#hangover museum | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

unpredictable-probabilities · 7 months ago

Text

Raisins and Dates

Summary:

A beautiful stranger catches Hob’s eye during a night out at a bar. Spurred on by his cheeky friends and a fair amount of alcohol, Hob makes his way over to court him through the most daring method possible.

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 7,874

Square/Prompt: C3 - Bad Pickup Lines | @dreamlingbingo

Ship(s): Dream of the Endless | Morpheus/Hob Gadling

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Human, First Meeting, Pick-Up Lines, Bad Pick-Up Lines, But they both find it cute so it's okay, Drunkenness, Drunken Shenanigans, Drunken Confessions, Temporary memory loss because of drunkenness, Hangover, Sweet, Sweet/Hot, Domestic, Kissing, Neck Kissing, French Kissing, Hand Jobs, Blow Jobs, Oral Sex, Smut, Eventual Smut, Cuddling & Snuggling

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57613603

—

“Look, I've seen you use pickup lines,” Hob reminded his friends, his words only slurring a bit. It was their first night out in weeks because of conflicting work schedules and they might have gotten a bit enthusiastic at downing shots. “Half of you lot got rejected within seconds of saying them. Pickup lines are…” he furrowed his eyebrows as he tried to remember what adjectives were. “Stupid. The only reason you even attempt them is because that's what people do in bars. But not me. I've seen enough of you crash and burn. I've made up my mind,” he took a drink from his beer bottle. “I'm never gonna use any pickup line.”

It wasn't the most world-changing principle to hold onto, but Hob tended to run his mouth whenever he'd had more than a few drinks, and when his equally drunk friends dared him to get any stranger's phone number with a pickup line, Hob suddenly felt like giving an entire lecture about it.

“You're an idiot, Robbie,” Ken called him by the nickname he knew Hob disliked the most. “You're just saying that ‘cause you know you'll get rejected like the rest of us.”

Frank piped up. “Maybe I'll take you up on that dare, Ken. You think a pickup line would work on that lady in the black shirt?” He nodded over to the bar where a woman with curly hair and a nice smile was talking to a man who had his back to them.

“Oh, honey,” Hal gave Frank a pitying look. “I don't think anything you say would work on someone so out of your league. And it's a tank top, not a shirt.”

“And that guy could be her boyfriend,” Ken pointed with a nacho to the man leaning against the bar.

Hob was about to say something, but whatever it was fled his mind when the man turned around to speak to the bartender.

His face reminded Hob of those Greek statues in museums; lined features on smooth marble, cheekbones so sharp that Hob would willingly risk getting his hand cut if it meant he could touch them.

“I don't think they're dating,” Hob managed to remember what he was about to say, but this time he knew he sounded a bit hopeful.

“Oh?” Hal arched an intrigued eyebrow. “Would you mind confirming for us, darling?”

“Hey,” Frank elbowed Hob. “If you get that bloke’s number with a pickup line, I’ll get the tab for our next three nights out.”

“Now, we’re talking!” Ken piped up.

Hob was barely listening, still staring at the man who had now turned his back again to continue his conversation with the woman. He stood up—to the surprised and slurred cheers of his friends—and made his way over to the bar.

The woman saw him first, meeting his gaze over the man’s shoulder. For a second, Hob was afraid that they really were dating, and the woman was about to drag the man away somewhere else.

But she smiled warmly and said to the man, “I think someone wants to buy you a drink, brother,” nodding in Hob’s direction.

Brother. Hob knew he was already grinning.

The man turned to face him, and Hob’s breath hitched, suddenly realising how close they were to each other. Piercing blue eyes fixed on him, before flicking down to the bottle he still held in his hand.

“I do not think you should buy any more drinks,” the man said, an amused smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“Do you like raisins?” Hob blurted out.

The man looked at him curiously. “I don’t believe they sell raisins here.”

“Well how do you feel about a date?” Hob said cheekily.

The man’s face showed a combination of surprise and confusion, but he wasn’t walking away and Hob was taking that as a win.

The woman laughed good-naturedly behind her brother and patted him on the back. “I think that’s my cue to leave.”

Her brother raised an eyebrow. “You are the one who pestered me to go out tonight, and now you will leave me alone?”

“I'll just be over there by the tables if you need me,” she smiled reassuringly before walking away.

The man turned to Hob again. “Do such lines usually work for you?”

Hob chuckled, leaning against the bar. “Nah. I’ve never even used a pickup line until now. I just heard one of my friends use that one earlier.”

“And did it work?”

“Not at all,” Hob shook his head. “The guy didn’t know that dates were a fruit, and it was just an awkward time with my friend trying to explain the wordplay.”

Amusement twinkled in the man’s eyes, softening his features. “Then why use the same line if it proved ineffective?”

“Had to say something, didn’t I? And we’re having a conversation right now so I’d say it’s effective enough.” Hob grinned and finished the last of his beer, placing the empty bottle on the bar. “Y’know, my friends thought your sister was your girlfriend.” Was that relevant? Hob wasn’t sure, but it was something to say.

The man’s eyebrows lifted. “And that is why you approached me? To settle an argument among your friends?”

“S’no argument,” Hob frowned to try to remember. He hadn’t really been paying attention to the table conversation at the time. “Yeah. I just thought you’re beautiful and I’d regret it for the rest of my life if we never talked,” he chuckled and looked down, sheepishly tugging at his earlobe.

The man had a look of mild surprise on his face. “You are… sincere.”

“What? Well, yeah. Why would I lie about that?” Hob asked in confusion.

“Some people do,” the man gave a half shrug. “It’s why I dislike going to these places,” he muttered, eyeing the crowds.

“Oh,” Hob remembered what this man said about his sister just pestering him to go here tonight. He shifted on his feet uncomfortably. “Um, I can just go back to my friends. If that’s what you want…?”

The man looked at him for a moment, then he opened his mouth to answer—

“Here's your order, sir.” The bartender placed a drink and a small basket of pretzels on the bar. He handed back a credit card.

“Thank you.” The man took the card and turned back to Hob. “Do you like pretzels?”

Hob blinked. He looked at the basket and back at the man. “I— Yeah.”

“Then would you care to join me? I believe we can find a table somewhere.” His eyes seemed to glitter with intent before he gracefully turned and walked away.

Hob could do nothing but follow, determined to find out just what sort of intent the man had in mind.

They sat across from each other at a table, and Hob felt a bit more confident at being invited. “I never caught your name.”

“Finally remembered to ask, didn't you?” the man arched a perfectly shaped eyebrow.

“Technically, I still haven't asked,” Hob replied with a cheeky grin.

The corner of the man’s mouth twitched up. “Dream.”

“What?” Hob furrowed his eyebrows, unsure if he heard correctly.

“My name is Dream.”

“Uh-huh,” Hob said, playfully skeptical. “Because you look like a dream?”

“I am telling the truth,” the man’s eyes were twinkling with mirth as he took something out of his wallet, then showed it to Hob.

Hob leaned forward and saw that it was an ID card. “You’re a director?”

“For theatre plays, yes.” The man—Dream—put the ID back in his wallet. “The latest production we’ve done was a retelling of Twelfth Night.”

“Ah, Shakespeare.” Hob must have looked unimpressed, because Dream tilted his head curiously.

“You are not fond of The Bard?”

Hob shrugged. “I’ve always just preferred Christian Marlowe. Though I wouldn’t mind having a Dream for a midsummer’s night,” he winked.

Dream’s lips curved into an amused smile. “It is only the 7th of June, weeks away from midsummer.”

“Well I’d love to see you again then,” Hob said easily, endeared by how Dream knew exactly when midsummer would even be.

“I do not tend to have meetings with strangers,” Dream leaned back in his seat with a playful gaze.

“Oh! My name!” Hob suddenly realised. “Right, sorry.” He got his own ID from his pocket and showed it to Dream. “I’m Hob.”

Dream read it with a curious expression. “Your ID says Robert.”

“Yeah, but my friends call me Hob.” He pocketed the ID again.

“And that is what we are?” There were equal parts intrigue and wonder in Dream’s voice.

“If you’d like…?” Hob said, suddenly unsure what Dream wanted out of this interaction.

Then there was that small smile again, and Hob knew he'd do anything to see it more often. “I would. Hob Gadling.”

The way Dream said his name made Hob’s breath catch in his throat. The soft rumble that came out of those pink lips seemed to caress each syllable as if it were something precious.

“So you’re a manager at a coffee shop?” Dream brought a pretzel to his mouth and his tongue darted out to get it.

Hob tried not to stare too much at that and almost succeeded. “Uh, yeah. I came here to meet up with my mates straight from my shift. I’ve switched jobs a lot, though. I’ve been a handyman, mechanic, even managed a flower shop for a few months.”

“I see. And you enjoy this lifestyle?” The evident interest in Dream’s voice made Hob feel heady.

“I do,” Hob nodded sincerely. “I get to meet different sorts of people, and I learn a lot too. There’s so much to see out there, you know?”

Dream stared at him thoughtfully for a few moments. “But?”

“But… what?” Hob furrowed his eyebrows.

“You seem wistful. Do you wish for a job you haven’t tried yet?”

Hob was so taken aback he felt himself sober up a few degrees. He hadn’t expected to be figured out so quickly and easily by someone he just met.

“I apologise,” Dream said with a concerned frown. “I didn’t mean to ask such a personal question.”

“No, no, it’s okay,” Hob hurriedly said, willing himself to calm down from whatever facial expression he’d been wearing. “I was just surprised, that’s all. No one’s read me that well before,” he smiled to lighten the mood.

“Perhaps they weren’t interested enough.”

“In my experience?”

“In you.”

Hob felt a warmth in his chest that seemed to reach his ears. He chuckled and glanced down for a moment. “Well, um, I always wanted to be a professor. Got my degree and everything, all that's left is to actually apply but…” he shrugged. “Things were pretty rough a few years ago, and I wasn’t in the right headspace to have a career with that kind of responsibility. So I took on other jobs first, and I guess I just haven’t broken that habit yet.”

Dream nodded. “I see.” He looked like he wanted to say something else, and Hob recognised that curiosity.

Normally he would redirect the conversation; people didn’t like emotional baggage being brought up during what was supposed to just be a night of flirting, but Dream didn’t seem like the type to prefer shallow conversations. And Hob wasn’t either.

“It was a nasty breakup,” Hob said. “I proposed. Turned out that while I was spending weeks looking for the perfect engagement ring, she was planning her breakup speech.” He huffed out a chuckle. “Took a while to pick myself back up.” He reached for a pretzel and ate it just to have something to do. He hadn’t talked about it in a long time, and he wasn’t sure what reaction to expect.

“I was engaged once,” Dream said, making Hob glance at him. “We had moved to Greece for our jobs. Eventually we realised we were too different, and that the engagement was our last desperate attempt to make things work between us. We broke it off, and I moved back here.” He finished the drink in his glass.

“Ah.” Hob searched for the right words to say. “I didn’t mean to remind you of all that, sorry. And now I feel like a sod complaining about what happened to me,” he chuckled lightly. “You had to move countries and you’re still doing really well in your work.”

Dream shook his head. “Comparing our suffering only compounds it,” he said gently. “Better to focus on what we have now. ‘It’s good to touch the earth with your bare feet,’ as my sister would say,” he gave a small smile.

Hob felt himself smile back. “You said she was the one who dragged you out here tonight, right? I’ll have to thank her for this spontaneous date, then.”

Dream made a huff that was almost a chuckle. “A date? I have not even bought you a drink yet.” He raised a hand to call the attention of a passing waiter. “A glass of vermouth, please. Sweet.” He handed over his empty glass to the waiter and turned to Hob. “And for the gentleman…?”

“Oh, uh, a gin and tonic, please,” Hob told the waiter.

“Right away,” the waiter nodded politely and headed to the bar.

“Hey,” Hob turned to Dream. “I was the one who approached you, I’m the one who should buy you a drink, right?” He had been planning to, but Dream invited him to a table and it took priority in his mind.

“Perhaps you could buy me one on our second date,” Dream smirked playfully. “I believe you said midsummer?”

“I don’t think I can wait that long,” Hob said without thinking. He almost said it was just a joke, but the look in Dream’s eyes was far from disapproving.

The waiter arrived with their drinks and placed them on the table. Dream thanked him without breaking eye contact with Hob.

“Perhaps we shouldn’t.” Dream picked up his glass. “Wait that long.” He took a drink, and Hob’s eyes got drawn to the bob of his throat.

“Are we already planning a second date when the first one isn’t even done yet?” Hob grinned.

“Do you object?” Dream raised an eyebrow.

“No,” Hob said, probably louder than necessary. “Just can’t believe my luck, that’s all.”

They talked over their drinks and pretzels, and Dream turned out to be as good of a talker as a listener. Hob enjoyed listening to his deep voice as Dream told him about the process of reimagining the plays at the theatre, and the cat that he had adopted ever since moving back here, a black Main Coon named Sable. Dream spoke of him with such fondness that Hob almost asked to meet him.

Hob told Dream about his varying work experiences, his realisation that he loved learning new things and meeting all sorts of people, and that was why he couldn’t seem to stay in one job for very long. He talked about how he started buying coffee beans and a coffee maker a few weeks into working at the café because he wanted to experiment with his own recipes, and the regulars who always seemed to cheer up whenever they find a misspelling in their names on the cups, and so Hob sometimes misspelled their names on purpose when they looked like they were having a bad day.

Dream listened, and gave those small smiles that Hob was very nearly getting addicted to. They ordered more drinks, and Hob insisted on paying for some, so Dream paid for chips and then nachos. He encouraged Hob to be a professor on his next career change, and for the first time in a long time, Hob actually considered it.

At some point Hob told the story of his first attempt at making his own espresso drink at home, how he had more confidence than skill and ended up spitting out very expensive ingredients. Dream laughed so brightly that Hob sent a quick message in the groupchat with his friends that he wouldn’t be leaving the bar with them tonight. No matter how this night would end for him and Dream, Hob wanted to spend as much time with him as humanly possible.

***

Hob woke up with a pounding headache and a dry mouth. He groaned and moved to roll to his side, then nearly fell off when his body met what felt like a small table instead of the other side of his bed.

He blinked himself to full consciousness and realised he was on a couch. A fluffy black cat was sitting on the armrest at his feet, regarding him with yellow eyes that shone in the dimness of the living room.

I don't have a cat, Hob’s hungover brain managed.

Bits and pieces of the night before flashed in Hob’s mind. Blue eyes sparkling with mirth. A deep chuckle. Rosy pink lips forming a name.

Hob sat up properly and stared at the cat. “Sable…?” he guessed.

The cat's ears perked up and his tail swished once, his eyes still looking at Hob.

I'm in Dream’s house, Hob realised with awe.

He looked around and took in his surroundings.

Thick curtains were drawn at the windows and the lights were off, keeping the room dim, so he wasn’t sure what time it was. The coffee table appeared to have been dragged to be right next to the couch, judging by the tracks on the carpet. On the table was a glass of water with a plastic lid, next to a small packet of painkillers. There was a Post-It note beside it, and Hob leaned over and squinted to read the smooth cursive.

For your headache. -Dream

He felt himself smile, despite the disorientation. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to remember what exactly happened last night.

“How do you plan on going home?” Dream asked as they exited the bar into the cool night air, Hob leaning against him for support because walking properly was a sober man’s game.

“That’s not fair, you know,” Hob frowned as Dream gently propped him up against the wall. “You drank about as much as me, how are you not wobbling?” he pointed an accusatory finger at Dream.

Dream smiled in amusement. “Did you have dinner at all tonight? Chips and nachos do not count.”

Hob tried to recall the last few hours. “S’pose not. We were gonna order food, me and my mates. But then we saw you and then I walked over and…” he gestured vaguely to nothing in particular. “Here we are.”

Dream sighed, but his gaze looked fond. “If I had known you were operating on an empty stomach, I would have ordered more substantial food with our drinks.” He furrowed his eyebrows in concern. “Will you even be able to take a cab in your state?”

“Sure, I can call one.” Hob pulled out his phone and pressed uselessly at the unlock button a few times before realising the battery was drained. “Hm. S’just a brick now.” He tapped it firmly on his palm a few times as if jostling it would do anything.

“I live just a few blocks from here,” Dream said, watching Hob repeatedly attempt to return his phone to his pocket and finally succeeding at the fifth try. “Can I invite you to stay at my place? Just so you won’t have to travel by yourself tonight.”

Hob perked up at that. He straightened up to agree, but in doing so left the support of the wall. “Woah—”

Dream caught him by the waist before he fell face-first onto the pavement. “Careful.”

Hob grabbed Dream’s shoulders to steady himself, and realised Dream’s arms were around him. “You’re really nice,” he said with a dopey grin. “Your serious face is a bit scary at first, but under that you’re really sweet.” He tapped the tip of Dream’s nose with his finger.

Dream was trying to hold back a smile and only partially succeeding. “You’re drunk.”

“And you’re pretty.” Hob leaned forward to emphasise his point, which made Dream stumble a bit backwards.

Dream chuckled and shook his head fondly. “Come along, my car is parked nearby.”

“Oh my god,” Hob whispered, putting a hand to his reddening face. He probably looked so idiotic last night. He had to find Dream so he could apologise profusely and buy him breakfast or something. Was it even time for breakfast yet?

He turned to Sable. “Hey, buddy. Do you know where I can find your human?”

Sable walked in a circle three times before curling up on the armrest, facing away from Hob. Evidently not wanting anything to do with whatever mess Hob had gotten himself into.

“Yeah, I don't blame you,” Hob sighed.

He straightened up on the couch and took a painkiller, gratefully finishing the entire glass of water. He glanced at the smaller couch next to the wall and noticed that a phone was charging. His phone.

Hob smiled. Dream really was sweet. His drunk self had it right.

He stood up, slowly, because his head still hurt with every movement and it somehow felt very rude to disrupt Sable's nap. The cat had an air of sophistication to him much like his owner; Hob wouldn't be surprised if Dream spoke Greek to Sable.

Hob sat on the smaller couch and turned on his phone. After a few seconds, the screen showed that it was past 10 AM. Bit late for breakfast, then. Where was Dream? Hob doubted that he would leave his house with a practical stranger in it.

A series of notifications on his phone drew his attention. Some of them were messages from last night, replies from his friends in the groupchat when Hob said they could leave the bar without him. They were playfully cheering him on and that was that.

Though the next batch of messages was still coming in, arriving one after the other now that Hob’s phone was able to receive them.

Hal: @Hob darling did you make it home safe?

Ken: how was tall pale n handsome

Frank: guys he’s not even seeing the messages 👀

Ken: probably still asleep

Ken: all shagged out

Abel: what’s happening? i don’t join one night out and suddenly hob’s getting laid???

Hal: hopefully 💕

Frank: holy shit did the pickup lines work

Hob chuckled and shook his head. He began to type out a reply that yes he was safe, and no he was not shagged out by any means and only just made a fool of himself.

He was about to hit send when he realised he wasn’t wearing the same shirt he had on last night. In fact, he didn’t recognise these clothes at all. He was pretty sure he didn’t own a white sweater with the design of a black cat on it, and the grey sweatpants he was currently wearing wasn’t his either.

What.

He locked his phone and placed it down beside him. What else happened?

They stumbled into the living room, Dream closing the front door while Hob’s arm was around his shoulders. He switched on the light and got Hob to sit on the couch. It was cooler indoors compared to the warmth of Dream’s car, and Hob made a noise of complaint when Dream made a move to disentangle himself from Hob’s side.

“I shall get you some water,” Dream explained and stood up.

Hob’s brain didn’t process the words and at that moment he only cared that Dream’s warmth was leaving him. He reached out and clumsily pulled Dream back; Dream gave a surprised shout as they both flailed and fell over, Hob landing flat on his back on the couch with Dream on top of him.

Dream’s blue eyes were wide with surprise, his dark hair looking as soft as clouds. Hob wanted to touch but was afraid of ruining it somehow. Clouds weren’t meant to be touched, only admired. Or else they would disappear into mist or raindrops and be gone.

“You’re beautiful,” Hob breathed, his hands resting on Dream’s back.

Dream’s gaze softened and his lips lifted at the corners, and Hob felt his heart race at being so close to that smile. So close.

“As you are,” Dream said quietly, his warm breath caressing Hob’s mouth.

“‘Specially your eyes,” Hob continued. “They light up. When you talk about your cat. And that bloke Shakespeare. What’s so good about ‘im anyway?” he frowned.

Dream chuckled and dipped his head, lightly touching their foreheads together for a moment before looking at Hob again.

“And then I thought…” Hob tried to find the words. It felt important to say them. “I’d do anything for you to look at me like that. With that bright fondness in your eyes.”

Dream’s smile melted off his face, replaced by a look of surprise.

“And then you did,” Hob’s kept speaking quietly, just loud enough for Dream to hear. “When I told you I’d live a hundred more years because there’s so much to live for. I dunno why you looked at me that way when I said it, but you did. And I wanted to kiss you right then.”

Dream swallowed, his eyes dropping to Hob’s mouth.

“I still do,” Hob whispered. He reached up and brushed a lock of hair from Dream’s forehead.

“Hob,” Dream’s tone held a warning, though it was softened by the waver in his voice.

