It had, so far, been a real bummer of a morning.



Not that he was complaining. It was only common sense: You couldn't complain about anything that was your own fault. And waking up late, despite the boss's apathy to Mark's profuse phone apology, was a decidedly shitty fault.



First of all, it caused rushing, which was bad for putting clothes on properly and very bad for savoring an early morning coffee. One couldn't possibly feel right without their standard morning routine, and Mark could tell already that he'd spend the rest of the day off kilter.



And second, now he'd have to get on the subway during rush hour, and suffer all the slowness/yuckiness that a crowd brought with it. Mark was an early bird for exactly this reason: to catch the worm, and hopefully fewer colds.



And third... well, third wasn't quite the fault of Mark's waking up late, but was a great factor to the sense of unease in his stomach. On Friday, a train in this very system had derailed due to a sleep deprived subway operator. The train had been going much too fast, and though no one had been hurt, Mark had found the reports of those stuck for several hours on the train to be quite harrowing. The operator had been suspended for further investigation, and rumors of engine tampering by terrorists or government conspiracy had spread across the more paranoid circles of the city.



Of course, Mark didn't believe in such nonsense, he thought, then jumped at the sight of a man in a suit. It took a moment to remember that the CIA probably didn't have any reason to explode a perfectly good train.



The subway doors opened, and a sea of people poured through. Mark's foreboding didn't stop his getting swept along with them, but it certainly didn't ease when he noticed the heat of the car. Broken air conditioning was simply not reassuring to a man already panicky about another derailment.



In fact, he was debating getting out. Mark had been packed back into a pocket of space between the crowd and the door, and was imagining being trapped in this sweaty hell for hours, when he saw her face.



She was wearing sunglasses, walking slowly, and spinning a keychain around her finger. Her lips were a pretty pinkish pale. Her hair was brown, around shoulder length. She seemed particularly unkempt, and her dress was noticeably from one night ago.



She looked about as uncomfortable as Mark, and seeing no other place to go, she stood in front of him and turned her back.



(And stole his chance to escape.)



They were at a comfortable distance, until far too many people filed in, pressing her back against him. His nose went into her hair, and uncomfortable as it was, the scent did serve to distract him from the train's probably imminent bombing.



Lavender.



He turned his head to the side, and thought happy thoughts as the car jolted into motion.



***



"Yes, I realize I was drunk, but drinking does not make articles of clothing disappear."



"Well, you were drinking on a Sunday. Maybe you're being punished," Mary replied.



"God did not disappear my panties!" squealed Sarah, then released a breath and pressed her hands to her face. How had she lost her underwear when, to the best of Mary's recollection, she hadn't even gotten laid last night? "So," she said, steadying her breath, "ignoring the fact that you were drinking too, do you have any idea where they might have actually gone?"



Mary said no.



"Then," Sarah continued, "may I borrow one of yours?"



"Yeah..." Said Mary, sucking at her teeth. "This is my boyfriend's apartment, so, I don't know how to help you."



Sarah sobbed in her mind.



"Cheer up, Sar-Bear," said Mary. "This is just what Mondays are like."



With that consolation in tow, Sarah stepped into the hallway.



"Don't take the subway back," called Mary behind her. "One of them crashed on Friday. And you heard what that gypsy woman said about an accide-"



Sarah slammed the door behind her, and regretted it as soon as the stabbing started at her skull. "First on the to-do list when I get out of med school," she said through gritted teeth, "cure the hangover."



She started down the hall, calculating how long it would take to get back on campus. Yeah, the Tarot had spoken of a nearing accident. It had also claimed that a knight in shining armor would take her - away from what, she didn't know - but if that were true, he was taking his gallant fucking time.



Sarah stepped outside. Fumbled with her purse, donned a pair of apparently fluorescent sunglasses. Let her insides weep a bit more.



And headed off to the subway, playing idly with her keychain.



She dropped her keys a few times on her way, which those with hangovers are wont to do, and found herself feeling quite unusually vulnerable when she arrived pantiless on the subway platform. In a fleeting moment of memory, she remembered how inclined the hem of her dress had been to ride up her legs when she'd gotten sweaty last night. It was naturally only halfway down her thighs, so she wondered for a moment if it might prove an issue, but relaxed after noticing how cool was the platform.



