so so gone

𝐈'𝐦 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞, 𝐥𝐞𝐭'𝐬 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐮𝐞, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐞.

[pendingnomdeplume]

Omg requests are open! Could I pretty please request hurt/comfort with a smedieum amount of angst and some smut after? i love ur writing so so much mwah

nothing's fair in love and war pairing: hozier/fem!reader rating: explicit (18+) tags: Enemies to Lovers, Denial of Feelings, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, Teasing, Banter, Vaginal Sex words: 21.4k (no i'm not kidding) author's note: UM. SO. This ended up being a lot?? Like, holy shit, the muses took me with this one. Sooo, I hope you enjoy! lmao (Also, sorry about the weird formatting, it looks better on AO3, unfortunately.)

[read it on AO3!]

[title from Love and War by Fleurie]

divider by: sylusz

If you’re certain of exactly one thing in this life, it’s that you will not make it to the end of the Unreal Unearth tour without attempting to throttle one Andrew Hozier-Byrne at least once.

When you signed on to be the Stage Manager for this godforsaken tour, you didn’t realize exactly what would be foisted upon you. Lighting, sound, equipment, props—all of these things are a breeze to handle with your experience and tenure in the industry.

What you weren’t prepared for is somehow becoming the de facto handler for the main act.

It’s barely the second month of the tour, and you find yourself outside of the dressing room, once again banging your fist against the wood impatiently as Hozier—or, Andrew, as he prefers from the crew—lags on his call time once again.

“Andrew, for fuck’s sake—!”

The door swings open, and Andrew glares down at you. “I heard you the first ten times you shouted at me.”

Irritation buzzes along your skin as you close your eyes and take a deep breath through your nose.

“And yet, you still don’t seem to have any sense of fuckin’ urgency about it.”

Andrew rolls his eyes, and it takes every bit of your willpower not to stick a foot out and trip him as you both jog towards the stage.

Your relationship to the man in question has been rocky from the jump. First impressions were…tedious, to say the least. Exhaustion made you grumpy and sour-faced, and the smile on Andrew’s face was merely a thinly-veiled grimace of exasperation, as though meeting any of the crew was simply a waste of his time. Andrew seemed less than impressed with you, his faux smile faltering and his brows furrowing as you flatly, silently shook his hand before turning away.

Your patience for primadonnas is at an all time low after coming off of a tour with a certain lead singer of a shitty band who doubles as a host for a televised singing competition. After dealing with that behaviour, you’re not exactly the most trusting of any talent, constantly expecting to be met with petty pushback at best and violent vitriol at worst. While you’ve never actually heard a single bad thing about Hozier, you know the game, know that these hot, talented, wealthy types are nothing more than snakes in the grass.

Alex and Larissa exchange glances as you stalk after Andrew with a clipboard tucked under your arm and a fist clenched at your side. You pretend not to notice their little snickers, but rage flares within you. Of course you’d get no back-up from the others. They simply find your bickering amusing, often stoking the flames with obnoxious quips to rile either Andrew or yourself up even further.

You come to a halt and turn back to point at them. “What are you two doing?! Fucking go!”

With another exchanged glance and a grimace of fear, the two hurry towards the stage while you pinch the bridge of your nose and take a slow, deep breath.

“You certainly have your hands full, don’t you?”

The only voice that can get a smile out of you these days belongs to Autumn Freeman, the assistant stage manager on the tour.

Autumn Freeman is a tour de force, not one to be fucked with despite her dimpled smile and pleasant demeanor. You’ve never seen anyone tell off another person with such an even, easy tone. She is quite possibly the most self-assured person you’ve ever met, and you wish you could hold a candle to her professionalism in the face of adversity.

“Hey, sorry, I’ll be right back, I have to deal with—”

Autumn holds her hands up to quiet your anxious words. “Hey, hey, don’t worry. I’ve got Emilio and Whitney getting everyone hooked up.”

You let out a relieved sigh as you rub your shoulder, a tension headache already blooming just behind your eyes.

“Thanks, Autumn. God, I don’t understand why they didn’t make you lead stage manager. I’m not cut out for this shit.”

“Nah, I’ve lived that life.” You watch as she pulls up salt and pepper box braids into a bundle on top of her head and secures them with the thick, elastic hair ties on her wrist. “I much prefer having a boss to being the boss. Too much stress and pressure, especially from little boys with too much money and no personality.”

“Yeah, no fucking kidding,” you scoff.

“Is he still giving you trouble?”

“Andrew? Of course he is! Jesus Christ, I’ve never seen a grown-ass man act like such a fucking brat—and I’ve worked with Adam Levine, for God’s sake!”

Autumn laughs—a rich, comforting sound that feels like a warm hug.

“Oh, baby, you never met my ex-husband. Couldn’t clean a damn dish or do a load of laundry to save his life, but Lord knows he expected me to take care of him like I was his mother. So, believe me, I understand immature men.”

“Yeah, well…I think Andrew’s just doing it out of spite at this point,” you grumble.

Autumn hums in displeasure, grimacing as she shakes her head. “Men and their bruised egos…though, I’m surprised it’s Andrew of all people. He’s always seemed like a kind, gentle type. I’ve never had any trouble with him.”

“Yeah, well, he’s kind and gentle to everyone else but me, apparently, and I’m sure he actually respects you.”

You decide to leave out some of the more tense moments between you—the staredowns, the passive-aggressive remarks, and pointedly ignoring the other’s presence outside of any work capacity.

Andrew is nothing if not tenacious, bucking against your authority with grumbled gripes and heavy, dramatic sighs to ensure that you know how unhappy he is having to listen to you.

The problem is you lack a level of patience that’s required to do a job like this. Or, perhaps that’s the asset that got you hired in the first place. Regardless, you’re sure Autumn wouldn’t be too thrilled to know you’ve taken to shouting to get the man to do anything while ignoring his existence otherwise.

She lets out a slow sigh, then presses her lips together as she shakes her head.  “Well, give him some time. Maybe he’ll come around.”

“Yeah, sure,” you snort ruefully.

The show goes off without a hitch that night, thankfully. No sound issues, no lighting issues, and no instruments falling from their dedicated straps. You’re thrilled, if exhausted, but the grimace on Andrew’s face as he exits the stage tells you that he’ll certainly have a complaint or two to lodge with you before the night ends.

The band is surely capable of handling themselves once the show is over without needing you to shepherd them further—a task that shouldn’t even belong to you when there’s a dedicated tour manager for all of this.

You’re not exactly excited to listen to Andrew’s incessant bitching about whatever it is you’ve done wrong. Really, it’s a conversation that can be left for the morning when you’ve both had a full night’s sleep and near-lethal amounts of caffeine.

You quickly pack up your belongings and duck out of the venue before anyone can say a word. The Lyft you surreptitiously ordered idles just outside the back entrance, and you rush towards the car hoping that nobody will spot you making your escape.

You climb in and shuttle yourself off to the hotel on your own dime, not wanting to share any space as you decompress from another show on the long, long list of shows still to be had on this never ending tour.

Thankfully, one of the perks of your title is private accommodations—a blessing that allows you to shower and get ready for bed in quiet solitude instead of battling two or three other people for a place in line. You’re surprised that management is willing to shell out the cash for a single room, but you figure it’s better to just accept it for what it is rather than question things and lose the privilege altogether.

The television is on at a low volume as a dated episode of Forensic Files drones in the background. You’re seated on the bed against the headboard, bundled in a white robe as you scrunch your dripping hair with a scratchy, over-bleached towel. Exhaustion consumes you, your muscles tense and aching, and you roll your shoulders and stretch your neck to find any sort of relief from this stupid fucking headache.

A knock at the door startles you, and you quickly hop up and rush over while hastily tying the belt on your robe. You’re surprised to find Andrew at the threshold of your room. He looks exhausted, but the look of annoyance is quickly replaced by one of surprise as he gives you a once-over.

“Oh, God, I didn’t—sorry, I didn’t realize—”

You roll your eyes and rest your head against the door frame with a heavy sigh. “What do you want, Andrew?”

Just like that, irritation consumes him once more.

“Can you at least say something before you disappear from the venue?”

You blink and lift your head in surprise. “That’s why you’re here? What are you, my fucking keeper?”

Andrew sighs heavily as he rubs at his eyes with his middle finger and thumb. “Last I checked, I’m your fucking boss.”

This startles a laugh out of you. “Last I checked, Caroline is the one signing my checks, babe. Good try with the whole intimidation angle, though. You’re about as fearsome as a puppy.”

There’s a pause as he studies you, head tilting to one side as he deliberates his next reply.

“I—”

“Next time,” you interrupt, “Just text like a normal person. I don’t need you showing up at my door unannounced unless it’s a dire fucking emergency.”

Andrew scoffs and throws his hands up in frustration. “Well, I just wanted to make sure you were okay, but fuck me, I guess!”

“Oh, what a gentleman. Thank you so much for your concern, but I managed to make it back on my own without Daddy holding my fucking hand. As you can see.”

“Jesus Christ,” he grumbles, pinching the bridge of his nose. You can make out the pink flush that creeps up his neck, angry and flustered. “Well, I’m so sorry for doubting your capabilities. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me for such an egregious—”

Wordlessly, you close the door in his face, idling for only a moment to peek out of the peephole you should have used in the first place. Andrew stands outside looking stunned. He raises one arm as he deliberates knocking again. It seems he thinks better of it as he shoves his hands into his pockets, shakes his head, and turns to walk back down the hallway towards his room.

Once he’s out of sight, you move to plop down on the bed with a huff.

You have no time or energy to entertain a grown man’s weird power trip. What does he care if you leave the venue without notifying everyone and their fucking dog? It’s just a show of control; he feels he runs this entire circus when he’s merely the centerpiece—the lion in a cage, poked, prodded, and likely to snap at the first crack of his ringleader’s whip.

Whatever. It’s just another tally mark on the ‘Shitty Interactions’ list, you suppose. Maybe you should start marking them on a calendar as you count down the days until you’re done with this tour.

❤❤❤

In the few weeks following your charged interaction at your hotel door, both you and Andrew maintain a level of distance that’s likely noticeable to everyone else on the crew. Autumn certainly notices but is kind to leave well enough alone, mostly rolling her eyes at the dramatics of it all.

“Honey,” she says with a sense of patience that she’s surely digging down deep to find.  “Is this really the hill you’re going to die on? Fighting with this man instead of maintaining your peace?”

“My peace is fine, thank you.”

Autumn rolls her eyes again as she shakes her head.

“You certainly seem to stick to your guns, I’ll give you that.”

Awkward, stilted interactions with Andrew seem objectively better than constant bickering and passive-aggression. It’s easier this way, giving instruction from afar and staying out of his way—or, making sure he stays out of your way, as it were.

And, sure, okay, maybe the man is on your mind more often than not these days, but it doesn’t mean you care. He’s more of a nuisance, a fruit fly buzzing around your head that you bat away uselessly. Unfortunately, he’s also your boss to some degree, and you feel some sense of obligation towards him even if he drives you up a fucking wall

Today is a particularly stressful day.

The bus arrived to the venue later than expected after a battle with early morning traffic, and now the band and crew are zipping around you as everyone tries to make up for the time lost. You’re pulled in a million directions, questions thrown at you with desperation as you attempt to keep things in order.

A late start meant forgoing breakfast altogether, opting for iced coffee that you sucked down in record time.

By the time lunch rolled around, you were far too busy with the sound crew to break away for a snack, food being the furthest thing from your mind as stress made your stomach twist and spit acid.

Now, nausea sets in right before soundcheck. Sweat beads along your hairline as waves of nausea roll through you, and you squeeze your eyes shut as though it might somehow stop the feeling. You come to a halt in the empty hallway and move to lean back against a wall, sighing as you run a hand over your forehead to wipe away cold sweat.

Footsteps echo just down the hall, and you open your eyes to see Andrew approaching you with a determined stride. You grimace. Of course he’d choose this opportunity to break your weeks-long, silent truce, probably coming over just to be an asshole about something that you don’t have the patience or energy to care about.

“Here,” he says briskly as he shoves something solid into your hand. “You didn’t eat—and coffee does not count as a meal.”

You blink as you stare down at the protein bar in your palm, trying to ignore the lingering feeling of his fingers brushing against your hand.

“Mel also has some of that Blowfish stuff for hangovers. It might help if you feel—I mean, you kind of look like death warmed over.”

This pulls a surprised chuckle from you. “Wow. What a compliment.”

He looks just as surprised, the corner of his mouth lifting for only a moment before dropping just as quickly.

“Didn’t mean it as an insult. You look—I mean, you’re still—you don’t look bad. Just tired.” A pause. “Anyway, I need to…sorry…”

He glances over his shoulder and points a thumb in that direction.

“Right,” you nod.

There’s another brief pause as you blink at him, and he shoves his hands into his trouser pockets before nodding once.

“Eat that, please,” he says as he begins backing away from you. “I don’t need my stage manager passing out in the middle of a show.”

Before you can respond, he turns and walks back in the direction he came, leaving you staring after him until he disappears around a corner.

You look back at the protein bar. It’s a chocolate cookie dough flavor, one of your favorites, and you unwrap it as you ponder the interaction.

How does he know you haven’t eaten? Hell, you barely realized that, and only at his prompting. Was your misery really that obvious? He did say you look like death warmed over. Even if it was meant in jest, it still meant that he’d been…paying attention?

The thought doesn’t disgust you the way you expect it to. In fact, there’s a certain fondness you feel in your chest at the prospect of Andrew actually worrying about you, of him calling you his stage manager in some claim of ownership.

You quickly shake your head as you attempt to squash the feeling. This is not the time to dig into the implications of anything—not when you’re running on caffeine and a fucking dream. Instead, you shove the bar into your mouth and take a bite before jogging down the hallway to find Melissa.

❤❤❤

Days later, it’s Larissa who narcs on Andrew in an early morning text on a day off in Chicago.

Larissa

Andrew is sick

Larissa

He doesn’t want you to know

You frown at the text.

You Is that so?

You Hm. Thanks for letting me know.

You I’ll go have a chat with him.

Larissa 🫡 Anytime

You throw on a hoodie and a pair of sandals before trudging across the parking lot towards the black and silver beast that houses the band. Larissa is already at the door when you arrive, ushering you in quietly as you climb the steps.

The rest of the band is awake, though only barely. Rory squints at you tiredly over a mug of coffee. Alex is stretched out along the couch with his eyes closed, uncaring as Larissa forces his knees up so they can sit. The others are missing, and Larissa confirms that they went out in search of food that doesn’t come from a small refrigerator on the bus.

You make your way towards the back of the bus and stop just in front of the dividing door. You knock tentatively and wait for a response.

“Yes?” The sound of his voice is cracked and feeble, making you frown in sympathy.

“It’s me. Can I come in?”

There’s a brief pause before he answers, “Sure.”

The room is dark when you enter, and you tentatively shut the door behind you to keep from blinding him with the early morning sun.

“My sources tell me that you’re sick and trying to hide it from me,” you say lightly as your eyes adjust to the dimness.

Andrew lets out a tired laugh. “I figured Larissa might say something.”

You can make out his form on the bed, curled beneath the blankets that are held tightly at his chin. His hair is thrown up and out of the way in a bundle on top of his head. You frown in concern as he snuffles into his pillow before turning to look at you with drooping eyes.

“I feel better than I look,” he croaks. “Just exhausted.”

You roll your eyes as you step forward to plop on the bed next to him. You place the back of your hand against his forehead and frown as heat radiates against your skin. Andrew doesn’t protest, doesn’t make a move when you feel his too-warm cheeks.

“Jesus, you’re burning up. Have you taken anything?”

Andrew nods. “I took nighttime cold medicine not too long ago to try and get some sleep.”

It takes a moment for you to realize that your hand is still resting against his skin. You pull it away quickly with a mumbled apology before declaring, “You are on vocal rest, effective immediately. I’ll grab you some pho and herbal tea at lunch, but you need to rest.”

He lets out a quiet hum and nods. “On it, boss.”

You bite your lower lip in an attempt to hide your traitorous budding smile.

“Wow. You’re so much more agreeable like this.”

“Don’t get used to it,” he sighs as his eyes flutter closed. “I’m too tired to pretend to fight you.”

“Pretend?”

You see his smile before he turns his face into his pillow. Andrew mumbles again, though you can’t make out what he says. When you ask him to repeat, he doesn’t respond. You watch the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest as the cold medicine pulls him under, and you smile to yourself and shake your head in amusement before opening the door and tiptoeing out of the room.

“I’m confident that he’ll make a full recovery,” you say seriously when Larissa looks towards you. “He’s passed out on NyQuil right now. I’ll be back to check on him later. He’s on vocal rest, too. If he makes a peep, let me know.”

Alex, who is now wearing a Snorlax sleep mask over his eyes, smiles and teases, “Aw, you do care about him.”

With a roll of your eyes, you reply, “Contrary to popular belief, yes, I do worry about you dipshits. That said, be sure to wash your hands and stay out of Andrew’s general vicinity. I’ll be back later to check in.”

Rory asks, “What about you? What if you get sick?”

You shake your head as you wave off his concerns. “Don’t worry, I never get sick. I’ve got an immune system made of steel.”

Three days later, you lie in your bunk with a low-grade fever and a black surgical mask covering your face as you wonder how your body could fail you like this.

You’re watching old episodes of Futurama to pass the time as you limit yourself to your small enclosure with the curtain drawn shut.

Autumn is covering tonight’s show for you—the second show in a row that you’ll miss due to whatever bullshit illness Andrew gave you. The bus is empty and eerily quiet without the shuffles and murmurs of your colleagues. A white noise app fills the gaps between episodes, its gentle tone lulling you into a fitful sleep that’s broken by the opening and closing of the bus door, followed by tentative footsteps that stop just in front of your bunk.

“Hey, are you awake?”

It’s Andrew’s hushed voice on the other side. You reach up to pull the curtain back with a confused frown.

“Andrew? What time is it? Aren’t you supposed to be—?”

“Don’t worry,” he interrupts with a wave of his hand. “Autumn is waiting outside. I just wanted to check on you. Make sure you’re still alive and such.”