“Dream…” Hob let his hand drop to the side of Dream’s face, his thumb lightly brushing over a pale cheekbone, watching a hint of pink blossom on the skin.

He kept his gentle hold on Dream’s face as they moved closer, their noses touching, their breaths mixing as their parted lips were only a hair’s breadth away—

Hob’s eyes were wide as he sat frozen on the couch. His heart raced and his cheeks flushed at the memory. But… that was it. His memories ended there.

He shut his eyes tight and desperately tried to remember what happened next. If he and Dream kissed then surely, surely, he would remember it? The press of those soft pink lips, the slide of tongue against his own…

He opened his eyes and huffed out a breath in exasperation. Nothing. And he’s wearing Dream’s clothes! If they did shag and he couldn’t remember a second of it, he would never forgive himself. He would swear off drinking forever if it meant he could remember it all.

“Ah, I see you've met Sable.”

Hob’s eyes snapped up to the sound of that voice.

Dream was standing by the other couch and scratching Sable under the chin. Sable was purring appreciatively and leaning into Dream’s touch, and Dream glanced down at the cat with such soft fondness on his face that it calmed Hob’s nerves.

“Would you care to join me in the dining room?” Dream turned to Hob again. “I just finished cooking.” He was wearing a blue apron over a black sweater similar to Hob’s, and black joggers that hung low on his hips.

“I…” Hob had so many questions and no idea how to voice out any of them. “You cooked?” he said instead.

Dream nodded. “Given that it was my fault you didn’t get to eat dinner last night, I thought it only polite to make breakfast for you. Although it’s technically brunch now.”

“Yeah, um…” Hob stood up but wasn’t sure what to say. He still couldn’t remember the entirety of last night—to his eternal regret—and he didn’t know what their dynamic was supposed to be now. “Thanks for charging my phone,” he smiled and gestured to it.

“It’s fortunate that we have the same model,” Dream returned the smile. He gave Sable a few scratches behind the ears before the cat decided to move to where Hob had been sleeping, scratching his claws a few times into the cushions before stretching his body and lying down to continue his nap.

Hob remembered reading somewhere that cats scratched at furniture to leave their scent and mark their territory, and Sable doing that to the place where Hob had been seemed quite telling.

“Shall we head to the dining room while the food is still warm?” Dream asked.

Hob nodded and followed him.

The rest of the house wasn’t nearly as dim as the living room; all the curtains were open and sunlight streamed in, dappling softly on the floor and furniture.

“Oh, should I keep the curtains closed here as well?” Dream must have noticed him staring at the windows.

“What?” Hob turned to him. “No, it’s fine… Wait, you kept the living room dark for me?”

Dream nodded. “Bright light is painful for hangovers. I can draw the curtains here too, if you’d like. Have a seat, please,” he gestured to the dining table before removing his apron and hanging it on a hook in the kitchen.

“No, it’s okay, I don’t mind the sunlight,” Hob said as he sat down.

Dream took a seat across from him, and without the apron Hob could see that his black sweater was dotted with white stars.

“Hob,” Dream’s voice resurfaced in Hob’s memory.

“Dream…” Hob brushed his thumb over a smooth cheekbone.

Dream’s pupils were blown wide, almost covering all the blue of his eyes. They reflected the light, and Hob could imagine the pinpricks of white to be galaxies, and he was more than willing to get lost in them.

Dream’s weight was pressing him down pleasantly on the couch, and Hob’s eyes fluttered shut, his breath held in anticipation as Dream leaned in closer.

“Hob? Are you alright?”

Hob grabbed the pitcher of water and poured himself a glass, gulping everything down. “Mm-hm.”

He kept remembering that moment on the couch, and he could feel his mind dangerously close to filling in the blanks of what could have happened, and he really needed to cool down instead of fantasising about the man in front of him who he may or may not have slept with.

“Did you take the painkiller?”

“Yeah, I did. Thanks for that, by the way,” Hob tried for a smile, but he still couldn’t quite meet Dream’s eyes. He looked around at the food and tried to decide which one to get first.

“I… apologise.”

Hob looked at Dream and saw that his shoulders were tense and drawn up, like he was trying to look formal and hide himself at the same time.

“Is this… too much?” Dream’s gaze was guarded but Hob thought he glimpsed a hint of sadness in them. “You may leave anytime you wish, of course. I just thought… you might want some food.” He glanced down but kept his posture straight. “But if you prefer to go—”

“What? No, Dream—” Hob suddenly felt panicked. Did he just hurt Dream somehow? “I don’t wanna leave. Why would you think that?”

Dream met his eyes and frowned in confusion. “You seem… uncomfortable. I am aware that our agreement was only for you to stay the night, and it is nearly noon now. So I understand if—”

“Dream, it’s not that,” Hob didn’t want him to think those things at all. “I just…” he shifted in his seat. “Why… Why am I wearing your clothes…?” Might as well be direct about it.

Dream’s eyebrows lifted in surprise.

“I don’t remember, I’m sorry,” Hob blurted out. “I— Fuck,” he breathed, running a hand down his face. “I want to remember. God, the first time I wake up with missing memories in someone else’s home and it’s with you of all people. I’m… I’m so sorry, Dream,” he shook his head in remorse.

Dream blinked, his shoulders relaxing. “Hob. Why would you apologise for such a thing?”

“Well I don't want you to think that it didn't mean anything to me,” Hob’s eyes dropped to his plate and he fidgeted with his fork. “Which it did, whatever it was. Whether it was just a— a kiss or— or something else—” he stammered and looked to see Dream’s reaction.

Realisation appeared on Dream's face, and an amused smile slowly graced his lips and brightened his features. “Hob Gadling. If we had slept together, why would you be on the couch and not my bed?”

“I don't know!” Hob said defensively, his cheeks heating up. “Maybe we didn't make it to the bedroom? I don't remember!”

Dream looked down and was really trying hard to fight a smile. The adorable sight of it began to calm Hob a bit, especially when Dream met his eyes again. “I would have taken you to my bed. I'll have you know I'm a gentleman. Unless requested otherwise,” he added in a low voice and smirked.

Hob’s breath hitched. God, this man was going to kill him.

Then something sparked in his mind, a memory that surfaced after Dream's remark about being a gentleman.

Dream’s lips were so close to his that Hob could almost taste them.

Then Dream pulled away and placed a firm hand on Hob’s chest. “Tomorrow,” he said decisively, a slight tremble in his voice.

Hob opened his eyes.

“Tomorrow. If this is still what you want,” Dream explained, then he pulled away entirely and stood up, disappearing from Hob’s field of vision.

Hob blinked repeatedly, still reeling from the whiplash. Dream was going to kiss him, right? What happened?

“For now, you must hydrate or your mouth will feel so parched tomorrow.” Dream had returned, and Hob instinctively sat up at the sound of his voice.

He knocked over the glass that Dream had been handing over to him, spilling the water all over his shirt and trousers.

Hob flinched back and grimaced. “Cold.”

“Oh dear.” Dream picked up the now empty glass that had fallen on the couch and placed it on the coffee table. “I shall get you a change of clothes. Wait here, and please don't touch anything else or you might hurt yourself. Stay here, do you understand?” Dream cupped Hob’s face and gently lifted it to make Hob look at him.

Hob smiled at the feeling of Dream’s hand on his skin, and he nodded. “I'll wait for you.”

Dream smiled fondly and walked away.

“Oh,” Hob said in realisation, the memories coming back to him.

“You remember now?”

“Yeah,” Hob nodded. “You handed me the clothes and I just took off my shirt right there, because somehow it made sense to me to just change in front of you,” he cringed. “And then that was when you left, right?”

“Yes,” Dream said with an amused smile. “I said a hasty good night and retreated to my room before you decided to take off your trousers as well.”

“Yeah I remember that too,” Hob put a hand to his temple, his headache had dulled but the sudden wave of embarrassment seemed to be worsening it. “Can we eat now? I think I'd rather forget about everything again.”

Dream laughed, a soft and bright one that immediately put Hob at ease. “Of course.”

It was a pleasant surprise, how easily they slipped back into comfortable conversation after all the misunderstanding and awkwardness. They finished eating and Hob insisted that he would wash the dishes since Dream already cooked everything.

“Thanks again for letting me crash at your couch,” Hob said as he put the last of the dishes in the drying rack. “I don't think I've gotten that drunk since uni.”

“I just didn't want you waking up at a bus station somewhere,” Dream quipped and finished putting the leftovers in the fridge.

Hob chuckled and leaned back against the counter. “So uh, do you have any plans today? What do you usually do on Saturdays?”

Dream stood beside him and leaned on the counter too, crossing his arms thoughtfully. “It varies. Sometimes I’d go to a restaurant I’d never been to before, or visit my friend who works at the library. Oh, and there’s a museum a short drive away that holds a different art gallery every month. I try to see the new exhibits whenever I can. I had no prior plans for today, though.” He tilted his head slightly to the side. “Do you have anything in mind?”

Hob grinned, he couldn’t help it; Dream wanted to keep spending time with him. “I do, yeah. There’s a park here that recently displayed murals because it’s summer, they got a theme going on and everything. I think the artworks are made by high school and college kids. I’ve passed by it a few times but never really got to see it yet. What do you think?”

Dream’s eyes lit up, and Hob knew he’d take him anywhere just to see that again. “I would gladly see the murals with you. Are they accessible at any time or is there a scheduled exhibit?”

“Let me check. They posted it online.” Hob instinctively reached for his pockets but found them empty. “Oh right, my phone's in the living room.”

“Ah. I would check the schedule myself, but I'm afraid something's wrong with my phone.” Dream took his phone from the counter, then unlocked it and looked down at the screen.

Hob furrowed his eyebrows. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Your phone number's not in it.” Dream held it out to Hob, a smirk playing on his lips.

Hob just stared in surprise for a few seconds before chuckling in disbelief. Of all the people he would have expected to use a pickup line, Dream wasn’t one of them. He wasn’t complaining about receiving it, though.

He took Dream’s phone and began typing in his number. “Couldn’t wait, huh?” he said playfully. “You know I’m not just leaving, love. We’re still going to that park.” The endearment slipped out without Hob intending it to, and he snapped up his gaze to look at Dream’s reaction. Luckily Dream didn’t seem to mind.

“I enjoyed our conversation so much last night that I had forgotten to ask for your phone number. I would not risk it happening again,” Dream said as he took his phone back.

“I’m actually relieved to hear that,” Hob sheepishly tugged at his earlobe. “I’d been a bit worried that I was too knackered last night and might have made such a fool of myself. I enjoyed our time together too, and I’m glad I remember all of it now, even the embarrassing moments.”

“Oh make no mistake, you were undoubtedly knackered last night,” Dream said with fond amusement. “But I never once thought you were a fool.” He pressed something on his phone and Hob heard his ringtone coming from the living room. “And now you have my number as well.”

Hob grinned. “Am I supposed to follow the three-day-rule and wait three days before calling you?”

“Already planning a second date when the first one isn’t even done yet?” Dream repeated Hob’s words from last night.

“And a third, if you've got no objections,” Hob raised his eyebrows playfully.

“Oh?” Dream straightened up and took a step closer. “And what third date activities do you have in mind?” His gaze lowered and slowly climbed back up, scanning Hob’s body until their eyes met again.

Hob felt goosebumps prickle on his skin as if Dream were actually touching him. He wet his lips with his tongue, catching how Dream’s eyes followed the movement. “I've got a few activities in mind, yeah. Though I don't know if I wanna wait until three dates.”

“Is that so?” A smirk pulled at the corner of Dream’s mouth as he took another step closer, his voice dropping to a low rumble. “Tell me, what do you desire?”

Hob swallowed. “You can't just say things like that with that voice.”

“What voice?” Dream took another step and he was near enough now that Hob could see how soft his eyelashes looked.

“Last night, you said something…” Hob reached up and traced with light fingers the star patterns on Dream's sweater, near his neckline, his shoulders, because if he didn't touch Dream in some way he might just implode.

“We both said a great deal of things last night.”

“You said…” Hob lifted his hand to Dream's chin, his thumb sweeping softly just under the bottom lip. “If this is still what I wanted…” he stared into Dream’s eyes, his heart hammering in anticipation.

Dream surged forward and suddenly Hob was pressed back against the counter, Dream’s lips against his.

A surprised—and very pleased—groan slipped out of Hob, his hands flying to cup Dream’s face.

Dream’s hands were on the counter, Hob caged in his arms. And damn if Hob didn't feel a certain way about that.

Hob could have lived forever in this moment, the soft slide of their tongues, the warmth of Dream’s body against his. But Dream’s mouth brushed down his jawline and onto his neck, clever lips and tongue making his blood run hotter.

Hob could only whimper and throw his head back to give Dream more access. He buried his hands in Dream’s hair, soft midnight threading through his fingers. Dream nipped at his sensitive flesh, and Hob’s hips twitched of their own accord.

Dream made a pleased hum and moved his kisses upwards. “My bedroom is nearby, unless you are partial to the couch. I could ask Sable to give us some privacy,” he said teasingly, his breath hot against Hob’s ear.

“Anywhere,” Hob gasped as Dream gently bit his earlobe. “Fuck, you can have me on the dining table.”

Dream chuckled and slid his hands from Hob’s waist to his stomach and up to his chest, fists clenching in the front of Hob's shirt. He pulled away just enough to look at Hob. “Nonsense. Gentleman, remember?” He stepped back and yanked Hob towards the bedroom with a force that was decidedly not gentlemanly.

Dream’s back slammed against the closed door as Hob pressed their lips and bodies together again, the few seconds they were apart becoming too unbearable. Dream managed to turn the knob behind him and they stumbled into the bedroom, only parting long enough to practically tear each other's sweaters off.

Hob fell backwards onto the bed, bringing Dream down with him. They were a tangle of limbs and sighs and groans, then Dream was straddling him, grinding his hips down and driving Hob near delirious with want.

Dream was breathing heavily above him, and Hob wanted more of it. Wanted to see this beautiful creature give in to pleasure.

He reached a hand between them and palmed at the hard bulge tenting Dream’s joggers.

Dream gave a cry of surprise and broke the kiss to gasp, and Hob wasted no time in freeing Dream’s cock from the confines of his clothes. He began a slow stroke, and Dream leaned forward to latch his mouth onto Hob’s neck, lavishing it with attention that sent more heat straight to Hob's groin.

Hob clenched his jaw—even as a moan escaped him—and sped up his hand around Dream’s length, precome slicking the way and causing Dream’s hips to twitch.

“Hob,” Dream breathed against the shell of his ear, and for a second Hob thought he would come just from hearing his name in that voice, with Dream’s hips erratically rolling above his cock through layers of fabric.

“Let go for me, love,” Hob’s voice sounded wrecked to his own ears.

He twisted his hand and Dream came with a whine, burying his face in Hob’s neck and spending all over Hob's hand. His hips were still stuttering when he pressed their foreheads together, his eyelids fluttering as he caught his breath.

Hob slowed his strokes to a stop, his other hand cupping Dream’s face. “Good?” he asked gently, fond and teasing.

Dream pulled away to meet Hob’s gaze, and it was enough to melt Hob’s grin off his face as he saw the intensity in those blue eyes.

Dream shifted to move further backwards, and before Hob knew what was happening, Dream had positioned himself between Hob’s parted legs and pulled down the sweatpants to reveal Hob’s straining cock.

Hob couldn't look away, anticipating Dream’s long fingers wrapped around him, and so he yelped when Dream used his mouth instead, the soft heat enveloping Hob and setting his nerves on fire. Hob’s eyes fell shut, his elbows trembling as he leaned back on the mattress.

Dream worked him slowly, taking him in inch by torturous inch as his tongue swirled in ways that left Hob breathless and squirming and doing his very best not to thrust into Dream’s sinful mouth.

Hob sank further down Dream’s throat, and his arms finally gave out as he felt Dream swallow around him. His head hit the pillow and he clenched his hands into the sheets, a wounded groan reverberating in his chest.

“Dream… Dream… Fuck—” his hips jerked upwards when he felt a light graze of teeth on the underside of his cock. His thighs were trembling, and desperate moans laced with Dream’s name kept slipping past his lips.

Dream hummed around him and moved his hands to stroke the inside of Hob's thighs, all at once soothing and fueling the fire that was very quickly pooling low in Hob’s belly. Dream bobbed his head up and down languidly, and it was all too much and not nearly enough.

“Please,” Hob sobbed. His entire body felt aflame, and he couldn't take another second of it even as he wanted it to last forever.

Dream took him down to the hilt and swallowed repeatedly, his fingernails raking lightly along Hob’s thighs.

Hob arched his back and came with a garbled cry, unable to stop the tremors running through him.

Dream kept swallowing, making Hob thrash his head from side to side as he was flung higher and higher.

Hob must have blacked out for a second, because when he opened his eyes, Dream was looming over him with a satisfied smirk.

“Good?” Dream licked his bottom lip.

Hob was still panting, and it took a few seconds for enough oxygen to get into his brain for him to form words. “I'm so glad we did this today and not last night,” he said breathlessly. “No way in hell I'll forget this.”

Dream huffed out a laugh and nestled himself beside Hob, his face snuggled at the crook of Hob's neck, his hand idly drawing circles on Hob’s chest.

“You can stay the weekend, if you'd like.” Dream's voice was quiet, tinged with hesitance, as if Hob would ever say no to that while of sound mind and body.

Hob regained control of his limbs and wrapped an arm around Dream, turning to face him and pulling him closer. “Sounds perfect, love,” he rested his chin on Dream's hair. “Would give me more than enough time to get you back for what you just put me through.”

Dream chuckled low in his chest. “I would love to see you try, Hob Gadling.”

“Oh, I will.” Hob closed his eyes and let himself get lost in the even rhythm of their breathing, settling into their embrace as if they were always meant to fit in each other's arms.

—

Author's Note:

Thank you to @patchyegg87 for all the help with this fic! <3

—

(Dreamling Bingo Masterpost)

(Masterlist)

57 notes · View notes

14dyh · 1 year ago

Note

hey! im the one who requested 17 with hange and loved it :) was wondering if u could write an other where hange catches feelings for reader, maybe from hanges pov? still angsty cuz hanges afraid of getting rejected, your choice on how it ends:)

Nebula | H.Z.

Pairing: Hange Zoë x gn!reader Summary: Hange recognizes their inner conflict about falling in love with you. Word count: 1.3k A/N: aaeegghh I'm glad you like it! sorry this took so long lmao but i already have that kind of part 2 in mind so here you goooo

Sunlight dappled Hange's desk from where you sat. It was a little too early to get up but you wanted to admire the nebula-shaped flower on Hange's desk. The shape, the edges, and even the colors imitating the swirls of light and the glowing stars and clouds that make a nebula made this flower so fascinating to look at. It felt like a cosmic wonder that could be held in mere human hands.

Hange remained asleep in your bed, cuddling your pillow close. They might have a hangover from last night so you were quick to make the both of you a cup of tea. Hange stirred slightly when you entered the room and closed the door behind you, two cups of tea in both hands before placing it on the table beside you. Hange noticed how much you admire that flower from where you're sitting.

"How long have you been growing this? It's beautiful," you mused, a finger hovering over the flower petals. Long ago, Hange's mind wanted to say but maybe you would ask how long would that be so Hange found a safe answer and said, "Certainly not as long as it would take to form a nebula, but it's been quite long."

Hange smiled, dragging a chair beside where you sat. They couldn't find the courage to tell you that the growing flower was there with every thought of you in mind. It was something that they planned to grow a year ago, convincing themself every day that it was just a testament to the admiration and friendship they have for you. Every day they would watch over that plant, waiting for it to bear a flower.

"It was something I planned a year ago," Hange explained, sipping on the tea you gave them. "Pretty quaint, huh?"

"It is... Looks like a nebula," you observed, looking at the flower from different angles and finding it beautiful all the same.

"That's what I'm aiming for. I'm glad it didn't turn out with a weird shape," Hange chuckled. There was a silent pause, and only the sound of the morning filled the room. Hange tried to tear their eyes from you but couldn't.

"Hey, Y/N?"

"Hm?"

Hange noticed that your eyes were still on the flower and thanked the heavens, you don't seem to notice how they're looking at you.

"Can we go to the ball together?" they asked. "I mean, it's not really our cup of tea but maybe we could have some fun and go to the art museum afterwards. What do you think?"

Hange saw your eyes brighten at the suggestion which made their heart leap.

"Sounds good to me."

Later that evening, both of you attended the simple ball hosted by the school to celebrate the patron it was named after. Hange would excitedly pull you on the dance floor, both of your movements rhyming up with whatever music played. But most importantly, you talked and talked, exchanging ideas one after the other until the event became too commonplace for the both of you. Hange held your hand and sneaked you two towards the exit, giggling to yourselves for successfully escaping the party.

A few people crossed by, sometimes art critics and sometimes lovers. Hange's eyes walked with them and wondered which of the two groups you would both belong to at the end of this night.

You walked together in the tranquil silence of the night. Birds would hum as if in a gentle serenade as Hange held your hand. Neither of you spoke until you reached the art museum you both longed to go to. Eventually, you stepped into the place, taking in the gentle atmosphere of being surrounded by beauty and color, the soft hues of red and pink settled on each painting depicting love and romance.

