i'll choose flight over fight any day | robert pattinson/kristen stewart | pg15
word count 1195
excerpt Her fingers itched for something to do. They moved from the hem of her shirt, calloused fingertips running along smooth threaded patterns, to the rough ends of her hair.
notes written for the "mile high club" prompt at twilight_rpf
Someone should have warned her how long this fucking flight would be.
They-cast and crew-were flying to Volterra, preparing to shoot the scene when Edward and Bella are finally reunited, and the whole word is right, and happy fuckity blah blah blah.
A grimace was permanently etched onto Kristen’s face as she read over the script for the first time.
“Nitwits,” she muttered. She saw Robert glance at her amusedly from the corner of her eye. She flipped the pages until she found Aro’s scene-the only one that made sense, the only one that held any substance.
It wasn’t long until she’d read her lines enough times that they were memorized, burned into her memory, flashing brightly beneath her eyelids when she closed them. It was then, two hours into the flight, that she grew anxious.
Her fingers itched for something to do. They moved from the hem of her shirt, calloused fingertips running along smooth threaded patterns, to the rough ends of her hair. One hand tapped along her jean-clad thigh, drumming along to some invisible beat, and the other found purchase on her lower-lip, swollen and cherry-red from nervous biting. Her fingernails were chewed to the quick.
“Kris.”
She glanced to her left and found Robert looking at her, his eyes anxious, a beaten and battered script lying in his lap.
“Come on,” he murmured, shifting in his uncomfortably hard seat, “you’re so nervous. You’re making me nervous.”
“Suck it up, Rob,” she muttered.
He cocked his head to the side, brow furrowing. “You’re upset at me,” he mused.
“Not you.”
“Really? Could’ve fooled me.”
She sighed and pressed her fingers to her temples. “It’s just . . .”
“What’s the problem, anyway?”
An irritated sound escaped her throat. “This flight is taking so fucking long,” she said under her breath.
“You knew how long it was going to take, Kris.”
The heel of her sneaker began tapping the floor, indenting the dark blue covered in ridiculously bright geometric shapes.
He raised a curious eyebrow. “Airplanes make you nervous?”
“No.”
“Do they scare you, Kristen?” His voice held a mocking edge now.
“No,” she hissed. “Just shut up, Rob.”
Rule number one: never show weakness.
Her iPod had run out of battery over three hours ago. She stared at the empty, black screen, her thumb slowly tracing the edges. She sighed and swallowed thickly, her head suddenly feeling too heavy for her shoulders. She tilted her head against the seatback and her eyes fell shut.
“You know,” Robert said. She peeked open an eye and saw him pluck an earbud from his ear, the recognizable voice of Bob Dylan filling the silent air between them. “You could always use mine for a bit.”
She scoffed, her eye closing shut again. “You don’t like the music I like, Rob.”
“Better than no music at all, yeah?”
Kristen shrugged noncommittally.
“ . . . So fucking stubborn,” she heard him mutter before the awfully whiny voice disappeared and she heard the thump as his head fell back against his own seat. She smiled.
Rule number two: never accept invitations.
She must’ve drifted off, fallen asleep as she dreamt of the plane hitting turbulence and taking a nosedive, slicing through the air with chaotic precision. The plane jolted as it smacked the raucous ocean’s waves, the sea enveloping crushed metal in its chilly and deathly embrace. Just before she submerged, just before her lungs filled with sharp pinpricks of ice, she jolted awake, her eyes snapping open. Robert’s face was hovering closely-too closely-above hers.
“Kris? Are you alright?” His hand was surreptitiously placed on her shoulder, caressing her to consciousness.
“Yes.” She paused, eyeing him peculiarly. “Now back off.”
That goddamn eyebrow rose and the corner of his mouth tipped up.
“Please,” she stressed angrily. He chuckled softly at how her tone didn’t match her words, and slowly sat back down into his seat, the stiff plastic material crunching.
“Really, though, you’re okay? You were twitching and-”
“Yeah, Rob. Happy as a clam.” She stared exasperatedly at him.
Slowly, ever so slowly, Robert crouched forward, his inquisitive eyes fixed on her annoyed ones. He brought a finger up and traced it gently across the tender, purple (dark from lack of healthy sleep) skin underneath her eye. Her eyes closed at the warmth, shockwaves racing up her spine, a close tie with the guilt she felt knowing Michael was five rows in front of them, sitting with the rest of the guests of the cast.