It’s surprising given the animosity between you two, but…you have to admit, it’s a kind gesture to come check up on you when he’s the one who got you sick in the first place.

“Well, it’s the least you could do for giving me your germs.” You wince as you sniffle, mucus sliding down the back of your throat. “I demand reparations for this, Andrew.”

Andrew rolls his eyes, but his annoyance seems feigned, a hint of a smile betraying his enjoyment of your tired, raspy quips.

“All right, you seem just as obnoxious as you always are, so I think you’re fine. I’ve already got someone out getting soup and tea for you, so, y’know. Stay put, wash your hands, et cetera.”

You blink, taken aback by his straightforward kindness. “Oh. You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to return the favor,” he says quickly. “Especially because I’m the one who got you sick in the first place. Something, something, quid pro quo.”

“Right,” you rasp, your mask hiding your smile. “This in no way implies that you might actually care about me.”

There’s a brief pause as he tilts his head at you, the same little gesture that he always does when he’s carefully choosing his next words.

After a beat, he replies, “Can I put you on vocal rest?”

“That’s not how this works.”

Just as he opens his mouth to reply, the bus door opens, and Autumn’s testy tone makes you giggle as she calls out, “Andrew…hurry it up, please...”

Andrew throws her a little smile before turning back to you. “See? See how nice Autumn is about—?”

“Andrew!”

You croak a laugh as he jumps and whips his head around to shout an apology to her. He gives you a small smile and a nod before shuffling off with a murmured, “Get some rest.”

15 minutes later, your phone buzzes beside your head, and you open up your messages to see a text from Autumn.

Autumn Andrew sure seems worried about you… 😉

You He feels bad for getting me sick.

You As any decent human should.

Autumn Right…

Autumn Even though he asked me to check in on you during the show… he definitely doesn’t care…

You lower your phone and stare into the beige wall at your feet. A million thoughts cross your mind at once, and you attempt to bury the feeling of tenderness that makes your chest feel tight.

Hours later, the vibration of your phone wakes you from a twilight sleep, pulls you from a dream of soft caresses and gentle kisses that taste of coffee and smoke. Of fingers threaded into frizzy curls and sweet words mumbled against flushed skin.

Dreams that slip through your fingers, lost within the void of unconsciousness the moment you open your eyes.

Andrew Checking in

Andrew You still with us?

You can’t help but smile at the message. It’s late, the bus already filled with soft murmurs and light footsteps as the crew tries their hardest not to wake you. Andrew should be asleep, but you know his penchant for bedtime procrastination all too well.

You Barely, yet I persist.

The chat bubble pops up and disappears several times in a row as Andrew seemingly types and erases every response that comes to mind. Finally, a text comes through that you read through bleary, drooping eyes.

Andrew Good. Let’s keep it that way.

❤❤❤

The last three weeks have been a complete turnaround for your relationship with Andrew. Where there was once fiery animosity, only soft irritation remains. You find yourself smiling more, feeling far more content with the circumstances than you have over the last few months. As much as you hate to admit it, it’s been…nice. Fun, even, as he opens up to you incrementally.

“You and Andrew seem to be getting along,” Autumn chirps after he stops by the bus to ask a question that you answer with a light tone and a smile.

You roll your eyes, but you can feel the blooming heat of a blush across your cheeks.

“More like we found a solid middle ground, but sure.”

Autumn smiles in that knowing way that makes your stomach squirm with giddy embarrassment. There’s no hiding anything from her—she’s nearly 60 and has had her fair share of relationships, experiences that have left an impact on her, for better or for worse. If anyone knows puppy love  when they see it, it’s probably her.

“Well, normally, I’d say you catch more bees with honey…”

You laugh quietly and ask, “Normally?”

She looks at you in her periphery as she smirks. “The boy seems to like the way you sass him. Almost like it’s a game for him.”

“Oh.” You laugh louder now, a touch hysterical as your embarrassment seeps through.

“Well, I appreciate the advice. But, I’m pretty sure Andrew tolerates me in the same way I tolerate him.”

Autumn smiles as she rolls her eyes. “Mmhm, I’m sure. All I’m saying is, whenever he confesses his love for you, I get to say I told you so.”

It’s something you ponder while waiting in the wings during soundcheck that afternoon.

The band is mostly just fucking around on stage, all still a little loopy from travel exhaustion. Andrew is mostly idling between different crew and producers discussing technical aspects of the show. It’s always interesting to watch him fidget and look around as though he has no clue where they are or what day it is. Honestly, you wouldn’t be surprised if that were true given his godawful sleep schedule.

You don’t realize you’re staring until he catches your eye. Andrew looks perplexed at first, brows furrowing as he expects you to say or do something that requires his attention. Instead, you look away quickly and busy your hands with the clipboard lying on an amp in front of you.

Your face is on fire as you sneak another glance. A squeak escapes you when you meet his pointed gaze and easy smile before he winks at you and turns his attention towards one of the crew members beside him.

You already have a headset on and can hear some of the chatter picked up by Alex’s talkback mic. It’s nothing you can make out, mostly garbled words between Rory’s random hitting of snares and cymbals.

Your attention is fixed on the setlist that Andrew switched up last minute to rearrange the order.

Did he run this decision by you? Of course not. In true Andrew fashion, he made the change on his own, his shitty handwriting serving as damning evidence.

As you frown at the list, a voice in your ear murmurs, “Sometimes, it’s better to ask for forgiveness rather than permission.”

Goosebumps raise in a wave along your skin as you jump and whip around to find Andrew hovering just behind you.

“Oh my God, don’t do that.”

His responding chuckle sends a tingle down your spine. You smack him gently with the clipboard before holding it up to him and pointing to his revisions.

“So, when do you start begging for forgiveness, exactly?”

There’s a pause as Andrew raises an eyebrow at you, his mouth twisted in wry amusement.

“Oh, did I say beg? Hm. I didn’t think I had. Slip of the tongue, I suppose. Or, maybe yours?”

Blood rushes to your face as you attempt not to splutter in reply. There’s a part of you that wants to grab him by the lapels of his stupid tweed jacket and shake him violently, as though he might reveal the truth about his own feelings like a piggy bank spitting out coins.

Instead, you merely tilt your head at him and smile politely. “Wishful thinking, perhaps.”

This seems to catch him off guard, both eyebrows flying up near his hairline as he blinks at you.

“Wishful…thinking?”

You shrug and try your best to look as casual as possible before responding, “Something about a man on his knees begging for my forgiveness really feeds my ego, y’know?”

There’s a swell of pride in your chest as you leave him speechless and spluttering for a response.

“I’m approving your changes,” you say flippantly as you begin walking backwards in the opposite direction, your stomach flip-flopping as you attempt to hide your own flustered expression. “Next time, though, run it by me first, please? So I can distribute a revised setlist that doesn’t look like it was written by an anxious chicken.”

“Oh, ehm—yes, yeah, right.” He clears his throat. “Sorry. I should’ve…I’ll ask next time.”

“Much appreciated,” you say easily as you turn on your heel. “Be ready by six at the latest, or I’m hunting you for sport.”

When you glance back at Andrew, he’s still staring, mouth slightly agape. You throw a cheeky wink his way before rushing off to find the nearest empty dressing room. Upon entering a deserted room, you gently shut the door, toss the clipboard onto the couch, and cover your face as you try to regulate your shallow breathing.

You’re not catching feelings. You’re not.

(You can’t.)

❤❤❤

“Psst, hey. Are you awake?”

You blink into the darkness of your bunk and rub roughly at your eyes. You’re not entirely sure what time it is, but the bus isn’t moving which tells you that you’ve probably arrived in Detroit.

“Oh, Jesus, fuck—!” You shriek as you pull back the curtain to find Andrew far closer than you had anticipated, hazel eyes wide and mere inches away. “Andrew, for the love of God—do you want to get punched? Because that’s how you get punched.”

Andrew laughs. You try to ignore the way your heart skips and chew at your lower lip through your budding smile.

“What do you want?” you ask in feigned annoyance.

Andrew rests his head on his arms that are perched on the edge of your bunk.

“We’re going to the Belle Isle Conservatory today. You should come with us.”

Wakefulness is barely catching up with you as you blink at him slowly. Andrew is…inviting you out. It’s not a date—not that you’d want it to be one, of course. It’s merely an invitation to hang out with the rest of the group in a friendly way, and perhaps this is Andrew’s way of continuing to bury the hatchet.

“Conservatory? Like a big greenhouse deal?”

Andrew smiles as he nods. “Mhm, a huge greenhouse on a little island-thing. It’s quite lovely, and I wanted to ask since…I mean, I assume you’ve never gone?”

You shake your head. “I haven’t, no. I’ve been to Kew Gardens, but nothing in the States.”

“Ah, Kew is lovely, as well. Belle Isle has the same kind of feel to it.”

After a beat, you joke, “I’m still confused as to why you don’t just text.”

Andrew turns his head as he laughs quietly, then turns back to you with slightly reddened cheeks and sparkling eyes.

“I’m a terrible texter. Besides, it’s more fun to scare you, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Oh, yes, of course, it’s my absolute favorite thing.” You roll your eyes, but you can’t hide your own gaiety as you smile at him. “Now, get off of my bus so I can get ready.”

Andrew perks up, and you imagine his proverbial tail wagging cautiously as he asks, “Does that mean you’re coming along?”

“Of course I am,” you say easily.

He steps back as you sit up and scooch yourself over the edge of the bunk until your feet safely hit the ground.

“What time are we heading out?”

A glance at his watch. “9:30, I think, so I’ll come get you just before that.”

“And they say chivalry is dead,” you chirp, and he shrugs in response. “All right, scoot along. I’ve got to get ready.”

Andrew opens his mouth to protest, but you shake your head and gently begin pushing him towards the front of the bus.

“You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.”

“You know, that’s not the first time a woman has said that to me,” he muses, stopping just at the steps before turning to look at you. “The circumstances were a touch different, though.”

“Oh, yeah?” you snort.

“Mhm,” he nods. “More of a morning after situation, if you will.”

You freeze, your eyes meeting his own as he tilts his head and smiles cheekily. You decide it’s better not to comment. He’s just being a pill—knows he’s being a pill—and is simply trying to get a rise out of you. It’s been his MO since day one.

“Gross.” You huff a laugh and shake your head. “Thank you for that image. Now, get out.”

Andrew acts shocked by your response as you gently nudge him down the steps.

“Wow, okay, hurtful,” he quips just as he turns the handle for the door.

Both of you are startled when Autumn appears, staring up at the two of you in confusion. Confusion quickly gives way to sly amusement as she tilts her head and greets, “Well, good morning. Where are you two sneaking off to, hm?”

Andrew is left just as speechless as you, both of you sharing an alarmed glance before you finally find your voice.

“Hey, Autumn!” You wince at the way your voice cracks. “I’m just trying to get Andrew to vacate the premises so I can get ready.”

“Oh?” Autumn squints as she looks between the two of you.

Andrew is quick to divert the conversation. “We’re going to the Belle Isle Conservatory in a bit! Do you want to come with us?”

Autumn shakes her head as she meets your gaze with a raised eyebrow. “Oh, no. I wouldn’t want to be a third wheel…”

Thankfully, Andrew doesn’t look back at you as you give Autumn a narrow-eyed, contemptuous frown before mouthing, ‘Stop it.’

Andrew splutters, “It’s not a—! It’s a group outing! No third wheels here. No wheels to be a third of at all. Just regular friend activities.”

His response makes you smile, and you tease, “Oh, are we friends now?”

He throws a glance back at you and smirks as he clarifies, “More frenemies than anything.”

Autumn chuckles and shakes her head. “Jesus, you two are going to give me a hernia. But, anyway, I’m still going to say no on this one, unfortunately. I’m taking these braids out and doing a wash, and then I’ve got a prior commitment with some cable television and several room service mimosas. So, my schedule is booked out for today, I’m afraid. But, thank you for the invitation. You’re always such a darling, Andrew.”

After wishing her luck for both her arms and her sanity, Autumn shuffles back inside the bus to grab a bag before heading off towards the hotel you’re parked behind.

Andrew steps off the bus and turns to look at you with his hands shoved into his pockets.

“I’ll come get you in like an hour. Do you want coffee? I can grab you some. There’s a place called The Red Hook that serves Red Eyes and Nutella Scones that look like they’re way too sweet.”

Your stomach grumbles at the mere notion of food, and you find yourself nodding as you reply, “That sounds great, actually—the Red Eye and the scone. Thank you, Andrew. I do appreciate it.”

“It’s no trouble.” A pause. “Not for you.”

The words strike you directly in the heart, your pulse jumping and your face going hot as he quickly scurries away before you can collect yourself enough to ask a single question.

What the fuck does that mean? It doesn’t strike you as a particularly frenemies-style offer. Not if he’s willing to do it specifically for you.

Which…is that what he really means? There’s a part of you that wonders if the comment was meant in jest—as though the offer would never be extended to the likes of Alex or Rory, given the trio's long history.

It’s not worth reading into, you decide. Whatever it is that he means, you don’t have the energy or wherewithal to go digging for meaning where there is none. It’s simply another kind gesture in response to your previously negatively-charged encounters.

By 9:15 AM, Andrew reappears with two coffees and two scones held precariously in his hands as he approaches.

The coffee itself is delicious—nothing more than an Americano on steroids, but the roast itself is smooth and not nearly as burnt or acidic as chain shops. The scone is, in fact, far too sweet for an early morning pastry, and you decide to tuck away half for later.

By 9:30, you’re crammed into a van with members of the band, en route to Belle Isle. Andrew sits up front due to his stature, but he stays engaged in conversation and glances back at you every once in a while to show he’s paying attention. Larissa takes the middle seat next to you while Alex, Rory, and Kellen squish themselves into the back, jokingly bickering and whining about personal space while you threaten, “I will come back there, so help me God.”

The ferry ride provides a view of the city overshadowed by a blanket of gray clouds that threaten to fall at any moment. Andrew stands by quietly, hands shoved into his jacket pockets as he and Alex have a quiet conversation that you can’t make out from where you’re huddled with Larissa for warmth.

Whatever it is they’re discussing, you catch them as they both turn their heads to look directly at you. Alex looks away quickly, throwing a hand over his mouth to hide what looks like a smile. Andrew gives a stilted wave before turning to look in the opposite direction, back towards land.

Hm. Strange. Though, no stranger than Andrew typically acts, all things considered.

The conservatory itself is massive—a daunting structure standing tall, glass panels glittering in the bits of sun that peek through the gray veil.

You stick close to Larissa, arm-in-arm on their right side while Alex flanks their left. Andrew is shuffling behind, sticking close to Rory and Kellen who speak animatedly about something, though you’re not exactly sure what. When you glance back, you catch Andrew’s eye and give him a half-smile before turning away.

Humidity chokes you as you marvel at the sheer amount of greenery shoved into nearly every square inch of the greenhouse. The smell of damp earth is grounding, comforting, like the first clear day after heavy rainfall.

As the rest of the group forges ahead, you hang back to sit on a metal bench tucked away in the foliage, take a deep breath, and let your eyes flutter closed as you try to appreciate the moment. It’s rare that you get these sorts of opportunities, to enjoy peace and quiet, to pretend that the foreseeable future isn’t fraught with tireless work.

“Are you okay?”

Andrew’s voice, though quiet and soft, still startles you.

“Andrew! For God’s sake, stop doing that.”

He grins and shrugs, offering an apology that doesn’t seem very sincere. You smile and shake your head before scooting over and offering a seat next to you.

“It really is stunning,” you chirp as you stare up at the trees that nearly eclipse the ceiling. “I feel like I could live in here.”

Andrew hums in agreement, then muses, “You should move to Ireland, then. The weather is nearly always like this, and the countryside is greener than anything you’ve ever seen.”

You glance at him, but his attention is focused on scanning the room in admiration.

“It’s on my personal bucket list.”

“Wait, you’ve never—?”

You shake your head. “I’ve never visited, no. Always wanted to, but never really had the opportunity, I guess.”

Andrew is quiet, and you can make out his pensive frown in your periphery.

“Well, the city is…it’s a city. It’s where everything is, I know, but…I mean, if I were to recommend anything, it’d be to stay outside of the city. Enjoy the quiet of a more peaceful area. There are plenty of trains to bring you into Dublin if you really wanted.”

You smile to yourself. “Can I hire you as my personal travel consultant?”

His responding chuckle sends your stomach flip-flopping in delight.

“I don’t live too far out. If you ever stayed in—I mean, you wouldn’t be too far. There are definitely things I could show you.”

“Oh, are you a personal chauffeur, as well?”

A pause. “I’d say more like a personal tour guide. Though, only for a select few.”

You turn your head to look at him now, but he stares straight ahead. You can see the tips of his ears are bright red, unhidden with his hair thrown into a low bun.

“Are you saying I’m part of that special group, then?”

A nudge of your elbow against him makes him laugh, but he doesn’t reply. Andrew seems bashful now, hands shoved into his jacket pockets as one leg shakes anxiously. If there’s anything more to this conversation, it’s unlikely that you’ll pull it out of him right now.

Still, the thought is sweet—a native of the country showing you areas that are overlooked and underappreciated, at least in his neck of the woods. You wonder what it would be like, to sit next to him as he drives along quiet roads, or to try and keep up with his stride as walks you through a park or museum.

The flash of an image crosses your mind—of holding hands while walking along the pavement, of kissing under an awning during heavy rainfall.

“Hey.” Andrew bumps his knee against yours. “We should probably catch up with the group.”

With a heavy sigh, you stand and brush off invisible dirt before following him towards the other end of the building.

❤❤❤

“He won’t shut up about you, you know.”

Melissa’s voice breaks your reverie, pulling your thoughts from the Tecate bottle sitting on the table.

You’re sitting on the patio of a local Mexican restaurant somewhere in Middle America, though you’re not entirely sure where, nor are you certain of today’s date. A bowl of pozole rests in front of you along with a plate of accouterments to add into it. A basket of tortilla chips in the center is nearly empty now as the two of you munch on them between bits of conversation.