Hange still remembers the nebula-shaped flower whenever they look at you. They mused over how things in nature are bound to connect in one way or another and how such an infinitely strange world could be thought of just by looking at you. Everything sings and the world loves randomness enough to give it its unique pattern. Hange was deep in thought of you and the universe. They only snapped back in reality as they heard your gentle query.

"Hange, do you perhaps think that love has a place in every art no matter how tiny it may be?" you asked. Hange thought over your question as your head leaned against theirs. They observed how you sat beside them, eyes wandering over the painting before they spoke.

As you walked home together, Hange held your hand tighter this time. Their heart rammed against their chest, their mind broke itself apart by brimming with the thoughts of love, of the universe, of you— all the good things that make up their world.

"I think it is. Love has a place in everything, it is either too much of it or lack of it that makes up an object. And either way, it leads back to love," Hange answered softly. They speak of such love in a room full of romance paintings but they only looked at you with a smile etch across their lips. Your presence made them think of art and science — all the wonders and inventions born because one mind loved another. It may be an idea or a person but it all led back to passion.

This time it would hurt them to deny how much love they have for you from the beginning. Their heart held you dear too much but their mind refused for the sole reason that they don't think they deserve you enough to be in a special place in your heart.

All friendships and acquaintances they made so far flourished out of tolerance and need. People loved them through time and tolerated them because of that love, but it was never like this. To be loved and to be understood rarely comes along together. So Hange's mind racked itself and often wondered how you managed to give them both.

For a long time, their heart clammed up, tricking themself that they would love someone else, that they loved the girl who rejected them, and all because they wanted to avoid this situation. This very minute, they wanted to confess and recognized that their great fear came from being rejected by you. Given a day or week, they could get over any rejection from love or work but feared that your rejection would become their ultimate ruination.

And it was as though you could hear their thoughts as if their heart whispered their love to you. When you both reached the room you shared, Hange was taken aback by the sudden hug from you, their knees turning so weak that they had to grip the edge of the table. The nebula-shaped flower remained still on the desk as if watching things unfold.

The loving embrace you gave them just now triggered their desire to confess so they started slow.

"That flower... I must admit that it was for you. I made it for you," they let out before their throat could clam up. Hange finally found the courage to hug you back at this moment without trembling.

"And it means that I..." they tried to continue with much struggle. "That I..."

That I love you, it was so simple but they couldn't take it out of their mouth.

But somehow you knew, and it reached your heart nonetheless. You pulled away slightly to give them a gentle kiss, your lips careful around theirs. Hange freeze momentarily but something in them awakened their courage to kiss back and hold you tighter. Perhaps it was the relief that you love them as well, or perhaps it was the overjoy of their heart for letting themself open that love to you.

For a long moment, Hange refused to let you go and when they did, their mouth couldn't mutter anything but the love that tormented them for a long time. They wanted to cry or even scream in relief as all their fears became powerless to hold them back. Many things born out of fear ran through their head, thoughts of losing you or ruining the friendship they treasure the most but everything changed, knowing that you love them back. Hange wanted to ask how or why but realized that maybe your heart found true haven within theirs as well.

Hange's heart found delight when you let them embrace you throughout that night. And when the words “I love you too” came from your lips, Hange thought about the universe again and they were sure that right that moment, everything was in synchrony favored towards them.

100 notes · View notes

citrusses · 2 months ago

Text

trash tuesday thursday

thank you @garagepaperback for tagging me and no thank you for calling that masterpiece of emotion you dropped "trash." this is from an 8th year-ish drarry fic I have medium abandoned where the students don't stay at Hogwarts and have to do internships instead of just attending classes. And would you believe it harry and draco end up at the same internship! they're also living together for pining and sexual tension reasons. the below snippet references drinking, drug use, and harry sleeping with another person. i haven't written an ending for this fic but theoretically it's a happy one <3

Harry woke up sweating, his mouth stuffed with cotton, his throat sore, his eyes burning.

Celine was there, in his bed, her hair fanned out around her head like a halo. There were two parallel indents from Harry’s sheets cutting across her cheeks, and somehow the presence of imperfections on her beautiful face only made her seem more like something out of a museum. Beautiful. Pristine. Not to be touched.

Harry, on the other hand, felt like a sack of shit left to spoil in the sun, and he didn’t smell much better. He needed to shower. He needed food. He needed water.

It would be useless to try to cast Agumanenti in his current state. Whatever water he could conjure right now would probably taste as foul as Harry’s breath currently did.

He debated going into his own bathroom, but ditched the idea because he was terrified of speaking to Celine if she woke up. Guiltily, he moved the duvet off of himself, and awkwardly rolled off the bed, placing his feet down as quietly as he could on the cool floor. He’d never been so grateful for Grimmauld’s incurable draughts.

In his boxers, he crept down the stairs, trying to piece together the rest of his night. They’d Apparated back to his bedroom. He was lucky they hadn’t splinched their arms and legs all across London.

At least they’d had the sense not to rely on magic for protection and contraceptive charms. Harry’s brain felt pinched with the effort of trying to remember it. He was almost positive they’d done the charms. Like, ninety-eight percent sure. Ninety-five, at worst.

Harry liked Celine well enough, and God knows she was attractive. Objectively speaking, that is. Harry actually hadn’t felt all that attracted to her before last night, when the lights started spinning off Draco's hair and the drugs they had taken hit his bloodstream like bombs going off in his veins.

In the greasy light of a hungover dawn, this all was looking like a pretty horrible decision. They still had weeks left of the internship, and things between them at work were bound to be awkward now. Would she want a relationship? She hadn’t seemed that keen on Harry, either, in their prior (sober) interactions at work.

He wished he’d had the sense to grab his glasses before sneaking out of the room. Vision blurry, he rounded the corner, and drew up short when he registered that someone was already in the kitchen.

“Did you have a good night?” Draco asked waspishly. Despite the fact that he’d been matching Harry's pace the night before, not a hair on his head was out of place. He was wearing that fucking dressing gown, and a mug of tea was steaming on the butcher’s block like something from a domestic still life. His composure made Harry’s hangover feel immediately worse.

“Er, yeah,” Harry answered, wishing Draco would move away from the sink. He wanted to put his entire head under it.

“I looked for you, after I came back from the loo.”

“Oh,” Harry said stupidly. “Well, actually, I ended up—”

“I know exactly where you ended up, Potter,” Draco snapped. “The walls in this cursed house are as thin as paper.”

Harry felt his face flush. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to, like, piss you off…”

“Why on earth would I care what you do. Or who you do it with.” Draco didn’t even ask it like a question. His tone was flat enough to balance a marble on.

“I never said you would,” Harry bit back, irritated. “Can you please let me get a glass of fucking water, and then we can continue whatever this is when I’m not about to actually die from thirst?”

“What, you’re so hanging you can’t even cast?” Draco said meanly. "Impressive command of magic as always, Potter."

“What’s crawled up your arse today, Malfoy?”

“That,” Draco hissed, “isn’t any of your business, now is it?”

okay tagging @sweet-s0rr0w @thehoneybeet @getawayfox @rainstormradish @maesterchill @the-invisibility-bloke @wolfpants @skeptiquewrites @toomuchplor @lemonlimelea if you have trash or treasure to share!

26 notes · View notes

thetempleofthemasaigoddess · 3 months ago

Text

Dancing in loafers

Bartolomeoxreader. Modern AU. An opposite attracts story! (moodboard)

Lots of swearing, some violence.

*****

You and Bartolomeo are of an age and both grew up in the same little town, but you are as different as two people can be. Barto is a thug, a good-hearted but prone to violence hoodlum who never finished school, and supports himself working odd jobs and gets involved in a different brawl every week; with his green hair, heavy motorbike and disrespectful attitude, not to mention the way he dresses, he’s well known to the local authorities. For Barto, the ideal night is spent drinking at a bar, getting in a fistfight with Gambia and his other friends -the Barto Club, obviously named after their leader- against another of the town’s gangs, riding around town on their bikes, and then camping all together at the place of one of them, nursing both an hangover and bruises as they sleep until late.

You are at the other end of the spectrum. A straight-A student, you won not one but two prestigious scholarships for academic merit, and were accepted into a prestigious university; you spend your time reading, writing, visiting museums and attending conferences on various subjects. Years spent poring over books and staring at your computer’s screen -to study, not to play videogames or wasting time on social media- have ruined your sight to the point you have to wear thick eyeglasses, and your look is as classic as they come: plaid skirts, blouses and tweed jackets, moccasins and oxfords. Your criminal record is unblemished, you never even got a parking ticket or a fine at the library, and only drink a glass of wine on special occasions, more because you genuinely dislike alcohol than because you think there’s something wrong with it.

In short, you and Barto hang out with different crowds and have no friends in common, but he was hired as a cashier at the same grocery shop where you work -those scholarships were not, unfortunately, enough to pay for your tuition, and you didn’t want to ask your parents for a loan- and so you did start to bond. You helped Barto learn to use a till and manage the shop’s books, and he insisted you let him carry all the heavier packages, and even defended you when a drunk customer started harassing you. You spend your breaks together, and he insists on walking you home every night, given the lateness of the hour, and even though he lives in the opposite direction, claiming -every single night- that he has to meet a friend in your neighbourhood.

In the end, six months after you started working together, you have become… friends, in a sense, and while when you first met him you were a bit intimidated by his weird hair and clothes, not to mention his name in town is synonymous with troublemaking, you did come to respect him immensely: Bartolomeo -it’s just Barto, alright? Not even my mum calls me Bartolomeo- is headstrong, determined, the sort of person who never gives up on something he cares for and lets no one disrespect him, all characteristics you admire in a person. He’s kind as well, even if he’s too embarrassed to admit it: he regularly comes to work still tipsy or with a bruised face, and he and his bike are regulars at the town’s illegal street races circuits, but you have also seen him buying -not stealing, buying- a bottle of milk from the shop to feed the neighbourhood’s stray cats, and to carry the purchases of a few old ladies to their car, saving them the effort, even though that is not part of his duties.

He has told you he quite likes working at the shop, for once, and you are proud of all the effort he is putting in it; he might not be the sort of friend your parents, or society, would want for you, and you still disapprove of his habit of getting into fights and causing trouble for the mere thrill of it, but Barto is a good man, clever, kind, and…

… and you have gotten a crush on him, maybe even something more. It is your first time, but you feel yourself blushing every time his hand touches yours as he passes you a bottle or a can to put on the shelf, and one day you happened to catch a glimpse -you weren’t spying on him, you swear!- of his naked torso as he changed into his work shirt in the toilet, and the image wouldn’t leave your mind for days.

So yes, you like Barto, and, you decide after much deliberation -seriously, it took you less time to decide what university to attend!- you would gladly start a relationship with him, if he were to ask you, or accept your proposal. The problem is, much as it grieves you to say it, Barto has never given you reason to even just suspect your feelings are reciprocated. He’s always friendly and appears to sincerely enjoy your company, but nothing more; he doesn’t have a steady partner, but sometimes he mentions a man or a woman he went on a -social or, err, domestic- date with, never the same person for long, which makes you suspect he might not be interested in a more long-lasting relationship, no matter who with. You’re not even sure he considers you a proper friend; one day his friend Gambia came into the shop to buy some groceries and he refused to introduce you, mumbling something you didn’t catch before grabbing his friend’s arm to pull him towards the frozen foods section.

The people he likes are probably as different from you as they can be; girls who wear low-rider jeans and heavy make-up, who hold their liquor as much as their boyfriends do and hold on their backs during a motorbike ride. Barto did offer to take you for a ride once, but you declined, because you were scared of falling, and of the speed the bike could reach, and you could see how disappointed he was, even though he didn’t insist.

Why would Barto want to go out with you?, you reflect sadly one night as you close the lid of your laptop before preparing for bed; you have just received an excellent grade for your latest exam, but you can’t find any joy, nor satisfaction, in that result for once; there are so many other people he would like better, people who have more in common with him that simply thirty hours of work a week. He has probably never thought about you as a potential partner, content with being your colleague and nothing more…

… then I’ll have to show him; show him I can be more than a colleague, and that no matter how boring and mousy I seem, I can make a man’s head spin, if I put my mind to it. Even yours, Barto.

Your decision is taken. The perfect occasion presents itself a week later, when you read in one of the magazines you are arranging on a shelf that the Dressrosa, a popular club Barto told you he and his friends often hung out at, is going to reopen soon after a period of closure for renovations. That very night, as you and Barto walk towards your home, you gather your courage and propose that the two of you attend the Dressrosa’s opening night together, just the two of you.

Barto refuses.

“Why? Are you going with your friends? Can’t I… come as well?” you ask, sounding small.

“It’s not that; I mean, I’ll probably go with the boys, but… it’s not the place for you, (name); you shouldn’t go to a club like that.”

“But… I thought you liked the Dressrosa.”

“I do. Just… promise me you’ll stay away, alright?”

You have no way of continuing the conversation, because you have reached your complex; Barto mumbles a goodnight and then leaves, briskly walking away while you remain at the door, looking at his retracting figure while your heart breaks in a million pieces.

He’s ashamed of you. Ashamed of what his friends, and the other men of the town, would think if he showed up at the Dressrosa with a woman like you by his side; does he think they would laugh about you both, calling his virility into question since he was unable to attract a more desirable partner? Would he choose to avoid being seen in public with you, rather than chiding his friends for making fun of you and your clothes?

Well; if that is the reason, then Barto is not the sort of man you thought he was, nor the man you’re interested in being in a relationship, or even just friendly, with. By now he knows the job well enough not to need your help, and from tomorrow on, you promise yourself that night as you take a quick break from your usual night study session, you’ll spend as little time with him as possible, using your bicycle to return home and spending your breaks reading rather than talking to him. Part of you will probably miss him, but if Barto is unable to look beyond your clothes and love for studying, and cares more about his friends’ opinion than to spend time with a person who cares for him, then too bad for him, and you won’t waste your tears on a man like that.

Still, no matter how determined you are to leave your affection for Barto behind, since he’s clearly not worth it, you are still annoyed, and upset, that he thought the Dressrosa, one of the town’s most popular clubs, was not the right place for you. Who gave him the authority to decide? Does he really think that only because you enjoy studying, spend most of your time in the library and only drink cola and tonic water, you are unable to enjoy yourself and spend a night dancing? In that case, you decide as you reach your first-row seat for your first class of the day, your laptop already at hand to take notes, you’ll show him! You’ll go to the Dressrosa opening night by yourself, wear a nice dress, dance and meet new people, and when Barto sees you you will ignore him, making it clear that you are more than able to have fun, preferably without him.

A perfect plan, except for one single detail: you’ve never been to a club before and have no idea what to do, how to act, and especially what to wear, to a place like that. Fortunately, you have recently become friends with a girl attending a few of your classes, named Nefertari Vivi; her father is a famous fashion designer, and she is studying to follow in his footsteps. Who better than her could suggest you what to wear for your first visit to a club?

So you stop Vivi at the end of the class, explain your situation -at least regarding the Dressrosa and your desire not to look like a fish out of water; mentioning Barto would be too humiliating- and beg for her help, which your friend is happy to lend.

Two days later, three before the day of the club’s re-opening, you go shopping together, and on your request Vivi chooses a dress, shorter and more ostentatious than anything in your wardrobe, a pair of high-heeled shoes, and even a few accessories.

“Come on, try them on, let me see how you look.” she excitedly invites you, and you obey, disappearing in the shop’s dressing room. You emerge a few minutes later, and the woman staring back at you from the full-length mirror is… well, not you, or at least not a version of you that has ever existed before. But you look good, even though you just need to look at your naked legs, or the portion of cleavage left exposed by the dress, to feel embarrassed. And the heels are so high! Do women actually dance in these?

“Are you sure this is alright? I mean, I know one doesn’t wear to a club the same clothes she puts on to go to class, but…” you stammer, unsure of how to express what you think and fear, but Vivi, who is a kind soul who would never deliberately embarrass you, assures you that there’s nothing inappropriate in what you are wearing, at least for a place like the Dressrosa. Of course you don’t have to wear what she chooses, let alone something you don’t feel at ease in, and if you’d rather keep your legs covered, or choose a less modest neckline, she can…

“No, it’s fine. These are fine, really.” you rush to add, already regretting your objection as you retreat towards the dressing room, more than a bit unstable on your new shoes “I’m gonna take them off and go pay.”

And so it is that you buy your first club outfit - quite an expense, for clothes you doubt you’ll ever get to wear a second time, but you are sure it’s worth it.

Over the next few days you pointedly keep your distance from Barto, who seems to perceive you are angry or upset for some reason, but when he tries asking what is eating you, (name)? you avoid meeting his eyes and ask him to leave you alone because you are busy with your book, which he does, with a roll of his eyes. Later that day, you hear him make plans over the phone with his friend Gambia to attend the Dressrosa opening night, and the humiliation inside you reaches the breaking point: he does intend to go, knows you want to do the same, and still he won’t invite you.

I’ll show you. Oh, I’ll show you alright, Bartolomeo!

Finally it’s the big night. Two hours before the club’s opening, you reach Vivi’s house with your new clothes in a bag, and she helps you prepare, even enlisting the help of his father’s assistants, Pell and Chaka, to take care of your hair and make-up.

“You look lovely, (name).” she says in the end approvingly. The effect of the outfit, so different from anything you have ever worn before, not to mention the fact you are wearing contacts rather than your usual glasses, is even more striking now that you are all dolled up, but as you observe your reflection in the large mirror in Vivi’s room -which is bigger than your apartment- the feeling of estrangement has been replaced by something akin to pride: you may be a four-eyes teacher’s pet, a woman who has never been asked on a date and feels more at ease in the library than in a club, but you can look good, and even make heads turn towards you, if you put your mind to it.

You can’t wait to see Barto’s reaction when he’ll see the new you. It might be childish, and petty, but you hope that he’ll realise how pretty you are, and it will be too late, because you will have moved on, and maybe even met someone else…

You thank Vivi for her help, promising to reciprocate if she ever needs it, and she wishes you a good night and begs you to call her tomorrow to tell her how it went.

You reach the club by metro, planning on taking a taxi to return home. You are more than excited as you join the long queue before the entrance, and finally you are allowed to pay for your ticket and enter; no matter what happens today, you know already this night will be unforgettable.

The inside of the Dressrosa is not different from what you had imagined: a long bar counter, loud music, a DJ, go-go dancers on podiums, bouncers patrolling the area. The energy in the large, dark room is electrifying, exciting, sensual, and just a little dangerous; unlike what you would have imagined just two weeks ago, you soon decide you like it.

It would be excessive to say that the moment you step into the room, every single head turns in your direction, half of the other patrons wishing they were you and the other that they were with you, but you swear you can see appreciation in the gazes of two young men who openly look at you on their way to the bar, and a girl you had shared a few class with last year recognises you and compliments your outfit.

You look around you for a while, observing the crowd that has quickly filled the club to capacity, and to your relief you quickly decide you are not out of place as far as your clothes are concerned; if anything, your dress and high heels look positively tame compared to what some other people are wearing, but at least you do not look like a fish out of water, which is reassuring.

Deciding to take your time before joining the dances, you reach the bar, sit on a stool and ask for a cola, to the great amusement of the barman. “Would you prefer a fruit juice, darling?” he asks, openly derisive, but then he starts to prepare your drink, which you are free to enjoy as you observe the place and the people filling it; the dance-floor is already crowded, and while the music is different from the classic composers and opera pieces you’re accustomed to listen, it is catchy, and who knows, maybe someone will come inviting you…

“Hello.”

A man is leaning against the counter by your side as he regards you with interest; he is very handsome, with long blonde hair and an outfit clearly chosen to emphasise the wearer’s athletic physique.

You can’t believe he’s talking to you. “Err, hello.”

“Name’s Cavendish.” he says, offering you a smile that is blinding even in the stroboscopic-lit darkness of the club; you have always had a weak spot for guys with a nice smile “Why haven’t I seen you here before?”

“Well, this is the first time I… I mean, I usually prefer other clubs.” you quickly recover, praying inside you the man -Cavendish- won’t ask you to elaborate, because you don’t know the name of any other club, let alone the ones that could impress him “But I heard the Dressrosa was a good place, so…”

“It really is, especially now that you are here. Can I know the name of such a pretty girl?”

He’s flirting with you, you feel flattered to realise, like no one in your life had ever done before; you tell him your name, and you spend a few minutes talking - or rather screaming at each other, since the music is so loud you can barely hear yourself. Catchy, yes, but you know already that tomorrow morning you’ll wake up with a migraine.

You and Cavendish are talking about your jobs when suddenly you notice a green mohawk in the crowd, out of the corner of your eye: Barto is standing near a sofa his friends are huddled on, staring in disbelief at you. Feeling extra petty, you smile and raise your glass at him, and then turn to look at Cavendish, trying to look completely interested in what he has to say. As you expected, a minute later…

“(name), what the fuck are you doing here?!”

Barto is now standing next to you, looking supremely pissed and incredulous, even though you could swear you can see him blush when his gaze falls on your naked legs “And what the hell are you wearing?!”

He, you must admit, looks amazing, black leather trousers hugging his strong legs and backside, a shirt left unbuttoned just enough to offer you a peek of his firm chest, silver jewels on his fingers and ears.