“Kristen . . .”
His breath was warm on her face, a familiar scent of cigarettes and Big Red chewing gum.
“I know how to calm your nerves,” he whispered.
Kristen laughed; the sound was a bit breathless. “How?”
She felt him place his hand on the cap of her knee, his fingers rubbing soothing circles along her jeans, slowly inching up her thigh . . .
Her hand slapped down onto his. “No,” she said bluntly, the sudden snap back to reality making her eyes open.
Rule number three: make decisions for yourself.
The corners of his lips curved into a delicious smile. “Come on.”
“No.”
“You know you want to.”
She couldn’t argue with that.
He took her silence as an answer. “So why not?”
“Michael is only a few rows up,” she whispered.
His smile grew. “Haven’t you checked lately, Kristen? Your dearly beloved is fast asleep.”
“What about the r-rest of the passengers?” Her voice trembled as his hand crept higher. It was moving under hers, which was still resting upon his fingers. His warm, calloused fingers laced with her own and drew them together higher yet up her thigh, leaving ten fiery trails in their wake. His fingertips fit comfortably in the crevice of her thigh.
“They’ll never know,” he murmured in reply. His lips were just a hairsbreadth away from hers, and she could taste the desire on his tongue.
Her face still close to his, she felt Robert place a thick blanket across her lap. His hand broke from hers underneath the heavy wool and circled her belly button with his pinkie, his thumb and forefinger nimbly undoing the button of her jeans and slowly pulling down the zipper.
“Rob . . .”
His lips pressed against hers, not demandingly-but hard enough to make her gasp. And she acquiesced.
The kiss was all the permission he needed as his fingers followed the embellished pattern that lined her panties.
Rule number four: when the right time presents itself, any and all rules may be broken.
She leaned back in her seat, chest heaving softly and breath gasping quietly as she tried to calm herself. Robert pressed his lips to her forehead, smiling, his eyes glinting with mischief and victory.
The flight attendant spoke over the PA system. “If you could please sit in your seats and buckle your seatbelts, we should be ready to land soon . . .”
Kristen’s eyes met Robert’s, and it was as though their mingled breaths matched the beat, punctuating each syllable. Un-fin-ished-busi-ness.
An airplane flight had never seemed so short.
-
excerpt Her fingers itched for something to do. They moved from the hem of her shirt, calloused fingertips running along smooth threaded patterns, to the rough ends of her hair.
notes written for the "mile high club" prompt at twilight_rpf
Someone should have warned her how long this fucking flight would be.
They-cast and crew-were flying to Volterra, preparing to shoot the scene when Edward and Bella are finally reunited, and the whole word is right, and happy fuckity blah blah blah.
A grimace was permanently etched onto Kristen’s face as she read over the script for the first time.
“Nitwits,” she muttered. She saw Robert glance at her amusedly from the corner of her eye. She flipped the pages until she found Aro’s scene-the only one that made sense, the only one that held any substance.
It wasn’t long until she’d read her lines enough times that they were memorized, burned into her memory, flashing brightly beneath her eyelids when she closed them. It was then, two hours into the flight, that she grew anxious.
Her fingers itched for something to do. They moved from the hem of her shirt, calloused fingertips running along smooth threaded patterns, to the rough ends of her hair. One hand tapped along her jean-clad thigh, drumming along to some invisible beat, and the other found purchase on her lower-lip, swollen and cherry-red from nervous biting. Her fingernails were chewed to the quick.
“Kris.”
She glanced to her left and found Robert looking at her, his eyes anxious, a beaten and battered script lying in his lap.
“Come on,” he murmured, shifting in his uncomfortably hard seat, “you’re so nervous. You’re making me nervous.”
“Suck it up, Rob,” she muttered.
He cocked his head to the side, brow furrowing. “You’re upset at me,” he mused.
“Not you.”
“Really? Could’ve fooled me.”
She sighed and pressed her fingers to her temples. “It’s just . . .”
“What’s the problem, anyway?”
An irritated sound escaped her throat. “This flight is taking so fucking long,” she said under her breath.
“You knew how long it was going to take, Kris.”
The heel of her sneaker began tapping the floor, indenting the dark blue covered in ridiculously bright geometric shapes.
He raised a curious eyebrow. “Airplanes make you nervous?”
“No.”
“Do they scare you, Kristen?” His voice held a mocking edge now.
“No,” she hissed. “Just shut up, Rob.”