“Hm? What?”

“Andrew.” She takes a sip of her margarita before tilting her head. “He brings you up all the time. Like, every other sentence out of his mouth is about you.”

You blink, your pulse jumping at the mere mention of his name.

“Oh. What is he—I mean, like, what kind of stuff is he saying?”

“Just random stuff.” She shrugs before obnoxiously sucking down what remains of her drink, grinning when you give her a flat stare in response. “Stuff he knows about you, I guess? Like, when we were on the bus driving in this morning, he was looking outside and saw that field full of sheep we passed. Then, he told us he had to text you and ask if you saw the sheep, because he knows you love sheep. It was like he would be sad if you didn’t see them.”

“Oh. Well, I don’t see how that’s—”

“And, the other night! We were drinking this terrible red wine that tastes like gasoline, and then he says something about how much he likes a wine you recommended to him. It wasn’t even a red wine! It’s like he just wanted to say your name out loud again.”

A flush warms your cheeks as you process her words.

Andrew…talks about you? Not only that, he talks about you enough that it’s become obvious to the people surrounding him. But…that doesn’t mean anything. Right? If you’re becoming friendly, well, friends talk about friends. It’s not an indication of anything beyond his growing fondness of you and your working relationship.

When you say as much, Melissa smiles in that affectionate, knowing way and shrugs.

“If that’s how you want to interpret it, sure. All I’m saying is, you don’t see the way he looks at you when he thinks nobody’s watching.”

“And how does he look at me, exactly?”

“Like he fucking adores you.”

❤❤❤

The French Quarter of New Orleans is one of your favorite places to visit. You’ve been here several times in the past, either on tour or with your friends for a Mardi Gras celebration. This visit, however, is unique. Special in a way that you can’t—won’t voice.

You’re sitting under the awning at Cafe Du Monde, a steaming mug of coffee and a plate of generously powdered beignets placed in front of you. Across the table, Andrew sips from his own mug of black coffee, humming in pure delight before setting it down.

When Andrew invited you to see the French Quarter, you had assumed that it would be another field trip with the band members who were willing to get up early in spite of their exhaustion (and possible hangover, depending on the day). Upon arriving at the lobby, however, you found him sitting alone on a plush chair, fidgeting with his hands until he realized your presence. He was quick to stand, a genuine smile brightening his face and crinkling his eyes. You tried to ignore the butterflies, tried to ignore the nerves from the mere idea of spending time alone together.

The cafe had been your idea, mostly because you craved fried, sugary dough, and both of you were in desperate need of caffeine at such an asinine hour.

“If I knew how to make these, I’d be in major trouble,” Andrew muses.

“Oh, absolutely,” you nod. “I could eat these for every meal, probably, but my 30 year old body wouldn’t be able to handle that.”

An offhand conversation about donuts, pastries, and sweets eats an hour of your time before either of you have realized, and you decide to vacate the premises before the waiter (who has been giving both of you a hardened stare for the better part of that hour) decides to kick you out to free up the table.

“So,” you say as you follow his lead down the pavement. “To the museum?”

Andrew is excited to show you the Jazz Museum just down the road, especially after confirming that you had never actually been inside during previous visits. It was the first thing he’d suggested as you made your way to the cafe, eyes sparkling with childlike glee. Truly, who were you to say no to such a precious face?

The museum itself is smaller than you anticipated, each hall and room dedicated to art, sculptures, records, and instruments used by some of the greatest artists in the world who paved the way for jazz and its musical offshoots.

Andrew stops in every room to explain a piece of trivia he knows about this person or that performance, or to explain the personal significance of records his parents played when he was young. It’s endearing to watch him talk so excitedly, and you’re impressed by the information he keeps stored away.

“It’s not often I get to talk about this stuff.” He shrugs. “You’d think I’d remember more important things, like deadlines or what fucking time it is.”

You wave a hand as if to dismiss the notion. “As nice as that would be, I think your trivia is far more interesting.”

“Well, thank you,” he replies meekly, as though he hadn’t expected a compliment of all things. “It’s nice to have someone who seems…interested.”

There’s a pause as he seems to retreat into himself, a small frown forming as his brows furrow. It lasts for only a moment before he shakes his head and looks at you again, his smile looking much more apprehensive this time.

“Do you want to go down to the river with me?”

The sun is shining as you meander along the river walk, iced coffee in hand and sunglasses perched on your nose. The walk itself isn’t overcrowded as the city awaits its true tourist season in the form of Mardi Gras.

A few people recognize Andrew, stop him for a chat that he seems reluctant to engage in. Photos are snapped, but he remains mostly unsmiling save for the teen girl who asks him what his favorite Mavis Staples song is before declaring that hers is “Son of a Preacher Man,” which Andrew lauds as a wonderful choice.

“Are you okay?” You ask the question tentatively as you come to a stop and lean against the railing that separates you from the river.

Andrew sighs and shrugs despondently. “Yeah, I just…I have a call with Caroline later, and she won’t tell me what it’s about. Which is…never a good sign.”

“Oh.” You frown and reach up to rest a hand on his shoulder.

He turns his head quickly, eyes flicking down to where your hand rests before looking up to meet your gaze.

“I’m sorry for being so preoccupied.”

You shake your head. “You have nothing to apologize for. Shit, I’d feel the same way if I had to talk to her. Uh, no offense.”

The corner of his mouth curves in a half-smile as he replies, “No, I get it. She’s…well, she sure is Caroline. I’ll give her that.”

There’s a pause as you deliberate whether you should pry, whether he would even want to share the intimate details of his newfound apprehension towards his manager. The dislike from others is palpable, especially from Alex. Though you’ve never witnessed it, you’re well aware that a few confrontations with her have left Alex wondering if continuing with this job is even worth it. (It’s a question that Andrew isn’t aware of, divulged to you by Larissa who is saddened by such a development.)

Before you can ask a follow-up question, an alarm goes off on your phone—the alarm you set earlier today to remind both of you when it’s time to head back to the venue.

“Thank you for today,” you say upon arriving back at the bus lot after a quiet walk back. Crew members are already zipping around to prepare for their own call times while the band gets ready for sound check.

“Of course. Thank you for coming with me. I…I really enjoyed—I mean, it was nice to just…be there. With you.”

The words strike your heart as they tumble from his mouth, your pulse quickening as he awkwardly shifts his weight and glances over his shoulder.

“I…feel the same. It was nice that it was just, y’know. The two of us.”

In a moment of levity, Andrew gives you the most sincere smile you’ve seen in the last hour, then chirps, “Look at us. Burying the hatchet.”

You can’t help but laugh and roll your eyes. “I mean, usually people don’t acknowledge it out loud, but…yeah. It’s nice. I, uh…yeah.”

Andrew pauses as though waiting for something more, but you stay quiet and turn your gaze towards the ground as a blush makes blood rush in your ears.

“Well, I’ve got to…” He shakes his phone at you and nods his head in the opposite direction.

“Right, sorry! You go on ahead, and, uh—good luck with the call. I need to gather my crew and figure out what’s going on, anyway. But, if you’re not at sound check by three, I’m hunting you down and dragging you to that stage.”

This pulls a small laugh from him as he begins walking backwards towards the dressing rooms. “Duly noted. I’ll see you later.” 

❤❤❤

You’re not sure why, but something in Andrew’s demeanor shifts drastically.

Despite the check-ins, the light banter, and the moments of levity you’ve shared over the past few months, Andrew is quiet. Despondent. Avoidant once more as his goodwill seemingly slips through your fingers. You’re left puzzled and embarrassed by the sadness that echoes within you, unsure of what you’ve done to earn the cold shoulder again when you thought things were going well.

“I don’t know what’s crawled up his ass and died, but I’m super fucking over it,” you tell Autumn over coffee one morning after she confronts you about your own dour mood.

Autumn frowns as she stirs her rapidly cooling tea idly. There’s a tension in her own demeanor that tells you she knows something, but you’re hesitant to shake her down for information she’s not freely sharing.

After a few beats of silence, she sighs and lets her spoon clink against the side of the mug as she sits back and folds her arms over her chest.

“I may know why.”

You raise your brows in anticipation. “Did something happen?”

“More like something is going to happen. I heard that a few of our guys are getting cut for the 2024 leg of the tour. More than a few, actually.”

Your blood feels like ice in your veins, your hackles raising at her words. “What?”

“It’s not confirmed, but…I don’t know. Given how much management has scaled back recently, I wouldn’t be surprised. More shows, less staff. For whatever fucking sense that makes.”

You blink at her, head tilted in confusion as upset bubbles up within you.

“They’re going to make staff cuts? What, are we just supposed to make due with a skeleton crew for one of the biggest fucking musicians in the world right now? These are arena shows, Autumn!”

“Baby, you’re preaching to the choir on this one. I don’t understand it, either, but I don’t think management will know what they’ve done until shit hits the fan at that first show.”

How could a decision like this be made without even consulting you as the stage manager? The crew is an invaluable part of this process, and cutting 25% of your team is like chopping at them at the knees while simultaneously crippling the remaining staff by forcing them to work even harder for the same amount of pay—or, at least, that’s what you assume given all of management’s other cuts were replaced by absolutely nothing.

A thought crosses your mind, one that has you pulling out your phone to double-check the date. It’s been nearly a week since your outing with Andrew in New Orleans, nearly a week of this complete regression in agreeableness until you’ve found yourself back at square one.

Nearly a week since his dreaded phone call with Caroline.

Understanding hits you all at once—this is what Caroline wanted to discuss with him. This is why he’s flipped on you again. To keep you at a distance. To keep himself safe from delivering terrible news to you directly.

“Motherfucker,” you yell, banging your fists on the table before standing up abruptly.

“Wait, don’t—where are you going?!” Autumn shouts after you as you stomp down the stairs of the bus before slamming the door shut behind you.

A fist against the metal of the bus door alerts the entire band of your presence, and Rory opens it with a puzzled, nervous look. The expression on your face must tell him everything he needs to know as he swallows and glances nervously towards whoever might be sitting in the front lounge with him.

“Where is he?”

“Who do you—?”

“Andrew,” you answer brusquely. “Where the fuck is he?”

“He’s…” Rory leans back again and says, “Andrew. It’s for you.”

He’s quick to scurry away as Andrew slowly steps down and idles in the doorway, gaze carefully averted from yours as he grumbles, “What do you want?”

Anger grips your throat as you manage to spit out, “We need to talk. Now.”

“Look, I don’t have time for—”

You cut him off with a tense wave of your hand. “I wasn’t. Fucking. Asking.”

This is enough to get him out of the bus, though he keeps a reasonable distance from you as you try to keep this conversation—this fight—out of earshot from everyone else.

You come upon an empty portion of the parking lot, illuminated in the warm light of a dying street lamp. The buses are a reasonable distance away now, and you stop abruptly to round on him with a finger pointed at him accusingly.

“You. Start talking. Now.”

Andrew blinks, hands immediately going into his pockets as his shoulders come up to his ears.

Tense, short, he asks, “What is this about?”

“You know damn well what this is about.”

It’s maddening when he goes quiet, looks up at the stars that are visible despite the lights of the city polluting the sky. His hesitation is palpable as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other while chewing his lower lip. The idea that he might even consider playing dumb with you, that he might try to lie to your face already has you choking back tears.

“Don’t you dare try to run away from this, Andrew,” you say tightly. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

Exasperation is evident in his posture, in his face as his expression twists.

“Jesus Christ, what do you want from me?” he asks, his voice going much louder than you’ve ever heard before.

It sets you on edge, your fingers twitching until you curl your hands into fists at your side. The heat of rage quickly spirals into despair as a gaping maw opens in your chest.

Fuck, you can’t do this now, can’t break down in front of the man who has only seen you as his adversary for the better part of six months—who fucking conned you into thinking he actually cared for even a moment.

You aggressively scrub at the tears that well in your eyes and turn your back to him as you decide where you can run off to before you start fully sobbing.

“Why can’t you just be fucking honest?” you ask, laughing harshly, indignantly. “Fuck me, why can’t you—”

It’s too late to seek sanctuary now as a lump rises in your throat, hot tears spilling down your cheeks as you crumple onto the pavement.

“I…” Andrew’s voice dies in his throat, concern etched into his expression when you manage a glance at him.

With another exasperated laugh, you reply, “Fuck me. You’re cut from the same cloth as every other wealthy, privileged white man I’ve ever met. The star of the show, here to waste my fucking time by approving every new show your bitch of a manager wants to add despite knowing damn well that she’s going to cut a quarter of my fucking team next year.”

An inferno rages inside of you as his face drops, as he looks to his shoes to hide his guilty expression—an answer to your unasked question: Did you know?

“Jesus fucking Christ, Andrew, how long were you going to wait to spring that shit on me? Or, were you going to let Caroline tell me over a fucking Zoom call because you’re too much of a coward to say it to my face?”

Muffled sobs break the silence between you as you squeeze your eyes shut and try to regain some level of composure. A hand at your shoulder startles you. You spring up and quickly shuffle back from him as he stares at you, hand still hovering over where you were just sitting.

“Don’t fucking touch me.”

You expect anger. You expect a fight.

You don’t expect red, watery eyes as he sucks in a deep breath and looks towards the ground.

“Oh, did I strike a nerve?” you spit, rage eclipsing any shred of compassion or pity you have.

“Oh, fuck you,” Andrew snaps. “You don’t get to sit on your fucking high horse when you’ve done nothing but antagonize me from the start!”

“Me? Oh, that’s rich. All I’ve done is try to get you to do your fucking job on time, you twat!”

He scoffs and rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest as he tilts his head at you. “Right, and the best way to do that is by shouting at me and being the most passive-aggressive geebag I’ve ever fucking met.”

“Well, maybe if every word out of your mouth wasn’t announcing another fucking show, or another fucking cut that your shitty manager is making just to pad out her own pockets—and, by proxy, your fucking pockets.

“I mean, Jesus, Andrew. Do you not see the fucking optics here? Do you not see how all of this lands squarely on you in the eyes of every fucking person here? I won’t shield you from the valid criticisms over management’s choices—and management includes you, Boss Man.”

Andrew snorts ruefully and shakes his head. “The band knows they can talk to me, and the crew knows they’re more than welcome to voice their concerns. You don’t have to shield me from shit.”

“My God, you really don’t get it, do you? You look like the fucking asshole here, Andrew. You. The crew doesn’t know that layoffs are coming, so of course they’d fucking trust you! Believe me, if Caroline were here right now, I’d be ripping into her ass just as hard for being so fucking shady!”

You throw your hands in the air with a frustrated huff.

“But, fuck me, right? What the fuck do I know about this business outside of the twelve years I’ve been doing this fucking job? What do I know about predatory, money-grabbing, narcissistic managers with no regard for the people who suffer beneath them? But, go on ahead and release another vinyl pressing of everything you left on the cutting room floor, Andrew. Go ahead, so that you and her can make a few more bucks off the backs of your fucking fans and that single you wish you’d never released.”

Andrew blanches, mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air.

A smug sense of satisfaction fills you as he’s left scrambling for a response. Good. He knows you’re right, knows he can’t fight back against anything when the truth is plain as day—the good will of his sophomore album and tour has evaporated with every additional stadium he’s approved, with every cut to catering, with every rollback of amenities provided in tours past, with every brushed off concern from the mouths of people he calls friends.

Your victory is short-lived as his eyes go glassy once more; a stray tear slips free and rolls down his cheek before he roughly wipes it away with the sleeve of his jacket. Your smugness quickly dissolves into guilt as he gives you a curt nod before turning to walk away.

“Fuck…” you whisper to yourself before exhaling sharply and shouting after him, “Andrew, wait!”

He stops but doesn’t turn to look at you as you jog the distance he’s covered with his impossible stride.

“Did you have something else you wanted to say?” His voice is flat, his shoulders still tense and raised to his ears.

After a beat, he still doesn’t look at you, and you sigh as you run a hand through your hair.

“Look, I’m—I’m sorry. I’m just fucking blindsided by all of this, and I—”

Andrew whirls around on you so quickly that you stumble back in surprise. You’ve never seen him so angry, tears freely flowing now as he jabs a finger in your direction.

“Do you think I fucking wanted this? Do you truly, sincerely believe that I’m out to fuck everyone over for my own personal agenda? Of course I’m aware of the optics, but that doesn’t mean a fucking thing when you’re locked into a long-term contract with the ring leader of this entire fucking circus.”

“And, what?” you spit. “You can’t just buy your way out of it?”

There’s a long pause as Andrew levels your stare, his eyes searching your face as he processes your question. Finally, he sighs defeatedly and scrubs at his face with his hands.

“It’s not that simple! Because it’s not just her. It’s the label. It’s the rights to my music. It’s—it’s all of it. Believe me, it’s not for lack of trying. I’ve reached out to lawyers, and there’s…there’s nothing. No loopholes. No gaps. Iron-fucking-clad. My soul belongs to this woman through the next two years, and she’s prepared to wring me dry through the final day.”

Shit. You hadn’t really thought about it from that angle. Despite how long you’ve existed in the music world, talent contracts have never mattered much to you. As long as you’re getting paid fairly, you really can’t be fucked to care about the outrageous salaries of world-famous musicians, nor the percentage their managers receive.

“Even if I could break it…I have to think about my parents. I want to make sure they’re taken care of when—” Andrew looks up at the night sky as he takes a deep breath, voice cracking lightly as he continues, “When I’m not around to help. When my brother’s not around to help. I can’t just walk away.”

When he looks at you again, his brows furrow once more, as though he’s just remembered he’s supposed to be upset with you.

“Andrew…” You take a step closer to him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

He holds up a hand to cut you off, shaking his head with a soft sniffle. “Yes, you did. Whatever it is you’re going to say, you absolutely did mean to. And you have. So…well done, I suppose.”

It shatters your heart, the guilt of hurting him swallowing you whole. Because you had meant it, meant to hurt him with your barbed words in an effort to get him to open his eyes.