The subway doors opened, and Sarah went through, cringing at the raucous hum of the crowd.



There was a cute guy where she'd have to stand, dressed in slacks and a button down, and she could tell she'd caught his eye. Will you be my shining knight, the one to rescue me from Monday? she thought, probably staggering toward him, spinning her keys on her finger. But as soon as she entered the car she noticed the heat. Ohpleasegodno- she thought before being pushed roughly back against her savior.



The car doors closed, and the ride started, and if it had been any bumpier she might have cried. A friend of a friend had told her a story once, about smoking meth during a night of exceptionally heavy drinking, and waking up with no hangover. Sarah thought she might prefer meth addiction as an alternative to this.



And as the ride dragged on, Sarah found her legs getting increasingly sweatier, with each bump of the train hiking her dress up a little more. She could've just pulled it back down, but it would look weird, and there seemed be be a bigger problem to deal with.



A much bigger problem.



Something hard was growing against her butt, and at little below waist level, it was probably a penis.



And she'd thought knights in shining armor were supposed to be chaste.



She resolved to ignore it. The guy could hardly be blamed - they were in an uncomfortably packed train car, and she had been told that her ass was among the best of its kind. Besides, at about twenty-two, with a face the vision of someone eager to do good, her knight just didn't look the creepy type.



But the pressure just kept growing, and it was hard not to notice, and the guy had to notice it too, and she was beginning to wonder about its size, and oh my the guy had just swiveled his hips and now it was pushing in low between her cheeks and things were getting wet he needed to stop moving or this was going to get worse...



A strange "Eep!" sound came from behind her.



Her keychain spinning had turned nervous, and with a bump of the train it clattered to the floor. She could bend over and pick it up, he could adjust... everything... and then they could go back to standing and pretend this had never happened.



Or, the train could crash and I could forget this and everything else. Whatever works.



She tapped on the shoulder of the enormous man in front of her, and he turned to her with jaw slack and eyes half lidded. He may have actually been a zombie. "Excuse me," she said in a very small voice, "could you squeeze to the side for just a second? I need to grab something."



He nodded lethargically, and with much straining, managed to make enough room for her to awkwardly bend over, and she grabbed her keys from the floor. As she was bent, she noticed just how sweaty were her legs, and just how far her dress had ridden up, and decided it was best to get back upright very quickly.



The train made an especially large jolt.



***



His every muscle was tight. His eyes were wide, and his heart was the referent for some metaphor about drumming.



It wasn't just because of the beautiful girl grinding him with every bump, but also because the full extent of his rushed dressing this morning had just become obvious.



His dick was through his boxers, and as his erection hardened, it became painfully clear that it was pinched in his slacks' zipper. It wasn't that bad at first, but this girl was incredibly hot, and he couldn't help but notice the ripples on her dress from its riding up her legs, and he was becoming so hard that he feared injury from the cold metal.



A few more bumps. If it weren't for the pain, it probably would have felt very good. But the hurt was becoming too much. Mark tried to back away, but there was no room behind him. He managed to twist his hips, dragging the bulge in his pants across her butt, and lodging it accidentally in between her legs.



She was sweating, and her dress was clinging to her close, giving him a detailed outline of her form. And his cock, pointing out now... he could see it indenting the material. It was poking into a very situationally inappropriate place, he knew, and bit his lip sharply when her cheeks clenched around it.



Oh god she knows.



He made an "Eep!" noise, quickly covered his mouth, and decided to address the problem of the cutting pain in his penis which he was certain would draw blood soon. Could he... could he quickly unzip his fly, and re-zip before anyone noticed? He looked around nervously. It was a room of people dead on their feet, none paying more attention to his than they would a fly on the window.



So, that was it. As soon as she moved away, he'd adjust, she'd come back, and it would be like this had never happened.



Luck! The man in front of her was moving, and for a moment the pressure of her butt was lifted, and he quickly unzipped his fly while his eyes were drawn to what had just left his crotch.



She wasn't wearing any panties.



His mouth was unabashedly open. Her dress was mostly bunched around her waist, and her pussy was entirely exposed.



And wet.



Oh, my, god, she was hot.



Jesus. Fucking. Christ.



