breath and lock gazes with soft sea glass.

Alex freezes at the same time, strong brow line peeling back and mustache stiff as his lips immediately thin. You both stare for a good while, a thread of tension entering the air. The night deepens.

He speaks first, in the dense hours of confrontation. Your heart feels like it’s been stuck with a spear, vignette at the sides of your vision, and a blooming center of only Alex’s body and his messy hair. The scarf around his neck. The combat vest.

Had he driven all this way to see if you were here? Because you’d answered the phone? But you hadn’t even said anything. Your head stays on the pillow, wondering if you were hallucinating.

“Hey,” Alex forces a chuff before he glances away, nervous arms crossed. “Hey there, Doll. Sorry that I woke you. I…ah,” your eyes bore into him, hand on the sheets slowly clenching into a fist. “I figured there was an off chance you would be here.” He clears his voice, throat closing on a trying laugh. “Guess I’m glad I looked. You should remember to lock your door, by the way.”

At the sight of your rising glare, his tone drops, expression falling even more than it already was. Deep well of sadness grew in his eyes, lips pulling back in a strained agony.

Alex’s gaze drops to the floor.

“I know,” is what hits the air, “I know, Sweetheart. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t fucking cut it,” you push your body up as his large shoulders tighten—such an accomplished and strong man brought to a squirming heap when his wife’s sharp words hit him in the chest. “What the hell were you thinking, Alex?!”

Heavy feet hit the floor as you stalk over, fatigue and tiredness pushed all the way to the back of your mind yet also enhancing your emotions. Bitter rage was sparking—held in far too long. Alex’s eyes don’t meet yours, so you grab him by the chin and angle his head up to you.

At the sight of your red sclera and the baggy gaze he stills. Under your grip his beard tickles you, the soft grip of flesh that makes you want to wrap your arms over him and weep; make him promise to never leave like that again.

“I…I wasn’t…”

“That’s the thing isn’t it—you didn’t think.” Sea glass floods over, going glossy; hurt etched into both of your faces as if carved from the same stone. But you don’t stop now, growling out as your skin burns. Alex isn’t sad that you’re angry, he’s sad he’s done this to you. “You disappeared, Alex. Laswell had to just drop all of this shit on me. I thought you had died.” You growl. “Do you know what that feels like?!”

“Sweetheart—”

“Shut up! You let me talk,” he falls silent, hand delicately coming up to grab your wrist. Not to pull you away, just to hold you. To feel your skin and the heat of it. You sniffle and his eyes break. “And the worst part of it was that if you had just asked I would have followed you right then and there.” Alex sharply looks back at you. “But the biggest insult was that you thought I would leave you—that you even considered that.”

Shock slowly gives way to a blank expression. He was confused, now.

Was that what you were angry about?

“You’re an idiot, Keller. Hot-headed. Cocky.” You shake your head, but a tiny smile begins to bleed onto Alex’s face. Watching you like you’d just sprung a million dollars on him. His grip slightly squeezes, calloused thumb running the span of your knuckles as you shake his head with your hand. “Damn nuisance to my health, is what you are.” Trying to remain angry is tough when he’s looking at you like that—starstruck—but you spit out, “It’s insulting that you thought I’d just give up on us that easily.”

“Most women don’t want a man who’s wanted for desertion, Doll,” Alex whispers, testing a smirk on his lips with his expression still strained.

“Arrogant!” your voice snaps. “Not a single brain cell in his stupid little head.” You let go of his chin and grip the sides of his skull, feeling the dirty but still soft strands of hair before you huff at him.

But he just looks at you and smiles, face smooshed.

“...You really came?” Alex asks quietly. You fall silent and after a moment you deflate.

After the silence of trying to keep the sneer on your face, you let it drop, lips quivering slightly. Anger glints with pain. “I should hit you upside the head, Keller, for all the worry you’ve put me through,” you grunt, eyes flashing over every new bruise on his face—every cut you’d have to re-learn. He looks tired.

Oh, Alex…

Before the blond can respond to you, you’ve captured the back of his head and shoved it into your chest; face burying itself into his scalp to bring forth that scent of dust and cologne. You whimper out as he grips you around the waist with just as much fervor, “Did you think that I would stay away?”

