sandandwater

“Oh, Ro…” his name was little more than a sigh that escaped on a whispered breath.

“…I do believe in you, Believer girl…” And the deafening roar of the audience made it difficult for her to hear the end of the song as she stood backstage, just out of sight, watching. He looked amazing, they all did, the entire band. Kreske, Junie…Sascha…Nil and Dave couldn’t have looked more at home, but it’s Rory, front and center with the microphone in his hand and the audience at his beck and call that held her attention. He finished the song—her song—with passion that drove the fans into a screaming, hand waving, foot stomping frenzy. They wanted more.

She wanted more.

The mid-point act pushed past her then, taking the stage to let Breaker Street have a much-needed breather. Rory walked right toward her. The hunger in his dark eyes unmistakable, the effects of the audience—all their wants and desires, their emotional demands—flowing through his veins and driving him to give in to compulsions not entirely his own had him wordlessly greeting her by pushing Pippa back against a wall, his mouth covering hers in a kiss meant to consume and possess.

Her lips parted eagerly, hungry for the taste of him and she inhaled deeply, lost in the heady scents of his sweaty skin and the leather he wore.

He didn’t ask permission, didn’t take the time to find out what she might want as he lowered his head to suck at the side of her neck, nip sharply at delicate skin. His hands were hot and rough as he ran them down her sides, over her hips, further still to bunch the fabric of her skirt and push it up. His knee slipped between both of hers, pushing her legs apart, one side and then the other, until he was wedged between them and she was pinned between his body and the wall.

She whimpered and tossed her head to the side and back again.

There was a light switch or wall plate; she didn’t know which, digging into her back right between her shoulder blades and it caused her to shift, squirm, press more fully against him. Her reward was the firm pressure of his hand between her thighs, his fingers hooking the crotch of her panties and pulling them to one side, exposing her completely. One-handed fumbling followed as he undid his pants, hitched her leg high on his hip and growled against her ear, “Mine.”

Fingers curled against soft fabric, twisting and pulling.

It was her turn to tug and struggle with his clothing. She worked buttons loose to open the front of his shirt and bare his chest, slipped her fingers under the thin cotton, skimmed his chest and traced the defined lines of abdomen. He didn’t allow her long for her exploration; he was too impatient for that. There wasn’t enough time for it. Lifting her, encouraging her to wrap her legs around his waist, Rory hissed a ‘yes’ against her shoulder then drove himself into her with animalistic want.

She gasped and arched her back sharply.

As she held onto him, hands on shoulders and ankles crossed behind his back, Pippa moaned. He felt good; she felt…full, whole, loved. Needed. He still needed her, for this if nothing else. Faster, harder, deeper—that light switch was digging into her flesh again. He was murmuring to her, voice gruff but the words—oh, the words were soft and tender. A muirnin rua. I love you. A chroi. My sweet. Phillipa. He came, finished just a quickly as he’d begun, barely taking the time to kiss her again before letting her back down and pulling away to set his clothes to rights.

“Oh, Ro…” she called his name again.

Bit her lip.

Woke up.

Perspiration-soaked and breathing heavily, she ran her hands over her face, down the length of her body. Her legs still trembled and she was all too aware of the slick wetness between her thighs. Lifting her hand to her lips, Pippa found that they weren’t bruised or swollen.

His kisses were no more real than the rest of her dream, vivid though it had been. This time, the cry that tore from her throat was pain-filled and misery-laden. She missed him. More than that, she needed him. Loved him.

Left him.


Pippa Kerr//Last Call//733

ooc: I've fast forwarded a bit for this prompt. It takes place several months from now. It should also be noted that since this is largely a dream, descriptions of what the crowds do to Rory fey_fire are based on Pippa's understanding of the phenomenon and are not necessarily accurate. Lyrics to Believer Girl belong to Rory's mun.

10. I'm easy as gin // I'm as gentle as sleep // But I'm not satisfied
(Deborah Conway – ‘I’m Not Satisfied’)

Saturday night and she’s back on the clock, working in the bar, being Last Call’s resident outstanding waitress. She doesn’t skip a table, mess up an order, spill a single drink. The bartenders are glad to have her around, she keeps her tabs organized and collects on them discretely and her empties never clutter their workspace. All the other servers are thrilled to let her sort out problems as they arise, figure the tips, juggle the schedules. It’s as if Pippa Kerr has never left. That two, almost three, month gap where she’d not worked a single shift couldn’t have been real. It feels just like old times.

Almost.

The music is different. The band isn’t as good. They aren’t bad by any means and the customers seem to enjoy them a great deal but the red haired woman with a tray in her hand can’t keep herself from looking at the stage and seeing someone else up there. Breaker Street is gone; Rory Stone’s warm and melodic baritone isn’t going to wrap itself around her as she makes her way between tables. The set list full of familiar tunes won’t be there to flood her mind with memories, good or bad. She isn’t going to return the flirtatious smiles and winks of the lead singer when he manages to catch her eye.

Unsettling.

For nearly two years now, she had a routine in this place. Wednesdays and Saturdays have been the touchstones of her life. Her security and stability. The crowd used to be made up of (mostly) familiar faces, the staff had been friends not just coworkers and the music—the music had been outstanding. The band had been good, too good as they finally managed to prove, and now they’d moved on to bigger and better things. With them went a lot of the regulars, their weekly habits changing during the ups and downs of trying to replace what had been the hallmark good time at Last Call.