But, the truth is so much messier, bound by legal jargon and the duty of a loving son. As much as Andrew wears his heart on his sleeve, you’re still surprised by the little things that slip through his veneer, the things meant to stay within his own mind, body, and soul regardless of the pain.

“I…” What can you even say? What can you even do except apologize and hope the man you’ve once disliked based on assumptions and childish principles will forgive you for this transgression.

“It’s an early day tomorrow,” he says hollowly. “You should get some sleep. Goodnight.”

“Please…” The word comes out hoarse and broken as you try to think of anything to say to fix this.

Tears well up as he turns his back to you again and heads off towards the fleet of buses parked across the lot. You don’t call after him, nor shout any further apologies. The lump in your throat is too painful to swallow down.

Seated on the pavement, you draw your knees up and hug them tightly before burying your face into the sleeves of your hoodie and letting out a choked sob.

❤❤❤

The next morning, you wake up feeling like you got hit and backed over by a city bus. Your jaw aches from the tension of clenching the whole night, your head pounding from a teary hangover. Leftover makeup coats your puffy, reddened eyes. Your throat screams for ice cold water, and you figure it’s probably best to chase a handful of ibuprofen with a full glass before facing the day.

“Jesus, what happened to you?” Autumn’s tone is light in comparison to her worried expression as she brings a hand up to cup your chin. She tilts your head from one side to the other, inspecting the remnants of your breakdown in search of foul play.

You know better than to lie to Autumn’s face, and you can’t muster the energy to care about obscuring the truth of the matter.

“I got into it with Andrew last night,” you sigh. “I said some really mean, hurtful shit, and now he hates me even more than he already did.” 

Autumn scoffs as she fills an electric kettle with water for her morning tea.

“You think that man hates you? I don’t think he’s capable of hating anyone outside of politicians and cops.”

“No, I know he hates me. Like, properly hates me now that I’ve insulted him directly to his face.”

“Oh, God.” Autumn turns to you with a wary look. “What did you say?”

As you recount the events of the previous night, Autumn’s face goes from surprise, to concern, to pity. You wish that she wouldn’t turn that look on you when you’re already feeling small and defeated, but you know she means well, that her expression comes from a place of empathy and concern.

She stops what she’s doing and sits beside you before wrapping her arms around you in a tight hug. It feels nice, comforting, and you bite your quivering lower lip as you blink back tears.

“Oh, sugar…listen to me, okay? You are not a terrible person for feeling frustrated. You lashed out at Andrew because of the news about the staff cuts, and while it makes sense, it doesn’t make it right.”

“I know.” You wince as your whispered voice cracks.

“I think you should talk to him and properly apologize. Don’t ambush him. Just ask if he’s willing to talk and hear you out.”

You sigh as you rest your head on Autumn’s shoulder. “What if he won’t?”

A pause. “He will,” she replies quietly. “I know he will.”

After a cup of coffee and an ice cube rubbed against your swollen eyes, you decide to forgo makeup entirely. A hoodie drawn over your head and a pair of baggy sweatpants will be your self-loathing uniform for the day. If anyone has any shitty comments to make, you’re primed and ready to jump down their throat.

A few members of the crew hop back onto the bus with bags of breakfast sandwiches, and the smell of eggs and sausage makes you nauseous. With a disgusted face, you mumble, “I’m going for a walk,” before pushing yourself from your seat and trudging down the steps.

It’s an overcast day, but the clouds don’t look too angry. You hope that rainfall won’t be an issue, making a mental note to keep an eye on the forecast for the evening. A glance at your phone tells you that it’s far too early to bother the ladies and Larissa for company, so you shove your hands into your pockets and set off to walk the perimeter of the venue lot’s fencing.

As you walk, gravel crunches softly behind you—footsteps that are out of sync with your stride. You spin around and are startled to find Andrew approaching, a baseball cap affixed to his head and kept in place by a haphazardly thrown up bun sticking out the back. He’s in his traditional garb—a t-shirt covered by a navy blue mechanics jacket, dark trousers, and the same white Converse that probably need a few cycles in the washing machine to look even remotely clean again.

The bags under his eyes seem darker, more pronounced. He doesn’t smile at you, but he doesn’t look ready to shout abuse at you, either. He mostly looks…sad. Apprehensive. Exhausted.

“Hey,” you say lamely, unsure of how to address him after yesterday’s argument.

“Hey,” he says flatly.

There’s a pause as he hesitates, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he avoids your befuddled stare.

“Did you…need something, or…?” The question is asked in earnest, your heart pounding wildly in your chest as you wait for his next response.

Finally, he sighs and shrugs his shoulders. “There’s a coffee place nearby that I wanted to check out. You should come with me. So we can talk.”

Anxiety washes over you like a crashing wave, buzzing in your fingertips as you stretch your hands against the feeling.

“Right, um…if this is your way of firing me, I’d rather you just do it now. No sense in drawing it out.”

Andrew frowns, puzzled. “Fire you? No, no, no, that’s not—I’m not firing you. Jesus, I think the entire tour would fall apart if you weren’t here.”

It’s surprisingly kind of him to say, though, you don’t necessarily agree. There are a million other prospective stage managers who’d swoop in and probably do a far better job of handling things. Managers who aren’t jaded and won’t antagonize the talent.

“I wanted to talk about yesterday,” he says quietly. “I…wanted to apologize for being…reactive? Or, defensive, rather.”

You blink.

Andrew is apologizing to you?

As other crew members begin to spill out of their respective buses, you nod your head in the opposite direction and ask, “Do you know which way the shop is?”

The coffee shop itself isn’t far, and it’s quiet and relatively empty given that it’s a Sunday. A few guys from the lighting crew are lined up at the counter for their multiple morning espresso shots that will carry them to their afternoon, pre-show energy drinks. They greet you with tired mumbles and little waves, uncaring that the two of you are here together and alone.

Andrew is kind enough to pay for your coffee, and you take a seat at a table in the furthest corner of the room.

“So…” you start as you play with the off-white diner mug in your hands.

“So…” he echoes, folding his hands on the table as he watches you. “About yesterday—”

“Andrew, I’m so sorry,” you interrupt quickly. “I don’t understand why you feel compelled to apologize to me when you were right. I meant to hurt you, and I did. And, I’m so fucking sorry for doing that. I should have just walked away, or cut the conversation short so we could both cool down. That’s on me, and if you hate me after all of that, I understand and absolutely deserve it.”

You suck in a deep breath before bringing the mug up to your lips to sip your too-hot drink.

Andrew is quiet as he mulls over your apology. His silence makes you squirm, so you follow up your statement with, “You are in no way obligated to accept my apology or like me in any capacity, by the way. I just…I was up all night feeling absolutely awful about how I left everything, but it seemed wrong to text you about it.”

After a few more beats of silence, Andrew nods as he plays with his own mug. It looks so much smaller in his massive hands, and you briefly imagine those hands circling your wrists, pinning them above your head—

You shake the thought away as your face begins to burn. Not the time, not the place, and certainly not the man to continue lusting over.

“I appreciate your apology,” he says finally. “I wanted to apologize, too. What you said was hurtful, but…I mean, there’s merit to it all, yeah? I am considered the boss despite not feeling like one, and I certainly don’t want to be one. But, that doesn’t absolve me of responsibility, and I do have a responsibility towards everyone who works on this tour.”

You didn’t expect him to agree with you, and you certainly didn’t expect him to seem so guilty for not upholding his crew the way he should. Perhaps he’s never been called on it so forthrightly, or perhaps it comes off as a more serious issue when not coming from the mouth of a friend—namely, Alex, who has also come to you to commiserate about some of the choices that have been nothing but a detriment to the band’s mental health.

“Also…you were right. I haven’t…I don’t think I considered how comfortable I’ve been with…I don’t know. Money? Recognition? Not that I want to be recognized, but…”

“But the perks of recognition outweigh the negatives?”

Andrew glances up, then sighs. “Sometimes, yeah. I hadn’t really thought about the privilege of it all. Or, I had, sort of, but I didn’t give it much thought until you ripped into me.”

You nod in reply. “I mean, it’s been what? Ten years? It makes sense why you would grow accustomed to it. It makes sense that your brain would put on the blinders to the cognitive dissonance of it all. Doesn’t make you a bad person. It just makes you human.”

Andrew’s mouth lifts in a half-smile. “You don’t have to do that.”

You blink. “Do what?”

“Make excuses for me. Protect me.”

“I am not making excuses for you. I brought all of this shit up in a massive rage last night, and you still took it to heart.”

Andrew had actually thought about what you said instead of stewing in the anger of being called out. He could have remained upset and defensive over your words, but he chose instead to consider your point of view. Something about that makes your chest feel warm.

“Hard not to when all of the things you said have been anxieties of mine for a long time.”

“What do you mean?”

He turns his head to look out the window towards the road. “This…has become so much bigger than I ever thought it would. I never wanted to become a household name or face. I just wanted to put my music out there to see what would happen. But, I didn’t want all of this.”

This—the celebrity of it all. The parties, the events, the boozing and schmoozing required of any star with influence. You’ve seen him on those nights as he staggers back into the hotel lobby looking drunk, haggard, and absolutely miserable.

Despite your ill feelings towards the man at the beginning, you don’t wish this kind of exhausting lifestyle on him. As a fellow introvert and a stage manager, you can empathize with the anxiety of having to be forward-facing and on when you’re already on the verge of collapse.

“If I seem ungrateful for the position I’m in, I’m not trying to be. I’ve become so disillusioned with all of this that I’ve been…I don’t know, checking out when I don’t have to think, I suppose?”

It would explain the curtness, the increased consumption of weed and alcohol where he can, the withdrawn nature of his personality that he’s insisted is just a symptom of his age.

“But, again, not wanting to be in this circumstance doesn’t change anything. I’m still responsible for what happens here, and you were right. The optics don’t look great when I’m not fighting for my fucking team.”

You’re unsure how to respond as he stirs his black coffee with a spoon, careful not to hit the walls of the mug.

“What do you need from me, then?” He looks up, confused. “I mean, how can I help you with all of this?”

“I…I don’t think there’s anything that you can do. I just appreciate that you said something at all so I could get my head out of my arse long enough to realize how fucked it’s all been.”

You crack a smile at this, your heart skipping when he smiles back. Then, his smile falls again, his brows furrowing once more as he stares down at his drink and fidgets with his hands.

“I don’t know if…I mean, this is going to sound really fucking stupid, so please bear with me. You’ve shown more fortitude in the last few months than I have in the last few…” He checks his watch. “Years? You’re the only person in my life right now willing to slap me across the face—figuratively, of course—but, you’re the only person who I can trust to be completely honest with me right now. And, if the biggest problem in my life is being shouted at by a gorgeous lass with a hot temper, then I consider myself extremely lucky.”

Oh. That’s…

Huh.

You blink at him, searching his face for any semblance of insincerity.

“Oh, uh…thanks—thank you. That’s…you’re very kind.”

Andrew stares as though he expects something more, but you’re not sure how to respond. It’s a nice thing to say, certainly. Is this his way of extending another olive branch? Compliments have always made you mildly uncomfortable, but is this his way of working himself back into your good graces?

After a few more seconds of tense silence, Andrew finally knocks on the table once and nods.

“Right, well…we should probably get back then. Long day ahead, and all that.” He stands abruptly, unfinished coffee splashing over the rim of his mug as the table shakes.

“Wait, what—?”

“Thanks for agreeing to talk with me. I appreciate it.”

As he speed walks away from the table, you scramble to grab your things before popping up and rushing after him. His long legs have carried him much further than you anticipated, and you find yourself once again having to jog to catch up with him.

“Andrew, what the fuck?” You round him as you shout, forcing him to stop in his tracks before he collides with you.

“What?” His tone betrays nothing, but exasperation is clear in his expression.

You scoff and laugh incredulously. “Oh no, no, no. You’re not going to weasel your way out of this. What the fuck was that just now?”

Andrew blinks, clearly weighing the pros and cons of lying about whatever is running through his head.

“It’s…almost call time…for a media thing...”

It’s a weak excuse, but you can’t help the startled laugh that escapes you as you ask, “Oh? And when did you suddenly start caring about being on time for literally anything?”

The corner of his mouth lifts just slightly. “Well, a very pretty and very confrontational woman has torn me apart about it multiple times now, you see...”

You can feel the heat of a blush that you attempt to downplay with a cheeky shrug. 

“Hm. She sounds smart. And hot. You should listen to her more often.”

The sound of Andrew’s chuckle makes your heart flutter. You swallow down the delight of making him laugh, press your lips together to hide the smile that wants to break free.

“I probably should, yeah. I’m honestly terrified of what might happen if I don’t.”

A glance at your watch makes you frown, and you clap at Andrew like he’s an animal in need of shepherding. “Oh, shit, it’s—fuck’s sake, go, go, go, you’ve got somewhere to be!”

Instead of the usual annoyed response to your rushing, Andrew merely chuckles again and throws his hands up in acquiescence.

“All right, fine! Jesus, I’m going.”

With a short wave and a little smile, he turns on his heel and rushes back into the venue, and you’re fairly certain you’ve never seen him rush anywhere so quickly, especially at your behest.

You’re floored by his response. There’s a part of you that wonders if his compliments were meant to be taken more…

Well, no. That’s just wishful thinking on your part. The idea of him having any inkling of affection towards you is laughable. This was a one-off, a way to relieve some of the tension from last night’s argument with softened language and compliments of questionable sincerity.

Still…it was nice to hear him laugh. Butterflies in your stomach remind you that, despite his kindness, you’re not meant to feel things for the fucking main act of anything, let alone a world-famous musician.

The rumor mill on tour is always churning out something, and rumors about the stage manager making heart eyes at Andrew is the last thing that you need right now. Jesus, if Caroline caught wind of it, you’d be out on your ass in a second.

It’s best to let sleeping dogs lie, let the crush run its course. Then, you two will part ways, unlikely to ever see each other again. The thought is painful, but it’s the only way you’ll manage to survive the rest of this tour—keep your head down and your mouth shut.

❤❤❤

The next hotel night is a much-needed break from the confines of a bunk and the crew crammed into a moving tin can like a bunch of sardines.

Autumn comes up to your room to watch re-runs of NCIS on cable television while sharing a bottle of the sweetest wine you’ve ever had, occasionally making inappropriate comments about Mark Harmon before muttering, “If he wasn’t a fucking Republican…”

The rest of the crew are all scattered about, some in their hotel rooms while others go out for dinner, drinks, and a bit of the Seattle nightlife. (Whatever that entails.)

Larissa texted you an invitation to dinner, but you feel you’re better off not spending as much time around Andrew. Despite being friendly once again, you can’t shake the unease of your more romantic desires—emotional and physical.

You don’t talk about it with Autumn, and she hasn’t pried, thankfully. She’s already dealt with enough of your bullshit with Andrew, she certainly doesn’t need the intimate details of your daydreams and late-night fantasies.

You’re already two generously poured glasses deep when Autumn decides to turn in for the evening. She shuffles off to her room, laughing to herself as she mentions something about calling her sister, April.

Somewhere on the nightstand, your phone buzzes with a text. You giggle as you toss yourself onto the mattress and roll to the other side to grab it from the charger.

The screen flashes Andrew’s name, and your heart stutters as you read his message.

Andrew Can I see you?

Andrew Please?

What could he possibly want? Especially right now? Isn’t he supposed to be out to dinner? A part of you worries that maybe something happened, either to him or to another band member, but that isn’t your jurisdiction. That’s the tour manager’s problem. Still, you respond fervently in concern.

You What happened? Is something wrong??

The chat bubble pops up immediately, as though he’d been waiting for your reply.

Andrew I just need to see you

You blink, puzzled. At least nobody’s dead, you suppose. But what does Andrew want?

You Why? You’re worrying me now.

Andrew Please don’t make me beg

Oh.

That’s…that can’t be a coincidence. It’s probably the wine that has you reading into things that aren’t there. Though, you hear Melissa’s voice somewhere in the back of your mind, her words playing on a loop as you stare at the screen.

Like he fucking adores you.

It is almost certainly the wine that has you feeling bold enough to text back. You nod to yourself in reassurance before shakily typing out a response.

You What if I want you to beg?

You’re biting at your fingernails as you watch the chat bubble appear and disappear in varying intervals. Anxiety churns in your gut, your brain screaming at you to apologize, to blame the wine for a text that was far too inappropriate for the circumstances. Your thumbs hover over the keyboard as your phone buzzes again.

Andrew I’m coming over

“Oh, shit.” The words slip from your mouth as you throw the phone onto the bed like the damn thing has scalded you.

What have you done? What is he going to say? Sure, he may not have fired you for tearing into him, but this? Suggestive flirting? That’s a whole other line to cross, especially when you’ve been trying to shove away your feelings otherwise.

You’re pacing the length of your room as you try to come up with an apology that covers such an egregious overstep of boundaries when you hear a soft knock at the door. A nervous swallow feels like knives down your throat, and you timidly approach before turning the knob and opening the door.

As expected, Andrew is there, though he looks far more disheveled than usual. His hair is thrown up in the half-up, half-down style that Joy taught him, though tendrils have come loose and fall around his face. He’s wearing an outfit normally reserved for the stage—the dark denim combo with a black button-up shirt beneath.

“Hey,” you greet as casually as you can. “What’s up?”

Andrew tilts his head to one side, studying you for a moment before asking quietly, “May I come in?”

“Uh, yeah, of course,” you mumble as you step aside to let him into the room before closing the door softly behind him.

You whirl around and press your back against the door, eyeing him as he glances around the room.

Before you can form a reasonable question, he looks back at you and holds both hands up as he explains, “Before I launch into my—I mean, full disclosure: I’ve had three beers in the last hour and some.”

Ah, you think to yourself. Liquid courage.

In vino veritas.

“Okay,” you say slowly. “Um…also for the sake of disclosure, I’ve had a few glasses of wine. If that matters.”

Andrew nods, seeming almost relieved that you’re also not fully sober for this—whatever this is.

“Right, okay. Good. I mean, not good, like—” He stops himself mid-sentence and closes his eyes before taking a deep breath and clapping his hands together. “Okay, where do I even start with this?”