“So? I asked you a question!”

“Dude, leave her alone.” Cavendish intervenes chivalrously; then, turning to you: “You know this guy?”

You are sorely tempted to deny. “We work together.” you admit “Leave me alone, Barto; I am perfectly fine.”

“You shouldn’t be here, (name). This place is…”

“I happen to like this place. Now, please, just go.”

Barto seems ready to argue some more, but then he sees something in your gaze, and he gives up; he leaves, clearly angry.

“Your ex?” Cavendish asks, looking at Barto’s retracting figure; you can’t help following his eyes, until the ever-moving crowd of the club swallows your green-haired colleague.

“Oh, no; we’re just colleagues.” you explain; it’s not a lie.

“Well, I bet he wants to be something more.”

You both remain silent for a minute; Cavendish gulps down his drink, and then, just as you find yourself wondering, despite yourself, if you shouldn’t stand and follow Barto to explain yourself, he takes your hand. “Dance with me?”

You have never danced before, not since your ballet classes as a young girl -which you enjoyed, even though you and your parents agreed it was better to interrupt to allow you to dedicate more time to studying- and you don’t quite know what to do. Fortunately, there are no choreographies involved: people just seem to stand, swaying to the music, hugging a partner or in groups, at most waving their arms or jumping in place. As soon as you have reached the dancefloor, Cavendish’s hands find their way to your hips, which feels a bit premature since you have known each other for twenty minutes, but what do you know?, maybe this is how it works in places like this. So you look discretely around you to observe what other women are doing, and then circle his neck with your arms, which Cavendish seems to appreciate.

Neither of you notices a woman, dancing with two others nearby, whose eyes follow you intently, an expression of displeasure on her pretty face.

“You are very beautiful, you know.”

“Thank you.” you say, sincerely touched; you can’t help but wish Barto had been the one to utter those words, but he wasn’t, he didn’t want you when you proposed you go to the club together, and you have to forget him.

You remain on the dancefloor with Cavendish long enough to lose track of time; you enjoy dancing, but you keep bumping into other people, and at some point, you feel a hand -a masculine hand, no doubt- squeeze your backside. You cry out in alarm, and turn, and the closest people are laughing at you; you demand to know who touched you, and they ignore you.

“You okay?” Cavendish asks when you tell him what happened; he seems to be genuinely sorry but, he tells you, accidents like that happen all the time at the club, and most girls get used to it.

“You mean they don’t fight back? And their partners and friends don’t intervene?” you ask, flabbergasted; you are the least athletic person in the world, and have been a victim of bullism since you started school, but the one time you were molested -you were fifteen, and one of the school’s rugby player decided it would have been fun to grab your skirt to tear it and expose your underwear in the middle of the corridor- you slammed a eight pounds physics textbook in his face. It was the one time in your life you were called to the principal’s office, but it was worth it.

“Sometimes they do, but it’s so dark here it’s hard to say who did what. Listen, I am very sorry; just don’t think about it. If it happens again I’ll intervene, I promise.”

You nod numbly, thinking, once more despite yourself, that Bartolomeo’s reaction would have been completely different, had he been present; he would have forced the people who might have witnessed the incident to listen, and then he would have beaten the crap out of the person responsible and forced him to apologise, even if it meant being kicked out from the club, even if it meant being blacklisted from the Dressrosa.

He would have done it; even if he doesn’t reciprocate your feelings, even if he considers you nothing more than a colleague he is forced to spend time with. He would have defended you, whatever the price. He would have done it for you.

“You want to stop?” Cavendish asks kindly, and you shake your head; you remain on the dancefloor for a while, but the fun you were having until a minute ago seems to have evaporated. The smell of alcohol and sweat impregnates the air, the music is loud, and every single other patron of the club seems to have decided to bump into you before the end of the night. In the next hour you see Barto two more times, the first as he sits by himself on a sofa nursing a beer, the second as he talks to a very pretty woman -you recognise her by her long pink braid; her name is Rebecca, and she’s a student of your university, a friend of Vivi- a sight that you have no right to be sad about, but you do, almost as if you could feel your heart breaking in a hundred pieces.

Suddenly you feel suffocating; suddenly, even though the evening has been somewhat pleasant until now, you wish you had never set foot in the Dressrosa.

“I’m going outside for a minute; I need some air.” you tell Cavendish, and he nods.

“I’m coming with you.”

“There’s no need, really…”

“It’s fine, I don’t mind.” he says kindly, and you, who had actually hoped for a minute of peace and solitude, can do nothing but nod.

The bouncers standing guard at the entrance stamp your hand as you leave the club, so that you won’t have to pay again when you decide to re-enter. The landscape you find yourself facing is quite desolate: a large parking lot full of vehicles, a few people smoking, someone who didn’t even bother -or manage- to find a more secluded corner before starting to puke their guts out. You let Cavendish’s hand on the small of your spine guide you to the back of the building, where at least the music is a bit less loud, and you can finally breathe a little more freely.

The two of you rest your backs against the wall, alone save for a few garbage bins, full of bottles and plastic cups, and a cat huddled on the hood of a car. For a few minutes neither speaks; Cavendish has lit a cigarette, while you are still thinking about Barto, and wondering if he’s going to leave with Rebecca to spend the night with her, like part of you had hoped he would do with you, had he accepted your offer to go to the club together.

Well, he’s free to; Barto is not your boyfriend, he has a right to spend time with and date and sleep with whoever he pleases, and his life must be no concern of yours. It mustn’t; you can’t allow a guy who declined to be seen with you in public out of embarrassment to break your heart, because a man like that doesn’t deserve you. Still, you can’t help but feel sad about it, because you do care about Barto, and you thought he cared for you as well…

“You alright?” Cavendish asks after a while, the smoke of his cigarette spreading in the cold air of the night.

“Yes, sure; sorry, I just wanted…”

Suddenly he is smiling as he throws the cigarette on the ground and stubs it with his foot. “Yes, I know.” he interrupts you, and a moment later his arm has circled your waist, pulling you close “I know what you want, baby.”

And a moment later he is kissing you.

It is so unexpected, even though it shouldn’t be, that for a moment you don’t know how to react; you remain perfectly still, your mind gone blank because of the shock, as Cavendish kisses you passionately. It has been years since the last time something like this happened to you, and it should be pleasant, because he is attractive and he complimented and paid attention to you and his mouth is warm and soft against yours, but it’s not, it’s not pleasant at all!

Why the hell is he doing this? You barely know him, and you have not consented to this in any way! Could he not -oh God he just put his tongue in your mouth- could he not at least ask or make sure you also wanted this…?

For a minute, maybe two, you try to get used to the kiss, to find some pleasure in it, to feel what a person is supposed to feel in a situation like this; but you don’t, and when Cavendish pushes you against the wall behind you, gently but forcefully, and puts his free hand on your breast, you realise you need to stop this now.

You do. “Stop it; please, you need to stop.” you say, and push him away from you, in case he thinks you are just playing coy, and Cavendish does take a step back, looking at you with eyes full of disbelief.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, and you don’t quite know how to answer, because you don’t want to offend him, because he did treat you kindly and doesn’t deserve it, but you’re not sure you’d want to see him a second time.

So you explain that while you do find him very attractive and had fun spending time with him, you are not interested in getting any closer, and poor Cavendish is completely flabbergasted.

“But… but you did dance with me, yes? We’ve been together for hours… and you let me accompany you outside…”

And this was enough to make him believe you wanted him to kiss you? Is Cavendish used to women falling at his feet five minutes after meeting him -it could be, since he is handsome and clearly knows it- or it is you who, since this is your first visit to a club, have no idea of how relationships develop in places like the Dressrosa?

In any case your decision is made and so, without hesitation, you tell Cavendish you are sorry to disappoint him, and that you never intended to let him on, but you have no intention of kissing him, never did, and you’d really like to remain alone now.

“Are you really sure?”

“Absolutely. Listen, I appreciate you keeping me company, but I don’t want you to waste the rest of your evening on me.”

Cavendish seems to agree, because a moment later you part, still amicably, and he leaves, in search of a woman more sensitive to his charm. The moment his blonde figure disappears from sight, you sigh to yourself, resting your back against the wall.

What a disappointment! Your first kiss in years -you could calculate how many exactly, but you are too embarrassed to- and you wasted it on someone you had no real interest in. You had expected so much from this evening, and yet here you are, head hurting because of the loud music, the packed room that made you feel claustrophobic, and you’ve been touched without consent by not one but two men!

Why the hell did you come here? This is not the right place for you, and you’re not the right person for a club like the Dressrosa, and there’s nothing wrong with it. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to try something new, but this has been a completely wasted evening, and your desire to show Bartolomeo you could have fun without him and despite his declining your offer is beneath you, something you should and do feel ashamed about. Oh, why did you not stay home with a cup of tea and that book you wanted to start reading…?

Busy as you are feeling sorry for yourself, you don’t hear danger approach until it’s too late.

“Hey, you!” the woman calls you, marching in your direction “What were you doing with my boyfriend?!”

You blink, absolutely sure you have never met her before. “... excuse me?”

“I’m talking about Cavendish! I saw you, you know, flirting with him and rubbing yourself on him! He’s mine, and you have to stay away from him!”

Cavendish did mention, as you made each other’s acquaintance at the bar, that he has recently broken up with a woman he had dated for a while, because she had been too controlling and obsessive, to the point of following him around and forbidding him from hanging out with his friends; he could have lied, obviously, to attract you, but you are almost sure the woman is the one framing the truth as it suits her.

“Hasn’t Cavendish broken up with you a while ago?”

“He… shut up! You don’t know what you are talking about!” she orders, her pretty face now bright red “You slut, you need to stay away from my man!”

Not wanting to get involved in a -former- lovers’ quarrel, you tell the woman you have no interest in Cavendish and she is free to go get him if she wants, but she doesn’t believe you, already convinced as she is that you have somehow seduced her man to take him away from her. You are usually a non-confrontational person, inclined to solve problems with words and reasoning rather than arguing or worse with violence, but tonight your patience has reached its limits; so you bite back at her, making it clear that you have no interest in Cavendish and that maybe he’d be still dating her, rather than kissing other girls, if she were less controlling and obsessive…

“Kissing?!”

Shit.

It’s too late, unfortunately, to take your words back, and learning you have kissed her ex turns the woman’s anger into full-blown rage. She swears at you using words you had never even heard before, and then, still unsatisfied, starts threatening you. “I can find out where you live, you slut, I’ll cut your face with a knife!”

“You can try!” you answer, equally furious; how dare she?! Does she not know you could go to the police for words like these?! “Who the hell do you think you are? The only way you can get a man to date you is by intimidating other women to stay away? You are pathetic!”

You are really fed up with all of this; fed up with this idiot, fed up with this sordid place, fed up with yourself even, since you got yourself in this stupid situation to get back at a guy who never even wanted you. Why didn’t you stay home?

“You know what? I’m sick of this. I’m leaving.” you declare, turning on your heels -your poor feet hurt, after a whole evening with this stupid, uncomfortable shoes, and you can’t wait to take them off and make yourself a footbath- and that is your mistake, because there are few things more dangerous than to take your eyes away from a person who is threatening you.

You had noticed the glass bottle in the woman’s hand, but you had paid no mind to it, just vaguely thinking her behaviour was due to the number of drinks she had imbibed, not imagining that the harmless container might be used as a weapon; you are grabbed by the shoulder…

“You bitch!”

… and the moment your body is forced to turn, an arm is raised above your head…

“Noo…!”

… the bottle is smashed against your forehead, and the world turns into pain and the red of your blood.

*****

“(name)? Oh, fuck… (name), baby, please, talk to me, please… open your eyes…”

Obeying is the hardest thing you have ever had to do -and since you have once taken three exams in a day, skipped two grades in school, and enrolled in more optional courses than any other student in your year, that is saying something- but you have recognised the voice calling your name, and this makes you less afraid of the world you could find yourself in once you come around.

“Are you alright?” Barto asks; he’s kneeling on the ground next to you, genty supporting your head with one hand while the other is holding a dirty napkin already soaked in blood - your blood. You can feel it on your forehead, on your hair, dripping down your cheek, syrup-like dense and sticky, and you’re terrified, because you don’t…

“... know.” answer in a small voice “W-what happened to me?”

“You don’t remember?”

“I… yes, a woman hit me with a bottle, but… am I hurt? Barto, I am bleeding… I can’t see well…”

It’s true, his face and the wall behind it swimming in front of you, first clearly visible and then shrouded in darkness and then somehow opaque, as if you couldn’t focus on them, but Barto assures you your eyes are fine, even if some blood trickled on the left one. “You are probably under shock.” he murmurs, and then anger fills his face - an anger that is not aimed at you “Where is the bitch who did this to you? I’m gonna kill her!”

“No…”

“Oh, yes! I know I shouldn’t hit women, but I swear, I’ll make her wish she was never born…”

And this is when you start to cry. Out of pain, yes, and of fear and anger, but out of relief and gratitude as well, because until a moment ago you and Barto had, if not properly fought, at least been more distant than you had ever been since the day you first met, and he still came to help you when you needed it… as if he cared for you.

“Oh, fuck… (name), I’m sorry…”

“I-it’s not your fault.” you stammer. You are pretty sure you’ve never looked worse in your life, between the blood, the tears, and the ruined make-up, and Barto is at the same time the first and the last person you’d want by your side in a situation like this “Please, I just want to clean myself… I need to go to the toilet…”

“Good idea. Give me your hand. Come on…”

In the end he has to almost lift you from the ground, and then his arm around your waist is guiding you back inside, as you cross the room in the direction of the ladies’ room.

“Come on, we are almost there.” Barto says encouragingly, and you nod numbly, still a bit wobbly on your legs, clinging to his shoulder to keep yourself upright as you limp by his side.

The white-tiled room is occupied by several women who fix their make-up in front of the mirror, smoke, or make out against the cubicle’s walls; they react with surprise when they see Barto, but then they notice you, still sobbing softly, and every one of those women you have never met before immediately offers their help, at first making sure this guy with the mohawk is not the one who decked you and then assisting you in cleaning the blood away from your face and hair.

“I’m afraid you need stitches, girl.” one of them says with a wince, as she observes the wound “There’s a clinic behind here…”

“Yeah, I know the place.” Barto points out, preoccupation evident on his face as he listens to your moans “Sorry, but can someone go take her stuff?”

One of the women volunteers, soon returning with your jacket and purse, while another gives you her water to drink and a third even offers to fix your make up. You thank them all profusely, their kindness so welcome in a moment you desperately needed some, and in the end you and Barto leave the toilet together, him once again holding you by the waist.

“I’m bringing you to the clinic, alright? My bike is right here.”

“I can’t ride a bike.” you murmur as you finally leave the large door of the Dressrosa behind you.

“You just need to hold on to me; we’ll be there in five minutes.”

“Barto, I really can’t…”

“Yes, you can. (name), believe me.” he tells you, taking your face in his hands, large and rough, but so kind as they cradle your head, and suddenly you are so close he could kiss you, and the mere thought makes your heart tremble “I promise you won’t fall. I know it hurts like shit, but hold fast, alright? Five minutes, and we’ll be at the clinic. Can you do it for me?”

There is very little you would not do for him, but if there’s a right moment to tell him, this is not it. The truth is you have always wanted to ride Barto’s bike, a beautiful, powerful vehicle that is his pride and joy, but you refused the only time he offered to take you for a ride, afraid you’d be too scared and you’d make a fool of yourself begging Barto to slow down or to stop because you were feeling sick. He probably wants a girl who knows her stuff about bikes -“it has two wheels, and an handlebar”, that’s all you could say- you have thought ruefully more than once, a girl who probably has one of her own, unlike you, who take the metro to go to class and cycle around the rest of the time.

Still, that is a thought for another moment as well. The bike is parked on the back of the club; once you reach it, Barto helps you mount behind him, and you hold on tight, still too in pain and too scared of falling to appreciate the fact you can feel his athletic, solid body in your arms, the pleasant smell of his aftershave filling your senses.

“Barto, please…”

“Don’t worry, baby.” he says, turning to look at you with a smile, as he starts the engine, the bike coming alive under him like a lion roaring “You’re safe with me.”

You believe him.

You reach the clinic less than ten minutes later, the brief journey at low speed and perfectly safe, and enter the waiting room, empty save for a clearly exhausted doctor taking a cup from a vending machine, a nurse pushing a patient in a wheelchair towards a corridor, and another nurse sitting behind the counter.

It is she who Barto walks determinedly towards, having left you on one of the chairs available for the waiting patients. “Sorry, is Nico Robin here tonight?”

The woman Barto has asked for appears a minute later; she seems to be only a few years older than you, tall and slender, clad in an immaculate doctor coat, a stethoscope hanging from her neck.

“Hello, Bartolomeo.” she says kindly, apparently not at all upset to have been called upon when she was probably already busy with something else “I’d ask what brings you here tonight but I think I can see it with my eyes.”

“This is my friend (name); some bitch at a club smashed a glass bottle on her face.” Barto succinctly introduces you “Can you give her a look? And she probably needs something for the pain.”

“Of course. (name), I am doctor Nico Robin.” the woman kindly introduces herself to you “Can you come with me, so I can get a look at your wound?”

You nod quietly, and five minutes later you are sitting on a hospital bed in a small, white-walled room, while Robin takes care of your wound and Barto stands guard by your side. He has taken your hand in his, squeezing it gently every time he sees pain on your face: you had never gotten stitches before, and you really wish that was a gap you wouldn’t have to fill.

“Alright, all done.” Robin announces in the end as she stands from her stool, to then retrieve a small mirror from a shelf “Have a look.”

You do, and fortunately now that it has been cleaned and closed, your wound looks… a bit less horrible than before. “Will it leave a scar?” you ask, dreading the thought of having a reminder of that horrible moment on your skin forever, but fortunately the doctor -Robin, please- reassures you.

“It shouldn’t; it’ll take a while to heal, but you should be fine. You will have to keep a bandage on it for a few days, though.”

That is a sacrifice you can bear.

“That’s good; your face is too pretty to ruin it with a scar… even though you’d have looked badass, (name), I’m sure.” Barto points out; then, as if realising he has just paid you a compliment, he blushes furiously and looks away, hands in his pockets.

You thank Robin profusely for her help, and she just smiles in return, walking you to the door before returning to her job.

“How do you feel?” Barto asks quietly as you walk back to his bike; he seems nervous, as if fearing you could blame him for what happened, or tell him you never want to see him again.

Those are, of course, the farthest things from your mind, but you are too tired and in pain to focus on it; the only thing you want now is your home, your bed, and a cup of chamomile.

“Better, I think; I hope I’ll feel better tomorrow morning.” you answer, forcing a smile “Can you accompany me home, please?”

He nods, and so a minute later you’re riding through the night, the roar of the engine deafening you, and you are cold and tired and in pain and your feet are killing you, but you feel safe, clinging to Barto’s warm, solid body, no longer worried but sure that he’ll bring you home, safe and sound, just like he promised.

He does, and in the end it is very late, so late it is almost early, when Barto sees you retrieve your house key from your bag, standing in front of your complex and looking more ill at ease than you thought he could.

“Listen, I…” he begins, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck “I… err…”

“Yes?”

“Shit… (name), I am so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault, Barto. None of it is…”

Your friend shakes his head, apparently determined not to be comforted. He found you outside the club because he saw Cavendish inside by himself and asked him about you, he explains, but had he arrived five minutes earlier he could have stopped that bitch from hurting you. Or even better, he should have accompanied you to the Dressrosa, so that he’d have been by your side at all times…

Ah.

“Barto?”

“Yes?”

You swallow, now turned to look at him; you have never been afraid of Barto, but suddenly asking the question waiting behind your lips is the hardest thing you have ever done.

“Why didn’t you want to go to the club with me? Are you… ashamed of me? Of the way… I dress? You thought people would laugh at you, because you were with me?”

The ten seconds that follow are the longest, tensest of your life, but Barto seems too stunned to react, staring at you as if he had never met you before.

“Oh, shit.” he says in the end, finally realising the effect his refusal had on you “Oh, God, (name), no! I could never… be ashamed of you! Do you really think I care about what people think?”

“Well, I thought… the clothes I usually wear are not exactly the sort you wear to a club… and there were so many beautiful women…”

Another shake of his head, before your friend rests his hands on your shoulders, staring at you like a man does when he’s making a solemn promise, or swearing on his life what he says is the truth.

Bartolomeo, it turns out, is doing both things.

“The only beautiful girl I could see tonight is you.” he murmurs “And believe me, I would have been happy to go to a club with you; or anywhere really. Proud to.”

“But then why…?”

“The Dressrosa is a dangerous place, (name); you’ve seen it too. It’s nice, the drinks are good and the music too, but the violence… Police have to intervene all the time, one time I’ve seen three stabbings in one night, and no girl goes there without at least two guys protecting her, because you never know what could happen. I just didn’t want something bad to happen to you; I should have told you, but I didn’t want you to think I thought you couldn’t take care of yourself. I wanted to take you somewhere else, a nicer place where we could drink and dance and have time to talk, but…”

“I beat you to it.”