Change.

As she closes up later, once all the patrons have gone and the band—what is their name again—has been paid, Pippa finds herself wondering how much more it’s going to change and whether or not she can change with it. Then it occurs to her as she’s walking to her car, alert and aware of Mike Owens standing in the doorway watching her, that she’s the one who has been changed. It’s still a bar, the music is still live and the drinks are still strong. The customers are happy to pay and the waitresses pleased to serve. She’s the one who is no longer the same.

Pippa Kerr//Last Call//441

(Editors – ‘Blood’)

“” Alessandro murmured in quiet approval as he stood behind Pippa, absently twisting and turning her curly red locks in his hands, tucking them into the back of her shirt to keep her hair from being further singed in the fire’s heat. He was like that, gentle and quiet when she did something right. One little mistake and he’d be screaming in her ear, gesticulating wildly and cursing her into the next decade. He had a flair for the dramatic, to say the least. “, Pippa…keep going, do not take the time to think, just feel it, . Feel the pull…let gravity, , like that. .”

She’d been there, in Italy, apprenticing with this man for nearly two years. So much learned and still feeling like so much more she needed to know. She had the basics, understood the process but now came the hard part. Learning to trust her instincts, knowing when to break the rules to let creativity reign.

“ Faster, hurry…” He was reaching for the pipe then, not controlling, merely assisting as she spun the heavy rod. Keeping it balanced for her, his hands so much larger and stronger. Calluses thicker. His sense of timing perfected. “Look at it, Pippa! See what you make here, !”

Pippa laughed at the praise, laughed more at grin on the old man’s face as they worked in tandem, watching as the glass thinned and flared, fanned out from the centrifugal force they were creating in the sweltering studio. Faster, they turned the pontil, hand over hand hers and his, moving in sync. “ You’re crazy!”

Later that evening, hours later, they sat on the terrazzo steps that made up the front of Alessandro’s home, drinking wine bottled from vineyards belonging to his sister in Tuscany and sharing a loaf of bread baked fresh by his neighbor. Between them sat the vessel she had been spinning. A platter of vibrant colors, the process of marvering it—rolling it over a marble slab layered in chemicals to add color to the glass, all Pippa’s own doing. She’d done it all herself: the initial gathering of molten glass, forming the first bubbled shape with breath from her own lungs, the following gathers, back and forth to the marver, reheating it in the glory hole. All he had done was watch. Watch and spin as her second pair of hands.

That had been her job for the longest time. Today, master handed over the reins to the apprentice and let her take control. And she’d done . He was proud, she could tell by the speculative glances he kept giving the platter. It had only been in the annealing oven for a few hours, the glass so thin that it didn’t take long for it to gradually cool. Very tricky, what she had done. Avoided the stress fractures common to a piece so delicate.

“…you have the touch. A gift. It’s not only a talent, not just a skill. A gift. ” He took her hands in his, thumbs rubbing over the rough skin of her palms before lifting each, in turn, to his lips for a tender kiss. “A gift.”

“, Alessandro…thank you. I couldn’t possibly—“

“No, no. You do not thank me for this, Phillipa. You thank the Mother Mary, you thank the Holy Father. You thank these.” He lifted her hands again, squeezed them tightly. “This gift I did not give to you, you had it all along. I see it. I knew. When you came around my shop. When you with that awful American Italian asked me for work. When you didn’t cry every time I yell at you. When you get burned and you kept working. I knew, .”

She smiled at him then, always picking on her Italian even as his English sometimes left something to be desired. She never once commented on it, even then she opted for, “I had a good teacher.”

“The best.” Oh, that machismo. He had it in spades. He dropped one of her hands to run a finger along the rim of her glass. “This is very good. Very lovely.”

Releasing her other hand he lifted the platter and looked her right in the eye. “But is only one piece. Promise you can do it again, just the same.”

She bit her bottom lip as she returned his gaze, blue eyes fixed on dark brown. It was a challenge; she recognized it. Pippa had been flying high all evening with a sense of accomplishment but he’d never let her get too full of herself. Alessandro was a good teacher for a reason. “I promise.”

“.” He let go of her platter and watched it shatter across the terrazzo, a million glimmering slivers catching the moonlight. “Tomorrow.”

“I promise.”


Pippa Kerr//Last Call//802

Hello, I'm Pippa Kerr. If you're into the nightlife on Staten Island (and anyone in Manhattan making snide remarks, kindly keep them to yourselves, please) you've probably seen me or at least know of the bar I wait tables at most nights. Last Call. Live music five nights a week, karaoke and open mic nights on alternating Fridays. Wednesdays and Saturdays are the best nights though. My personal favorites play then: Breaker Street.

I talk about them a lot, I do. But I do it with good reason, they are amazing. And really, Last Call is great. Good crowds, good service, the drinks are never watered down. And me, I'm there to be your waitress.

I suppose I should tell you a little bit more about myself. I'm a native New Yorker, I actually love living on Staten though that is not where I grew up. I have a puppy named Mr. Beaker who is just adorable and I like riding pillion when my boyfriend has his motorcycle.

Oh, and I blow glass in my spare time.