You blink, anxiety creeping along your spine and prickling your skin.

“Andrew, what is this about?”

When he opens his eyes again, you can make out the light pink tinge that colors the whites of his eyes along with a fierce flush that brightens his pale skin.

“I think you know exactly what this is about.”

You shake your head. “I don’t think...”

There’s a pause as he averts his gaze to the floor, brows furrowing in thought. His silence feels like it stretches for a lifetime as you await whatever it is he’s about to drop on you.

Finally, he takes a breath. “The other night, when we had that fight…you wanted me to be honest with you when I wasn’t. I know it’s unfair, but I’m going to ask the same from you now.”

“Andrew…”

“Please,” he pleads.

After a beat, you nod and whisper, “Of course.”

“Promise me.”

“Yes, okay, fine. I promise I will be honest with you.”

“Right, good. Grand. Okay.” He smooths an agitated hand over his hair. “I suppose there’s no point in mincing words. Tell me if I’m mistaken, or misunderstanding, or—shit, tell me to fuck off if necessary.”

You chew on your lower lip and nod tightly.

“There’s…I mean, there’s something here, right? Because, I don’t think I’m going mad, and I don’t think you would have responded to my text the way you did if…I mean, stranger things have happened, but this?” He holds up his phone and points at your last text. “This doesn’t feel like a coincidence.”

A million thoughts run through your head at once. You consider lying to him, consider telling him that it’s merely a throwaway joke to reference that conversation from months ago. But, he asked for honesty, and honesty he shall receive…for better or for worse.

“It’s…it’s not. A coincidence, I mean.”

Andrew’s face stays carefully neutral as he takes a step forward, a step closer to where you’re still pressed against the door.

“You hated me until you didn’t. What changed?” he asks.

There’s a part of you that wants to shoot the question right back at him in a deflection of your answer, but you bite back the words before they can escape.

Instead, you’re honest.

“You paid attention,” you say meekly. When he tilts his head in confusion, you continue, “You knew I hadn’t eaten anything that day. I don’t know how you knew, but you did. You gave me a stupid protein bar and scolded me for not eating, and I…fuck. I thought I could just ignore it until all of this was over.”

“Ignore what?”

“Ignore you. Ignore my feelings.”

Andrew goes quiet as he considers your answer, but the silence makes you nervous. This time, you can’t bite your tongue, can’t hold back as you parrot his question.

“Quid pro quo, Andrew. Same question. What changed?”

He shakes his head. “That night early on…when you left the venue early. I don’t know how you got back to the hotel, exactly, but…you were gone, and nobody knew where you went…I asked around, but nobody had heard from you.”

He trails off, as though nervous to continue the story and vocalize this shared feeling, afraid of solidifying it, of making it whole and real in the space between you.

“So, you came to my door to check on me,” you say quietly. “I was awful to you that night.”

For the first time this evening, Andrew cracks a smile that he hides by looking down at his feet.

“Well, I’d been awful to you up to that point, as well. And after, probably.”

The corner of your mouth lifts in a half-smile, and you shrug. “A little bit, yeah.”

Andrew takes another step closer, slowly closing the distance between you. Your face burns with a blush that spreads over your chest and to the tips of your ears as he hovers over you, one hand coming to rest on the doorframe, right beside your head.

“You are the most stubborn, willful man I’ve ever met,” you muse.

“And you are the most headstrong, obstinate woman I’ve ever met,” he responds with a smile.

You hum in amusement, unable to maintain his gaze. Just as you’re running through a rolodex of quips and replies that might be appropriate in the most inappropriate of situations, a gentle hand cups your face and pulls your focus back to him.

Tension has you rooted to the spot. His hand is still there, warm and surprisingly soft against your skin. You slowly let out the breath you’ve been holding in an attempt to calm your nerves.

Carefully, you reach up to place a featherlight hand on his chest.

“This is my favorite outfit of yours, the Man in Black look…” you murmur.

He raises an eyebrow in response. “Oh?”

“Mmhm,” you hum, letting your fingers brush against the fabric of his shirt as it travels downward.

Your fingers stop just short of the silver belt buckle that shines even in the low lighting of the room. Your heart is pounding in your chest, a cold sweat beginning to develop along your hairline as anxiety grips your throat. The sound of Andrew’s responding chuckle in your ear is both comforting and titillating as you lay your proverbial cards on the table.

After a few seconds of silence, he looks up towards the ceiling and sighs before looking back at you with a wry smile.

“May I kiss you? Or, are you going to make me beg?”

You’re not sure how you’re still coherent or standing when all of your blood seems to have rushed to your face or between your legs.

All sense of smug coolness evaporates as you nod frantically and whisper, “Please,” in response.

The first brush of his lips against yours is tentative, restrained. You can smell the hops on his breath, the earthy scent of his cologne, the remnants of smoke from cigarettes he’ll regret come morning.

When he pulls away, you’re left leaning back against the door, breathing shallowly as you swallow down your excited nerves.

“Are you sure you want this?” he breathes, searching for any shred of regret or apprehension in your expression despite everything you’ve just said to the contrary. Still, it’s sweet of him to ask no matter how moot the question is in this circumstance.

Your response comes in the form of another kiss, messier and more frantic this time as you throw your arms around his neck to keep him close. The hand by your head has slipped down to rest on your hips, fingers digging into your skin but not daring to move any further.

Kisses to your neck are punctuated with nibbles that make you squirm in his grip while attempting to swallow down the whimpers and whines that inevitably escape you.

You’re both in your 30s and far too old to be sporting hickies in places that can’t be covered, but the feeling of his teeth grazing your skin, the mere idea of being marked so publicly as his makes you not care quite as much about judgement.

With a huffed laugh and panting breaths, you press gently against his chest while murmuring, “Bed.”

This pulls a genuine laugh from him, and he shakes his head as he smiles down at you.

“My God, you’re demanding even now? I’m going to have my hands full with you, aren’t I?”

The question is startling—an implicit promise that this isn’t just a hook-up or a one night situation. Not that you had expected so, but the confirmation of his own excitement over such a prospect warms your heart.

“You say that like I haven’t been a pain in your ass from day one.”

Andrew shrugs, brings his hand up to cup your face again. “Well, yeah…but this is different.”

“How exactly is it different?” you snort.

“I get to kiss you now which makes up for your bratty attitude. For the most part, anyway.”

The word is a sucker punch, knocking the wind out of you as heat pools low in your belly. It seems your silence speaks volumes as his expression changes from jokingly irritated to slyly amused.

“Oh? Suddenly, you have nothing to say?”

With a lopsided grin and a blush, you reply, “I have plenty to say. You, of all people, should know that.”

You slip away from the door with your grip on his jacket sleeve, lightly tugging him along as you slowly walk backwards towards the bed. Your hold on him keeps you upright even as you move to push the denim from his shoulders in a bid to get it off. Thankfully, he takes the hint as he pulls it off and tosses it gently to the ground. 

“I’m well aware, yes,” he laughs. “Fortunately for you, I happen to like bratty women.”

There’s that word again, the one that makes your pulse jump and knees wobble. Despite your fiery, demanding exterior professionally, your proclivities in the bedroom lean more towards…well, submission isn’t a word you want to say out loud. Rather, you’re more open to following directions. Especially from a man like him.

He tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear as he murmurs, “It doesn’t seem like that will be an issue right now, will it?”

You shake your head quickly, earning another little chuckle from him that makes your stomach flip.

“Are you going to behave?”

The question makes you shiver as electricity shoots up your spine, your skin prickling with goosebumps as your breathing goes shallow.

“Yes,” you whisper, wide eyes turned upwards to stare at him.

“God, you’re so much more agreeable like this,” he says with a smirk.

You grin in return as you shrug and reply, “Don’t get used to it.”

His responding kiss feels different—softer, sweeter, and far more romantic than the particular circumstance would imply. Your hands wander, fumbling with buttons that reveal the black undershirt he wears beneath. The sight makes you giggle as you press your forehead lightly against his chest.

“How do you have more clothes under here? Jesus Christ.”

You can feel him shake with quiet laughter, his chest vibrating as he responds, “It’s layering.”

“It’s impeding my work,” you shoot back.

Finally, he bats your hands away and quickly unbuttons the garment before removing it and tossing it into a heap with his jacket.

It’s rare to see him so undressed, thin arms exposing his singular tattoo done by a friend years ago while under the influence of multiple substances. Veins run like rivers down pale skin, arms flecked with freckles and light, fine hair. They’re more toned than you would have thought, years of lifting heavy equipment showing in the shadows that reveal hints of built muscle.

He allows you to marvel, allows you to brush your fingers along the dip of his collarbone before he gently takes your hand and pulls it away.

He’s hesitant to allow you to continue undressing him, self-consciousness written all over his face despite his best efforts to conceal it. You’re not entirely sure how to express just how much you want to see him, how many times you’ve fantasized about this exact scenario.

“Please,” you whisper, peering up at him from beneath your lashes as you begin pulling at the hem.

There’s a pause as he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before nodding.

He keeps his eyes closed as he helps you lift the undershirt off, flinching when your fingers touch the bare skin of his chest, letting them run down along a trail of hair that makes you feel lightheaded and giddy. You’re drawn to the softness of him, compelled to lean in and press soft kisses just below his collarbone.

You push him gently until he takes two steps back, head tilted in confusion as you beckon him to switch places with you. Another nudge has him sitting on the bed, leaning back with his hands braced against the mattress as he watches you slowly drop to your knees.

“Oh,” he breathes as you begin pulling at the leather of his belt. His following chuckle pulls your attention back to him, leaving you flustered and speechless as he reaches out, cups your cheek, and murmurs, “You look so pretty on your knees for me.”

This man is going to kill you before the night is over, you’re sure of it.

“Shush,” you mumble as you attempt to avert your gaze. But, the hand still caressing your face forces you to look at him once again.

His expression shifts, eyes seeming much darker now as he levels your stare. He’s still blushing, obviously still flustered by this entire situation. The alcohol still has a hold on him, however, providing a level of confidence that you’ve rarely seen from him.

“I’ve half a mind to make you beg for this, you know.”

Your breath catches in your throat as he pulls his hand away to unbutton his jeans, and you jump at the opportunity to tug them down until they crumple to the floor. A few awkward kicks and quiet giggles, and soon he’s left in only a pair of black boxer-briefs as he quickly rids himself of his black socks with a laugh.

You’re trying not to stare. But, the tent in his boxers is intimidating, and you reach out with a trembling hand to rest it gently over his clothed cock. Andrew’s grip on the edge of the mattress noticeably tightens, his lower lip slipping through his teeth as he carefully watches your movements.

A light squeeze of your hand makes him hiss quietly. When he reaches out, you expect him to pull your hand away, expect him to say something or give you direction. Instead, he merely rests his hand atop yours, pressing down as he ruts up against your palm with a soft groan.

Your fingers itch for more, that emptiness within you aching to be filled. There are so many things you want to do, want to try, but time and stamina won’t allow for it all. But, there is a future of opportunities, and right now, you want nothing more than to please him until he’s seeing stars.

“Andrew, please,” you whine as the fingers of your free hand slip beneath the waistband of his boxers. “Please, can I…?”

“Wow,” he hums sweetly. “Begging all on your own? You are a fascinating creature, darling.”

The words stun you, your mouth dropping open for a brief moment before you snap it shut.

“Jesus, do you want me to blow you, or not?” you huff as you hide your smiling, embarrassed expression.

“Tempting as that is…I have other ideas. And, you are still wearing far too much.”

At his prompting, you stand and allow him to pull you into his arms where he sits, leaning in for another kiss as his fingers slip beneath the hem of your too-large sleep shirt. You pull away to raise your arms and allow him to slip the shirt off of you entirely, shivering as he begins to kiss along newly exposed skin. Wandering hands cup your breasts, warm fingers rolling your nipples before he leans in to run his tongue over one hardened bud.

Two fingers hook into the waistband of your shorts, tugging slowly as he kisses along your chest. You allow the garment to fall to your feet before stepping out of them and kicking them away, left only in a pair of plain black panties.

“Gorgeous,” he murmurs against your skin. “Absolutely stunning.”

It’s almost a compulsion to roll your eyes at his compliments, but you smile all the same, embarrassed yet delighted by his response.

Andrew punctuates his compliments with a few more kisses before mumbling, “Into bed with ye.”

As you crawl in and settle into bed, he fishes around the floor for something unseen. Then, with a triumphant sound, he holds up a square of gold foil like a prize.

“I’m so sorry,” you say through a fit of laughter. “Were you expecting this to happen? Or, do you carry that around with you just in case?”

“It wasn’t an expectation.” Andrew shrugs before falling into bed next to you. “More like…wishful thinking.”

It’s an earnest answer, and one you certainly didn’t expect. Before you can respond in kind, he wraps his arms around your waist and rolls until you’re beneath him.

Kisses trail along your neck, down your chest, before stopping at your hips. Your heart races as he slides his fingers beneath black fabric, and he glances up at you in surprise as he finds you already wet and soaking through your panties. You only shrug, unable to form a coherent response as his fingers press into you easily. It’s not enough, but it’s something, and you can’t help but press back against the feeling.

He tugs the fabric down slowly, as though opening a birthday gift. When you’re finally revealed to him entirely, he kisses along your hips and down your thighs, leaving little bites that will almost certainly bruise.

What a strange feeling to be laid out before him like a feast after months of animosity, months of clandestine desire shrouded in antipathy. Even stranger is the way he’s so tender with you, leaning up to kiss you gently while you try to ground yourself by cupping his face and tangling your hands into his hair.

His body is flush against yours, hips rolling as he absentmindedly seeks friction that you provide as you press back against each movement.

You’re breaking down fast, desire and need coursing through you as your body clenches around nothing but the continued dull, yearning ache.

“Fuck, please, I need…” you whimper against his neck.

“Tell me what you need,” he murmurs. “Use your words, darling.”

You’re well beyond the point of embarrassment, well beyond caring about seeming desperate because you are desperate.

“Andrew, for the love of God, please just—” you laugh to yourself and shake your head. “Please fuck me, or I’ll kick you out of my room.”

This pulls another genuine laugh from him as he hides his face against your neck before pressing a few more soft kisses along your jaw.

“You know what? I’ll accept that. Though, we may have to work on the attitude a little bit.”

There’s little time to respond as his own desperation slips through. He pushes himself up and away from you, sitting up to allow more room to slip your underwear down and over your knees before tossing them into the growing pile of clothing on the floor.

Andrew’s stare makes you self-conscious, and you quickly close your legs and turn your bashful, grinning face until it’s half-concealed by a pillow. He takes the opportunity to twist around and shuck off his boxers, but you keep your gaze fixed on the lamp sitting on the nightstand, arousal and nerves igniting like a current beneath your skin.

The crinkle and tear of the condom wrapper draws your attention, and—oh.

“Oh, my God…”

Andrew blinks at you, brows furrowing in an unspoken question that makes you laugh a little hysterically. You reach out and lay a hand on his shoulder as he hovers over you again.

“Please be gentle,” you say meekly. “I might need…time…to adjust…”

His face is already bright red, but you’re certain your request might make him spontaneously combust. As if he doesn’t know how blessed he is, but you refuse to say it aloud anyway, mostly because you don’t want to fuel whatever ego he may already have about it.

It’s no surprise that he’s a gentleman wanting to look out for your own comfort and pleasure. He grabs two of the unused pillows to shove beneath your hips, a more comfortable angle for both of you in this circumstance.

“Are you okay?”

The question is so sincere despite his previous teasing, and you nod quickly as you hum in the affirmative. With a soft smile and a nod of understanding, he leans down to kiss you again before pressing the head of his cock against your entrance.

His movements are slow and shallow, allowing you to get used to the stretch and size of him as he presses into you. Sweet words and soft questions are whispered in your ear, consistently checking in to ensure your comfort despite the strain of his voice revealing his own self-control. Every inch forward leaves you teary-eyed and whining as you’re filled beyond your limits.

As his hips sit flush against yours, you become hyper-aware of every twitch and slight adjustment as he waits for your permission to continue.

The reality of the situation hits you all at once: You’ve quite literally dreamt of this, always thought you’d part ways with this infuriating, wonderful man with a covertly broken heart. Instead, he’s here, and he’s real, and he’s wanted you just as badly as you want him.

“Can you—? I think I’m—God, please, you can—”

Despite your breathless, broken words, Andrew gets the idea. He’s still careful as he pulls back, slowly pressing into you again as you tilt your head back and let out a quiet moan. He uses the opportunity to lean his head forward until it rests in the crook of your shoulder.

“Fuck, I—” he laughs, warm air brushing against your skin. “I may need a moment.”

After a few seconds of deep breathing, he finally begins to move at a snail’s pace, allowing you to further adjust before finding a rhythm that both of you seem to enjoy.

You can’t control your sounds now, each moan, whine, and whimper increasing in volume as he fucks you, fills you to the brim in a way that teeters on painful pleasure. Silence is broken by the sound of your arousal, of skin against skin, making your face burn as you briefly wonder how audible this all might be to whoever resides next door.

The angle allows for him to rub against a spot inside of you that adds a strangely pleasurable pressure. Your eyes water with every pass as you cling to him, arms securely around his neck as you attempt to muffle your incoherent words mixed with his name.

The headboard of the bed bumps against the wall now, but neither of you really care. All you can think about is your impending climax as you slip a hand between you to press against your swollen, aching clit.

“Close,” he gasps quietly, only spurring your own pleasure as you imagine what it might be like to do this unprotected, to feel him twitch and fill you until come is dripping down your thighs.

With a sharp gasp, you clench around him, fingers working yourself solidly, evenly between whimpers that you muffle by biting gently on his shoulder. Pleasure quickly begins to mount as you dig your blunt fingernails into his back, earning a louder groan from him that clues you in on other proclivities he may have—a mental note to make for later.

“Pleasepleaseplease, it’s so good, ‘m so fucking close...”  Your voice cracks and breaks into a soft groan as a slight adjustment of his hips has you barreling towards your own climax.