“You did. I am so sorry, (name); it’s all my fault.”

You sigh, at the same time relieved you were able to clarify the misunderstanding, and feeling more stupid than ever; had you and your friend just talked, him admitting the reason for his refusal, and you being less petty and avoiding going to a place you weren’t even really interested in, all this mess could have been avoided. You could have spent a nice evening somewhere else, and now instead you have a new pricey outfit you will never wear again, and an ugly wound on your head that will take weeks to heal.

“I just wanted you to look at me.” you mumble; you can’t bear to look back at Barto, and suddenly you feel stupid, and childish, and so so tiny “Not as colleagues who help each other and spend their breaks together, and not like friends either. Girls like me are seen, but rarely looked at. I wanted you to look at me, and to want me.”

“But I do want you.”

“You don’t have to lie to make me feel better, Barto. I ruined your night, I’m sorry…”

“You didn’t. Fuck, I would have been happy to have a bottle smashed on my face, if it meant I’d get to take you home.” he says, and you can feel him tremble “(name), I… I do look at you, and want you. I just… I’m not good for you.”

“Barto, no…”

Another determined shake of his head. “You know that too. You’re good, smart, you don’t get in trouble… you’re probably gonna have a great career and make a lot of money; I’ll be lucky if I get to work at the shop for the rest of my life and pay my rent with that. I’m not saying my life sucks; I like my life. But you deserve better, (name); you deserve a guy who can study with you, and who can afford to buy you nice things, and-and bring you to all those places for brainy people like museums and…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence; he can’t, because you have grabbed him by the front of his shirt, and smashed your mouth against his in a kiss that is passionate, fierce, and expresses everything you haven’t dared to utter in words. Barto is clearly taken aback, but a moment later he’s moaning in your mouth, one of his arms holding you by the waist while the fingers of the other run through your hair.

“Shit, baby…”

“Don’t talk; just kiss me.” you tell him, without breaking the kiss, and you can feel Barto laugh softly against your mouth.

“As you wish…”

You could get inside, you have the keys to the complex in your hand, but you can’t stop, you can’t stop kissing him and holding him and having your hands discover his skin through and under his clothes. Barto is holding you as if never wanting to let go, his strong hands moving up and down your sides, his tongue doing something so unspeakable to yours you can feel your knees buckle, if it weren’t for the wall now pressed against your back. You are kissing near the complex’s trash bins, in sight of any tenant who just decides to look out of their window, your wound is still hurting and Barto tastes like cheap alcohol and smoke, but it is your first kiss, and it is perfect the way it is.

The moment Barto’s hands touch your buttocks, you jump.

“Shit, sorry… I didn’t mean…”

“No, it’s fine.” you hurry to answer; you’re bright red in the face, he can see it, and you don’t care “I-I don’t mind; quite the opposite in fact.”

Barto laughs, clearly pleased as his hands slide downwards, his fingers grabbing at your flesh. “This is a side of you I didn’t think existed.” he murmurs.

“These stupids clothes don’t count?”

“I think you look very pretty tonight; but you always look nice.”

“Seriously?” you inquire, breaking the kiss to look at him; maybe it’s stupid to ask for reassurance in a moment like this, since Barto is clearly doing his best to prove how much he likes you, but you can’t help it “I thought… I mean, my long skirts and blouses and all the rest are pretty boring compared to what other girls wear…”

“I like your long skirts and blouses and all the rest just fine; and you are sexy as hell whatever you wear.”

“Barto…”

“I’m serious, (name).” he insists, and he really is, as he takes your face in his hands once more “Do you really think I care about the sort of clothes you wear? I know you, and I want you; I want you so much it hurts. And I know I’m not good for you, and that you deserve better, but if you actually give a damn about me, if you just give me a chance, I promise…”

“Ssh…”

A finger on his lips silences Barto. “I do much more than care for you.” you reassure him “I want you too, Barto; because I know you too. I know how clever, kind, and protective you are; I have wanted you for a long time, and I am so happy I got to tell you.”

You share a smile, still holding each other tight; no more words are necessary as Barto lets you lead him to the complex’s door, which a minute later closes behind you.

*****

You find yourself whistling softly, something you only do when you are particularly happy or relaxed -or both things together, like in this particular instance- when, thirty-six hours later, in a sunny early afternoon, you leave the faculty building where most of your classes take place. Your bag, hanging from your shoulder, is as usual heavy with the weight of your books, but by contrast, your step has never been so light as you move towards the main door, walking past students and professors, some of which you greet with a nod without lingering.

On a day like this you would normally spend the little time before you’re due at work in the library studying, but not today; today you have plans, plans that made focusing on your morning classes harder than ever, but the moment has finally come, and you can’t wait to…

You are so deep in your thoughts, it takes you a moment to realise your phone is ringing in the back pocket of your slacks; you plan on not answering unless it’s an emergency, given the fact you are expected, but reading the name of the screen makes a smile appear on your face.

“Vivi, hi! I’m sorry, I had promised I would…”

“(name)... hi, it’s Cavendish.”

You stop in your tracks, momentarily stunned. “... Cavendish?!”

“Yes, that’s me. I was talking to Vivi, we are old friends, and when I mentioned the Dressrosa we realised we both knew you.” he explains “I thought it wouldn’t be fair to ask her for your number without your permission, but I hope you don’t mind if I called you.”

Glancing at your watch -five minutes more and you’ll be late- as you force yourself not to sound too frustrated, you assure him that no, of course you don’t mind. Cavendish then tells you he heard about your misadventure with his ex, and he can’t help but feel guilty for what happened, even though you assure him he has no fault, especially since your wound will heal soon.

“That is very good to hear. The truth is… well, I was wondering if you’d let me buy you a drink sometimes? I know you… well, you didn’t let me kiss you, but we did have fun together, didn’t we? I’d really like to get to know you better. Just a drink, I promise I won’t do anything you don’t want.”

You thank him for the offer, and admit you enjoyed spending time with him at the club, but, you add, you are going on a date right now, and at the moment you are not interested in seeing anyone else.

Cavendish, to his credit, takes it pretty well. “I see. Well, have a good-day then.”

“You too, Cavendish. Thanks for asking, and will you please tell Vivi I’ll call her soon?”

He promises he will, after which you say your good-bye and finally close the call.

Well, that was unexpected, you think as you put your phone away, but you know declining the request for a date was the right thing to do; you doubt you and Cavendish would have much to talk about, and he’ll surely find someone else to date soon… just like you have.

Barto is waiting for you in front of the university’s courtyard, sat on his bike, and grins happily when he sees you approach. “Here’s my woman!”

“I’m here! Sorry, I got caught up.”

“I already thought you had changed your mind…”

“Never.” you assure him decisively “Now come here, I need a kiss.”

You share one, long and passionate, indifferent to the many students and professors, some of whom know you personally, surrounding you; both of you are smiling when you part.

“Are you sure you don’t mind coming?”

“Of course not; if you like this bar, I want to see it as well. We have just the time for a drink before work.”

“Can’t we skip it and spend the rest of the day in bed at my place? I’m kidding, I’m kidding.” Barto laughs, before opening the tail box “You can put your books here.”

You do, and a minute later you are sitting on the bike behind him, happily holding Barto’s warm, solid body tight; he grins as he starts the engine. “I won’t let you fall, I promise.”

“I know you won’t; I just like hugging you.”

“Ah, well, in that case…”

You are both smiling; a moment later the roar of the engine has filled the air, and the bike is speeding down the road, carrying you both away under the early afternoon sky.

#One Piece #Bartolomeo the Cannibal #Bartolomeo One Piece #Bartolomeo the Cannibal x reader #Bartolomeo x reader #Bellona's stuff

32 notes · View notes

ominoose · 1 year ago

Text

𝐏𝐮𝐦𝐩𝐤𝐢𝐧 𝐏𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐨

Character: Steven Grant Prompt: Being Recorded & Pumpkin Summary: Steven has an onlyfans and does a Halloween special stream featuring a pumpkin. Warning: Onlyfans, smut, pumpkin gets violated. WC: 2.1K

Kinktober Masterlist

The camera angled towards his waist, showing only his lower half. His olive skin washed over by the white lighting sitting behind the camera, adding shadows to each curve. A plain, white sheet hung up behind him acting as the backdrop, although now a few fake candles and a single, plump pumpkin now joined him.

It was a basic set up, but Steven found he didn’t need anything too elaborate to keep his viewers entertained.

After being fired from the museum, a job he can’t even remember getting but one he adored, he turned to alcohol for one measly night. It was far from a normal coping mechanism for him, but the pathetic circumstances called for it. As horrid as Steven's tiny attic flat was, it was still located in central London which made the rent sky high. Even with his full time job he’d barely managed to scrape by with what he made, but now? Unemployed? He was days away from the streets.

In his drunken spiral his depressive thoughts moved from his unemployment status to his barren relationship status. Self deprecating words torrented through his mind. Was he ugly? Unsightly? Was he really that unattractive? Steven made a point of being friendly and open to everyone he came across, so it only made sense that his chronic loneliness stemmed from his appearance.

Through frustrated and self conscious tears he fell into another less productive vice; porn. If there was no one in reality to hold him, touch him or make him feel something, he’d find someone on a screen to do it. That was how he drunkenly ended up on onlyfans, scrolling through explicit content, eyes widening at the outrageous prices. Did people really spend that amount of money just to watch someone get off, wear costumes and moan into a mic? Without even seeing their face? It was ludicrous, but the more he scrolled, the more it became clear that people were more than happy to pay.

After a sad wank, a few more tears and two more drinks, Steven Grant was officially pished and about to make questionable decisions. In his drunken haze, with a mind whirling with money problems and a need to be wanted, he signed up. With one hand in his pants and another hitting his phones record button, he pointed the camera down at his crotch and went for it. Whimpers and moans filled the room, with Steven panting breathily into the mic and begging with every honest thought he would never have said aloud before.

“Please… please love I’m beggin you, please touch me, I need you,” He fisted his hard, aching cock faster, lips trembling as he lost himself to desperation, “Want you so bad, please, I’ll take anyone, want to be a good boy, I can be such a good boy.”

His voice cracked as he spoke, an emotional and horny wreck, pent up with all sorts of pathetic need. In a matter of minutes he’s spilling over his hands and trousers, crying out at his own sensitivity and jerking into his calloused hand.

The video ended as he dropped the phone, lazily hitting upload as he typed the title “Just Want To Be A Good Boy.” It was amazing that he managed to spell it all correctly in his state, blinking through self pitying tears. The title was him spelling out his hearts truth, Steven just wanted someone to want him, it was that simple.

As the worst post nut clarity of his life hit he flung the phone to the side of the bed, rolled over with a frustrated huff and forced himself to sleep.

The hangover hit like the London Metro on a monday morning, crowding his head with throbs and aches. Most of last night was a blur, and if the translucent stains on his jeans were anything to go by, it had been another sad and depressing night.

Steven made his way begrudgingly through the motions, with cornflakes and almond milk, a one sided conversation with Gus and whatever David Attenborough documentary was on the telly. He made it through twenty minutes of the routine before realising his phone had been buzzing. Assuming it was another LinkdIn alert email he ignored them, but after the fifth notification he heaved himself up, trotting over to it the phone with a pout at being bullied via notifications.

Onlyfans: You have 17 new Subscribers!

With a knitted brow, Steven read over the words twice, then thrice more. Individually the words made sense, but together he was stumped. He had subscribers? On Onlyfans? The porn subscription site? When on earth had he been on there? Dismissing it as some marketing email, he opened the notification with the intent to report it as spam but was instead redirect to the app, which only furthered his confusion.

Notification bubbles on the app told him he’d gained 127 new subscribers, with 345 likes on his last post. Anxiety and confusion coiled deep within his gut as he clicked onto the post, and the video that played back at him, or rather the voice that did, sent him into the beginning stages of a panic attack.

It was him from the waist down, curled into himself, arching off his bed. It was his voice begging some unknown person to touch him, want him, need him with passionate fervour. Within his broken mind a handful of pieces began to fit together and he buckled against the bed, completely aghast at what he and apparently many others had witnessed.

A new comment popped up live in front of him, and his finger expanded the comment section before his mind could stop him.

“God I need you so bad…”

“Need him to whine right in my ear.”“Ur my good boy”

“what i wouldnt give to edge him till he begs”

“Pleaseeee I need more of this content!”

Stevens heart stopped. His eyes widened in disbelief. They wanted more? Of him? They’d seen him, seen his privates, heard his deepest desires and wants, viewed him at his most raw and they wanted more? The pound sign caught his eye as he saw the automatic base subscription fee being £3, and his eyes flew open once again. With fumbling fingers he opened his bank app and nearly dropped the phone.

£381 had been added to his bank account.

That was the story of how Steven Grant, former chronically single giftshoppist, found himself with a successful and growing Onlyfans account. Turns out the whimpery, British men market was ripe for the taking, and he took it by the neck. It didn’t take long before he was adding more tiers, going from posting videos to live streams, he even has a few whales that regularly drop obscene amounts of money to make him buy new toys or costumes. Safe to say Steven was making far more than he did at the museum and missing rent was no longer a problem.

The idea of a Halloween special was something a few of his fans had mentioned, and he saw no reason not to. It would be a lie to say he wasn’t constantly drunk on the praise thrown at him, the very fact that he had a high subscriber count and tons of regulars did more to bolster him than therapy ever could.

What special things he’d do however, was something he was still stuck on. Besides the prop pieces and the new halloween themed thigh highs sent to his PO box by a subscriber that loved his ‘gazelle like legs’, he had nothing. Steven prided himself on putting effort into his streams, not half assing them, but with the event fast approaching he was left fumbling. On the morning of Halloween, he stared down the pumpkin and decided he could carve it on stream while edging himself with a toy, letting his viewers watch him get increasingly needy and bothered whilst doing a nice seasonal activity. It wasn’t his best idea, but it would have to do.

As the clock struck midnight, the stream began. Steven was curled in front of the camera, waving his hand down towards where the frame would see him.

“Evening everyone! Happy Halloween! Hope you’re all doing well, promise there will be only treats tonight, no tricks.”

When he first began streaming he was a nervous wreck, barely able to get a full sentence out coherently, but after a few months he felt a bit more at ease. He could ramble on about anything he wanted, from his newest French poetry book to niche Egyptology and so long as he was hard, no one cared. Some comments could be extremely vulgar, a few even hateful, but with the outpouring of love and lust directed and tailored towards him drowned it all out.

On went the stream, with Steven chatting with his viewers before bringing out the pumpkin and slowly carving it, taking his time so both he and his viewers would get worked up. The vibrator he attached to himself was linked up to his laptop, a nifty bit of tech that he barely figured out, but it meant that viewers could pay to turn up the intensity of the vibrator.

Several times they did so, always catching him off guard and leaving him spluttering.

“O-Oi! You nearly made me mess up the carving, you cheeky thing.”

For an even higher price point, viewers could make their own unique requests for the stream. It had only happened twice before, both at Stevens discretion, and he certainly hadn’t expected it to happen now.

@red-hydra: “fuck the pumpkin”

Steven froze mid-carving, knife stuck halfway through a triangular eye, a choked moan escaping him as the vibrator buzzes violently at the wrong moment.

“Bloody hell, I- Y-You want me to… shag the pumpkin?”

The chat was going by so fast he could barely keep up, but the few messages he could discern were all rabid to see him commit to the request.

“Alright, a-alright dears, um… I-I’ll try.”

Slowly Steven pulled the carving knife from the pumpkin, and angled it beside him, prodding the small hole with his finger and gasping at the wet innards. He hadn’t emptied it yet, and he wasn’t sure whether that was good or bad, but it meant there was no need for lube.

With barely restrained trepidation Steven gently grabbed his weeping cock and placed it in front of the opening, gasping at the odd, cold sensation. After a deep breath he takes the plunge and pushes in, grunting at the tightness of the space before an open mouthed groan escaped him.

The feeling was absolutely unlike anything Steven had felt before. It was cold and almost slimy, but it was soft and spongy, and the small, snug space his penis had to fit through made his throbs all the more prominent. He couldn’t restrain the soft whimpers that left him, the way his hips bucked ever so slightly and desperately against his will.

Steven liked to take things slow for his streams, wanting to stretch them to an hour or two long max, however there were odd occasions were he couldn’t help himself. This was one of them.

His fingers were whitening with how hard he was gripping the pumpkin, his chest heaving at the sudden pleasure. It seemed his fans were lapping the sight of him up as the vibrator was constantly buzzing, hitting its highest settings over and over and over. It was too much, and Steven was left moaning without remorse against the walls of his flat, thrusting into the pumpkin as his thighs trembled with the onslaught of pleasure.

Only a few minutes in and he’d already made a mess, just like he was. Strings of pumpkin flesh stuck to the inside of his thighs, a small bead of precum was leaking down his shaft. The entire scene was one of wet and panting chaos, and the chat wasn’t any better.

Out of view of the camera, Steven managed to lift his head, peering at his screen through lust heavy eyes and groaned at what he saw. Comments were flooding, an array of encouragement, vulgar observations all overly descriptive and ravenous over him.

The barrage of compliments, the horde of people egging him on had him nearly piercing the pumpkin with his grip as he fucked into it with the full force of his hips, mewling and whining desperately for more.

It didn’t take long for him to break, cumming with a cry and a gasp, arching whorishly into the abused fruit as pearly white beads bubbled out of the small opening. Steven needed a few moments to gather himself, slowly pulling out of the pumpkin with a wince, finally aware of the stringy orange mess he’d made of himself.

He sat back on his haunches, glancing back towards the camera with a sigh and panting still.

“Well… That’s one way to make vegan pumpkin pie. Happy Halloween lovelies.”

#steven grant #moon knight #oscar isaac #omiwrites

290 notes · View notes

junedenim · 18 days ago

Text

2014

beneath the boardwalk, part 12 (series masterlist)

fireside

warnings: slutty behavior

word count: 15k

I found out Alex and Arielle broke up through Facebook. Of course, because it's Alex we're referring to—a man who never touched social media with a 39½ foot pole—I didn't find out through a relationship status update, I found out through an article. I cursed the Facebook gods for knowing I would click on the article and nearly didn't but I did because I had to know whether it was legitimate or just gossip. The article didn't indicate much either way. I made the assumption I would hear about it if it were true and clicked off Facebook before it fully rotted my brain.

I spent the majority of January in England. I had gone back for the holiday season but had been convinced to stay through the new year through the pull of London. I caught up with old friends, most notably my old neighbor, Lee, and her two girls who I used to babysit and who were now both teenagers. I felt old.

When I returned to New York, my agent told me that one of the short stories from my upcoming book would be featured in the New Yorker. Featured, not just plain old staff writing, a full-on feature. Right up there with the likes of Shirley Jackson, Truman Capote, and George Saunders (okay, maybe not up there, but I have it in common with them). It was a nice start to the new year.

Fennel and Kaka had a dinner party in celebration, or just to have an excuse to throw a dinner party, they like those kinds of things. I wore a slutty dress Fennel provided and got drunk on champagne.

The day after this beautiful fancy party, Opal took me out for a proper celebration. Shitty bars and shitty clubs to get drunk off tequila. This was followed by the worst hangover of my life which made me vow to give up alcohol (fat chance).

Alex called me during this time and I missed it. There was a good chance people thought I was dead for several days. I didn't answer my phone and only got out of bed to vomit. I never returned Alex's call but he called me right before Arctic Monkeys performed at Madison Square Garden. I assume the call was some form of an invitation to attend but I wouldn't have gone anyway. I watched their cover of "All My Loving" on YouTube a week later and decided that I was only pissed that I missed that song.

Through Fennel, I had met Isaac Gaunt, a fashion photographer from London. He asked to do a photoshoot with me, which could've been a good way to be sex trafficked but considering the guy had shot for Vogue, I took my chances.

Isaac and the photos he took of me unlocked a whole new world for me. One where I would be referred to for my looks. All those years of being concerned over my author photo seemed to be indicating something.

My agent had no experience with fashion and graciously suggested I get another agent who specialized in it. She proved that not all agents are money-hungry monsters. So, I stayed with her and said I wanted her to handle fashion the same way she handled books because I was still a writer after all.

Because my image had cultivated somewhat of a following over the first few months of the year, I was offered more and more opportunities and got to feel like a diva when I turned down offers because I was simply "too busy." I loved it. It fed into my ego and made me feel way better about myself after feeling like shit for so long.

Of course, the buzz only lasted for so long but because I had the luxury of dictating my new career and whatever direction it was heading, I got to control the rush. I quite liked being busy too, especially when it meant getting invited to cool parties. Thus, I drank more champagne.

I got an invitation to this one party at the Museum of the City of New York. The building itself being this glorious display of Gilded Age glamour. I believe it was a fundraiser for the museum but also a celebration of the city and the talent it cultivated. I don't think I fell into that category, I just knew the right people, which is really just what it's all about. Knowing the right people.

Most people didn't know who I was and those who did recognize me didn't know I was British, which meant that they hadn't read anything I had written. So, I guess I was just a face now. I thought that would piss me off more but I liked being this mystery. I was luckily still taken seriously and people were intrigued when I said I was a writer instead of rolling their eyes and thinking I was some dimwit with looks who claimed to be a writer but actually barely knew how to string a sentence together.