Rule number one: never show weakness.
Her iPod had run out of battery over three hours ago. She stared at the empty, black screen, her thumb slowly tracing the edges. She sighed and swallowed thickly, her head suddenly feeling too heavy for her shoulders. She tilted her head against the seatback and her eyes fell shut.
“You know,” Robert said. She peeked open an eye and saw him pluck an earbud from his ear, the recognizable voice of Bob Dylan filling the silent air between them. “You could always use mine for a bit.”
She scoffed, her eye closing shut again. “You don’t like the music I like, Rob.”
“Better than no music at all, yeah?”
Kristen shrugged noncommittally.
“ . . . So fucking stubborn,” she heard him mutter before the awfully whiny voice disappeared and she heard the thump as his head fell back against his own seat. She smiled.
Rule number two: never accept invitations.
She must’ve drifted off, fallen asleep as she dreamt of the plane hitting turbulence and taking a nosedive, slicing through the air with chaotic precision. The plane jolted as it smacked the raucous ocean’s waves, the sea enveloping crushed metal in its chilly and deathly embrace. Just before she submerged, just before her lungs filled with sharp pinpricks of ice, she jolted awake, her eyes snapping open. Robert’s face was hovering closely-too closely-above hers.
“Kris? Are you alright?” His hand was surreptitiously placed on her shoulder, caressing her to consciousness.
“Yes.” She paused, eyeing him peculiarly. “Now back off.”
That goddamn eyebrow rose and the corner of his mouth tipped up.
“Please,” she stressed angrily. He chuckled softly at how her tone didn’t match her words, and slowly sat back down into his seat, the stiff plastic material crunching.
“Really, though, you’re okay? You were twitching and-”
“Yeah, Rob. Happy as a clam.” She stared exasperatedly at him.
Slowly, ever so slowly, Robert crouched forward, his inquisitive eyes fixed on her annoyed ones. He brought a finger up and traced it gently across the tender, purple (dark from lack of healthy sleep) skin underneath her eye. Her eyes closed at the warmth, shockwaves racing up her spine, a close tie with the guilt she felt knowing Michael was five rows in front of them, sitting with the rest of the guests of the cast.
“Kristen . . .”
His breath was warm on her face, a familiar scent of cigarettes and Big Red chewing gum.
“I know how to calm your nerves,” he whispered.
Kristen laughed; the sound was a bit breathless. “How?”
She felt him place his hand on the cap of her knee, his fingers rubbing soothing circles along her jeans, slowly inching up her thigh . . .
Her hand slapped down onto his. “No,” she said bluntly, the sudden snap back to reality making her eyes open.
Rule number three: make decisions for yourself.
The corners of his lips curved into a delicious smile. “Come on.”
“No.”
“You know you want to.”
She couldn’t argue with that.
He took her silence as an answer. “So why not?”
“Michael is only a few rows up,” she whispered.
His smile grew. “Haven’t you checked lately, Kristen? Your dearly beloved is fast asleep.”
“What about the r-rest of the passengers?” Her voice trembled as his hand crept higher. It was moving under hers, which was still resting upon his fingers. His warm, calloused fingers laced with her own and drew them together higher yet up her thigh, leaving ten fiery trails in their wake. His fingertips fit comfortably in the crevice of her thigh.
“They’ll never know,” he murmured in reply. His lips were just a hairsbreadth away from hers, and she could taste the desire on his tongue.
Her face still close to his, she felt Robert place a thick blanket across her lap. His hand broke from hers underneath the heavy wool and circled her belly button with his pinkie, his thumb and forefinger nimbly undoing the button of her jeans and slowly pulling down the zipper.
“Rob . . .”
His lips pressed against hers, not demandingly-but hard enough to make her gasp. And she acquiesced.
The kiss was all the permission he needed as his fingers followed the embellished pattern that lined her panties.
Rule number four: when the right time presents itself, any and all rules may be broken.
She leaned back in her seat, chest heaving softly and breath gasping quietly as she tried to calm herself. Robert pressed his lips to her forehead, smiling, his eyes glinting with mischief and victory.
The flight attendant spoke over the PA system. “If you could please sit in your seats and buckle your seatbelts, we should be ready to land soon . . .”
Kristen’s eyes met Robert’s, and it was as though their mingled breaths matched the beat, punctuating each syllable. Un-fin-ished-busi-ness.
An airplane flight had never seemed so short.
-