“I know, baby, I know,” he huffs, and, fuck, he’s already calling you sweet names that will echo in your mind for the next calendar year, at least.

Another whisper of his name, and he murmurs, “I’ve got you, it’s okay…you’re okay…”

There’s something about the tenderness of his words that sends you reeling, choking out quiet moans and prayers as you clench around him in waves.

It’s your climax that finishes him as he grips your hips and lets out a harsh sigh before his moves still. You can feel him then, can feel the pulsing of his release as he presses his forehead to yours before stealing a kiss that leaves you breathless.

The two of you lie in a sweaty, panting heap as you nuzzle him. A blissed-out giggle against him makes him laugh in return, pulling back once more to look at you with a smile before he presses kisses to your face.

You’re reluctant to let him go when he mumbles about cleaning up, but you finally release him when he promises to come back with a glass of water for you.

You sit up in bed and try to avoid staring when he returns. You’re surprised when he crawls into bed without pulling on any form of clothing, floored when he collects you to cuddle once you’ve downed the glass he handed you.

“So…”

“So…” you parrot, tilting your head to look at him.

There’s a pause before he meets your gaze and asks, “Good?”

With a scoff and a giggle, you smack his shoulder lightly as he grins at you.

“Well, certainly Top Five.”

Andrew gasps in feigned shock. “Five? Not even Top Three? Wow…”

“I didn’t say where you land on the list.” You poke his ribs. “Gotta keep you humble.”

You squawk when he attacks you with rapidfire kisses anywhere he can reach. His arms tighten around you when you try to squirm away, giggling when you relent and turn to catch him in another kiss before resting your head against him. The silence between you is laced with exhausted comfort, merely enjoying the peace and quiet of a shared room, of warmth as you envelop each other.

It’s you who breaks the silence first, compelled by safety you feel in the moment to be vulnerable.

“I really fucking like you, you know,” you murmur. “Like, a whole lot.”

His chest moves with a silent laugh as a hand smooths over your hair.

“I know,” he replies. “I really fucking like you, too.”

After a few minutes, Andrew nudges you, and you realize you’d been nearly asleep in his arms. Slowly, crankily, you slip beneath the covers and wait for him to lie down next to you. The lights go out, and an arm rests around your waist and tugs you closer until your back is flush against his chest.

“We’re going to have a lot to answer for in the morning, huh?” you mumble into the darkness.

Andrew hums in reply. “Probably. Also, we may have to apologize to Joy for the, ehm…you know, the noise.”

Oh, right. It’s Joy who’s next door, possibly traumatized if she hasn’t been wearing headphones for the last hour. You’re too tired to look at your texts, though, and you figure you’ll buy her next few meals to make up for the whole ordeal.

“We’ll deal with it tomorrow,” you say through a yawn.

You feel him nod behind you before he presses a kiss to your head.

“Tomorrow,” he mumbles. “Tomorrow, we handle it. Sleep now…”

You smile in the darkness and wiggle against him. “Goodnight.”

He snuffles into the pillow, clearly losing the battle against sleep as he replies, “Goodnight, love…”

❤❤❤

Epilogue

You’re still waiting on the tarmac when you finally turn off airplane mode on your phone after an 11-hour flight, anxiety and excitement making you buzz with anticipation as folks around you begin to rustle around for their bags.

Andrew I may have gotten too excited

Andrew And I may be here far too early

The texts come through in rapid succession, sent about 20 minutes ago based on the timestamps. You smile at his messages, your heart nearly bursting at his early morning earnestness.

You Thank you for picking me up ❤️

You And sorry for picking the 7 AM flight!!

You I’ll buy you coffee for the trouble

You Also can we get coffee? I think I’m dying

Andrew Of course we can

Andrew It’s the least you could do honestly

Andrew 7 AM is fucking ridiculous

Andrew People choose to live like this??

Andrew I’ll see you in a bit ❤️

It’s not hard to spot him as he idles near the terminal entrance, messy hair hidden by a baseball cap, tired eyes shielded by dark sunglasses. You can tell he’s scanning the crowd for you as his head turns slowly. He breaks out into a grin once he sees you, making your heart stutter as you race over to him.

You drop your bags before throwing your arms around him, burying your face into his chest as he envelops you in a tight hug.

“Hi, hi, hi, I missed you!” you chirp. “Longest three days of my life.”

It’s ridiculous, you know, but you were so sad to see him go days before your departure. Ryan called it sappy, Larissa called it cute. Autumn called it puppy love before walking away crooning to Paul Anka.

“I missed you, too,” he murmurs before pressing a few kisses to your head. “C’mon, let’s head to the car.”

Andrew insists on taking your bags to his car on the fourth level of the parking structure. You’re both exhausted, your miscalculations putting your arrival time in Dublin at just past 7:10 AM. You hadn’t realized before double-checking the evening before your flight. Andrew, gracious thing he is, still volunteered to pick you up despite your offer of getting an Uber instead.

It’s nearly 7:45 AM when you settle into the passenger seat of his car, and you quietly watch the world whizz past the windows as he follows the surprisingly clear M50 southbound towards Wicklow.

“I’m sorry we can’t drive along the coast,” he says as you marvel at the greenery that flanks the outskirts of Carrickmines. “The train runs along that way, though, so if you wanted to go into the city and see the ocean…”

It’s an hour before you’re slowly rolling through the backroads of County Wicklow, further south in the outskirts where civilization dwindles. It makes sense for him, a little hovel he can escape to without fear of prying from nosy neighbors. (Also, cutting down on the noise complaints lodged by said nosy neighbors who don’t appreciate his late night wailing.)

You blink in surprise as he pulls onto a private path that leads into his driveway.

The property itself isn’t massive or sprawling the way you might expect from someone with his net worth. It’s far more quaint, averaging the size of a typical suburban home encountered in the United States with a plethora of vacant land surrounding it.

He walks you through the stone path amidst the foliage of his garden—less a garden and more a wild landscape of native plants for the local bees to thrive on.

The inside of his home is just as quaint, looking similar to your own apartment in terms of cleanliness and coziness. (Which is to say, lots of clutter and too many mismatched pillows piled on the couch.) It’s almost surreal to be here after weeks of planning, weeks of waiting until the coveted three-week break between legs of the tour.

Not that the break really matters to you anymore, you suppose. After a few conversations with Andrew and some uncomfortable Zoom calls with Caroline, it was decided that you could not continue on the tour as stage manager due to conflict of interest.

While you were sad to resign from your position, it was a simultaneously freeing feeling. The relationship you and Andrew had hidden from everyone else for weeks was finally out in the open. You were finally allowed to touch him, hug him, and kiss him in more public areas (within reason) without fear of recourse.

The band had been delighted by the news; you were not thrilled by the quiet grumbles and money that exchanged hands between them as you realized they’d placed bets on your relationship timeline.

Autumn was excited when you relayed the news, proudly shouting her well-earned I told you so across a parking lot at an unreasonable hour; however, she was less-than-enthused at her impromptu promotion to lead stage manager at the behest of management.

“I guess that means you’re leaving altogether?”

“Well…actually…”

Strings were pulled, arrangements were made, and Andrew presented a plan he knew you might try to refuse: Stay with him for the duration of the tour, and he’d take care of everything. Everything holds a much heftier connotation, one that still makes you nervous despite. To not work is one thing, but to have him pay your way? That just felt gross.

In the end, you agreed to the arrangement with the caveat that you would pay for some things here and there to feel like less of a parasite. Andrew begrudgingly agreed despite continuing to argue with you about how unnecessary all of it was, that he was more than happy to handle expenses so you didn’t have to worry.

His continued insistence about taking care of you still warms your heart despite the anxiety that comes with it. A conversation about the long-term has been shelved for now, but Andrew is quick to do anything and everything to ensure your comfort.

Andrew rests your bags on the floor in the entryway before reaching up to stretch and yawn.

“C’mon,” he murmurs as he takes your hand to lead you down the hallway towards the master bedroom. “I’ve only had a few hours of sleep, and I’m sure you’re exhausted.”

The coffee you’d picked up at a local shop on the way to his place does absolutely nothing for you, somehow making you even more tired than when you’d landed. Perhaps it’s the nerves and giddiness wearing off, allowing your body to finally relax enough for some semblance of rest. Perhaps it’s the jetlag finally catching up to you.

Regardless, you feel as though you’re five seconds away from collapsing from exhaustion.

You strip out of your dirty airport clothes and kick them towards where some of his clothing lays in a heap. It requires far too much energy to dig through your bags for any kind of loose-fitting loungewear or pajamas, so you opt to slide into bed in only a pair of dark underwear.

Andrew seems to take this as an invitation as he strips himself of his own clothes, slips beneath the covers, and pulls you close to cuddle against his side.

The blackout curtains plunge the bedroom into darkness once he turns out the lights. You suddenly find it nearly impossible to keep your drooping eyes open as you settle your head into the crook of his shoulder, one leg resting over his own. The smell of the pillows and sheets is comforting, so distinctly him that you can’t help but smile.

“Don’t forget,” he says through another yawn. “Dinner with my folks tonight…”

How could you forget? It will be your first time meeting his family in person, and the thought makes your stomach roll with nervous anticipation. You hope they like you, hope that you make a good enough impression that you’ll be accepted into the fold. Despite Andrew attempting to assuage many of your fears, you’re still worried about fucking it all up.

“I can hear you thinking,” he hums. “It’ll be fine, darling. They’re going to love you.”

You lift your head to catch him in a kiss that lingers until you’re smiling against his lips and pulling away.

“I know,” you say quietly as you settle. You rub light circles along his chest with your fingers. “It’s still daunting, though, meeting the parents. I guess that never really changes, does it?”

“In my experience? No, not really.” You can feel him shake his head. “I know I’ll be a nervous wreck when I meet your family.”

The breeze outside rustles twinkling chimes that hang just outside the open window. It’s soothing, a wonderful background noise as you relax in his arms.

After a few beats of silence, Andrew says quietly, “I’m so happy you’re here.”

“I’m happy I’m here, too,” you say with a huffed laugh. Then, with a content sigh, you murmur against his skin, “I love you.”

“I love you, too, darling,” he mumbles before pressing another kiss to your head. “Sleep now. You got me up far too early, and this is your recompense.”

“Oh nooo,” you say flatly as you tug the covers up to your chin. “I can’t believe you would do this to me…”

The words die in your throat as your eyes slip closed, the whistle of wind and the rustling of trees, the warmth of his body pressed against yours lulling you into a deep, dreamless sleep.

[got-the-cheese-touch]

medicine

law

business

engineering.

these are all noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life.

but poetry,

beauty,

romance,

love,

these are what we stay alive for.

happy aniversary dead poets society. you make me bawl like a little baby every time.

[thisishellfire-deactivated20230]

Only Your PA | Dieter Bravo x F!Reader

Synopsis: Being a personal assistant meant you needed to help Dieter out with all of his tasks - but never did you imagine you’d become another tick on his list.

Warnings: Smut, Hate Fucking, Angst, Asshole!Dieter, Dieter Bravo himself needs a tag, Hair Pulling, Choking (slightly), Spanking, Rough Sex, P in V, Unprotected Sex, Camera Sex, Public Sex, Fingering, Dieter hits it from behind, Age Gap (Dieter is about 40-45 while the reader is close to 24-25), Making Fun of His Name (LMAO who is actually going to scream Dieter during sex??????), Name Calling on Both Ends, Mentions of drug use (cocaine specifically), Covid-19 Pandemic talks,

Rating: E

Word Count: 9K

—–

Seguir leyendo

[goldenmarauderz1]

Sirius: Let’s make Peter the secret keeper for you guys.

James: That’s the best idea you have ever had.

James up in heaven: That was the worst idea you have ever had in your entire life.

[bievanbuckley]

Dylan O'Brien arriving at the set of All Too Well: The Short Film

[styleftstyles]

GET HIM

[katestewartt]

“Your savior is here!”

[cinemagifmaker]

The Zookeeper’s Wife | Dir. Niki Caro

Daniel Brühl as Lutz Heck

[ohforfucksakeherewegoagain]

hey rb if you absolutely love when reality slaps you in the face and reminds you that your tc does not give a flying fuck about you and that you guys are nothing! ha love that *reblogs*

[onlylostphysics]

Daniel Brühl in Dorian - Cualquier Otra Parte

[altlincolnlee]

Today my mind lives here 🙂🙂

[kreizlersbaby]

DANIEL’S CHARACTERS AS CATS.

Alex Kerner:

Helmut Zemo:

Laszlo Kreizler having a good old crisis:

Niki mad and Niki fixing his car:

Padre Domingo:

Schmidt choking m… Volkov:

Andrea being the cutest motherfucker, playing with the dusty carpet in that one scene:

[mask-knife-is-buggys-wife]

Reading Brahms headcanons and good lawd yall really did make this man the horniest pervert alive my goodness gracious

That is very sexy of us

[https-hann]

no bye bc i imagine him being actually so submissive and pure ¿? like ¿? man never saw a pair of tts before type of pure

[babybluebex]

temptation incarnate ch.1: temptation

summary ↠ (part 1 of a multi-part series) for the longest time, you could only imagine what it was like to make love with the young priest at your parents' church. thankgully, he's been thinking the same, and his curiosity gets the better of him. pairing ↠ father daniel gonzález-domingo (priest!daniel/padre domingo) x fem!reader (y/n) word count ↠ 5.4k warnings ↠ explicit language, semi-public heavy petting, discussions of virginity and loss thereof, religious themes, slight degradation/mocking, implied slutshaming slight misogyny a/n ↠ i know yall horny mf have been waiting on this, so, enjoy! masterlist/taglist in bio!

You had admired him ever since he started preaching at your church. And that was saying a lot; you didn’t quite care for the church or for anybody who worked for it. Something about Father González-Domingo was different, though, but you couldn’t pinpoint why. Maybe it was the way that he was so much younger than your previous priest. Maybe it was the way his face was always darkened by facial hair, almost like he didn’t care enough to look truly presentable for Sunday morning mass. Maybe it was the way that, whenever he greeted you as you walked in and shook your hand, he smelled like cigarettes. He was just different, and you liked that.

You liked a lot about the priest. You liked his dark brown eyes, his tan skin, and his dark hair. You liked his voice, smooth and comforting as he preached about whatever it was that Sunday. You liked the way that he always talked about his childhood growing up in Europe, dividing time between Spain and Germany. You could just imagine Father González-Domingo in his hometown of Barcelona; he seemed the type to say hello to everybody and greet everyone with kisses on the cheek. You liked the little freckles and moles on his face; especially the one that peeked out from under his white collar. It was unfair how handsome Father González-Domingo was, but at least it spurred you to go to church with your parents. Before him, there was no reason, but now…

You watched Father González-Domingo as he spoke. That Sunday, he wore his black robes, a red stole around his shoulders, the white collar gleaming. The sun was shining through the stained-glass windows, throwing blues and greens onto him. He looked like a painting, so beautiful and graceful. He spoke with his hands, as Spaniards were oft to do, but you hardly paid attention to his words. At the moment, he was just reciting passages, and you didn’t care too much for that. It was when he actually started his lecture that you tuned in (or, rather, tuned in as much as you cared to). However, he spoke a certain word that made you snap back into your body and focus entirely on him. He had said whore; as childish as it was, it made you pay attention.

“... ‘That sitteth upon many waters’,” Father González-Domingo said. “‘With her, the kings of the earth committed adultery, and the inhabitants of the earth were intoxicated with the wine of her adulteries’.” His dark gaze swept the room, almost like he was studying everybody before him. It was intimidating. You could hardly sit still with the fire that had bloomed in your stomach, but your mother’s presence next to you kept you stationary. If your mother knew that the only reason you came to mass with her was to ogle the young, hot priest, you would be damned straight to hell by her. The man paused for a moment and bit his bottom lip as he looked down at the lectern to his notes, and he looked back up with seemingly renewed energy. “‘Then the angel carried me away in the Spirit into a wilderness. There I saw a woman sitting on a scarlet beast that was covered in blasphemous names and had seven heads and ten horns. The woman was dressed in purple and scarlet, and was glittering with gold, precious stones and pearls. She held a golden cup in her hand, filled with abominable things and the filth of her adulteries. The name written on her forehead was a mystery: babylon the great, the mother of prostitutes and of the abominations of the earth.’”

Your rosary sat tucked in your fist, and you chanced a glance downwards at it. White and gold, each bead crafted of pearls; your grandmother had gotten it for you as a birthday present. You couldn’t remember which birthday— perhaps thirteen, when you became a “woman”— but it hardly mattered. But the pearls. The image that came to your mind was of the woman, the Whore of Babylon, holding aloft a golden cup with your rosary submerged in blood-red wine. Then, the image of Father González-Domingo came to you, wrapped around your body and kissing your neck as his fingers played with the rosary and the golden cross that nestled perfectly between your breasts. From there, your mind had his hand, warm and rough and larger than yours, cup your breast and capture your nipple between his thumb and index finger. You imagined that it would hurt; he would make sure it did. Then, his breath was on your ear, his voice deep and rich with his half-Spanish, half-German accent. “It has to hurt, my child,” he whispered to you, and his lips pressed to your shoulder. “Pain purifies you. The more pain you feel, the more your sin is forgiven.”

You swallowed thickly and looked back up to find those dark brown eyes fixed on you. He was speaking, never having skipped a beat, but he was looking at you. Watching you, almost. You couldn’t have possibly done anything wrong. The burn of shame, ravaging you for reasons unknown, came to you, and you lowered your head again. You quickly gathered up your Bible and tried to act like you were following along in the text, but your brain was moving far too quickly to even see the words on the thin page before you. There was no possible way that he knew what you were thinking, but you couldn’t decide if that was good or bad. Would you want Father González-Domingo to know you thought that about him? Surely, no, because it would be too embarrassing on your part. It’s not like he could ever indulge you in that anyway, even if he wanted to, and you doubted that he did. Perhaps you were overthinking it. You were the youngest there, barring the young children that were dragged along by their mothers, and probably the closest in age to him (you actually didn’t know how old Father González-Domingo was, but you imagined that he couldn’t be much older than you, maybe ten years your senior at the most); it wasn’t absurd to think that he was looking at you because of that. Indeed, it was absurd at all to even think that the glance that you had shared was anything but a chance moment.