At the MCNY, on the luxurious staircase, dressed in something that was expensive and vintage and left me fearful of spilling something on it the whole night, I ran into Jackson. We stared at one another and with a nod of each of our heads, we passed one another with not a word uttered. I assume he was there with one of his clients but I went on and met up with a group of people who were slowly becoming my friends and didn't see him for the rest of the night.

It made me feel mature. I didn't feel a need to prove how fabulous I was and no need to spin the skirt of my dress around or sip my champagne with no care for him. I was perfectly comfortable with a small smile and seeing that he was doing just fine. It made me feel like I must be doing just fine too.

On the first coatless day of the year, I got fro-yo with Opal and her friends, Nadia, Sophie, and Mina. Opal's birthday was the following week but I would be out of town so we had a mini girl's day with the latest craze of fro-yo. I had met all the girls before but only had a close kinship with Mina after she crashed at my place following a night of clubbing.

After buying our combination of swirls, we sat in Tompkins Square along a bench. By the time our fro-yo was melted, the topic of my goings next week arose. Opal asked, "How do you feel about seeing you-know-who?"

Nadia licked her spoon clean. "Who's you-know-who?"

"My ex-boyfriend," I informed. "I'm going to a wedding next week. It's his bandmate and my friend, Katie, getting hitched."

"Your ex-boyfriend is in a band?" Sophie questioned.

It was rather odd to me that my life had grown so far outward that people didn't know about Alex. I was grateful for it, specifically in terms of my career. My life moved on and my name was no longer followed by "Alex Turner's ex-girlfriend." It had been a new discovery that past year. Be it good PR people or, more likely, people in my line of work didn't care.

Though, I was shocked Sophie didn't know.

"What are you going to wear?" Mina asked. I went simple since I was flying in from New York. It was a soft blue slip dress. There was nothing fancy about it other than the gorgeous colour.

In regard to running into Alex, I didn't care. Well, I mostly didn't care. Okay, I cared, but I didn't actively try not to. I wanted to be friendly and my expectations didn't go further than that. I wasn't nervous about it anymore. I cared more about Katie's wedding dress than what I would be wearing. In any scenario, that was an unanticipated form of growth out of self-absorbedness that I never believed I could reach.

I cry at weddings. I am reduced to a blubbering fool. It's quite embarrassing. If I wasn't me, I would be making fun of me because being vulnerable is something I'm still not comfortable with despite how emotional I am. With Jamie and Katie, it felt understandable. They were a couple I watched grow together from two awkward kids to well-adjusted adults. It was an unexpected overwhelming feeling but Katie was so beautiful and I was jet-lagged.

After grabbing a flute of champagne, I got my emotions under wraps and had small talk with the various attendees, many of whom I hadn't seen in years. I lucked out by finding AB and Shay, who I had no clue were attending, and buddying up with them by the bar.

I sipped my champagne, talked with them, and looked out at the crowd the whole time, slightly dreading or rejoicing whenever the moment would come that Alex and I locked eyes. Eye contact was generally avoided during the ceremony. I sat too many rows back and think my stomach would have fallen out of my ass if we looked at each other when two people were getting married. I much preferred the idea of a dramatic, but subtle and tamed, wedding reception gaze at one another.

Breana found me during this time, sans Matt, which probably meant he was with Alex. As I hugged her, I feared Matt and Alex would come looking for her like she was some lost puppy. I felt ridiculous but Breana understood my predicament and didn't question why I was looking over her shoulder the whole time we spoke.

Cocktail hour wrapped with no sign of Alex, which meant I didn't get totally hammered before dinner. I was seated with AB and Shay, who were now engaged as well, and I spent the whole of our time together staring at the rock on her finger.

Right around when I began to dive into dinner, I spotted Alex eating at his table. His back was to me. I wondered if we were intentionally seated that way so we didn't have to stare at each other from across the room.

Cake was given and I managed not to ball my eyes out during the first dance. AB and Shay escaped me to do their own dancing, I felt impossibly envious and deeply regretful that I had not shacked up with someone to bring as a plus one because weddings are disgusting and lonesome when you're watching all the cute couples dance.

I made friends with the only other single gal at my table, Dolly, one of Katie's friends. We travelled to the bar together with interlocked arms, despite the fact we barely knew each other. We both got a margarita and cheers to an okay night, whatever that might be.

"I haven't been to a wedding in years and suddenly it feels like everyone is getting married," Dolly said.

I hummed and swallowed my drink. "We're getting to that age when you're either a single loser or having babies."

"My younger sister is engaged and I don't even have a boyfriend. How much of a loser does that make me?"

I leaned against the bar and deposited my empty glass, requesting another one. "It makes you smart."

"Can you tell that to my parents?"

We shared a laugh and the bartender gave me my next margarita. A tap was felt on my shoulder and the voice rang through my ears, "Hey you."

I managed not to fully choke on the liquor running down my throat. I covered my mouth to prevent a major coughing fit or spitting the liquid out onto him. "Hi."

I wasn't sure what else to say. He stood there. I noted the uptightness in his posture. He smirked to hide his nervousness as suaveness. I knew he had to be nervous because I was too. I did get a kick out of him being the one to approach me. For a change, I no longer felt like the girl falling at his feet.

After too long of a silence staring at one another while Dolly surely thought we were looney, Alex asked, "How are you doing?"

I nodded. "Fine." I was being dry and rejecting, leaving nothing for him to grasp onto. This was the crossroads. I could be cold and watch him walk away dejected, getting immense pleasure for the power I had over him. However, who was to say I did not have that power over him anymore? Who's to say I wouldn't have just come off as awkward and a loser? A boring single loser.

I could’ve smiled and asked him how he was and acted out pleasantries that were likely too sweet to be believable coming from my lips. Silence hung and I wasn't sure what to do. I took a sip of my drink and Alex did the same with his. It was a game. Whoever finished their drink first had to speak.

"I've just been chatting with Dolly here," I told him. I lost. Or won. I wasn't sure. I requested another drink pulling myself further on the road of alcohol poisoning. "How've you been?"

"Fine." He was smiling—no more than that—a shit-eating grin. He was mocking me. He was two seconds away from breaking into an uncontainable laugh. "I've been fine. The usual."

I hummed like some wise old man. "Yes, the usual. And what would the usual be?"

He shrugged and swirled his drink, looking down at the spiral forming around his ice. I wasn't sure what game we were playing. I felt like breaking the ice but it slowly began to feel like we were freezing ice between us. Everything was awkward and cold and Dolly was just staring at the whole thing.

She threw her pickaxe into the mix. "Jane and I were just talking about how it feels like there are suddenly so many weddings this year. I've got two more I've got to go to in the summer."

Alex pulled himself away from his hypnotizing drink, adjusted his suit jacket, and swung back into action. "It does feel that way, doesn't it? I suppose that's what your late twenties is." His eyes bore themselves into me and he sipped on his drink.

"For some of us," Dolly said. "The rest of us are left to deal with the scraps."

"Aw," Alex rejected, "you ladies aren't scraps."

Dolly replied, "I never called us scraps. It's you men that are the scraps."

I giggled and Alex tossed between a frown and a chuckle like he couldn't decide how he was supposed to react. "The ones that haven't been potty trained yet," I joked.

"We aren't all so bad, you know," Alex said. "Some of us at least know how to aim."

It broke me out into an embarrassing laugh. One that had me trying my back to him and leaning on the bar because I couldn't bear for him to see me clutch my stomach and snort my drink out. Dolly and Alex laughed more at me than the joke and I turned back in shame as the two of them stared at me. "Sorry," I muttered through my amusement.

Dolly shook her head at me. "All these weddings have made me acutely aware of how single I am. I've become one of those people who bitches and moans about that to people I barely know."

I relaxed against the bar and sipped away. "Welcome to the club."

"The only benefit of being single at a wedding is a chance of catching the bouquet," she stated.

Alex stood amused by Dolly, chuckling at her and sliding his hands into his pockets. "If it makes you feel better I don't even get a chance to catch the bouquet." His eyes drifted to me a moment later like he was waiting for a reaction. My eyes moved to Dolly. I realized this was his way of informing me he was single. I didn't know how to take that.

"You two are very Debbie Downer," I said. "You're 28, not the 40-year-old virgin."

Dolly straightened up. "You're right. I'm spiraling too much. I should be focused on the open bar and having fun."

I lifted my drink. "That's the spirit."

"My friend's just gotten married. I'm chatting with old and new friends. I could stumble on the love of my life tonight instead of bitching and moaning. Or at least a plus one to the next wedding."

"Husbands are overrated anyway," I stated.

Alex chuckled, grabbing my attention again. I almost forgot he was standing there. "Is that the subject of your next book?"

I pointed a finger at him. "You know, that's not a bad idea. At least for an article."

Dolly placed her glass down on the bar. "I'm gonna hit the dance floor. Care to join me?" I wasn't sure which one of us her question was directed at.

Alex eyed me and I eyed Alex. I looked back at Dolly and told her, "I'll catch up with you after I finish my drink."

She looked at me with a hint of something that I refused to acknowledge. "Don't spend the whole night by the bar," she warned.

"I won't," I promised as she walked away.

I leaned back at the bar and focused on my drink and not the man in front of me. It was easier to digest my decision that way because of course I only stayed at the bar for my drink and not anything else at all. Totally.

"She's nice," Alex said. He was still nursing the remaining liquor in his drink, even though the ice was beginning to melt.

"Shall I set the two of you up? We could be at your wedding this time next year," I quipped.

Alex feigned some laughter. "I don't think I'm ready for that kind of thing."

I narrowed my eyes. "Wives overrated?"

"I haven't found out yet." We stared at one another with the knowledge that whatever move followed would determine the rest of the night. I didn't finish my drink right away and he never took another sip of his. "How are you?"

"You already asked that."

He playfully rolled his eyes. "Right, you're fine."

It made me laugh and I dropped my shoulders, no longer feeling a need to be tensed up. "I've been busy but I like what I'm busy with."

"That's good."

"You?"

"The usual."

I rolled my eyes this time. "You're so funny, Al."

"What else would you like me to say?" The question posed so much with so little. We could run down a thousand different avenues with that one question. I could beg, I could insult, I could walk away.

I disguised my blushing as red-hot amusement. "That you've become a grand master in chess or learned how to get a ship into a bottle."

He gestured his glass at me. "You know, it's not as hard as you think."

"Come on, you have to give me something to work with. How else will I relentlessly make fun of you?"

"Like you don't already?"

I tossed my head back, pretending I was exhausted by him. I never could be it seemed. "I need new material."

He rattled the ice in his glass and moved closer to me, leaning his side against the bar. "I've been trying to learn magic tricks."

"Are you going to pull a coin out from behind my ear?" I hid my smile in my drink.

"I never said I was good at it." He placed his glass down at the bar like he was establishing his place there. "Have you learned any new tricks?"

I couldn't deny it then. He had confirmed it right there. He was flirting with me. I didn't know what to do with it or how to act on it so I just sipped my drink and didn't dare look at him. "I've taken to doing the New York Times crossword every morning."

He laughed at me. "How long does it take you before you look up the answers?"

I refused to allow him to see me blush. If I could dive into my drink, I would have. "Probably ten minutes." He laughed with me. "But they're just hints. I'm allowed hints. The Sunday one is really hard."

"I believe you. I know how smart you are."

His closeness was beginning to make me uncomfortable. I turned my body and leaned my back against the bar like I had so many times before. "There was a crossword clue mentioning Sheffield a few weeks ago."

"Really?” He perked up. Something about it felt so childlike or maybe like a dog who hears the rustling noise of a bag of treats. “What was it?"

"It was easy. Something like ‘stroller in Sheffield, 4 letters.’"

"Would it be a pram?" He looked at me expectingly like he was awaiting cheers to erupt.

"Ding ding ding," I sounded. "You're not as dim as I thought."

"Oh, thanks, Jane." He tried to act offended but his voice edged with mirth and a smile tugged on his lips.

He opened his mouth to speak but I beat him to it. "I think I'm going to go dance."

I placed my empty glass down on the bar and watched as he let delight spread across his face. "I should've known Backstreet Boys would get you on the floor."

I crossed my arms. "Well, it is ‘I Want it That Way’ after all. Just be happy I'm not screaming it in your ear." I turned away before he could say anything else. I joined Dolly in horrible dancing and singing as the margaritas blasted through me.

I lost Alex in the crowd. I think he might have been with Matt because I found Breana on the floor. I grabbed both her hands and spun around with her. At some point we had formed a mini circle of girls, kicking off our heels, and jumping around.

Perhaps it was too early to be shaking the floor based on some side eye we were given. Out of breath, Breana and I decided to step back into our shoes and sit down. She leaned toward me. “So, what have you been up to?” Her eyes were wide and coming onto me alluringly.

I held my stomach and worked on quickly reinflating my lungs. “Are you hitting on me?”

She pushed away from me with a laugh. “No, I’m just curious what you’ve been up to this evening. You’ve got your eye on anyone?”

I stared at her. “No.”

“Come on, the only benefit of going stag to a wedding is taking someone home with you.”

I shook my head in disbelief. “When did everyone become so sex obsessed?”

“I don’t know. Maybe in the last year or so. When did you become so prudish, Jane?” She teased.

I countered, “I don’t know. Maybe in the last year or so.”

I debated the idea of it but thinking of trying to hook up with a stranger at a wedding kind of disgusted me. Maybe because Alex was there. I think I also didn’t want to be the one trying to seduce someone. I wouldn’t deny a Four Weddings & a Funeral situation, especially if I got to be Andie MacDowell.

Breana stood up and asked, “Should we get a drink?”

I slumped in my chair. “Maybe. I feel like I might be too drunk already.”

She laughed. “There’s no such thing at a wedding.” She reached out and grabbed my hand. “Come on. I’ve barely had any. Take me to the bar.”

I guided her through the crowd to the deck of the bar. Along the way, I decided she was right and that free alcohol is free alcohol. We both indulged in cocktails with pieces of fruit and straws. “This is so sweet,” she said. “I feel like I’m gonna vomit.”

I gagged. “Don’t talk about vomit.”

Breana waved her hand to someone behind me, gesturing for them to come toward her. I looked behind me to find Matt and Alex. I kept my eyes trained on Matt and smiled and waved.

“Jane Cavendish!” Matt drunkenly cheered. “I heard you were crawling around.” He slung me into a hug. I returned it despite how sweaty he felt and how hard I was trying to not laugh at him.

“Matthew J. Helders III,” I returned his proper greeting.

Breana tucked her arm under Matt to keep him upright. “Maybe we should sit down,” she suggested. When Matt insisted otherwise, she decided for him, taking him over to their table, and leaving me with Alex.

He took a step forward towards me. “And I thought I was going to be the one to get hammered,” he said.

“Night’s young and the bar is still mighty full.”

He eyed my drink. “What’ve you got there?”

I stirred my straw, clunking the ice against the glass. “I believe it is called a woo woo.”

“A woo woo?”

“Yeah, it’s vodka, cranberry, and…” I took a sip. “Peach Schnapps. I’ve never had it before but I quite like it.” I eyed the hand around his glass. “And what do you have? Your bourbon,” I mocked, continuing to sip away at my woo woo.

“I go for reliability over experimentation.” He sipped his with a piercing stare at me.

I couldn’t tell if he was making a pointed comment at me or trying to make some eloquent quip. Either way, I didn’t care. I liked my woo woo too much to care. “You’ll never know the joys of a woo woo then.”

“Gimme a sip then.” He curled his fingers, beckoning me to move the drink toward him.

I handed it over. “Sip out of the glass, not the straw.”

He chuckled. “I’ve kissed you but can’t share a straw with you.”

I was determined for my face to stay neutral. “You’ll get the bourbon taste all over it.”

“Oh,” he sarcastically said.

He began to chug out of the glass until I pulled it out of his hand. “Get your own if you love it so much.”

“It tastes like candy floss.”

“No, it does not.” I sipped just to check. “It definitely doesn’t. I don’t think you’ve ever even had candy floss.”

“I’ve had it. Might have been 20 years ago now but I’ve had it,” he insisted.

I looked out at the crowd dancing. I had no clue what time it was or how long we had been there but it felt like no time had passed and hours had passed at the same time. I wasn’t sure what had a greater effect of time distortion Alex or alcohol.

“Have you danced at all?” I asked him.

He leaned an arm against the bar, slowly inching closer and closer to me. “Is that an invitation?”

“No,” I claimed, “I’m waiting for them to bring out more food. Can we get a second serving of cake?”

Alex chuckled, standing up straighter, no longer coming off as leering. “You haven’t had enough sugar from your woo woo?”

“Well, if I don’t have any food to soak up the alcohol than I won’t remember the rest of the night,” I told him.

“I think they’re bringing out pretzels soon.”

“Hard or soft?”

He smirked. Him and his dirty mind. “Soft, I think.”

“God, I could eat like five of those right now.” I felt like my stomach would rumble so hard it would shake the building causing a microearthquake. “What time are they doing that?”

He shrugged.

“You’re no help. You’re supposed to have the insider information,” I complained.

“I didn’t plan the wedding.”

“Go find out for me,” I commanded. I was desperately hungry and desperate for him to get away from me. It was his gaze that made me blush from a shared nervousness and awkwardness. I didn’t know how to act around him anymore, not with the way he was acting.

The wave of my hand shooed him away and he disappeared into the crowd again. I got a Moscow mule and went back to my seat. Before Alex returned, the soft pretzels were taken out and I was first in line. I got back in line before I even finished my first one.

When I spotted Alex across the room, I raised my pretzel toward him. He raised his woo woo back at me.

AB, Shay, Dolly, and I chatted over our pretzels and drinks at our table. Shay looked sleepy, leaning her head against AB’s shoulder, and I knew they’d be heading out within the next half hour. Dolly kept throwing her head back in laughter, even when the conversation didn’t prompt it.

I wiped my hands clean of salt and, encouraged by the group, chugged the rest of my drink. With the empty glass, I stood, curtsied, and headed to the bathroom. I was buzzed, maybe even drunk by that point, but still felt in control despite my heeled shoes growing bothersome. I was ready for another drink. Well, after I peed.

When I left the bathroom, he was standing there, acting casual with a drink in his hand and tapping his foot to the music, but I’m not sure why he would be standing outside the women’s bathroom unless there’s something I don’t know about.

I walked up to his profiled body. I placed my hands on my hips as the upturn slowly occurred on my lips. “Are you stalking me now, Al?”

“How was your pretzel?” He wasn’t being concealed. He couldn’t control his smirk and it felt like every second passed in a thumping heartbeat.

“Same as yours I’m sure.”

“I didn’t get one.”

“Well, maybe you should. They were good.”

“I was gonna pop out for a smoke. If you wanna.”

“Wanna what?”

“For old time’s sake.”

The nostalgia played a role but the look on his face tugged at me and as much as I wanted to deny it, I wanted to go out and smoke with him too. For old time’s sake. I was also itching for a cigarette and bumming one off Al was as good as anything else.

Night had covered the outside world. The once warm day had turned into a breezy night. We walked to a park bench outside the venue. The wood grates pressed through the fabric of my dress and I took the opportunity to curl my legs behind me and rest my feet.

Alex handed a cigarette to me before pulling one out for himself. I startled him by reaching into his coat pocket, perfectly aware of where his lighter was. I lit my cig before tossing it to him. I leaned back against the iron bar and watched as the smoke left his lips.

“Talk,” I urged him.

“I’m in charge?” He questioned.

“You brought me out here.”

He chuckled. “Nicotine brought you out here.”

I looked out onto the scene in front of us. It wasn’t particularly interesting. There was a car park and a field and the venue. There were some other people. A few were smoking, some leaving, and a few getting fresh air or trying not to act too drunk. “I’ve got a lot of addictions.”

“Woe is me much?”

I snorted. When I faced him, his eyes were already trained on me with a smile. “Have you forgotten who you’re talking to?”

“Dark and mysterious might’ve worked on me in college, Jane, but I know you better now.”

“You knew me pretty well back then,” I reasoned. “As I recall it.”

He hummed like if we looked into each other’s eyes long enough a wormhole would form and we’d be taken back in time to 2003. “You’ve always been easy to read. You did put up a good wall back then though.”

“Nothing compared to yours.”

He broke eye contact with me for the first time. He turned completely away, staring at whatever lay before him on the other side. “I have the reputation for it, I’m sure.” He looked back at me like he couldn’t resist it for too long. It burned me. He could have put his cigarette out on me for all I know. It burned a hole through the center of me. Too much. Too hurtful.

“Well, I was still able to read you pretty well.”

“More than I would’ve liked,” he said. “There I go sounding all despondent. How’s your next book going?”

I shrugged. “Somewhere. It’s been a little complicated lately. New ventures. And a new agent.”

“Ah, the post-Jackson era?”

“Yeah, kind of fucked that one up. Business wise.” There was no reason to get into all the personal propensities here or ever because I can barely recall that mess and have had limited desire to, clearly. “Lisa’s my new agent. She’s lovely and nice but it’s different. Jackson was my friend too. I guess I have a habit of not knowing how to keep friends.”

“It’s a natural part of growing up,” he tried to assure me.