Alex says nothing, only the slight tremor in his bicep betraying him. You firmly kiss his skull and run your fingers through his hair, the both of you so tight together there’s barely enough room in your ribs to allow your lungs to inflate.

But holding him was more important than air, a sentiment that Alex seemed to share entirely.

“I’m so glad you’re here, Bug.” He mutters into your skin. “Feels good to be able to hold my girl again.”

You stay like that for a long time before you pull back and capture his cheeks, face pulling closer before you kiss him deeply. It’s not a fast-paced or desperate thing—no clashing teeth or tongue. That wasn’t what you needed right now.

All that you needed was Alex. Your home.

You both separate and the blond grabs the back of your neck, forcing you back so he can lay another on the side of your mouth; nose, cheek. Anywhere that he could reach as his mustache tickled you to a smile. Giggles worm out and you wiggle out of his grip to wipe at your cheeks, spreading away tiny tear tracks and saliva.

“Quit it,” you whisper, and Alex gazes up at you reverently from his chair.

“Negative, Ma’am,” he says, equally as soft, not even blinking. “Don’t wanna.” You roll your eyes, face hot.

The seconds draw long of only watching one another before you shake your head and move your hands to shimmy out of the dog tags around your neck. Alex’s gaze locks on the metal swiftly, smile shifting.

“You’re horrible.” You huff, quietly, before shoving his dog tags at his chest. “Now put them back on.”

“But I’m not in the—” Your glare shuts him up. Alex clears his throat sheepishly. “Yes, Ma’am.”

You nod and watch as they’re resituated around his neck. Right where they should be. When you take a step back to really take him in, there’s a moment where you skim over the state of his left leg. After all, the metal was barely noticeable in the dark. But when you do see it every little part of you shrivels up with confused pain.

Alex stands with a noticeable preference to his right and as he towers over you, fingers coming to grab at your face and slowly drag it back up.

A slightly apologetic look washes over him.

“I’m guessing you didn’t listen to all of the voicemails.”

“Alex…” you slowly cut off. “You…” Staring at the metal limb instead of the real one, you gape. “...how?”

“Y’know,” he laughs, but you don’t find this funny. He notices and kisses your forehead, tapping his scalp to yours and saying after a contemplative pause, “I think it’s better if I don’t explain it. I’m alright, just...” Alex smiles cheekily, the spark that you love coming back easily as it shimmers in his eyes, “just a little more carbon fiber and aluminum than I was before.”

You hug him tightly.

“I’m sorry, I should have come sooner—I was just angry, and I wasn’t—”

“Don’t apologize to me,” Alex sighs, grabbing you and maneuvering the both of you to the bed. He sits and you end up laying in his lap like that moment in the bathroom ages ago. “None of this is your fault, okay? You deserve to be angry. I shouldn’t have put such a burden on you.”

You sigh in his arms, head under his chin and heart finally able to return to a steady pace. Licking your lips, you ask, “Does it hurt?”

Sending a glance down, Alex’s lips twitch with a grin before it disappears. He hums.

“Sometimes.” Your hand grips his opposite cheek and you lay a kiss on his chin, caressing his flesh.

It’s a tentative kind of love. An understanding and a plea all at once.

The blond leans back against the wall and pulls you closer, closing his eyes. Finally relaxing for the first time in what seems like forever. But his girl is in his arms, and he’s never been this calm.

“I have a home in Urzikstan,” he confesses lightly, fingers brushing your body and giving way to shivers. You listen, eyes fluttering at the vibrations of his words. “It’s safe—protected. I…want us to live there.” Alex nods against your head, swallowing. “If you’ll come back with me.”

“Yes,” your answer is immediate. “Anywhere, as long as you’re with me.”

You feel his breath hitch, soft chuckles brushing your hair far better than any comb. There’s a small tremor in his voice as he says, “I love you. God, do I love you.”

Your lips pull up, body growing heavy with a final sense of home.

“I love you, too.” Soft kisses and tight arms. Shifting tattoos. “But if you ever do something like that again without talking to me, I’m telling Laswell she has permission to put a bullet in your ass.”

His loud laughs shake your body, and you press your face into his neck to steady yourself; smiling.

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