Your heart and stomach seized inside you, and your fist closed tighter around your rosary. You knew that, when you released it, you would have an imprint of the cross and Jesus on your palm, but you didn’t quite mind it. Of course, by now, Father González-Domingo had moved on and his gaze was off of you, and a quick glance at your watch told you that there wasn’t that much time left in the service. He would finish his sermon, the congregation would sing one last time, there would be a prayer, and then you were free to go home and hate yourself for your insecurity. You felt that awful pinprick in your eyes, the tell-tale sign of impending tears, and you pressed your hand to your eyes to alleviate it. No crying, not in church. You just had to wait until mass was over, and then you could at least go cry in the bathroom. But absolutely not in the sanctuary. You might as well never come back. And what if Father González-Domingo caught you crying? The thought of that shame nearly made your tears come full force, but you bit the inside of your cheek to stop it.

The hymn came quickly, and you struggled to even remember the words. You were too overwhelmed with the thought of him. You imagined a hole in the earth opening up beneath you and swallowing you in one piece; at least, that fate would be less embarrassing than Father Gonzalez-Domingo catching you having impure thoughts about him— during mass, no less. Then, the closing prayer, and you squeezed your eyes shut as Father González-Domingo blessed everybody and bid you farewell. Your legs felt weak as you stood and you started to follow your father out of the pew, but a voice— the voice, his voice— stopped you. “Y/N! May I speak to you?”

You turned to find Father González-Domingo approaching you. His face was a bit darker, holding something there that you were a bit afraid to figure out, but you clasped your hands in front of your body. “I’ll be right out, Papa,” you told your father, and he gave you a quick little smile before patting your back and departing with your grandmother. “Hi, Father. Is something the matter?”

The priest regarded you with a quiet smile, and he placed his hand softly, carefully on your lower back. “Might I speak to you somewhere privately?” Father González-Domingo asked, leaning in just a bit to lower his voice.

You furrowed your eyebrows, but nodded all the same, and you allowed him to lead you out of the sanctuary. “Has school started back yet?” he asked, his eyes looking at you. It felt less like a look, though, and more like an observation. He was watching you, completely.

You shrugged. “Not for me,” you replied. “But I think the high school started back last week or so.”

“Ah, very good,” Father González-Domingo said with a curt nod. “And where do you go to school?”

“Just the state university,” you said. “About an hour out of here.”

“Might I ask what you’re studying?” Father González-Domingo asked.

“Nothing really specialized,” you said. “I haven’t declared my major yet.”

“Just core classes, then?” Father González-Domingo asked, and you nodded. “Very good. Do you live here, with your parents?”

“Usually, I live in student housing,” you told him. “I only live with my parents during breaks and stuff.”

“Do you go to mass when you are there?” Father González-Domingo asked. His accent seemed thicker, somehow, now that he was speaking just to you. You liked it, and you liked the way it warmed your stomach. His voice made your anxiety and fear wash away, as was the job of a priest, you assumed. He could have been talking about anything, though, and you were sure that you would feel at ease in his presence.

“Umm…” You started. “No. I don’t.”

“May I ask why?” Father González-Domingo asked.

“I can’t find a church I like,” you said, and Father González-Domingo gave you a teasing smile. His lips were pink, maybe a little chapped, but still looked soft.

“Lying is a sin, my child,” He said and gently nudged you with his elbow.

You rolled your eyes and leaned into his joking attack. “Alright, fine,” you sighed. “I just don’t believe in this, you know? I never have, and I can’t see myself going to church if I don’t care for it.”

“So why come now then?” Father González-Domingo asked. He stopped just in front of a door, and the small golden plaque on the wall beside it read ‘Father Daniel González-Domingo’. Daniel. It suited him.

“To please my parents,” you said, and you watched Daniel extract a ring of keys from what you assumed was his pants pocket underneath his robe. He quickly slotted a key into the lock and pushed the door open, and he ushered you into his office. The place exuded him entirely, messy but organized. Books were stacked on the corner of his desk, and a crushed package of cigarettes lay haphazardly overtop several sheets of paper with messy cursive scrawled across it. Behind the desk, just under an ajar window, was a small table, with something on it that was covered by what seemed to be a bath towel, grey and pilling at the edges.

You took a seat in the open chair across from Daniel’s desk, and you watched him shrug out of the red stole and black robe and hang them up in a small little closet. Under the robe, he wore black pants and a black buttoned shirt, that white clerical collar still snug in his shirt collar. He ruffled up his dark hair a bit as he sat down heavily in his office chair, and he looked at you expectantly. “That’s it?” he asked. “To please your parents?”

You drummed your fingers along the spine of your Bible, and you amended, “To keep the peace. They’re paying for my tuition, I can’t exactly make them too mad.”

“I see,” Daniel said softly. “Do you believe in God? In any capacity, I mean, not just in the Catholic way of thinking.”

“Why are you asking me this?” you asked. “Why does it matter?”

Daniel pressed his fingertips together, his eyes studying his desk, and he finally looked up at you. “I would just like to know, if that’s alright,” he said. “I am a man of a certain faith, but theology as a whole fascinates me. I just like to know people’s thoughts.”

You pondered it for a moment, trying to put your thoughts into words. You had never been asked anything like that before, and the fact that your hot priest was the one posing the question did not make it easy to succinctly arrange your ideas. “I think that God exists,” you began. “But I’m not sure how or in what capacity. Like, there has to be something bigger than us, you know? I’m not sure I believe in the whole all-knowing man thing, though. I… I’m not sure. I’ve never really thought about it before.”

Daniel pondered that for a moment, his eyes never leaving you. Finally, he clicked his tongue, and he said, “I saw you crying during mass. I assumed you were getting emotional over my sermon, and I only wanted to speak with you to calm your nerves. But, if what you’re telling me is true, that wasn’t it. What is the cause of your distress, my child?”

That terrible and unholy flame in your stomach caught light, and you lowered your gaze from his. You felt like his dark brown gaze would actually set you aflame. “I wasn’t actually crying, Father,” you said. “But… It was the image of her, she just… I can’t explain it. She just affected me.”

“She? The Whore, do you mean?” Daniel repeated, an amused smile hinting at his mouth. Your face must have fallen without you realizing it, because the small smile escaped from Daniel’s face. “I’m not making fun of you, I promise. It’s only that the story and image of The Whore affects me deeply as well. What about her affected you?”

You shrugged and tried to distract yourself by messing with the sleeve of your dress. Even though it was the fall, it was still hot out, and your dress was hardly anything more than a sundress. “The thought that she never really dies,” you said finally. “She just keeps coming back with a new visage. It’s… I just think that’s really cool.”

“She only comes back with a new visage to tempt men away from God,” Daniel told you, but you knew that well enough. “Is that the part you find compelling?”

You swallowed thickly and shook your head. “No, no,” you said quickly. You tried to ignore the way he seemed to be staring holes into you, and your fingers fiddled with your rosary. “No, it’s the-the never really dying part. Reminds me of Hinduism and reincarnation, ya know? It’s just cool. What do you like about her?”

Daniel leaned back in his seat a little, giving it a few tentative half-twirls before standing up. “I was told that I couldn’t get rid of this when I was given this office,” he started, tilting his head as he examined the pilling towel. “But, in all honesty, and if you’ll excuse my language, it creeps me the fuck out. I feel like He’s always watching me, and I don’t care for that too much.”

“What is it?” you asked; you had to remember to bring him back to the Whore after whatever this tangent was was finished.

“It is a rather unnerving painting of Jesus Christ,” Daniel said. “His eyes follow me.” With that, he carefully lifted the towel up to reveal a painting, and you averted your gaze from it. He was right; it was creepy and overbearing, and the eyes did seem to follow you, like the Monet paintings you had seen in New York.

“God,” you huffed. “Big Brother Is Watching.”

“I have to scold you for that,” Daniel said softly, and he lowered the towel back over the painting.

“For what?” you asked.

“For daring to bring up Orwell in my presence,” Daniel said with a crooked smile, and you laughed softly. “No, it’s the ‘taking the Lord’s name in vain’. I have to advise against doing that, especially in a church, of all places.”

“Oh, right,” you said softly. “Sorry about that.”

“All is forgiven,” Daniel said, and he settled himself on the edge of his desk, mere inches from you. Maybe it was because you had never properly seen him without his robes, but you couldn’t take your eyes off of his arms. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to his elbows, and you shivered at the thought of what it would feel like to have his arms around you, and those big tanned hands on your skin. “When it comes to the Whore, though, I find the same thing compelling. She returns with a new face and new temptations to lead men astray, and it’s a reminder of how vigilant one has to be. You can’t just trust any pretty face that smiles at you, because she might be out to corrupt you.”

“That must be an awful way to live,” you said.

“It’s not conducive to much of a life outside the church,” Daniel agreed, and he leaned back on his hands. “But that’s the life I made for myself, and I’ve never wanted much else than that.”

“Much else?” you repeated. “But that means you did want something more, at least at one point.”

“Everybody has doubts,” Daniel shrugged. “I prayed about it for so long. I still do… If this is the life I really want. Maybe it’s what works for me now, but what happens in twenty years? I won’t have a wife, or children to carry my name. If it weren’t for my brother and sister, I would be the end of my family line. And that frightens me.”

“Have you gotten any answer?” you asked. “When you prayed about it, I mean.”

Daniel sighed, and he slapped his hands onto his thighs. “You know,” he started, his dark eyes narrowing. “Not a single one. But I suppose that God works in mysterious ways. He’ll give me His answer when He sees fit.”

“Do you want children?” you asked. You shifted in your chair a bit, and you found that you didn’t entirely hate the warmth growing in your thighs. He couldn’t possibly be telling you any of this in an effort to seduce you. Of course he wasn’t.

“I’ve always liked the idea of it,” he said, absently scratching his chin. “Do you?”

You blinked a few times at his forwardness, and you carefully replied, “I mean… I’m still young. I have time to decide.”

“But if I asked you to decide right now,” Daniel said. “What would be your answer?”

“Yes,” you said instantly, and, for the first time, you dared to look him in the eye. “I would say yes. I do want children.”

“And that’s the difference between you and me, querida,” Daniel replied, tilting his chin down. “You know what you want. Even if you don’t think you do, you do. When push comes to shove, you can make up your mind.”

“What’s stopping you from doing that?” you asked. “From making up your mind, from knowing what you want?”

“I do know what I want,” Daniel said. “But the problem is that it goes against everything that has been put in me. Celibacy and a life devoted to God is not what you need when you want a family, when you want more than going home after mass to an empty parsonage.”

“So you do want a family,” you said carefully.

“Maybe a family is a bit of a stretch,” Daniel said. His mouth screwed up for a moment, then he peered over his shoulder to the covered painting of Jesus, and he sighed. “I just want to fuck a woman. Christ, how long’s it been…? Ten years, at least.”

You wanted to be taken aback by his statement, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to be. You had been holding your breath ever since the conversation had softened from priest to patron to what felt like friend to friend, and you carefully set your Bible aside. “Is that really it?” you asked. “Father, that’s…” you paused to gather your thoughts, and Daniel stood up and moved back behind his desk.

“Bad,” he said quickly. “Irresponsible. Blasphemous. You should go.”

“Father,” you began again. “It’s not bad, or irresponsible. Thoughts are one thing, actions are another—”

“Why do you think I brought you here?” Daniel snapped. His soft jaw was set, and he ground his teeth as he retrieved the carton of cigarettes. “God, I tried so hard not to give in to temptation, but you— And that dress— You need to leave before I do something that we’ll both regret.”

You took a deep breath. Your suspicions were confirmed, and you would have been quite pleased with yourself, if it weren’t for his unwillingness to give in. “Alright,” you said softly, carefully settling your rosary around your neck for ease; less things to carry meant a quicker escape.. “I-I’m sorry, Father Daniel, I didn’t mean to tempt you. I… Have a good day, then.”

Then, as you reached for your Bible, he moved back to you. His hand wrapped around your wrist, his grip tight and bruising, and you took a deep breath of him. He smelled of cigarettes, as he always did, but there was something else there. It was sharp and bitter, and you cast your glance down to the white collar that sat against his neck. “Father, have you been drinking?” you whispered.

“Don’t call me that,” Daniel snapped. “You have no idea what that does to me.”

His gaze was sharp, and you felt small. He had been drinking, at the very least, and was now lecturing you about tempting him. “Is this why you preached about the Whore today?” you asked.

“I thought that, by confronting temptation, it would go away,” Daniel said through gritted teeth. “But it only made it worse. You have no idea how much willpower it’s taking not to...”

“Not to what?” you asked. You carefully wet your lips, and you took note of the way that Father Daniel watched your tongue. “Say it, Daniel. Please, I want to hear it.”

Daniel drew in a shuddering breath, and he said, “I’ve dreamt about making love to you. Would you want me to do that?” His hands carefully went to your waist, hesitating for a moment before fully grasping you, digging his fingers into your flesh. “Do you want me to fuck you, Y/N?”

You nodded, and your hand slipped from his face to his chest. “Please?” you asked softly, and you looked up at him through your eyelashes.

He watched your face for a moment, then he looked down at your body and that thin little dress you wore. You could tell that he was fighting something inside himself, and he finally let out a soft groan. With that, Daniel pulled you into him and pressed his mouth to yours. You melted into his body and gave a gentle gasp when he tugged your hips against his, and you laughed despite yourself. You could feel the beginning of his erection through his pants, and the thought that you had done that to this holy man made you moan.

Quickly, Daniel pushed you to the desk, and you settled against it as he wound his arms around your waist. His kiss was heavy and demanding, and your hips bucked up onto his when his kisses moved to your neck. He was breathing heavily, panting almost, and his hands moved from your waist to grab at your breasts. “Mierda, querida,” he whispered, graveled and low, and he went to slip your dress off of your shoulders. His hands were shaking and he seemed frantic in his attempts to undress you, and you took fistfuls of his hair and tugged his face from your neck.

“Stop shaking,” you whispered. “You’re okay, I swear.”

Daniel’s chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath, and his hands fell from your body. He took your wrists in his grasp and brought them to his neck, and he gave a little sigh. “Wanna know a secret?” he asked, and you nodded quickly. “Would you like to guess how many times I have sat right here and thought about you as I touched myself?”

“How many times?” you asked.

Daniel captured your mouth in a kiss, and your fingers deftly tugged the white collar from his shirt. You set it down beside you, then started to unbutton his shirt as he broke the kiss and answered you. “Too many times to count,” he said. “I tried to keep track, but I lost the number once it exceeded the rosary.”

“Really?” you asked with a quiet laugh.

“I wouldn’t lie to you,” Daniel said. “Especially not about this.”

It only took a few of the topmost buttons on his shirt to come undone in order for you to see his chest. As you had suspected, it was dusted with dark freckles, and you pressed your mouth to his neck, right where that mole that you had coveted for so long was. He titled his head back, giving you ease to reach his throat, and he let out a strangled moan at the feeling. A small part of you pitied the poor man— ten years had to have been a long time to go without sex— but a different part of you was filled with excitement. You were the one to break the streak, the celibacy that was expected of a man of his position. But you had heard the rumors about the Spanish and, even though Father González-Domingo was only half Spanish, that seemed to be the dominating side.

Daniel gave a little gasp when you pulled away from his neck, and his fingers went to the little red mark that you had made. “You goddamn whore,” he chuckled. “You left a mark.”

“Is that a sin?” you asked.

With surprising strength, Daniel captured you by the thighs and threw you onto the edge of the desk, and he slotted himself between your thighs. You could feel his strong hands and bruising fingers kneading your flesh as his kiss found your mouth again, and you moaned when he ground his erection against your core. It didn’t surprise you that he was already stunningly hard, but it made you gasp all the same. “Do you like that?” he whispered, moving his mouth to your ear. “Do you want me to fuck you?”

“Yes,” you sighed. Your hands carded up through his dark hair and tugged him back for a kiss, and one of his hands wound your leg around his waist as the other went to your neck. You nearly thought that he would close his fingers and test your will, but his fingers tangled in your pearl rosary instead.

“Have you ever touched yourself?” he whispered to you. You nodded quickly, letting out a whimper when he tugged you fully against him by the golden cross at the end of your rosary. “How many times?”

“I-I don’t know,” you told him. Daniel let go of your rosary and instead took your face in his hand, forcing your head up to look at him, and you shivered at the intense dark gaze he had fixed on you. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think that his eyes were fully black, like that of a demon. But he was no demon, not that you could tell.

“Too many times to count?” he huffed out a laugh. “Exceeding the rosary?”

“Definitely,” you laughed softly.

“Have you ever thought of me as you touched yourself?” Daniel asked.

“N-No,” you stuttered out, and he set a gentle kiss onto the corner of your mouth.

“Oh, no,” he whispered, almost sympathetically. “Lying is a sin, my child. And lying to me, of all people? You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“Can I repent?” you asked eagerly.

“Perhaps,” Daniel said. He settled a kiss onto your lips, softer and more restrained than before, and your stomach sank when you thought that maybe he was being gentle because he was bringing it to a stop. “Would you sin again if I let you repent?”

“No—”

“Another lie,” Daniel said. “You just can’t help yourself, can you? I should punish you instead of letting you repent.”

“No, please,” you said quickly. “I’ll be good, I’ll do what you ask. Please, Father, I’ll do anything.”

He gave you a smile and kissed you again. This kiss was deeper, his tongue pressing into your mouth and drawing out a moan, and his hands took the edge of your dress and started to tug. He pulled it up past your hips, and he pulled out of the searing kiss in order to remove the dress entirely. Daniel placed his hand flat on your back and kissed you once more, following you as he pushed you to lay flat against his desk. The wood was cold against your back and you shivered, and he laughed gently. “Need me to keep you warm?” he asked.

“Yes, Daniel,” you sighed, running your fingers through his short hair once more. “Please.”

“So much begging, it’s cute,” Daniel said. “A little pathetic, actually. Do you usually beg this much?”