“You are aware of whose wedding we’re at?” I longed to have friendships like Alex’s. I felt like I couldn’t hold onto those things. I think it’s easier for guys or maybe that’s just a grass being greener mentality.

He couldn’t argue, instead breaking into laughter. “Yeah, you are a bit shit at keeping friends.”

“Hey!” I whacked him.

He held his hands up. “I’m kidding. You’re my friend after all.”

“The aforementioned: a bit shit. Case and point.”

He laid it out. “You make things too awkward.”

“I think the situation is awkward.” Is there a proper way to interact with her ex? If so, I haven’t quite found it yet. There’s a fine line, especially with Alex. I felt we were always tiptoeing around our situation. That was the problem with never addressing anything. With no formal break-up, we never discussed and unravelled how things went down. We stayed tangled and flipped back and forth between the closest of friends to distant figures in one another’s lives. Here we tried to find the middle ground.

He pondered what I said for a minute. He sat with it and took a few drags before saying, “Who am I to talk? I’ve made my own messes.”

I almost didn’t ask but it was getting late, memories crept up on me, I felt warm, and he felt close. “With Arielle?”

Alex turned away, clearly not wanting to dive into it. I could see the environment pulling away at him too. He leaned against the bench’s backing and laid his arm on it. “Yeah, not that it would have worked out anyway.”

I felt myself leaning closer like he had lassoed me and was pulling me in. “What do you mean?”

He let out a half-suppressed laugh like he couldn’t help but laugh at the situation. He put out his cigarette but didn’t move an inch from his seat next to me. “Did you think you were going to end up with Jackson?”

To prevent the situation from travelling too deep, I leaned my temple against my fist, and joked, “I don’t know. Cavendishes are historically unhappy in their marriages.” I followed his suit and put out my cigarette, but stayed glued to my seat next to him.

He didn’t look at me when he said, “If you’re going to be unhappy at least aim wealthier than Jackson.”

I wanted to ask if he meant him.

I wondered what my next move should be. There was no longer anything between our fingers excusing us to sit outside. I felt my continued participation in the conversation would reveal something. I was probably reading into it too much, but it was sending him a signal I didn’t know if I wanted to give off.

“Should we go back inside?” I asked.

“Why?” His questioning sent a shiver down my spine. “You getting cold or something?”

“Thirsty,” I claimed. I feared he’d attempt to take his suit jacket off and throw it over my shoulders.

“You dipsomaniac.” He stood up beside me and we walked back in together toward the bar. I got a Tom Collins because I liked the way the bartender decorated the glass with the lemon slice and a drink would distract me anytime I needed to think of something to say.

Alex got something boring. I don’t remember. “What number is that for you?”

I stirred and thought. “I don’t know. I guess that says it all.” I stared out at the crowd of people on the dancefloor shimming to “Billie Jean” in a wild manner. It comforted me that the age of the crowd had levelled out and the sobriety of the crowd had diminished. “Have you danced at all this evening?”

“I’m not that drunk yet.” He took a mighty gulp. “You offering?”

I shook my head. “I don’t want my toes broken.”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m a good dancer.”

“Not when you’re drunk.” Alex would shake, thrash, and toss when drunk dancing. He loses all control of his limbs and his coordination is deadly for someone who already suffers in the department. “What song would get you on the floor?”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Chicken Dance.”

“This isn’t a school dance. Serious answer.”

“Why? You gonna go give the DJ a request?”

“I’m just curious. No need to accuse.”

“Some Spice Girls.” He smirked.

I glared at him. “Don’t mock me now.”

“Let’s get it on,” he offered.

“Huh?” Uncertainty lied in my reaction.

He raised an eyebrow suggestively. “Marvin Gaye,” he clarified.

“You’re not funny.”

“Then why are you smiling?”

The booming of “Single Ladies” blasted through the room interrupting any proper answer. I held my glass out to him. “Keep it safe for me?” I asked.

He nodded, wrapping his fingers around the cold glass. “Good luck,” he taunted.

I stuck my tongue out and headed to the girl-filled dancefloor. We bumped shoulders with one another and Katie pretended to throw it several times before finally releasing it. The bouquet twisted and turned and flew through the air before it landed directly into Dolly’s hands. She squealed and clapped her hands together, having won the ultimate prize.

When I returned to Alex and teased me with a pout on his lips. “I’m sorry you lost.”

I took my drink back and took a quick sip. “Eh. It’s probably better if I'm not the next to get married. Logically it’s actually Breana right?”

“Does it count if you’re already engaged?”

“I have no clue.” I sipped away and he stared at me. I felt like I was about to melt under his gaze. I almost asked him why he was but I knew why. Alcohol, wedding, single, it wasn’t hard to put two and two together. So. “Say it.”

“What?” He questioned.

I dropped my drink onto the bar with a blatant stare in my eye.

He shrugged like he wasn’t being obvious.

“Okay,” I sighed. I picked my drink up and finished it off.

I was prepared to walk away when the beginning notes of “Spice Up Your Life” began to play. Alex was taken way by laughter. Through his chuckles, he asked, “Did you request it?”

“No,” I said, “you saw me the whole time.”

He grabbed my hand tightly. “It’s fate.” With that he walked toward the dancefloor, dragging me behind him. I was laughing too. I couldn’t help it. I was happy. And drunk but that made me happy too.

His hand was warm and he felt firm. He dropped it when we reached the floor but we moved and jumped like we were toddlers still learning how to stand properly. He made faces and moved in a way that made unstoppable laughter wrack through me. I felt buzzed from the inside out, every limb, bone, vein affected by him.

It was too much. Drunk I could handle it but even the power of him made me feel nauseated as if it was eating me alive. I was risking too much. The fun of it was slowly overtaking me, wrecking the moves I had made to change things.

After a few more songs, the music cut. We watched as Jamie and Katie left and with it, the reception was pretty much over. I turned to Alex, who was already looking at me. Always looking first. “I’m glad I got to see you,” I earnestly told him.

“You leaving me now?” I kept feeling like he was pulling my leg. He was constantly smirking at me like he was playing some trick on me. Like there was some inevitable shoe about to drop.

“Everyone is leaving now.” The room felt like it had emptied quickly, a stark contrast to the packed reception.

“Do you wanna…?” He scratched the back of his neck.

I laughed at him. I’m not sure why. I think because he reminded me of his younger self. Even with the gelled hair and pushed-back shoulders, he still kept his awkward mannerisms and inability to get to the end of sentences. “Do I wanna what? Know?”

“Shut up.” His eyes fluttered slowly. “Talk to me more. I’ve got a mini bar.”

“You’re inviting me to your hotel room?” I raised my eyebrows at the implication.

“Yeah. Don’t be so dirty, Janie.” He hadn’t called me that in a while. “I just want to catch up more. I miss talking to ya.”

I stared at him blankly. “Right. Okay. I’ll get my purse and coat. I assume this is all on your tab.”

“Overpriced little bottles are on me. I’ll meet you out front.”

We sat on the carpet hotel room floor which I’m sure was probably covered in all kinds of germs and diseases but that night it was covered with little empty bottles and Alex and I leaning against the bed and dresser respectively.

I sat barefoot and he rubbed my feet. I don’t think I asked him to, it was just out of instinct. I couldn’t protest because they ached so much. He had taken off his suit jacket and loosened his tie enough that he might as well have just taken it off. There was no need to keep up appearances in front of one another.

I downed the little vodka bottle. “I don’t think I’ve ever had anything from the mini bar. My mother usually came prepared.”

“We did that one time,” he reminded me. “In Bristol. You got so hammered I doubt you remember.”

I giggled. “I remember the hangover. And I’m sure I’ll remember the one I’ll have tomorrow.”

“Drink some water.”

I shook my head. “Nah. I haven’t reached that level of intelligence yet. Plus, I don’t think I can get off the floor.”

He slumped against the bed like a ragdoll. “Yeah, I don’t think I can either.”

“We should just stay here forever.” It was a joke. Intended to be one, at least.

Alex smiled. “Yeah. Okay.” He moved his head around to stay awake and rubbed his eyes. “Make me laugh.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. You always find a way.”

I thought but humour abandoned me at that moment. It felt like all the funny had been kicked out of me. I decided to spill my guts. “On the plane ride here I decided to watch Eyes Wide Shut because I had never seen it before. I wasn’t aware of the massive orgy and the flight attendant had to come over and tell me that I couldn’t watch porn on the flight. So that was fun.”

Alex had fallen over into a fit of laughter. It eased me up and my embarrassment felt a little lighter when I knew it brought joy to him. “I’m going to tell some gossip mag that Jane Cavendish watches porn on planes.”

I kicked him with my foot. “Shut up.”

He collected himself and sat up straight. His look held so much in it. He looked like remembering and I wanted to experience every moment we had ever had together all at once. I looked away instead. But he didn’t and I could feel it. And then he said it. “I missed you.”

And like that, I was pulled back to him. My eyes looked into his and we were transmitting a longing we couldn’t dream of acting on. I smiled. “Me too. I’m used to it.”

He dropped his head. “Fuck.” His eyes plucked up. “Don’t say things like that to me.”

I crossed my brows. “Why?”

“‘Cause it’ll be what pounds through my head every night. Every day. How fucked up everything got. I’m wishing—I don’t know.” He rubbed his hands over his face, trying to erase himself.

I tucked my knees up to my chest. “I think it always was, Al. No need to beat yourself up over it.”

He stared at me as if to say, “Do you know who you’re talking to?”

I giggled. “We should move,” I suggested.

“No,” he whined.

With every fibre in me, I fought to stand up, eventually beating the effects of hotel-provided liquor. “Come on, mister.” I reached my hand down to him. He intertwined himself with me. Instead of me pulling, he yanked me down. Before I could shout a note of surprise, he silenced me. He kissed me.

It didn’t stop. He fought hard and I didn’t reject it. I was a phony and I could spout words of it being over for as long as I wanted but I don’t know if anyone ever believed it. How could they when it felt so good to kiss him? It was delicate and sloppy but I was sloppy too so I didn’t care one bit. It wasn’t about precision it was about emotion and I felt everything burning from the inside. It probably wasn’t smart but my other organs took over to act as my brain after it had been stifled from alcohol and his sweet words. I’d figure it out later. I’d keep him to myself for now.

We fell back on the carpet, my back hitting the floor and him towering over me. He tried to pull away to say something, to smile, or to breathe, but I wouldn’t allow it. I think if I looked him in the eye and he uttered a word it would have been too much so I didn’t allow it.

We became those people that soiled the hotel room carpet. In our refusal to get up off the floor, Alex pushed my dress up and his pants down and it was quick so we didn’t have to think about it. I felt sweaty and he tucked his head in the corner of my neck and kissed it, breathing me in. I pushed everything away and laid there with him because that felt good and I felt loved, even if those things were to have faded away, I was left with memories of when it was there and this was just a reminder.

When it was over and his out-of-breath body pinned on top of my out-of-breath body, I lifted my hand and tried to run my fingers through his hair. I pulled a face he couldn’t see. “Ew,” I remarked. “I’m not used to your hair being so greasy.”

I felt the rhythms of his laugh against me. He was quiet but his hands pried into the space between my back and the carpet and he hugged me to him. The tightness and pressure of it weighed on me and I could’ve been eaten alive by it if I didn’t think it brought him so much comfort. He nudged his nose against me and for a moment I forget we were on the floor of some random hotel. It felt old and familiar. Things didn’t feel so foreign.

“Bed,” I voiced. “I think I have rug burns.”

He lifted his head for the first time since. I saw the blur of his eyes and the thrash of his smile. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

I smiled back but couldn’t think of anything teasing to say. He pulled me to my feet this time and we found solace in the cloudy bed. Unspoken words sat in the gap between us and I could feel his eyes burn on me as mine began to flutter. “Al.”

He reached over and brushed my hair out of my face. He nuzzled closer to me with a comfortable distance one that caused an ember to shoot through me but not a wildfire. “We’ll talk in the morning.” And that was enough. It always would be.

I got up before him. I thought about waking him but that would mean facing things. With my pounding, but sober head, I panicked. I sat somewhere between losing it and jumping up and down. I stole his clothes, went to get a coffee, and sat in the hotel lobby. If he woke up, I wondered if he would have thought I left. I didn’t write a note or anything. Would it have brought him relief or disappointment?

My headache cleared somewhere in my people-watching time and with that, I was allowed to calculate my next move. Quickly I knew I didn’t want to leave. I would be an asshole move and I was trying to be less of an asshole. The communication part was hard. It almost made things feel more normal. Alex and I always struggled to get to the point. Last night it was the same way. We didn’t make sense of things. We only jumbled the Rubik’s cube up more.

When my coffee cup reached half-full, I went back upstairs. He was still asleep and I was left with nothing to do. Boredom was worse than inconveniencing him so I landed on the bed and began to shake until he woke. Asshole move?

“Alright, alright.” He placed his hand on my leg to stop my movement. He kept it there with no other words spoken.

“Hi,” I said.

He smiled. “Hi. Morning. Is that coffee for me?”

My eyes drifted off. “Well…”

He dropped his head on the pillow. It spread out across it in a new way. I was discovering new movements and how he looked different, not just with hair, but he gained new mannerisms and practices. He was teaching me new ways to act. I think part of me always wanted to be him. Being with him was the next closest thing.

His hands covered his face. “My head is killing me.”

“You can have the rest of it if you want.”

He threw the covers off and stood up. I forget he was naked underneath all that. I stared at his ass. I almost reached out to squeeze it but he turned too quickly. “No, I don’t want your slug.”

I giggled. It felt like an old routine. We were still the people we used to be. We had done this a hundred times before. I could do it a hundred times more. For a moment, it felt perfect. I think we only have a few of those, scattered across years and times; a clear view of when everything lines up and makes sense. Perhaps, the circumstances weren’t ideal, but I wasn’t thinking about that anymore. It was a distraction from everything else. I missed laughing with him.

“I can get you some milk,” I offered as he slipped into the bathroom.

Over a coffee, one bowl of Cheerios, and one bowl of Corn Flakes, Alex and I talked. Only a few people sat in the hotel’s dining area with us, scattered feet away from us. We slurped our cereal and Alex milked his coffee. It all felt disposable.

“I don’t remember the last time I sat and had breakfast,” I commented while spooning my Cheerios.

“Always rushing off somewhere?”

“I guess. Sitting at a table and eating by yourself feels weird to me. I usually get up too late for breakfast anyway.”

“You were up early this morning.” He sipped his coffee, still pepping himself up.

“Time difference. I’m all turned around.”

He nodded, perfectly aware of the struggle of time zones. “I’ve finally learned how to keep track of days on tour. Day of the week, month, number, everything.”

I smiled at his excitement. He could be so overjoyed about such small things. He paid attention to the small things. He was exceedingly good at spot the difference games because his eye was somehow able to take in all the fine details.

“When are you going back on tour?” I asked. The answer to our predicament lay in his answer.

“A week or so.”

I laughed in hopes of lightening the load. “Some honeymoon Cookie and Katie will have.”

“We are headed to New Zealand. It’s a beautiful place to go. You know that. Good hiking.”

“You sound like a travel agent.”

He leaned back and gazed at me. “Maybe I am one.”

I broke eye contact with the pain of letting him down. “Nice try.”

Alex nodded. He already knew my answer but held out for a change if maybe this had been one of the things I grew out of. “I’ll take pictures for you.”

“Email them to me,” I requested. “I miss your emails.”

He looked at me and didn’t say anything. He was pulling things apart in his mind. I could see his brain untying knots and straightening the wrinkles. He deciphered, walked down every path, and climbed every tree before he could have the best view of things. “When are we going to talk about…?” He gestured to him and I. Us.

Old habits were there for me to slip back into. It was easy to push away but he offered himself up to me. Him taking the first step alleviated me and the burden didn’t feel so painful to speak honestly. “Whenever you want.”

The ball was in his court and he bounced it a few times, double-checked its firmness, tested his racquet, and hit the ball back to me. “You’re going back to New York. Nothing’s changing that, right?”

“Yeah.”

He nodded along, working through things. His face stayed neutral and didn’t show any explicit reaction. He looked around the room as if the answers were playing hide & seek with him. “We’re touring all summer.”

“I know.”

Those words tapped into him. A smile crept out from the knowledge that I kept up with him, even if it was just the grand scale of his world tour. I didn’t lock him away from my mind. “Well, if you ever want to visit anywhere. I hear Germany’s nice in June.”

I raised an eyebrow. “With all the tourists?”

“You’ll fit right in with them. You can help me out with my German”

I chuckled. “I think your German might be better than mine.”

“Then I can show off.”

I toss my head. “Well, maybe if New York gets too hot. And someone pays for my flight.”

“You’re really milking me here.”

“I’m prostituting myself for you.”

He chuckled before all the humour sunk from his voice. “If you fall in love with some guy before then I’ll be happy for you, Jane. Or if you don’t want to do this—whatever this is—again, I’ll get it.”

It touched me, even though I knew it shouldn’t. I worried this was a pattern I’d repeat my whole life. “If you get a girlfriend I’ll kill you.”

Luckily, he smiled. “I’ll have to fight them off.” Eye roll. “Do whatever you want, Janie.”

I couldn’t look at him. I was too embarrassed that my cheeks were turning red. “I’ll be your Nell Gwynn.”

“Who?”

“Charles II’s mistress.”

He shook his head in laughter. “Only you would know that. Gimme more respect than that. I’m not some imperialistic floozy boinking everyone I see.”

“Boinking?”

Alex and I hugged each other goodbye and the next day I was back in New York. I had to attend this Writers in New York event for Gotham Writers where I got to wear a fancy blouse and suit jacket that made me look sexy professor librarian chic and not Hillary Rodham Clinton pantsuit disaster. I met up with a group of my writer friends because I had that now. There were all cool women because male writers are weird and either old or misogynistic or arrogant or all of the above.

I hung out with Maddie a lot. She was a year younger than me and worked as a part-time professor for The New School and spent the rest of the time writing part-time for Vogue Magazine. She was always complaining about how busy she was but she was always at these events. I had the opposite problem of having too much free time, although that was becoming less and less true.

We were smoking cigarettes outside with glasses of scotch and talked about how we wished we had cigars so we could be like those old literary professors we loathed. “All I need is a beer belly and a Viagra addiction and I’ll be lecturing at Columbia in no time,” I quipped. I took a drag like taking a deep breath.

“That’s until you get caught touching a student’s ass,” she joked back.

I waved her off. “I’ll get a cushy suspension package and be back in no time.” I sipped my scotch and was reminded of Alex’s hands around a glass. Maddie only vaguely knew about him and that’s why I felt the freedom to tell her. Opal could be judgy. (I did eventually tell her and she wasn’t surprised. She asked if it was worth it. I said yes. She said good. And that was that. Although, she did start to make plenty of annoying jokes about it but it was worth that too).

“Are you going to get back together?” Maddie asked with riveting curiosity as if she was reading through Page Six.

I shrugged. “I don’t know. I weirdly don’t care. The ambiguity of it left a lot of imagining in the air. I don’t know when I’ll even see him again.”

“Do you want to?”

I nodded. “I still love him.”

“Then how can you not get back together with him?” The answer was always simple for me: love had nothing to do with our relationship. I would love Alex forever it would ebb and flow and change but I know we both would have a love for one another that only the two of us could fully understand. It was under lock and key in our minds and it was a shared experience only we would know about. It’s impossible not to love someone who shared that with you. It would not be ripped away from me.

When I got back home that night, Alex sent me an email with pictures of New Zealand. At the end of his length message, he wrote, Let me know if you change your mind. Australia is not too bad either. Or London. We could even grab a pint with Robert if you want though I would object to the threesome. I don’t need anything else making me insecure. Keep me updated and don’t drink too many woo woos. Love, Al.

The possibility of a vacation was wishful thinking. My second book was headed toward release and the summer seemed to fill my schedule up beyond a long flight to Australia that would likely cause me major sleep issues. London was a nice thought but having just been there it wasn’t likely. Moreover, I didn’t want to chase him this time. That’s what stopped me from saying we would get back together.

New York was too hot during the summer but I stayed in it. Alex and I talked on the phone occasionally. Conversations were usually mundane in the way I always loved. We were filling each other’s silence. Whenever we would get to the end and try and say goodbye the other thought of a story to tell and we talked for another hour. It was a dance we did. One time he tried to talk about it—whatever we were. I told him, “We’ll talk about it when we see each other again. Did you know the Eiffel Tower grows up to 6 inches in the summer?”

Fennel and Kaka threw a massive dinner party for their anniversary at Lotte New York Palace. I had never been somewhere so stunning in my life and with every move I was worried I’d break something and have to pay for it.

After dinner, I went out to the courtyard for a smoke. When I pulled the pack out of my clutch purse, I saw I had a missed call from Alex. He was in Iowa, back on the road. He answered after two rings. “Hello,” he said all formal and pristine.

“Heyo!” I cheered back. “What’s up?”

His voice was light and he sounded happy. “Nothing really. Wanted to see what you were up to.”

“I’m at Fennel and Kaka’s anniversary party. I told you about it.” We were back to that. We communicated about our days and lives and he no longer felt so far out of reach and with that I didn’t feel so far out of reach to my own self.

“Ah. Right.”