Mark's brain was off.



Gone.



There was something he'd forgotten to do.



It was wet because probably of him probably.



Couldn't remember... quite...



Some sort of draft around his dick.



Was this what love felt like?



Then the car jolted, an especially big one this time, and the girl came lurching back against him, and he felt the tip of his dick parting something slick and hot, perfectly posed against her hole, and then there was another bump and he was inside her, and she was so incredibly tight around him, clenching against his ridge with tremendous pressure...



With a jolt, she stood up, and thus slid halfway down his shaft. Now it was her turn to make an "Eep!" sound, and as the noise of the crowd faded into an indistinct rustling, as Mark's mind hollowed into a vast black expanse stretched across with only the image of her, a voice lost in the unseeable chasm behind the picture intoned that her squeak was probably cuter than his.



A small amount of sense came back to Mark. He was about to use it to do something, but realized sadly that even an ordinary amount of sense was not enough for this situation.



Her head turned, deliberately, slowly, and she raised her sunglasses to rest atop her head. She wore a blank expression, as though enough incomprehension could cause a face to give up expressing it and resort back to default, and began to part her lips to speak.



She forgot the part with the words, though, and as the car bumped again, a gasp rocked her calm demeanor.



"Excuse me, miss," said Mark quietly, his speech no louder than a breath. Her eyes locked with his, and they were a beautiful, deep brown, cradled by thick lashes. They darted between each of his. "This was... an accident," he said, to which she nodded very slowly, mouth never closing, eyes never leaving his. "I'd like to apologize."



The last came out so quietly that she couldn't have possibly heard, but she nodded again, and found two words to say. "What now?"



That was the question, wasn't it? Mark gave the most probable answer. "I wake up," he said, and her eyebrows furrowed.



She shook her head.



There weren't really any individual emotions that could be picked out, just an incoherent blaring from an unprepared brain.



"You can't," she replied.



Mark nodded, as though in understanding. "You could," he said, "move forward."



She nodded, and tried it, and only succeeded in gasping again as she slid an inch up his dick.



Her eyes had never left his.



"Didn't work," she said in a plaintive tone, voice going up at the end.



Mark's reality was quite finished shattering around him. He broke her gaze for a moment to look down, and saw a drop of her trickling down his shaft. He returned his gaze to her face to find her looking at the same, before their eyes came back together.



The fact of the matter was that he didn't need to worry about his actions anymore: They were not up to him. His body had taken forcible control, when it was clear that his mind was not doing its job.



His hands slipped under her dress, a slim, silky-black thing, to rest on each hip, and pulled her the rest of the way down, so that her open lips kissed the base of his shaft.



His brain had had no better idea, but was still dissatisfied with his body's handling.



Her lips - the ones under her nose - quivered, but she did not stop him. She placed a hand on the small of his back, just to press them closer together.



He pushed her forth, then drew her back, then noticed the layer of sweat that drenched her thighs. He felt it on her dress, and smoothed it out from the inside, because Mark liked things to be nice and neat.



At no point had their eyes broken, so Mark could see that they were brilliantly intent, with pupils dilated and some water behind the lashes.



One hand he removed from her dress, put against her cheek, and had pull her in to kiss. She had to arch her back to do so. The other, he kept under the fabric, but slid across to her belly, then dipped to brush past a shaved, rough pubic mound, and finally to stroke terribly delicate and glistening lips.



And he kept fucking her...



Her tongue stilled in his mouth as she was overcome with feeling.



...agonizingly slow...



So he bit her lip a little. Payback, for earlier.



...slow, so no one would notice...



And then he brushed his lips up her cheek and past the flesh, and whispered something in her ear.



...and then hard, because no one cared.



And Mark smiled, because he'd never been this perfectly romantic before, and he suspected it was because he'd always let his mind do the thinking, which minds were clearly not made for. He'd tried to orchestrate his romance, which was not for minds to do, but for Now.



Silly minds, always afraid of lateness, and rushing, and tragic subway crashes.



Bodies didn't do that.



Bodies felt the pretty girl in front of them clench tight then go limp in their arms, spilt come inside her, and clasped close the warmth.



***



His lips sent tingles through her as they moved up to her ear.



"You just saved my Monday," he said.