“I’ve never made love,” you laughed lightly. “I wouldn’t really know.”

Daniel froze. You could hear his breath catch in his throat, and he carefully said, “You’re a virgin?”

“I… Yeah,” you said slowly. “I thought you would’ve figured that out... ”

He stepped away from you, giving you his hand and helping you sit up. “I didn’t,” Daniel told you. “I… My morals are loose, but I couldn’t… I can’t be the one to desecrate you.”

You scoffed. “Desecrate?” you repeated. “You say that like I’m anything worth being holy.”

“You are,” Daniel told you, and you believed him. At least, you believed that he thought you were. “I worship you, my dear. But I… I can’t take your virginity. I can’t allow myself to do that. I-I’m sorry—”

You shushed him and pressed a sweet kiss to his mouth, and you said, “It’s okay, I promise. It was wishful thinking that you’d fuck me anyway. It’s honestly better if we don’t.”

Daniel nodded, pursing his lips. “You should go,” he said softly. “Your family is waiting.”

You nodded in agreement, but you couldn’t control the sick feeling that overcame you as Daniel helped you back into your dress. In the moment, the prospect of fucking him had been searing hot, enough to make you burst into flames, but now you were glad that he couldn’t go through with it. You would have regretted it, you were sure of it. You wouldn’t be able to return to the church or even see him again, and you doubted your ability to do any of that even following the intense moments you had already shared. Other than that, he was a fucking priest. It went against his entire job. All signs pointed to no, and you were relieved that Daniel had at least been able to read those signs.

You gathered up your Bible and tugged nervously at your rosary, and you watched Father Daniel redajust his clothes and slip the white collar back into his shirt. His cheeks were a bit red and, when he turned his head to look at you, the mark that you had left peaked out, already turning a bit purple. “Peace be with you, my child,” Daniel told you.

“And also with you, Father” you muttered, and you fought back tears as you escaped.

[babybluebex]

always and forever ch.1 [alex kerner x reader]

summary ↠ (part 1 of a multi-part series) when you wake up in hospital, you hardly remember the young man that's crying by your bedside, and he fills you in on what you've missed. pairing ↠ alex kerner (goodbye lenin!, 2003) x fem!reader (y/n) word count ↠ 3.2k warnings ↠ explicit language, mentions of hospitals/doctors, amnesia, mentions of a fight, mentions of east german protests/police brutality, a LOT of angst and fluff a/n ↠ lmao surprise yall. enjoy a good sweet alex

You grunted. Everything hurt. There wasn’t one part of you that wasn’t in pain. You could feel the bolts of it in your toes and all the way to the ends of your hair, and you wanted to scream at it. But you couldn’t. Your lips felt too heavy to do much more than moan out, and there quickly was a warmth in your open hand. “She’s awake,” a voice said. Young. Male. Your brother, perhaps? Did you even have a brother?

Then, there was another male voice, a bit deeper than the first, older. He said your name, and the warmth in your hand was replaced with something else a bit colder and rougher. “Squeeze my fingers if you can hear me,” this voice said. It took a lot of effort to even remember how to do it, and you found yourself grasping this man’s fingers as tightly as you could. The stress and strain of it nearly made a sob slip from your mouth, and the man gave a little “Hmm.”

“How is she?” the younger man asked.

“Weak,” the older decided. “I’m surprised she’s even showing any signs of consciousness right now. She’ll have to stay here for several more weeks until she’s ready to return home.”

“What happened?” a third voice asked. Higher and gentler; you felt an odd relief at having a woman in the room. “Like… Medically. I mean, I know what happened—”

“Her heart is weak,” the first man said. “Seeing what she saw, it was a shock to her. Heart attacks are uncommon in young, healthy people like her, but not impossible. Your wife’s one in a million, young man.”

“And she’ll be okay?” the second man asked. Your wife. Was this your husband? You couldn’t remember a husband. In fact, you couldn’t remember anything. Who was in the room? The older man, and apparently your husband, and the unknown woman, but a soft shuffling somewhere off told you that there were others there who merely hadn’t shown themselves yet.

“Like, I said, one in a million,” the doctor said. “Young people don’t generally have heart attacks, let alone ones on this scale, but she did. And most people don’t wake up from trauma like that, but she did. Only time will tell about the long-term effects, I’m afraid. We’ll be able to analyze fully once she’s more conscious, though.”

The younger man, your husband, sighed heavily, and you felt a weight settle next to your legs. The room was silent for a moment, void for the soft shufflings that you had come to accept, and then there was a soft snap of a door closing. You battled yourself, just wanting to see what was in front of you, and your husband gave you a gentle “Shh, you’re alright.”

Finally, you found the strength to even open your eyes, and you winced at the brightness of the room. In an instant, your husband had bounded up and turned off the overhead light, and, behind your eyelids, you could tell that the dark would serve you better. You tried again, your eyes fluttering open, and you focused on the man in front of you. Your vision was hazy and a little blurry, but you could make out enough of him. He was handsome, with a soft jaw and pretty dark brown eyes. His hair was a dark ginger color, his eyebrows furrowed together and darker than the rest. His eyes were circled with red, sensitive skin, and he sniffled a bit. “Oh, mein engel,” he mumbled and pulled your hand to his face and peppered kisses on your fingers and palm. He sniffled again, and added, “I thought I’d lost you for good.”

You tried to clear your throat to speak, but it hurt even to do that. Quickly, your husband moved to retrieve a plastic cup of water next to you, and he offered it to you. It hardly did anything in the way of soothing, but it helped you find your voice. “Where am I?” you croaked out. The sound of your voice, cracked and strained and broken, was enough to make your husband’s tears come fresh, and you added, “Who’re you?”

“Who am I…?” he mumbled, then gave a small laugh. “I see you haven’t lost your sense of humor.”

“No,” you said quickly. “Really. I-I heard someone call me your wife, but I don’t remember—”

His face fell, and your husband drew in a deep breath. He wore a red and grey t-shirt under a denim jacket, and something about the jacket tickled a part of your brain. You couldn’t reach far enough to grasp the memory, though. That’s what it felt like; you had all of these memories that you knew existed, but they were just inches out of your reach. You felt genuinely tired as you tried to recall anything about the man who was kissing your hand, and you couldn’t come up with a single thing. Not even his name.

“You’re serious,” he mumbled. “Fuck.” He smoothed his hair back off of his face, and your hand jerked in his. You were supposed to do something here. Him touching his hair felt like a cue of some sort, but you couldn’t figure out what it was a cue for. Did you maybe like playing with his hair before… Whatever had happened? You couldn’t even come up with why you would be in the hospital. You could figure that much. If not for the stark white and lack of any personality in the room, it was the smell. You could recognize the sharp smell of disinfectant anywhere. “Well, umm… I’m Alexander.”

“Alexander,” you repeated. You studied his face, his cheeks red and wet from crying, and you pressed your hand to his jaw. It felt natural, right, like it was something you always did Before. “Alex.”

“Yes,” Alex replied with a quick nod. His hand came to envelop yours, and he said, “Do you remember me?”

“Your name,” you mumbled lowly. “Alex… Umm... “ You stretched your mind, trying desperately to capture the memory before it left, and you felt relief when your reach brushed the memory. “Kerner.”

“Yes, yes,” Alex said, and he sat up a little straighter. “What else have you got for me, angel? Anything else?”

You hesitated for a moment. He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. There wasn’t even a tan line on his fingers from where one might have been. Come to think of it, you weren’t wearing a ring on your hand either. A quick glance to your right hand, unfilled by Alex’s cheek, unlike your left, confirmed that; just like Alex Kerner, there was no evidence of a ring. “I heard the… The, umm, the doctor… Call me your wife?”

Alex blinked slowly, all confidence in his chest leaking out. “Right,” he replied. “Yeah, that’s—”

“Where’s my ring?” you asked softly. “Do you have it?”

“No, angel,” Alex said. He paused for a moment, his eyes lowering to his lap, and he added, “It got lost during the protest, I guess.”

“Where’s yours?” you asked next.

Alex seemed uncomfortable with the question, and you brushed your thumb over his cheekbone. His skin was soft, dusted with freckles and moles of all sorts, and Alex squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered into your hand. “I should have protected you, I should have done so much more than what I did--”

“You did what you could,” you told him softly. This man was nothing more than a stranger to you, but seeing his sadness broke your heart in two. “If you could have done more, you would have. I don’t blame you one bit, and you shouldn’t blame yourself either.”

“I’m supposed to protect you,” Alex said. “What sorta man am I if I don’t—”

“You’re every bit the man you need to be,” you said. “I-I don’t really remember you yet, but I’m sure that I married you for the man that you are and not the one you could be.”

Alex nodded carefully, and he kissed your hand again. “I love you,” he whispered. “I love you so much, mein engel. You’ll remember me, and I’ll make everything better.”

You nodded. You didn’t want to bring up the possibility that you knew existed, that maybe you wouldn’t remember him, and you would have to start all over again. “When did we meet?” you asked.

Alex blinked a few times, drying his residual tears and clearing his mind. “Just about ten years ago,” he replied. “At Pioneer Camp. Kids in the East would go there for the summer and learn to be cosmonauts or some stupid shit. You were the only girl there, and all the other boys were always teasing you, tugging your braids, being menaces. I-I had a little crush on you. I think everyone did, though, and I was just the only one who wasn’t a dick.” Alex laughed a bit, and you smiled. His laughter was comforting. Your husband’s laughter.

“Who was the woman in here earlier?” you asked.

“Ariane,” Alex replied. “My sister. She had her baby with her, Paula.”

“I’m an aunt,” you chuckled. “Can I meet Ariane and Paula?”

Alex clenched his teeth together, and he pushed out air through his teeth. “Not today,” he said. “I-I think I’m enough for today. More excitement can come later, yeah?”

You nodded. Then, carefully, you asked, “What happened to me?”

“Engel, I don’t think—”

“Alex, please,” you pleaded. The blinking machines next to you jumped to rapid attention, and Alex regarded them with wide eyes. “I want to know now. Why am I here?”

Alex bit his lip as gears turned in his head, and he finally sighed. “I’ll tell you,” he said. “But you must stay calm. If the doctors hear that I’m upsetting you, they’ll make me leave. Alright?” You nodded quickly and shifted a bit in the bed to better accommodate him, and he settled himself next to you. His hip was touching yours, and he wound an arm around your shoulders. It felt like another natural motion to tuck yourself underneath his chin, and you wondered how many times you two had laid in bed at home in that exact position. “It was almost a month ago now. Umm… We had gotten into a fight that night. There was a protest in town that I wanted to go to, but you told me that you didn’t want me to go. You said it was dangerous and that I’d get hurt, and I was… Awful to you. I said things I never should have said… Called you names… I had been drinking. You hated when I did that. I regretted everything as soon as I did it. B-But you got your stuff and left, and I went to the protest, and I was arrested. The police got a hold of me and roughed me up, and I… I guess I must have looked up at one point because you were standing there across the street. You went really pale and collapsed, and I-I tried to fight the police, which was a stupid fucking thing to do. I kept yelling ‘That’s my girl, that’s my girl’, but they wouldn’t… Anyway, later, Ariane came and bailed me out of jail, and told me that you had… She used the big, medical word for it, but you had a heart attack. The shock of seeing me just… I don’t know. They said it was stress-induced, which makes sense…”

While you absorbed everything he had said, there was one thing on your mind. “We had a fight?” you whispered. “Do we… Do that?”

“No, mein engel, no,” Alex said quickly. “Hardly ever, and not about anything serious. But I was drunk and I was angry, and… I hated myself for so long. Even later that night, at the protest, I was… I was trying to get out of the crowd to come home to you when the police arrested me. I blamed myself for what happened.”

You sighed and nestled your head further into Alex’s chest, and you jumped a bit at the feeling of his fingertips ever so lightly running along your skin. His affection felt odd and foreign, even from his end. Maybe he wasn’t a big cuddler Before. “You shouldn’t,” you whispered. “What’s done is done, I suppose. All we can do is move forward, right? Just like this never happened.”

Alex nodded. “I missed you,” he whispered and buried a kiss in your hair. You didn’t want to think about what sort of grime you had accumulated during a month’s tenure in a comatose state, but Alex didn’t seem to care. “Everything felt so… Empty without you. I didn’t realize how much you brightened the flat until you weren’t there to do it.”

“Brightened?” you repeated.

“Yeah,” Alex said. “You would, umm… Sing along with the songs on Paula’s shows. You were always singing something. Or humming. You like to cook and bake, and I’d come home from work and you’d be asking me to taste something. It was always good too. My, umm, my friend Denis poked fun at me after we— After we got married, because I gained a little weight. That happy weight, ya know? But he said you were fattening me up to feed me to a witch in the Black Forest.”

You huffed out a laugh, and you said, “Do I know Denis?”

Alex nodded. “He works with me at the satellite shop,” he explained. “That-That’s what I do. We graduated high school, and you went to university, and I went to a vocational school. My grades were shit and I couldn’t really do much else.”

“What do I study?” you asked. You couldn’t overcome the odd feeling in the pit of your stomach, asking him everything about yourself, things that you should know. But those memories were beyond your tired reach.

“Art history,” Alex told you. “That was another brightening thing you did. You had an easel set up on the balcony and would paint all the time, and the den always smelled like it. Ariane complained that it would stunt Paula’s growth or something, but she seems to be getting along fine. When you get home, most of the art on the walls is from you.”

“Wow,” you sighed. “Do we live alone?”

Alex clicked his tongue. “Can’t afford to,” he said. “My job pays bread crumbs, and so did yours. I hate it and wish I could do more for you, but we live with my mother, Ariane, and Paula.”

“Wow,” you whispered. “What was my job?”

“Waitress at a coffee shop,” Alex said. “Technically, you don’t work there anymore, but…” He shrugged. “I bet, if you explained to your boss that you had a heart attack and were in a coma and in hospital for about a month, you’d get it back.”

“Do I want the job back?”

“Absolutely not,” Alex said simply. “You hated your boss, and you hate coffee.”

You nodded carefully. “Why don’t you wear a ring?” you asked, taking Alex’s left hand in yours.

Carefully, he switched hands to give you his right, and he mumbled, “I’m left-handed. But I can’t. It would get fucked up at work. Couldn’t afford one, anyone. I saved up enough to get you a nice engagement ring, but… I didn’t even stop to think about myself.”

Your stomach curled up inside you, and you tried to hold back your tears. You couldn’t even remember what hand your husband wrote with. Something so small and insignificant, and yet you didn’t know it. However, Alex was attentive, and he cradled your head to his chest and shushed you gently. “Please don’t cry,” he said softly. “If you cry, I’ll start crying again, and then Paula will sense it and she’ll start crying, and Ariane will hate both of us—”

You couldn’t help but laugh a little bit, and Alex jumped when your heart monitor began a louder and quicker beat. Your laughter left you a little breathless and lightheaded, despite not being much more than a giggle, and you took a deep breath to try to calm down. “Oh, my girl,” Alex whispered and smoothed down your hair, and he placed a gentle kiss on your head. “I’ve waited for so long to hear you laugh again.”

“I’m back,” you told him. You kissed his chest and took his hand again, and you said, “You said my ring went missing during the protest, right?”

“It must have,” Alex said, threading your fingers together. “I’ll get you a new one, a better one. One that won’t go missing.”

You smiled and managed a small laugh again, but the monitor continued its loud beeping. You groaned a bit and buried your face deeper into Alex’s chest, and you mumbled, “The doctor’s going to come around, huh?”

“In a minute, yeah,” Alex said and cracked a smile. “I’ve given you too much excitement for the day, I think.”

“Maybe just a bit more?” you asked, and Alex raised his dark eyebrows. “Not like that! I just want a kiss from my husband.”

Alex’s face softened, and he sat up a bit. “Are you sure?” he asked. “I mean… Really? Now?”

“Yeah,” you said with a nod. “Just one, a small one. Please, Alex?”

Alex’s eyes fell to his lap, where your hands had happened to fall when he had readjusted himself, and, when he looked back up, his eyes were watering again. “I’m sorry,” he whispered quietly. “I’m sorry, I just… I was ready to never hear you ask that again. I’m sorry, mein engel; eventually, you’ll say something without having me cry at it.”

“Stop saying you’re sorry,” you told him. “You’ve done nothing wrong, and things can only get better.”

Alex bit his lip and put his hand on your cheek, and you leaned into his touch. It was familiar, even if it was far off. He pulled you towards him and touched his forehead to yours, and you took a deep breath of him. Your Alex. He was there. Everything would be okay. You lifted your chin a bit, pressing your mouth to his, and Alex gave a little sigh into your mouth and kissed back. Suddenly, the big puzzle in your head felt just a bit smaller. Certainly, there wasn’t as much work as long as you had Alex around. A shock ran down your spine and you broke away from him, and you locked your gaze with his big, brown eyes.

“What is it?” Alex asked. “Is something wrong?”

“Devil,” you whispered. “Handsome devil. That’s what I call you.” The name flowed from your mouth as easily as if it were his given name, and Alex’s cheeks went red as he laughed.

“Yes!” he exclaimed. “Yes, that’s it! Th-That’s me! I’m your handsome devil!”

You smiled and kissed Alex again, and his hand went back to your cheek. “I missed you,” Alex whispered. “But I’m never letting you go ever again. You hear me? I am going to protect you and love you, and I can go to hell if I ever hurt you again.”

Before you could respond, ask what Alex meant by “again”, the door opened. “Glad to see you’re awake. Mrs. Kerner,” the doctor said, and Alex cleared his throat and stood up from the edge of the bed. “We have a lot to discuss.”

[babybluebex]

Anytime I look at Alex Kerner I just want to hug him and place his head between my boobs. Additionally every time I look at him I just think of that Tiktok sound that goes:

“You like boobies right?”

“Yeah? How much?”

“Thirteen bucks!”

“What?! That’s a lot of fucking money!”

“Okay okay, for you? $12.99”

alex has a poor understanding of the d-mark, he would accept boobies at $13

[dailydanielbruhl]