“I’m standing in this fancy hotel’s courtyard in a dress that is way too expensive to be stinking it up with my smoke right now. Fennel gave it to me as a gift for his anniversary ‘cause he’s a whackjob. It’s a 1997 Dolce & Gabbana sheer black lace gown thing and I know that doesn’t mean much to you but that’s expensive.” It was the perfect dress. I had never felt more tailored to a T. It’ll be a dress I give to my children because it deserves to stay in the family. Maybe I’ll be buried in it.

My hand moved down the lace just admiring it on my own body. He cleared his throat. “It means something to me.” I could hear the hunger in his voice.

I rolled my eyes. “Right. I forgot you’re André Leon Talley.”

He hummed. He had no clue who that was. “You should send me a picture so I know what it looks like.” He always struggled with subtlety in the seduction department. He didn’t even have a face that fell a certain way to hide behind.

“Alex, you’re not clever.”

“What?” He tried to act like he had no clue of his words or his tone that overflowed with lust. His voice naturally came off erotic after the effects of cigarettes, singing, and if you’re a person like me with a predisposition to a Northern English accent. “I want to see the Dolce & Gabbana. If you love it so much.”

“I never said I loved it.”

“Janie.”

I gave in because he was cute and horny. “I’ll send you the photo I took before I left. You gonna jack off to it?” I quipped. This was my version of flirting.

He snorted. “You’re so romantic, Janie.” (He didn’t deny it). “I’ll save you the trouble if you just want to have phone sex here.”

“You’re not funny,” I said back. “In fact, you’re a creep.”

“You’re horny.”

“Oh, my god. Ew, you’re disgusting.”

“No, you totally are. You only get freaked out by this stuff when you are. You turn into a massive prude when you’re turned on. Are you wet?”

“I’m gonna hang up,” I threatened.

He was laughing at me. “You’re totally gonna go into the bathroom and jerk off right now.”

“Bye, Alex. Have a nice time with your penis.”

I sent him the photo and refused to give into the idea he had of me and whatever his sick perverted fantasy he projected on to me. (I did it when I got home).

Alex visited me the last week of September. Fall had allegedly begun but summer weather remained to haunt. He decided to spend part of his tour break in New York claiming it would be cooler than LA but it was in fact hotter. Besides, if he wanted cooler weather he should’ve just gone back to Britannia.

He came in around dinner time, taking the subway to my apartment. He buzzed up and I met him at the top of the stairs because I didn’t want to help carry his belongings. After he dropped off his things and refreshed himself, we got dinner at Gage & Tollner, which was fancy but you could get away with wearing jeans. He made fun of me for getting oysters and we split a Baked Alaska for dessert because I had never had one before.

We went back to my apartment and watched Halloween H20: Halloween 20 Years Later, which made us feel stoned even though we never lit up. Alex was particularly fond of LL Cool J’s role. The movie has since become a staple around Halloween time.

I began flipping through channels after the movie had finished not wanting to watch whatever Superman movie followed it. It was nearing 11 PM and the options were limited to The 700 Club or some late night talk show.

I flicked away and Alex leaned over and kissed me. I was taken away by that programming. We slept together. I think that was inevitable. It was unavoidable no matter how much at dinner we joked and skirted around what had happened at the wedding. We waited until the night hours when the sun didn’t shine the truth on us.

In the morning, we fell into an old routine. I wore his boxers and one of my ratty white Hanes tank tops and he didn’t even bother to put on a shirt as we ate breakfast. We even did the crossword together.

We dressed for the day—I, in a skirt and some spaghetti strapped top, him, in jeans and a dark tee, unrespectful for the balance of the seasons. I was already sweating by the time we stepped outside. He was fine somehow, something I’ll never understand.

I grabbed an iced coffee from the corner cafe and we took the subway up to Central Park, walking from the south of it to the northern edge. “I never come here,” I told him. “It’s too long of a ride.” I didn’t mention that it reminded me of him. It felt stupid for a landscape so large and iconic to forever be tainted by one person that you’d avoid said landmark. Well, it was also a 40-minute subway ride away and Brooklyn had parks of its own but Al still liked to go to Central Park.

“I loved going here,” he said. “I would come up here while you were at work and go somewhere new every time but always ended up watching someone play baseball.”

I laughed. “You’re gonna end up coaching one of these days.”

“Like Little League or something?” He questioned.

I didn’t answer questions about little children and Alex being the coach of some kid’s baseball team. Not just some kid but his kid. “Why’d you never tell me that?” I knew about his love for Central Park but these excursions were mysterious. It would be a simple shrug on how his day went and he would say he went to Central Park and then that was all. I never asked what he did there either. I was less interested in other people in those days.

He thought about it as we climbed up the makeshift stairs for a hill. He scratched his cheek with his mouth in an open circle. Chewed up whatever he was thinking in his mouth. He landed on, “I don’t know.” He chewed some more. “It felt more special that way. It was something just for me, you know? We did so much together that…I don’t know.”

The way he put it made secrets feel like a sweet thing. The omission of things is actually a treat and was something for me to be endeared by now. Suddenly, every other thing he kept from me, those nights were he sat far away from me and smoked outside with a closed notebook, they were all delights for him and not things I pondered about until I fell asleep.

“Did you feel a need to keep things from me?” I blamed myself. Even in that moment, I knew it was stupid to feel that way.

“No.” He thought about it a little. He moved his face, twisted it up in a way that I knew he didn’t fully believe that. “Not intentionally.”

We were descending the hill when I asked, “What’s that mean?” I was lighthearted about it. I had the attitude that what was done was done and it had been done so long ago that it almost felt like another life. I had a dull edge to it.

“Young and a natural inclination to be taciturn. It wasn’t even that big of a deal. I just walked around but I think I didn’t have a lot of things that were my own here. You had a whole life here that I wasn’t apart of.”

I almost told him that wasn’t true but I could already picture the look he would give me and I would agree that it was probably true. I acclimated much quicker to New York with a job and friends. I don’t think Alex ever fully adjusted. “I always worried about what you were keeping from me and I’m realizing now that it was probably just a bunch of your typical dorky shit.”

“Oh, thanks, Jane,” he chuckled. “I didn’t mean to come off that way. Truthfully, I just didn’t have a lot going on in the first place.”

“You were bored here.” It never occurred to me that Alex could feel the same as me. Call it being in your twenties and raised with selfish role models. I’m still undoing the whole world revolving around me thing. I am writing a book about myself so…there’s that.

He tossed his head from side to side. “I wouldn’t say bored. Not by New York. I think I was bored of myself.”

“Are you still?” He was the most fascinating person to me I couldn’t imagine the idea of being bored or tired of him. He saved me from boredom endless times. Just the idea of him, daydreaming, fantasizing, lamenting over him. I did it all.

“Sometimes. Not as much as before. Kinda too busy to deal with that.”

I nodded and sipped the last of my iced coffee before tossing it. “A rare benefit of no free time. I’m no longer so concerned with myself because I don’t have time to be. Only in the mirror in the morning really.”

“When you give yourself pep talks?”

I jabbed him with my elbow. “I did that one time. Maybe if you gave me a pep talk before that job interview I wouldn’t have had to do it myself.” He was still laughing at the memory.

We stood on the top of Bow Bridge and watched as people sat on the lake in their rowboats. “You wanna do that?”

I scoffed. “No, rowing hurts my arms.”

He gave me a taunting grin. “Weak.”

We walked up to The Met. They had an exhibit called Early American Guitars that piqued Alex’s interest but they didn’t have that many so we ended up going to the In Miniature exhibit that piqued my interest because I like tiny things. We roamed the halls of it until we got too hungry we had to leave for lunch.

I wanted to go to Lexington Candy Shoppe but Alex insisted he was so hungry he couldn’t walk the three blocks to get there. So, we bought hot dogs and sat on the steps of The Met. “I can’t remember the last time I had a hot dog,” I said.

He was chewing and trying his best to not have his toppings fall on his clothes as he said, “Neither can I.”

“I thought I would hate it but I kind of like it which is totally disgusting because this hot dog has probably been sitting in his cart for like years because you know they buy these in bulk for sure and then they are sitting out there all day until we order them and then they are thrown in this dirty water that they never clean but it’s still good. In fact, it’s probably the best hot dog I’ve ever had and it’s disgusting. I’ll be burping hot dog all day but it’s worth it, I think. I was starved and this feels like my death row meal.”

He listened, nodded, and said, “What would you be on death row for?” Because that’s the kind of person Alex is. He listened to that whole rant about hot dogs and appreciated it. I think he might have some sanity issues because I don’t really know how a person can put up with my level of talking and enjoy it. He claims to.

“Stealing hot dogs or something. I don’t know. Or a hot dog cart license. Do you know how much money they make? I read an article that hot dog stands make over $100,000 per year but a license, especially in a place outside The Met or Central Park is so expensive that not your average Joe can do it. Maybe you should invest in something like that.”

“Wouldn’t I then have to run the actual hot dog stand?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe you can hire a guy to do it for you. Because it’s never women is it? Have you ever seen a woman run a hot dog stand?”

“Do you want to work at a hot dog stand?”

“No. Maybe only men are gross enough to deal with that dirt water boiling thing. I think we need to break the gender barrier on that.”

“This sounds like a great piece for The New York Times. Front page news.”

I laughed with him. “Don’t mock me. I’m serious.”

“I know. Truly I’m entranced by you talking about hot dogs. I don’t think any other person can do that. I think you should write a piece about it.”

“I can’t tell if you’re being serious or not.”

“Kind of. Then again, I think you could write a piece about anything.”

Saturday night I had plans to go out. It was the standing day of the week and counted as my job falling somewhere in the category of “networking.” I told Alex that he could come along or spend the night in at my place or get up to whatever secret shit he wanted to.

He strangely enthusiastically said, “No, I’ll join ya!”

The Good Room (horrible name for a club) had opened that year and it felt like everybody who lived in Brooklyn went there, at least everyone I knew. It was loud and seizure-inducing but still probably the best club in Brooklyn. Not that I really go clubbing anymore.

Drinks were heavy and it was the kind of place where you felt like the night would never end, the music would keep going and the party would never die down. Alex met some of my friends. They shouted their names at each other and shared the experience of dancing in the middle of a booming bass speaker. It didn’t make for good conversation but it was a nice bonding experience.

We were there until the night became morning but not as late as most of my friends stayed. Alex was leaving the next day and even though the flight wasn’t until the afternoon he still wanted a good night’s sleep (and time to do other stuff).

Before we left we had a smoke outside because tradition is tradition and few things in life are as good as being sort of drunk, dark outside, and Alex standing beside me. It also left time for it to feel like the world was cracking open in front of my eyes and daunting truths that I didn’t want to let slip from my lips now felt powerless to stop them from coming out of my mouth. “We should probably talk about it now. Before you go.”

He nodded but didn’t talk.

“This is a bit of an endless cycle,” I said. “You and me and maybe—”

He interrupted. “Let’s talk about it later.” He wouldn’t look me in the eye. The ground was much more interesting. “After the tour.”

“Okay,” I muttered. Anything not bite-sized felt impossible.

We left it at that. The routine didn’t change but everything was tinted differently. A sense of goodbye haunted the area. We were numbed by alcohol. In the morning, we hugged goodbye tightly like we were two old pals. As if we were in a timeline where all we ever were to each other was friends.

Photos were taken of us outside the nightclub and it made me laugh. I have a sense of humour about these things that might be misplaced but Alex and I joked about it as if we’d be cutting it out and placing it in our scrapbook. Like the conversation being photographed wasn’t some awkward jolted painful thing. Like we weren’t some awkward jolted painful thing.

History Lesson was released on the first day of November. It was less eventful than my first book. I suppose the second time around isn’t as exciting. You’ve already conquered the mountaintop and after people aren’t as shocked you did it a second time. Or maybe it is more shocking? If you do it well I guess, which was kind of the consensus for that collection of stories. It sticks out like a sore thumb and maybe my lack of enthusiasm was because I wasn’t super satisfied with how it turned out.

Still, I did a book tour for it, which was fine. I’m still not a fan of tours. I like home. Whatever or whoever that is at the time.

It was the last one I ever did and with reason because I don’t really see why authors have to tour and scattered signings around major cities are fine with me. I went to Syracuse on this tour. Syracuse is not fun in winter.

But I ended up in LA. For Alex and me, this was the benefit of touring.

He came to the event. I think I hated that most of all about the book tour. He showed up before it began and we grabbed a coffee at this place on the corner because I hate Starbucks (I wish it was in the social justice way but no they just always mess up my order). He joked about showing up at the table to get his book signed and I said if he did that I’d skin him alive.

Luckily, he didn’t. We talked about the book briefly, mostly him just being nice about it, things that weren’t true despite his continued claim that they were even after I told him to shut up about it. We walked back to the bookstore and I refused him being in the audience of chairs so he walked around and stood out of my view. He said he wouldn’t listen in but I know he did.

On the drive back to his place, he wouldn’t stop talking about how eloquently I had spoken. I think he got a kick out of the way I told him to stop and would duck my head to the side so he couldn’t see I was blushing.

“And you always said you were a horrible public speaker but you’re a fucking good one,” he enthused.

We were stuck in LA traffic. “I think you’re gonna need your eyes checked, Al. I said ‘um’ about a million times and stuttered while reading my own words.”

He shook his head. “You’ve heard me speak and you think you’re bad at talking.”

“You know, we can both be bad at something. It’s not a competition.”

He chuckled tightly, almost embarrassed by it, covering his mouth as it rippled out. “Oh, my god. You of all people are saying it’s not a competition.”

I squashed my laugh the best I could. “Fair enough. But I think we both lose either way.”

He made me dinner. I couldn’t remember the last time I had a home-cooked meal. One that was sloppy and that he forgot to bring out a fork for me and he oversalted it but I didn’t say anything. It was too lovely to ruin with my criticism.

“I would love to learn how to cook but there’s barely any space in my apartment so if a fire starts the whole place would burn down right away,” I told him over a glass of wine.

“As long as you can boil water, I think you’re fine,” he assured me. “You could come out here and practice.”

I furrowed my brows. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve got a lot of space in my kitchen. If you ever wanted to try or something.”

I didn’t engage with his suggestion. I wanted to enjoy my stay and whatever this was. My response to it, a rejection of LA and moving out here again for him, would ruin that bliss. I changed the subject and everything else went along smoothly.

My stay was supposed to be for a week. As the week moved further along, Alex dropped words about how warm LA was compared to the bitter cold New York had become. Again, I didn’t engage with it. We enjoyed our time hiking, movies, drinking, and having sex.

We didn’t kiss outside the area of sex. If one of us kissed the other it was a clear message of “Hey, I’d like to fuck you now.” We both had free schedules and a large house to ourselves so it was easy to engage in this behaviour.

One evening, while I was giving him head a pain shot through my mouth. I pulled back instantly clutching my cheek. “What?” He asked. “What’s wrong?”

I shook my head not able to talk with the pain in my mouth.

“Are you okay?”

I shook my head again.

“Okay. Okay. What can I do?” His concern was unimaginably sweet but I couldn’t help my amusement of his hard dick standing there while I winced. “Medicine?”

I shrugged but after I opened my mouth an inch and excruciating pain rippled through my whole body I quickly nodded.

Alex ran off to fetch some. I sat trying to dissect the pain. I felt around my mouth with my tongue and the pain just increased more. He returned to the sight of my body curled up on my side and my face scrunched up barely able to look at him.

He held my back to help me sit up. I struggled to open my mouth to take the pills. After I swallowed, he asked, “What hurts? Did you break something?”

I managed to mumble. “Mouth. Teeth.”

“Did you break a tooth?”

I shook my head.

“You still have your wisdom teeth, right?”

I nodded and pointed a finger, emphasizing that this was definitely that.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to be in this much pain.”

“I’m fine,” I muttered. “Sleep make better.” I started to spread out on his bed.

“I think you should be able to talk more than Frankenstein’s monster.”

It made me laugh, which only hurt me more. It took me a while to fall asleep. He stayed up until I did.

My teeth were infected. Not only infected but impacted. They were laid on their side, unable to fully erupt, stuck in my gums, infecting them, and now my mouth. Of course, they had erupted just enough to begin slicing the side of my cheeks.

It was determined through the emergency dentist, Alex, and myself that I would not be going back to New York with my wisdom teeth. I couldn’t imagine going through airport security with that level of pain, I could barely make the car ride to the dentist.

On the ride back from the consultation where it was determined that I would need to get them removed as soon as possible but still had to wait until they had an opening, Alex joked, “Do you think my cum infected it?”

It was so gross and disgusting and made me laugh so hard that I forgot about the pain for a moment until it shot through me again. As I winced, he took one hand off the wheel and placed it on my shoulder, squeezing it and rubbing my upper back for the remainder of the car ride. I wanted to kiss him, kiss the hand that was the only comfort I had, but it hurt too much.

After I got them removed, drugged up, and gauze stuffed in my mouth to stop the bleeding, I talked in muffled words as the dentist told Alex the aftercare instructions. I felt warm all over him watching him listen intently to the dentist but also stare at me and my messed up swollen face. He made faces at me to make me feel a little better like I was a baby he was playing peek-a-boo with. I don’t remember anything I said but Alex said I was emotional and very funny. So, not much different than my regular disposition.

The hazy effect of the drugs began to ease up on the car ride home where I was able to at least follow what was going on around me. “I love drugs. Modern medicine is great.”

“Yeah, you’d probably be dead from the infection otherwise.”

I stared at Alex. “Wow, thanks. That’s really comforting.”

“Well, you’re not dead.”

“Thanks, Al. I didn’t realize.” I laughed. I don’t know if I found it funny or the drugs found it funny. “I would’ve had to have you use pilers to get them out.”

He grimaced before shaking off the thought. “Well, all of your wisdoms gone. What are you going to do now?”

I rolled my eyes. “Very funny, dad.”

In the days of recovering, we camped out on the couch. We talked occasionally but that was tough for me in the first few days. Alex did a good job of taking care of me. Better than I would have done that’s for sure. He made food and searched high and low for these freezy pops I like that had a tough time being located in winter.

As I began to get better and actually function independently with manageable pain, the question of when I would leave was raised. The unanswerable idea of what we were doing remained until the swelling in my mouth went down and I told him, “We should probably talk about it before I leave. You know, boundaries and rules.”

He smirked. “You’re very proper.”

I shamed him for making me laugh. It was always his greatest tool in distracting me. “I’m serious.”

“Shall we write up a contract?”

I rolled my eyes. “Alex.”

“Jane,” he sighed. He leaned against the back of the couch, placing his head on his fist. He looked too relaxed for my liking. I was mulling things over, stuck in distress and he looked fine as ever. “You’re going back to New York. I’m staying here.”

“So, we should…end it.”

“Is that what you want?” He was wide-eyed like he either didn’t want to believe me or didn’t believe me at all.

I almost lied. It would have been easier. It would heal the wound and not leave things festering to be hurt more. It would be closure but that would have been boring. “No.”

His mouth ticked up. “There it is then.”

I raised an eyebrow, still completely lost on our status. “Are you my boyfriend again?”

“Do you want me to be?”

I threw my hands up in the air. I pulled my hair into a bun feeling too heated to have it down. “Why do I have to make all the decisions?”

“Everyone knows you wear the pants in the relationship, Janie.”

“Sexist,” I quipped.

He smiled all-knowingly like he had a premonition of how this was all going to turn out and he was just waiting for me to realize it. “Do you want me to make the decision?”

I shrugged. I liked having my way but I no longer wanted to drag the person along with me, kicking and screaming. “I’d like your input. I care what you think.”

“I think you’ll go back to New York and I’ll stay here and in the next couple of months maybe I’ll visit and maybe you’ll visit or we meet somewhere. I could be your boyfriend then. If you wanted.”

“Like during those visits?”

“Yeah, and if during those times when you’re alone in New York if you want to go out with some other guy then that’s fine with me.” He was very matter-of-fact. Not one ounce of jealousy poured out of him and I realized that it no longer bugged me. It kind of turned me on more than a jealous Alex ever did. He trusted me. Go figure, that’s actually a good thing.

I smirked at him, inching closer. “Is this just your rule so you can bang a bunch of hot girls?”

“No,” he chuckled, “if I wanted to bang hot girls I wouldn’t be driving you to the airport tomorrow.”

I blushed because he was saying things like that and looking at me like that and I wasn’t sure how I was going to be able to get on a plane tomorrow when I wanted to be doing just that.

“And if at some point New York gets boring or too cold or if LA burns down or people talk about their cold-pressed juices too much then maybe we’ll end up somewhere together.”

The idea felt mature and practically and maybe a little flawed but it felt like a Sex & the City adult relationship. We both knew what we could give the other and this time expectations were set to prevent disappointment.

He kissed me for the first time since the surgery. We didn’t have sex after. He just wanted to kiss me to kiss me.

a/n: i hope this isn't too alexa chung coded. anyway, i'm very proud of this chapter. maybe just because i wrote so much. so i hope you like it. happy v day.

#alex turner #alex turner fic #alex turner x fem!reader #alex turner x oc #alex turner x reader #alex turner x y/n #alex turner x you #alex turner smut #junedenim #beneath the boardwalk

48 notes · View notes